Everyday Adventures of The Singing Librarian

"I was born...in a cloud..."

2011-12-29T23:09:00.002-06:00

I don't remember when I first decided to write a blog. 2003, 2004, some time that seems so long ago now. I made it through graduate school, even paid for it! And changed jobs several times, something that surprises even me, the gambler who likes to take risks. I wrote a lot during my Harper years, but once I got real about my career, I wrote less and less.

But when I first started, I was occasionally warned, even chastened, by techy friends, that by using Yahoo and then Blogger, I didn't own my content, I wasn't storing it anywhere safe. It was born, and borne, in a cloud.

I miss writing. It was good for my head, heart, psyche, vocabulary, cortisol level, sense of self. But sometimes getting the words and thoughts right took days, and who has days anymore? Not to mention the newer distractions, Facebook, Twitter, all that jazz. So, with this post, I am casting off my old Blogger ways and moving to a hipper, more condensed home, at Tumblr. With my same shantooz moniker, of course. I feel like my friend Roberta, who ditched the big house, sold her car, got a jazzy condo a stone's throw from her officr and the Metra station and give her life a fresh haircut, Except, I hate haircuts, and I love my house. So, just the blog will be getting a trim for now.

But, hey, I started with a quote, as I always have, because even while moving house, I have music on the brain. Here it is, December 29, and we've barely seen a glimmer of frost in these parts. Even for someone like me, who hates the cold and dreads the shoveling, the lack of wintry weather is disturbing. So, leave it to Kate Bush to bring me some snow, musically, instead. She's back, with more new music, after that absence that seemed to go on forever, and the new album is "50 Words for Snow." I find it sort of a companion piece to "A Sky of Honey," the album-length musical poem that comprised half of "Aerial." In my mind, "A Sky of Honey" is one song, or maybe a poem is more accurate, with the music and voices changing as the story unfolds. It's always struck me as the story of a person who's gone through difficulty ("We're gonna be laughing about this...") who moves quietly through a sleepy summer day, discovering in the changing light of sunset, twilight, darkness, dawning, a new way to look at life and even loss, and yes, the whole thing ends with cacophonous laughter, echoing the promise of how it begins.

So, how is "50 Words for Snow" a companion to a midsummer night's dream? It's the other side of the coin. Not one song or one poem, the pieces are more distinctive, but one season, possibly even one winter's night, and the stories taking place all over the world as that night reveals itself. The opener, "Snowflake," begins with the words, "I was born...in a cloud," and when the singing started I was puzzled, until I remembered the MOJO review and interview: that's not Kate singing, it's her young son, Bertie, who made such a charming debut on "Aerial." I'm not a person who routinely twitters about kids being all adorable and that, but Bertie's spoken word pieces on "Aerial" even get me a little smooshy and weepy, and that's saying something. "Snowflake" is almost all his, and wow, did Mom give him a masterpiece. Reviewers have been lost for words to describe how well the song captures the almost soundless sound of falling snow. Think of an overnight snowfall, how it muffles the world's bustle, how it wraps you up in slumber, but for the occasional blast of creaking wind at a window or chimney. Now imagine that as piano, a rumble of drums, some quavering guitar, and a high, dreamy vocal, and that's what you have in "Snowflake" Oh, wait, Mom plays a role, too. Kate is, of course, the poet-composer and pianist on this lovely reverie, but she adds a critical refrain as well: "The world is so loud / keep fallin' / I'll find you." It is unclear to whom this voice belongs, but if Bertie is the snowflake blowing wild over the earth, all "fabulous dancing" and "twist and shout," Mom is the voice waiting for him when he starts to fall. It is over 10 minutes long, and I get depressed when it ends. I cannot wait for a snowy night, so I can hear "Snowflake" in the proper environment, but for right now it's great company on my morning drive.

Is the rest of "50 Words" as strong? Not quite, imo, but it's pretty damn elegant and artful and unique. I get the sense she felt tired of writing songs, trapped by format and formula. These are stories, set to music - sometimes sung, but often spoken. There is rarely a hook or melody line to lull your senses, but there are ghosts and a wild man in the mountains, lovers who keep meeting up over centuries only to lose each other to war, terrorism and other atrocities, angels, scientists. She has a lot of characters living in her head, always has, no? (Bertie's beautiful choirboy soprano reminded me of "All The Love," on "The Dreaming," another moment of genius when her music and lyrics were so perfectly matched.) She has interesting collaborators, too, from husband Dan to ever-faithful Del Palmer to, yes, Elton John. Fun to hear the fan get to sing with one her favorites on "Snowed In At Wheeler Street." I'm not sure the duet is entirely successful, but it's almost beside the point with those two in the room.

I was curious if any promo videos had been made for this album, so I YouTubed it. Nothing official that I have found but fans are having a field day with these storybook songs. Of course, the naysayers are out in full force, too, that she's "lost it," it's "SO sad," etc. One poster was comparing Kate Bush to "the fall of Whitney." Last I knew, Whitney Houston was a recovering drug addict, who, yes, once possessed a mighty, God-given set of pipes and a beautiful face. She was never an instrumentalist, composer, poet, arranger, producer...ahem. You get the idea. The same critic wrote that singers like Annie Lennox and Shirley Bassey had kept their talents even as they aged. Well. speaking from the perspective of a singer, if you begin your career singing with a full-bodied alto, with a bit of growly edge, it's not difficult to keep that voice as you age. If you begin your career in your teens, with an unnaturally high soprano. aging is going to bring struggle, and God forbid you smoke, drink, gain weight, go through menopause - all of it pushes the upper register farther and farther out of reach. (Ask Joni Mitchell, who will tell you the voice she's using now is what feels natural and comfortable to her.) Yes, Kate Bush's voice sounds diminished, in a fashion, right now, but even she admitted the wuthering heights were often reached with unhealthy, not-possible-to-maintain vocal stylings. But she's in full command of her artistry and I'm just so glad she's willing to step out of the house and grace us with some of her gifts now and then. It's impossible not to read some of the criticism of her work as sexist, too. Paul McCartney certainly doesn't have his boyish vocal range or looks anymore, but who wants to pick on Paul McCartney? John Lennon wrote of family love and how he treasured his domestic life, but a woman writes the same and she's lost her touch, lost her artistic edge.

So, it depends on what you're looking for in Kate Bush. If you seek a sexy teenager in leg warmers with a fluttering bird voice, this new album will not be for you. But if you, like me, have loved Kate forever because of her one-of-a-kind perspective on the world and its music, her ability to create and then live in musical personas, her sweetness and childlike imagination, then you'll love "50 Words for Snow."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I will drift along to be born, again, in a cloud.
http://shantooz.tumblr.com - coming soon.

"Six o'clock in the morning, you're the last to hear the warning, you been tryin' to throw your arms around the world..."

2011-07-08T13:11:00.002-05:00

Remember when Bono injured his back and the U2 tour had to be put on hold while the poor guy recovered from surgery? For real fans of the band, it was like being 4 years old and someone telling you Christmas wasn't coming. I cannot provide any rational, mature explanation for how depressed I was. But, eventually, himself was healed and the boys got back out on the road and a rescheduled date for Chicago was announced. Yesterday evening, that long-awaited redo arrived - along with temps in the 90s and the calmest skies the Windy City will ever know. Not a cooling breeze to be found at any price, any locale. This summer, the a/c in my car has also fritzed so the 2.5 hours I spent driving from Barrington to Soldier Field may rank as some of the longest hours IN MY LIFE. "The traffic is stuck and you're not moving anywhere..." I drank two Pepsis in the car, instantly regrettable because a visit to the ladies' room wasn't happening anytime soon. I also bought some Reese's peanut butter cups to make the car ride more pleasant and get an energy boost. What in God's name was I thinking? Peanut butter cups on a day when the interior of my car was a sultry 600 degrees? They melted before I could remove the wrapping. Sigh. "Sky falls, you feel like it's a beautiful day..."

This time around, I had treated myself to some VIP tickets for a good cause: a standing spot in the (RED) Zone. Just under $200, but with a private entrance/exit, our own bar and t-shirt stand, seats for those who wanted them (are you kidding me?). Was I glad I got a (RED) Zone ticket this time? Yes. Would I do it again? No. I've had a better, closer view from the regular GA section and I missed the insane and brilliant energy out there on the main floor. But last night, my (RED) Zone spot was a most excellent option. Easy in and out, plus less crowded than GA which is a premium when it is 850 degrees on the floor of Soldier Field. Since I could not leave work before 3:45 PM, I would have been a long way back in the GA section, methinks. My extra cash went to charity, and I am very cool with that. While I missed the manic intensity, I met some exceptionally nice people, particularly a married couple who repeatedly offered me beer and shifted their spots around so I could see better. Want to know how often that would happen at a Dead concert, a Springsteen concert, a Rolling Stones or Eagles concert? BIG FAT NEVER. U2 fans are the best in the world.

All of that aside, how was the show, you ask. Magical. Spiritually uplifting in a way that heartpounding rock and roll with 70,000 of your sweatiest, closest friends really shouldn't be. Intimate in a way that football stadium spectacle really shouldn't be. Sweet and fun and chock-full of tunes from "Achtung Baby," my favorite U2 album of all time, so what is there not to like? Bono looked healthier and more energized than ever, Edge blessed us with all of his expert wizardry, Adam grinned and sparkled and Larry was, well, you know, Larry. Woman in front of me: "How old is Larry?" Me: "Well, Bono is 51, so I figure Larry is around the same." Woman: "Larry has a great butt." He does. I can't argue with that. And being in the (RED) Zone, we had close access to the circular catwalk and bridges which the band uses to get closer to the fans, so we actually saw his butt. Once. Bono made only a few trips over to our side of the world, but wow, when he did...I was glad there were a few crazies in that section with me, because when Bono comes swaggering over, y'all had better show your approval.

Favorite moments:

Opening the show with FOUR tunes from "Achtung..." was just dazzling. I still hold out hope some day for "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?" but hearing "Even Better Than The Real Thing," "The Fly," "Until The End Of the World," and the amazing "Mysterious Ways..." Later in the show, "One," of course.
"Zooropa" is an album some U2 "fans" don't like. It brings back fantastic memories for me, because I bought the CD in London. Hearing both of the best songs from it last night? Another fantastic moment. "Stay (Faraway, So Close)" done by just Bono and Edge, incredibly beautiful, and then total sensory overload as the band disappeared into a flickering tornado/wasp's nest of lights for :"Zooropa" itself.
I can't remember what song had just ended but the spotlight came onto Bono and he thanked us, took a breather, got quiet for a few. He just stood there and looked out and the place went insane. It's really hard to write about why that matters and why it is such a wonderful thing to be a part of. It just is.
Chicago apparently has the singalong thing down to a science, at least Bono says so, although maybe he says that everywhere? We grabbed our parts with gusto and even kept "Pride" going after the band was finished.
"Streets" - always, for me, the emotional high point, but last night, into that steamy cauldron of bodies and souls, God decided to drop down some light, refreshing rain as "Streets" was roaring to the finish line. Again, I can't explain or describe to you what a magical thing it was, but I will never forget it. It was as if even heaven approved.
Show's almost over, depression is already settling in, and Bono mentions Greg Carroll, the U2 staff member whose life and passing were immortalized in "One Tree Hill." Cheers. Then he says, "We wrote a song for him...but we're not going to play it." Laughter, and then - much screaming. We knew what the song was and Chicago is not going to let you get away with THAT. Bono says he has to consultant with "The Professor," they decide to do "Moment of Surrender" (yay) while thinking about it. A deal is made: they'll attempt "One Tree Hill" if we promise not to post it on the Internet if they screw up. They didn't screw up. It was lovely.

Low points:

I'm talking about you, loud, fat guy who blabbed through the video piece featuring Aung San Suu Kyi.

I'm also talking about you, guy in the parking lot, who enjoyed the show so much "I might go out and buy a greatest hits or something." WHA?????
Too. Damn. Hot. How Bono and Edge were running around in leather is beyond me. And Edge - A HAT WHEN IT IS 90 DEGREES????
Hey, Interpol - your songs were kinda cool. How about looking like you wanted to be there?
Sound was just okay, and where I was standing, it should have blown my mind. A whole lotta Larry going on, and that's cool because I love feeling drums and bass in my rib cage, but you know, this little folk band from Ireland has a pretty fantastic singer, too...
Too. Damn. Long. To. Get. Out. And I parked for free - I can't imagine paying $46.00 to park and waiting an hour to get out of the museum campus.
No "Breathe," no "No Line On The Horizon," (wouldn't that second mix on the bonus album kick ass live?), I love this band and I don't want them to feel like they have to fall into the greatest hits' trap (except for Mr. Lamoid in the parking lot). It must be incredibly difficult writing that set list - leaving out "Streets" or "Pride" or "With or Without You" or "One" would be criminal, and yet...Next time, no opening act, and U2 plays for 5 hours. :)

I leave you with a few more photos. I love concerts, love music like it is my own life. Nothing can really compare to the high of a U2 concert, and sadly, nothing compares to the low that follows! I was supposed to be travelling to Pittsburgh to see the final show of this tour, but I had to finally let that go last night. It's giving me a stomach ache thinking about it, so I'll sign off here.


Adam, all kinda floral and sparkly.


Larry's backside, Bono up on the big screen. I know I'll go crazy...


Edge, in leather and HAT, when it was so damn hot.


My main man.

Very cool preshow graphics on the spaceship.

I took more, maybe will post some more in a few.

"You'll find that life is still worthwhile..."

2011-06-24T20:09:00.002-05:00

"If you just smile."

For decades, here and there, I have heard the song "Smile." Most recently, it was performed at the Oscar ceremony during a video tribute to actors, writers, producers, directors and other movie types who had died in the previous year. I almost never watch stuff like that, being without a TV at home and rarely going to the movies being celebrated. But this year, I was trapped in a hotel in Springfield, IL, while a thunderstorm raged outside, so I tuned in while yukking it up on Facebook. Celine Dion appeared in a sylphlike gown and, truly, really punched me right in the gut with her understated, very spot-on rendition of "Smile." Never has La Dion gotten it quite so right.

I knew, through that cultural osmosis I fear is being lost, that Charlie Chaplin was somehow associated with the song "Smile." Odd for a silent film star to be associated with a vocal piece! I figured it played in the background during one of his charming, sad-eyed routines, hence the association. Seeing his name affixed to the song as composer, I assumed he was the lyricist. But real life is always weirdest of all, and it turns out the star known for silence wrote the haunting melody to the song. Go figure.

Why do I mention this? Since I call myself The Singing Librarian, you probably are wondering when some singing will take place. A few nights ago, just before I turned out the lights, I got an emergency message from my good friend Veronica. Veronica worked with me at DPPL and even though her life and career have moved to parts southwest, she still runs the annual Relay For Life in Des Plaines and Park Ridge and does a fantastic job of it. Her message? The planned-for bagpiper had bailed out for this Friday's Relay, so, could I play the pipes instead?

Kidding about that last part. Sometimes, when I first begin to warm up in the morning, my own vocal mechanism sounds a bit like squeaky pipes, but play them I do not. I will be singing instead, a poor excuse for bagpipes but what's a girl to do? And what will I be singing, during the Relay's meditative and solemn Luminaria Ceremony? "Amazing Grace," and, "Smile." Be amazed, as I have never sung "Smile" before and am gearing myself up for the challenge. My thanks to the savvy Webcam owner who taped Celine's Oscar night serenade, as it has proven to be a most welcome guide. If you're free tomorrow evening, June 24, Relay For Life takes place at Maine West High School in Des Plaines. It's fun, there's great camaraderie, tons of raffles and yummy things to eat (Magic Cookie Bars...), and if you're still there at 10 PM. you can see if I sink or swim vocally. Most importantly, it's a real community outpouring of support and action in the fight against cancer, an enemy upon which we can all agree. Wish me luck!

"Music would sing to me things no one else even said..."

2011-06-09T13:06:00.000-05:00

Yep. Today I am writing about Barry Manilow. You're dumbfounded. You're thinking, "Girl, one day it's Kate Bush, another day it's the Unthanks, and all of a sudden it's Manilow?" In my little corner of the world, that's how the croissant crumbles, after all. (Music reference: anybody get it?)

Rewind, rewind, rewind, and go back to the mid-70s. I've grown up on my big brother's Beatles and Dead and Who and loved every note but now I'm buying my own stuff and discovering my voice: "Before I knew that I was blessed, when I was just like the rest of the people who never let dreams in their minds..."

If given the option, I would spend every waking moment in our enormous, chilly basement with the top-notch stereo system, listening to records and singing like a damn fool. Another favorite: staying up until the wee hours of Saturday mornings and watching "Midnight Special" and "Don Kirshner's Rock Concert" on TV. I would literally get the chills, curled up on the floor with a blanket, because watching performances on these shows was the closest I could get to a real rock concert - maybe even better, because you could see and hear everything. It was in 1975, when I was 8 years old, that I saw Barry Manilow on "Midnight Special." Say whatever you want - he was blond and cute and played the piano and sang and wore sparkly clothes. I was utterly charmed. Smitten, even. In fact, it's no stretch of the imagination whatsoever that I moved from Barry to Freddie Mercury, is it? Peas in a musical pod, darling.

"That's when I said, 'Gotta get some of that for myself...'"

I know what you're thinking, now that I'm an adult and living in a world in which everything must be wrapped in the tattered cloak of irony to be appreciated, surely I hate Barry Manilow. And you would be deader than dead wrong. Memorial Day weekend, I decided to pick up Chinese take-out for myself and my parents. This meant borrowing their new Kia Optima, which is really quite snazzy, with leather seats and Sirius radio. I so rarely listen to the radio in my iPod-driven world so tuning into satellite radio is quite the treat - did you know there is an entire "Grateful Dead" station? Mom prefers "The Bridge," which plays soft rock from the 70s: James Taylor, Billy Joel, Steely Dan, etc. and I like that station quite a bit. Whatever they were playing right then didn't suit me, however, so I scanned the stations until I found "Love," (wouldn't that be nice?) and there he was. Barry Manilow. Just launching into the Chopin-based piano opening of "Could It Be Magic?" (Did you know that was Chopin? Classics make great pop songs, as evidenced by "CIBM" and Billy Joel's superb "This Night," based on Beethoven.) This is when people knew how to write, sing and produce ballads. Yowsa. I mean, you've got piano, several guitars, bass, drums, congas, a large string section and a full chorus - it's huge, baby. Huge. It sounded amazing on the car stereo, I couldn't even sing along, I was completely choked up. It tripped my Manilow wire or something, because I went home and loaded up the iPod/Pad and searched YouTube. How convenient - here was a clip from that very same "Midnight Special" of himself, singing "Could It Be Magic?" It closed the show and watching it, it was like the 8 year old was still living somewhere inside my older self. I remembered everything single thing about seeing it the first time,like it was last week.

"Music would play and say, 'Hey, what a dummy you are!'"

At 8 years old, I probably wasn't the jolliest kid. Overall, life was fine, no major trials or tribulations. I matured a little too soon, so at 8 I was more like 12, and that often meant feeling isolated and certain I was, well, weird and nobody liked me very much. I had to start wearing glasses at the age of 6 and my mother would be the first to tell you she gave up on me at that point. (She cried the first time she saw me in them.) So, in our house, my brother was the star, my disabled sister was the special one and rightfully so, my next oldest sister was the pretty one, glamorous, and the clotheshorse - that left me to be, I don't know, the geek, the nerd, the bookworm. But I had this one thing that kept me going, that made me feel quite certain that underneath the geeky facade I was actually rather sparkly and likeable and fun. That one thing, of course, was music. I'd be lying if I said anyone or anything else was my best friend during my childhood. (This is not to say I didn't have great friends then and now.) I particularly loved songs that suggested I wasn't alone, that love was an incredibly powerful presence that lasted a lifetime, and that described what being a musician was like. "Beautiful music - the best of my blessings is you." Barry Manilow has a lot of songs like that, from "Beautiful Music," which I am randomly quoting here, to "This One's For You," the obvious "I Write The Songs," "Studio Musician," and the sugar-coated punchiness of "Daybreak:" "I'm singing to the world, it's time we let the spirit come in - let it come on in!" I loooooooved "Daybreak."

No, make that present tense: I still love "Daybreak," and many of these other songs. Not surprisingly, the biggest hits are the ones that don't hold up as well, like "Copacabana" and even "I Write The Songs." What's a kick as I listen to these songs now, with 40+ year old ears and a lifetime of musical experience behind me, is what a warm, engaging and supremely talented singer Barry Manilow is. I've written before about my lifelong habit of falling in love with certain human voices and this is that kind of voice and it is spectacularly human. You hear breath and anger, anxiety and giddiness, romance and despair, all coming out of one person. If you write off old songs like these as schmaltz, you ought to listen one more time, because the guy had the chops of a rock vocalist, he just didn't always have the material on which to use them. For every moment of sweetness and light, there's a moment, like that magnificent Bolero-like ending of "Could It Be Magic?", where he gets as carried away and passionate as any 80s hair band power ballad singer. At 8 years old, I just knew what I liked. Now, I not only know what I like, but I know the difference between a genuinely talented and unique singer and some made for TV talentless ditz brain who needs machinery to make her voice sound like singing and not like caterwauling.

I'll end my meandering thoughts with a quote I read earlier this week, written by Graeme Thomson in a review of "Under The Ivy," a new biography of Kate Bush. "A few years ago, I tried to come up with an artistic manifesto. It didn't get very far, containing only one statement about what art should be: 'It should be radically uncool.'" So when you're startled by my affection and admiration for both Kate Bush and Barry Manilow, remember that I, myself, am radically uncool and so are most of the things/people I love. :)

Take a picture, sweetie, I ain't got time to waste!

2011-05-17T13:22:00.000-05:00

I finished off my last post by telling the world I have a new job, or, a new "day gig" as musicians like to call it. In the previous incarnation of this blog, I dragged readers through the zaniness of balancing full-time library work with a lot of singing and nights spent earning a Masters degree. That degree allowed me to spend just under four, quite happy years at the Des Plaines Public Library, as their first ever Web Services Librarian. Every library ought to have a Web Services Librarian or equivalent by now, but DPPL was smart enough to figure that out early on. I loved my work there, there was always something to do and a hundred other things on the list, and lots of freedom to exercise creativity and new ideas.

But...sometimes other factors in life pile up and you can either act on the resulting stress and anxiety or let them slowly eat you up. This isn't the venue to talk about public library financial and political troubles, but it's a stressful profession for many of us right now. I was also spending a minimum of 8 hours a week just commuting - so it was more like a 6 day a week job. Caring for my aging parents and my disabled sister, while, yes, trying to sing here and there whenever I can - I've definitely reached a stage in life where it is time to make healthy, positive choices or maybe lose my marbles.

A few months ago, a colleague forwarded an article about the Barrington Area Library to me. I confess, reading it, I felt kind of depressed! Here was a library practically in my own backyard, fifteen minutes from home, two minutes from my church, in such a beautiful town and, well, the library sounded really cool. A library being managed with a strong vision of the future, a library with sustainable ideas for staying relevant, and a library that seemed to have great community support. And, a super awesome public media lab with Apple monitors bigger than my car. Some church friends of mine were even quoted in the magazine article, praising the library. I thought,"Well, I will file that in an uncluttered part of my brain. Maybe they'll need a librarian some day...soon..." When that same library posted an ad for a Public Information Manager about a month later, I could NOT believe my eyes. I remember doing a happy dance in my office chair and then spending the weekend on a resume and cover letter. Agonizing. Writing, editing, rewriting, more editing. I have never been a person who enjoys the job hunting process, a fact made obvious in my employment history - I've had only three employers in the last 20 years and the third employer is, in fact, the Barrington Area Library.

Now I've been here for almost a month and I'm really enjoying my new coworkers and this library. Right now, I'm looking out my office window (relax : I am writing this on my lunch break) at a lovely Children's Garden, some towering pines, flowering trees in purple and white. Occasionally a squirrel or robin pops in to say hello. Almost daily, I walk out into the library and bump into someone I know. One friend brought me homemade cookies my first week, and lots of other friends have brought smiles and hugs. And my work is fun! I was worried about that when leaving Des Plaines, where "Do cool, fun things" seemed to be my only job description. I think that same call to action will work in Barrington, too. Our local newspaper, the Barrington Courier-Review, did a really sweet feature story on my arrival, and you can read it here: http://barrington.suntimes.com/5163598-417/public-information-manager-hopes-to-help-barrington-library-sing.html Kudos to the photographer, Rob Dicker, for taking a number of shots which are all flattering - a challenging task when faced with a face like mine, but particularly so that week: my lovely and lively 5 year old goddaughter got into a tangle with me in the kitchen that ended up with my face smashed into a granite countertop. That's an Everyday Adventure I hope to never repeat. But, as the Prince song quoted above might make you think, the article made me feel like a star - at least for a day.

Gotta go, work is calling. Some of my coworkers brought ICE CREAM for lunch today, to share with everyone as they celebrated their two year anniversary of working here in Barrington. Yum. Ttys.

"Hey - WHA HAPPENED?!!!!"

2011-05-09T22:09:00.005-05:00

I'm not even going to apologize for my lack of blogging because you've heard it all before. This time, however, there is so much news, so much good and bad, the hardest part is knowing where to begin.

First, let's hit some high notes. The photo above is me with none other than one of my favorite singer/musician/songwriter types OF ALL TIME, one Glenn Tilbrook. You would most likely know Glenn as a member of Squeeze, but he's a fantastic solo artist as well. After seeing Squeeze last summer at Ravinia (written about here), my love affair with the Difford/Tilbrook songwriting duo was not so much rekindled as stoked into bonfire-like jubilation. So when my brother dutifully emailed to say Glenn would be appearing at Evanston's very fine venue, SPACE, there was no question I'd be going. Making it even more fun, my colleague Roberta cheerfully agreed to go along with me - she'd last seen Squeeze while still a teen, growing up in Ohio, so this would be a fun, retro road trip for us both. Glenn was at SPACE in early April, playing to a packed house on a chilly Monday (is it ever warm in Evanston? Just wondering.). His voice was SPOT ON, and you know how major that is for me. Due to my overwhelming enthusiasm about the show, I managed to reserve us a front row spot at a cute little table, and that was extra cool because we could hear him through SPACE's excellent PA but at times we could hear him unamplified, and how amazing is that when it comes to the voices we love most? I've written here before about the power of the human voice and how it can make you fall in love with a sound and Glenn Tilbrook is right up there with angel choirs as far as I'm concerned. I've also reserved some bloggish accolades for SPACE and will continue to sing its praises - if they could just get the temperature right in there. We were stewing in our juices during this particular show. Last summer they had the a/c cranking - and dripping, as my brother had a B.J, Thomas kinda thing happening.

But these are trivial complaints. The show was flawless and fun and I never wanted it to end, but then it did and things got that much better (see above). What do you say when you meet one of your musical heroes? In my case, almost nothing. I stammered like a 12 year old and was just delighted for the opportunity. I wanted to say something witty and memorable, but was reminded of one of Glenn's own lyrics, "I huffed and bluffed my way through a pool of sweat." Perhaps the most endearing thing: I have the photo as my iPad screen saver and whenever my mother (typically one of my harshest critics) sees it, she always says, "You look so nice in that picture." It's the music, Mom.

Squeeze fans, get out there and support this man's solo career, and if you're a fan of Beatlesesque (not sure that's a word) pop and wonderful songwriting, check out his stuff, you will not be disappointed.

I could say more but really, I'll just embarrass myself. A night I will never forget.

The other really big BIG news is that I changed jobs. Perhaps I should put that in a separate post. It was such a crazy winter and early spring. I keep having moments when I don't know what month or day of the week it is. I took another ILEAD U trip to Springfield, where I had a great time working with some new colleagues from other state libraries. Then suddenly, I was on a job interview, then a second interview, then giving my notice and spending a hazy four weeks trying to wrap things up in Des Plaines while squeezing in some much needed vacation days. All of this happening during Lent and Holy Week at St. Anne's and while my beloved oldest sister was hospitalized for six weeks. No wonder I spent the entire day thinking it was May 10th (Bono's birthday) when it is in fact May 9th (Tom Petersson's birthday). I'm not sure I'd realize it was my own birthday.

But, still. I met Glenn Tilbrook. How cool is that?

One more, in the name of love...

2011-02-25T14:31:00.000-06:00

Yes, here it is, almost March 2011, and I thought I'd try once again to fulfill my vain and empty promises and start blogging. I can't begin to tell you how much I miss doing this. It clears my head and heart and gives voice to the obsessions that keep me awake at night. But sandwiching it in between the long commutes, busy work days, a run on the old treadmill, a mountain of laundry, bill-paying, caring for my aging parents...It's hard to put one's foot down and demand time for blogging, you know?

But I am determined to try and so here's a short, desperate plea for help. Amongst all the other duties as assigned, I recently agreed to do volunteer work for Family Hope Charity, a small, very grassroots non-profit doing work in Nairobi, Kenya. I've helped with their Web site, created a blog for them, made the nifty fundraising logo you see above and, of course, made financial contributions. Current Family Hope projects include: substance abuse counseling - substance abuse problems are rampant in the slums of Nairobi, where it's cheaper and easier to buy a mind-numbing high than it is to buy food for your family, job skills training programs, a daily savings program for HIV+ mothers who want to break the cycle of poverty, and, we hope, the rebuilding of a much-needed community health clinic.

How can you help? Well, of course, you can just make a donation: www.familyhopecharity.org
However, if you like more bang for the buck, come out and hear me and my band Synod on Saturday, March 5, 2011, performing at a fundraiser for Family Hope Charity. Here are all the details:

Rock, Pizza and Pop For Africa
Saturday, March 5, 2011 - 7-10:30 PM
Upstairs at Wool Street Grill
128 Wool Street
Barrington, IL 60010
Tickets are $25.00 per person (cash/check only) - price includes all you can eat pizza, salad and soft drinks
plus live music from Synod and opening act Steven Spahn (acoustic rock).
Cash bar will also be available along with a raffle of Kenyan gifts.
All proceeds benefit Family Hope.

It is going to be a super-FUN evening for a great cause. Thanks to all who have purchased tickets already but we really need to pack the place to capacity to raise some substantial funds. I would love to see you. The band's been working on some new/old tunes by the likes of The Eagles and Journey, along with newer additions like our 80s medley. Wear your jeans and your dancing shoes - I'd love to see you there.

Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby?

2010-11-13T22:41:00.001-06:00

No, no, this is not the blog post in which I reveal some torrid teenage experience with a famous rock star. Never had that kind of "luck," but, never tried either. As with so much of human experience, I've been far more infatuated with the idea of the rock star than the actual flesh and blood. As you probably guessed from past posts, few and far between though they have been, it was a great year for live music in my little corner of the world. If Bono's back hadn't broken, it would have been damn near close to perfect - Justin Currie to Renaissance to Cheap Trick and Squeeze, followed up by The Black Crowes and Chrissie Hynde's "Fairground Boys" project. With Kasim Sulton still on the schedule!

My musical obsessions are almost absurdly loyal - I guess once I become your fan, good luck shakig me. I missed the opportunity to see the Cheap Trick/Def Leppard combo ticket in 2009 and have been annoyed with myself ever since. I had good reason: plenty of credit card debt, lack of a truly enthused companion and the almost certain feeling I'd be disappointed. I have seen Cheap Trick more than a dozen times and it's always a mixed bag. In the big show days they were plagued by muddy acoustics. Often the mix suggests a certain guitar player is paying off the techs, ahem. Other than one amazing performance at Mabel's in Champaign, I have always left their shows with a sense of "Almost but not quite," even as they remain one of my favorite rock bands of all time. Def Leppard - similar sitch, really, although I have only seen them three times. Their albums are so perfectly, seductively produced, the live shows can never hope to compete. Both Cheap Trick and
Def Leppard have an audience comprised of genuine fanatics and a large group of casual fans - the people who bought "Budokan" or "Pyromania" and subsequently only want to hear the hits. Rock, rock 'til you drop. Sigh. I understand, those people pay for their seats, too, and should walk away satisfied, but...That being said, none of this has prevented me from having a damn good time when seeing both bands live. So who knows why I skipped this one, really?

With that in mind, I grew eerily determined to prevent similar regrets over this summer's Squeeze/Cheap Trick bill, even if the pairing made NO SENSE AT ALL. Okay, in my last post, I mentioned that shared Beatley heritage but beyond that? You only need to consider how insanely varied the Beatles' catalog is to understand that being Beatles-inspired truly means almost nothing. Consider that "Martha My Dear" and "Helter Skelter" are on the same Beatles album and then ponder the Squeeze/Cheap Trick ticket. But, it is no secret I adore both of these bands and think their lead singers walk on musical water. Making matters worse, the show was at Ravinia - a lovely setting for a picnic with 16,000 of your closest friends and their fricking bottles of Pinot Noir. Cheap Trick has been playing there every summer lately and I have made a statement out of NOT going, so un-rock n' roll do I find this mosquito-infested North Shore social network. Here's how un-rock n'
roll Ravinia is: tickets for non-subscribers go on sale at 5 AM. WTF???

But give me a little money and an obsessive-compulsive desire and I am up at 4:45 although still abed, squinting in agony at my MacBook, credit card in hand. And all you could get were lawn seats and it will be a cold day in hell before I sit out in that squirming, chattering mass of humanity to try and hear some music. Perhaps you're thinking a woman of my high moral standards would never resort to scalpers - and perhaps you would be wrong, on so many levels. I waited and waited for weeks, figuring some "subscriber" would come down with last minute plans and need to unburden himself of those tickets - pounce!!! Snagged - box seats at Ravinia, about $140 a piece. Lordy. Talked my brother into joining me, although days before he admitted to complete non-interest and felt we had made a terrible mistake. We formulated a plan to catch the train from Lake Bluff into Ravinia Park - inexpensive and we wouldn't have to face dreadful parking lot shenanigans at
evening's end.

Well - what do you know? First of all, if you want side-splitting laughs before your live rock music, stroll the Ravinia grounds on a hot, sold-out, summer night. You will not be disappointed, provided you don't get thrown out for hilarity. People don't just picnic - they set tables with candleabra and fresh flowers! One group had a &@!?@)& BUFFET LINE going. I began imitating the Miller High Life guy: "Is that a PORTRAIT of a dog?" We bought overpriced ice cream cones that were melting as soon as the sullen teen server handed them over. We passed John Bentley, the bass player for Squeeze, also strolling the grounds looking quite bemused. We witnessed a lot of suburban men in the deepest throes of mid-life crisis. We snickered at the fate of late-comers, banished to the gloomy "Picnic Grove," so far from the stage they might as well be home listening to a CD. All that entertainment and not a note has been played.

Squeeze eventually took the stage and we couldn't believe our luck with seats - elevated just enough to see everything but still feeling very much "main floor." Yes, I'd be happy much closer, but I'll never make that kind of cash. We'd only seen Squeeze a long time ago, the "Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti" tour at Poplar Creek. I was insanely mad about them then, although that album hasn't held up over the decades. They seemed like supremely unhappy human beings and after reading MOJO's in-depth article after their reunion just a few years ago, it becomes clear that supremely unhappy doesn't begin to describe it. Apparently everyone is now sober and clear-headed and while the two members of one of the world's best songwriting teams ever still don't get on very well, you'd never have guessed it at Ravinia. Have I mentioned that Glenn Tilbrook still possesses one of the dreamiest voices in the universe? I hear people describe operatic sopranos as having voices
"like angels" - please God, if I deserve any angelic serenades, let them sound like Glenn Tilbrook. He's also an engaging, funny, down-to-earth frontman (saw a fabulous acoustic solo show a few years ago at the Abbey Pub). The $140 would have been worth it just for Squeeze, my only complaint that they stuck strictly to "best of" songs, with the possible exception of the lovely "Loving You Tonight." The crowd was also dopey, only seeming to recognize "Tempted" and "Black Coffee In Bed," which is crappy when you want to do some retro 80s dancing to "Annie Get Your Gun."

So we sat through the intermission and convinced ourselves of the worst, that Squeeze had been so terrific, Cheap Trick was going to come out and lethargically plow through "Dream Police," "Surrender," and "The Flame," and we were going to hate ourselves in the morning. I mean, for God's sake, there was a buffet line out there somewhere. The last time I caught a glimpse of Cheap Trick was on a Friday night in Tinley Park. It had been raining for 24 hours, the traffic was backed up to Indiana, and the fellas from Rockford were first on a bill that included Heart and Journey. Late and rain-soaked, we caught their last three songs, and while all the notes were hit, it was more than a little uninspired. So....(to be continued...)

This is only a test...

2010-10-06T22:00:00.001-05:00

if this had been an actual blog post...Hi, sorry for this dorky post! One of the reasons I bought an iPad was to encourage more frequent blogging - except Blogger and the iPad don't play nicely together. So I am trying the method of emailing a post. Hitting "Send" now, we'll see what happens.

Sent from my iPad

"This road is a lifetime long..."

2010-10-01T15:32:00.000-05:00

It's after 11 PM on a week night (ed. note: started writing this last week of August, 2010). I should be lights out, settling in for a solid night of sleep. Am I awake because of work anxiety, post-workout endorphins, migraine? No. A few days ago, a friend clued me into a Squeeze song I'd not heard before. ("This Road," a shortened, remade version of which appeared in the movie, "The Truth About Cats and Dogs.") I have been stymied by every attempt to purchase the song but tonight I used keepvid.com to download it to my MacBook and I just can't stop listening to it. I went on to edit the video in Premiere Elements to eliminate the visuals, saved it as an audio file which worked on the iPad but not on the iPod, so I then used iTunes to make it an .mp3, which I listened to this morning on the way to work - "listen like thieves" makes complete sense to me now. As the header says, for some of us, music really is an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I want my life to be a movie so this song can play over some giddy montage of romantic vignettes (I guess I need to work on the vignette part but the song will do for now). Since it was already in a movie, I will settle for "This Summer," also by Squeeze. Wait, I've just started a different blog post. I'll save that for another day.

When it comes to my own obsessive-compulsive mess, I have to blame the Beatles. The youngest of four in a household where the music never seemed to stop, I was born at the apex of the Beatles' musical prowess, although by the time I was old enough to recognize that, they had disbanded. No matter. They were, in some sense, my first friends (no, Jayne was my first friend and always will be. Beatles came next). My siblings would be off at school, Mom would be cleaning, laundering or yakking with lady friends and I would play in the cool of the basement. We must have owned a dozen different record players and stereo systems so a needle was always making its way across vinyl. I remember staring at those portraits of the Beatles that came inside the sleeve of the "White Album," confronted by all that hair and eyes which whispered, "I am more than a bit stoned." Like a lot of little girls, I had sets of plastic dishes and cups and pretend food and I loved to pretend that The Beatles were coming to tea. Never mind that tea was something we drank only when we had head colds. I don't think my mother was aware of this but as she often cheerfully points out she wasn't aware of much that her children were doing. The first guitar songbooks I bought, and this would have been circa 1980, were Beatle books. My first band, in high school, featured my good friend Mike, one of the most talented souls I have ever met, a guy so earnest and intense in his love for John Lennon that he was sporting a Beatle Haircut decades after that band's demise. I still vividly remember a theatre cast party with everyone singing Lennon's "(Just Like) Starting Over" like rowdy drunks.

So, no surprise that most of the bands that staked a claim on my heart were Beatles-influenced . I have long been a believer in the power of firsts - the first pizza you ate, the first summer vacation, the first true beauty encountered, the first disastrous romance. You may have seen those "British rock family tree" drawings that were popular in the 1970s, a low-tech, hippiefied version of today's Wordle. For me, the Beatles were certainly the root of a tree that grew into Queen, Utopia, Squeeze, Cheap Trick, Del Amitri, even U2.

I was delighted to find a kindred Squeeze fan last week, Randy, our drummer at St. Anne's. He said it simply but perfectly, that Squeeze is what the Beatles might have been if they'd remained together. Squeeze, for me, is that really REALLY English side of the Beatles: Eleanor Rigby, Penny Lane, Julia, She's Leaving Home. Squeeze excels at telling English stories, without the 17 verses and tedium of typical "story songs." (Not all story songs are bad. Take Al Stewart's "Roads to Moscow" and call me in the morning.) Chris Difford's lyrics have more memorable lines in one song than many people write in a lifetime. Glenn Tilbrook still has one of the dreamiest voices in the universe and the same boyish cute thing that gets the baby boomer gals shrieking over Sir Paul.

Cheap Trick, on the other hand, wouldn't seem to have much in common with the Beatles, except being a foursome with a strong visual image. But Cheap Trick for me is one of the only bands ever to do amazing cover versions of Beatles songs, a feat acknowledged by their steady gig performing the Sergeant Pepper album in grand locales like the Hollywood Bowl and Las Vegas. Cheap Trick has the good fortune of a lead singer with a voice so multifaceted and powerful, he can cover the songs of a band that had four lead singers. Wow. If Squeeze picked up the storytelling and rich songwriting craft of the Beatles, Cheap Trick grew their hits out of the Fabs' pop hysteria and edgier rock and roll - "I Want To Hold Your Hand" morphing into "I Want You To Want Me," with the screaming in Japanese rather than American English; "Taxman" became "Taxman, Mr. Thief;" and "Helter Skelter"'s now ominous connection to the Manson family leads queasily into "The Ballad of TV Violence," originally titled "The Ballad of Richard Speck." If Glenn Tilbrook is the Paul McCartney for girls like me, Robin Zander is certainly our Lennon, edgy and quiet and cute but you're not real sure he wants to chat with you. (Well, okay, if John Lennon had looked like some kind of idealized rock god. I mean, let's just get that out in the open. Hee hee.)

Utopia made an entire album, "Deface The Music," that riffed on the Beatles and the core strength of the band was that its star, Todd Rundgren, took a back seat to a group mentality, resulting in four strong vocalists and songwriters (including my favorite, Kasim Sulton). Queen took the close-woven harmonies and wildest freakout hallucinations of the Beatles and made them into radio hits. Is there any arguing that "Bohemian Rhapsody" is simultaneously one of the most popular rock songs in the world and one of the weirdest? And would it have happened without the Beatles? Would a Chuck Berry and a Bill Haley somehow have spawned a Freddie Mercury? Unlikely. And Queen's more even-tempered tunes, often written by the quietest member, John Deacon, took on the best of the Beatles sound - close-knit harmonies and lyrics dripping with romance. (With the exception of Deacon's biggest hit, "Another One Bites The Dust.")

Del Amitri (featuring my beloved Justin Currie) had one enormous hit in the US, "Roll To Me," and if it isn't Beatles-influenced I'm not sure what is. Was it their best song? No, not any more than "I Want You To Want Me" is the best Cheap Trick song. Much in the same way that the Beatles' cheerful uptempo love songs garnered an audience for the experimental rock that followed, these bands touched the most people with polished pop and then built up an established, if smaller, following with those who appreciated the depth and artistry in the rest of the repertoire. Currie still performs "Roll To Me," often in his "cabaret" segment of the show, in which he wiggles around crooning to a solo piano - a routine which would seem all too at home in, say, a Beatles movie. :)

I could go on but I am assuredly the only person who cares. :) When I try to figure out who I am as a musician, this is the kind of stuff that rattles around in my fuzzy blonde head. Why can't I enjoy opera and why do I struggle with jazz? Why does so much of American folk music irritate me but I love The Unthanks? Why the anthemic U2 and not the anthemic Bruce Springsteen? Why do I think the inability of Del Amitri and Squeeze to find lasting chart success in the United States proves that Americans wouldn't know a perfect pop song if it bit them on their flabby fannies? It's a dream of mine to start a band that only did this kind of music. We'd play regularly to crowds of 10 or 20 people, I guess, but I would be happy! I have reached a point at which singing a great song to no one in particular means far more than singing "Love Shack" to a lively crowd or collecting a nice check for yet another "Ave Maria" in Ab.

Anyway, this post has been sitting in my "Drafts" pile for WEEKS - time to let it go!

"So glad you were sensational / wild and inspirational..."

2010-08-11T16:39:00.000-05:00

I must have been craving music for the last few months because I bought or otherwise obtained tickets for five shows within ten days of each other! I visualized it as a summer music "staycation," to use one of those dorky made-up words that I hate. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth arrived with the cancellation of one of my summer shows, U2's return to Soldier Field. That still left four shows, however, in ten days packed with work obligations I had not anticipated as well as some unexpected social pleasures. The summer staycation technically ended with July 2010 and I am left mourning, indeed. However, the Black Crowes arrive on August 22 and now I might be going to see Chrissie Hynde in October...

I already told you about my night with Renaissance. To be fair, I should mention Steve Hackett, long-ago guitarist for Genesis. He is sharing this tour with Renaissance and I enjoyed his set quite a lot, even if most of the songs were unfamiliar to me. He certainly has gathered an unusual ensemble - a guitar-playing rock chick who could have played with Heart, circa 1978; a singer and wind instrument guy who bore a discomfiting resemblance to the lead singer from OkGo; and, a former member of Kajagoogoo on bass - a tall, thin but muscular blond, sporting pigtails and a schoolgirl's skirt, and some 5 o'clock shadow. But that's rock and roll, isn't it? They capped off their show with excellent renditions "Firth of Fifth" and "Los Endos" and this long-time Genesis fan was elated.

The Hackett/Renaissance gig was at the Park West, in all its faded glory - I recently saw a comment that it looks like a strip club and while I have never ventured inside a strip club, I bet it's a fair evaluation. I was eager to investigate a newer venue, SPACE, in suburban Evanston, IL. I already had a positive impression of SPACE after viewing my friend Brian Peter's performance DVD recorded there (with Paul Wertico's Mid-East/Mid-West project). And, we were going to SPACE on a Wednesday evening for the return of the Unthanks. I believe I blogged about Rachel and Becky Unthank and their musical companions awhile back, when we caught them at a free concert at the Chicago Cultural Center. I really enjoyed that show and yet there was also a sense of awkwardness and stiffness amongst the performers. They had been going through personnel issues while on a pretty major tour supporting Ben Folds, so I figure they could be forgiven for looking uncomfortable in this formal, almost church-like venue while we stared at them as if they'd arrived via time travel from the planet Geordie.

So, first of all, SPACE. Really great venue! "Intimate" and I really mean it, it makes places like Lincoln Hall and the Old Town School seem cavernous and impersonal. I can't imagine it holds more than 250 and they would be packed like sardines. On the street side, it's a place called Union Pizza, which my brother immediately dismissed as "chi chi." It...did kinda look like that - we are old school Chicago when it comes to pizza. The people of Evanston seem to like chi chi pizza just fine, as Union was packed when I arrived around 7 PM and was still jammed when we left after the show - and this was a Wednesday night. But I loved SPACE. You could tell the performers liked it, too. The sound was pristine, the audience appreciative but respectful. If they continue to bring in people as cool as the Unthanks (hello, Justin Currie, pleeeeeeeze), we'll be back. Oh and $2.50 for a glass of ginger ale was not obnoxious. Friendly table service, not at all aggressive.

Then, the Unthanks themselves (here's a link to Wikipedia if you have no idea what an Unthank is). I purposely had not yet listened to their latest album, "Here's The Tender Coming," so the songs would be somewhat fresh. When we saw them at the Cultural Center they did preview some of these newer tunes, but at SPACE they were fleshed out with a much larger ensemble. When I say "newer" tunes, I'm lying, as the Unthanks deal in songs from long ago British folk tradition as well as great songwriters of more recent decades. In a recent BBC review, the writer was tripping over his/herself with superlatives about "...Tender Coming" and expressed a sense that the singing, the songs, the instrumentation, all make the listener feel connected to something ancient and deeply rooted and universal. Absolutely so. Even when they are singing in thick Geordie dialect, you still "get it," because any person in any age can understand the pain of watching a loved one shipped off to war, or killed in a sailing mishap, or even the somewhat pathetic but good-natured tale of a woman who has taken on scores of lovers but who can't get a husband.

I can understand that perhaps the style isn't for every taste. The Unthank sisters have natural, pure singing voices, so if you like your singers with polished breath control, vibrato and the like, these gals aren't your cup of tea. I, otoh, find them so refreshing - no auto-tune, no diva melismatic moments. Great storytelling, quite conversational, told with a wink or a sigh and perhaps some clog dancing. When I first heard that the sisters clog danced during shows, I pictured some really genteel, dainty stuff, mopey, skinny girls in ruffly dresses and cameo brooches. Wow, was I wrong. The Unthanks somehow manage to seem like contemporary young women you'd find shopping at the mall, chugging a few beers at Wrigley and wolfing down a pizza, while also being superb interpreters and arrangers of all this traditional stuff. I think it's this sense that they are so utterly normal that makes their performances that much more engaging. You don't feel like the Unthanks would bullshit you. Even their between-song patter seems unscripted and from the gut and can be rather hilarious.

The musical ensemble played, at any time, piano, drums, percussions, cello, violin, accordion, ukulele, bass both acoustic and electric, and "feet." The clogging provides marvelous time-keeping, even on some of the darker songs. From what I could tell, everyone sings from time to time, to great effect on their own composition, "Lucky Gilchrist," the song we all wish someone would write about us when we die, and the heartbreaking traditional song, "Here's The Tender Coming." I can't say enough about how much I enjoyed this show.

It's been about a month since I saw this show and I can't stop listening to the album. It continues to surprise and engage, at times I swear it's haunting me. In fact, one song ("At First She Starts") I didn't like at all at first go-round and now I can't get it out of my head and I find myself singing it around the house. I Googled the lyrics to make sure I was getting it right and then researched the writer! Bad part about being a librarian + music lover - way too much over which to obsess. If you're a person who only likes happy, upbeat music, who likes slick, modern production and trained singing, this is not for you. If you're someone who actively searches for music that resonates deep into your core, music that is somehow modern and ancient and undeniably authentic - do yourself a favor and get "Here's The Tender Coming," it's on iTunes, or better yet see the Unthanks live. Right now, they are profoundly influencing the way I listen to music.

"Drums and flutes at every turn / the music winding, twisting, through the crowded streets..."

2010-07-12T18:15:00.002-05:00

It's 1976, September 23rd, to be exact. Fall is just beginning but Summer is still asserting herself with bright sunshine and balmy breezes. A girl rushes home from school with even more delight than usual. It's her 10th birthday and she suspects there's a windfall of gifts awaiting her at home. Plus, for this birthday, mom and dad have really pulled out the stops. This evening, she will attend her first-ever rock concert, a trio of "country rock" acts, performing at Chicago's storied Auditorium Theatre. New clothes for this major rite of passage - emerald green velveteen pants and vest, with....a goldenrod turtleneck. Well, what does a ten year old suburban girl know of country dressing or rock concerts? Nothing yet, although that'll change soon enough.

But here's mom at the door, siblings clustered around, and that pile of wrapped treasures. Yes! That bright yellow Queen t-shirt, with the four band members sullenly staring out like strangely sideburned geisha girls. Yes! Speaking of rites of passage, it's her own copy of the game of Life, tiny golf tee people jammed into plastic cars, winding along a cardboard road to the poorhouse. Ah, and then those familiar flat squares - the most unmistakeable gifts, cherished vinyl discs packed into wondrous square works of art. What record might it be this time?

Two records that time, the fabled double LP set of days gone by. Renaissance, live at Carnegie Hall. It is possible i was the only 10 year old girl in the world excited about receiving this album. If memory serves me well, my peers at St. Domitilla school were enjoying Shaun Cassidy and John Denver around this time.(No snobbishness on my part here, I was equally as at home with the Bay City Rollers and Mr. Denver's musical output.) My brother gave me this album. I had been enthralled by Renaissance's prior release, "Scheherazade And Other Stories," a full-length album with, if you can believe it, four songs on it. Musical epics, short stories set to music, dreamy fantasy worlds brought vividly to life by a lovely English mezzo-soprano, a four piece rock band and a seeming cast of thousands - full orchestra, chorus, you name it. As a kid who could spend hours daydreaming while singing along to records, this was a jackpot of legendary proportions. Circling vultures, eerily empty fairgrounds, a sad-eyed gypsy drowning in an ocean of despair, and a crafty, beautiful girl bewitching a sultan and giving the victory to love. I guess girls today have a sparkling vampire - I had Scheherazade and her Sultan, the Ocean Gypsy and her fateful love affair with the sun.

The live album was just as glorious and introduced me to other stories and songs. It would be another 7 years until a college "History of Soviet Civilization" course caused me to read some of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's works and finally understand "Mother Russia." (I sang the song to my class for extra credit...) I wasn't at all certain what "Running Hard" was about, even when I was older and more well read. "Carpet of the Sun" was a favorite then, a favorite singing warm-up even now, a warm hymn to "the world that you live in...you are the part that you're giving." At ten, i just loved the poetry and the beautiful singing, the way the orchestral arrangements told the stories even without words, I loved being carried away to other times and situations and emotions I couldn't have experienced in my little town and school and home.

I couldn't possibly write about Renaissance without praising Annie Haslam, the singer. A few months ago, don't ask why because I don't know, i was trying to imagine: what do the heavenly voices of angels sound like? I figure it's a sound far beyond anything we've experienced thus far but if i had to name a few possible human counterparts, I would go with Alison Krauss, Jon Anderson and Annie Haslam. When I was really little, my two favorite female singers were (of course!) Julie Andrews and Karen Carpenter. Annie Haslam was a logical next step, with all of Andrews' crisp diction and silly giggling, and that golden warmth that Karen Carpenter also possessed. Haslam also could sail up into some high notes that left a growing girl singer very eager to expand her range and I remember working quite hard, in the lonely confines of my bedroom, trying to reach for the heights and sustain the long, clear notes. Then as now, it comes and goes. Annie Haslam always made it sound quite easy. And oh, I should mention the clothes - the "Carnegie Hall" album opened up to a montage of concert photos and Annie got to sing in some major gowns. I had a tall, blonde, green-eyed doll named Kerry but I renamed her Annie in my mind when Mom bought her an ensemble with a fabulous, long, white, brocade coat with a fur collar.

The other cool thing I discovered about Renaissance is that the lyrics were all written by Betty Thatcher, who lived a somewhat isolated life in a coastal area of Cornwall. They'd send her musical ideas, a few days later lyrics would arrive, fully sketching out the story to be told. This just pushed the romance up a thousand notches, again, for a young girl in the dreary Chicago 'burbs, with a wall-sized poster of London hanging over her bed, a girl who had never seen or smelled the sea, a girl who preferred books to TV, a girl who couldn't WAIT to be finished with girlhood and move on to bigger, brighter experiences. Apparently, having their lyrics written by an absentee poet wasn't always ideal for the band but the idea of it certainly held fascination for the fans. The one line that has stuck with me more than any other, from "Ocean Gypsy," "She knows she's alone and she is free." Perhaps something they can use as my epitaph.

For heavens' sakes, why am I going on about all of this? In 1977 or '78, I was supposed to see Renaissance live - this was major. They were coming to Chicago with Gentle Giant, another band quite popular in our household (and the all-time favorite of Synod's other lead singer, Paul Rogner - that's just too weird to be a coincidence). My brother obtained the tickets and then...my mother, who had allowed me to go to the Auditorium, the Amphitheatre and a few other concert spots, gave a big thumbs down to the Uptown Theatre. My brother had come home recently from that corner of the world, regaling us at breakfast with stories of blatant heroin use and transvestite hookers. You can guess why Mom wasn't too keen on my visiting. And that was that. Apparently Renaissance returned to Chicago in the 80s, but by then they were quite a different band and I was into my Def Leppard/Duran Duran era.

My brother and I exchanged emails a couple of years ago when I noticed Annie Haslam was doing one intimate club date with John Tout. We debated about going - it required serious debate as the show was in Pennsylvania! Too expensive and cumbersome in the end. Opportunity missed and, given that Tout suffered a heart attack the following year and has not been active since, opportunity missed forever. But God saw fit to give me a little something after all these years, and a few weeks ago, June 29, 2010, I saw the 40th anniversary incarnation of Renaissance, with Annie as well as principal songwriter Michael Dunford. At first glance I was a little disappointed that the other band members were all unfamiliar faces. But their performance at the Park West definitely won us over. Was it just like the Carnegie Hall recording? Couldn't be, without an orchestra and a big chorus and the glorious acoustics of a renowned concert hall. But when that crazy piano opened "Running
Hard," with the bass racing along after it, it was magical. "Carpet of the Sun" was gorgeous, too, and "Mother Russia" was a showstopper. Annie's singing of the line, "Mother Russia, he cries....for you" was a little more raw than it was in 1976 which gave it more poignance without losing any of the beauty. And yes, she giggled occasionally.

In case you're wondering - no songs from the "Scheherazade" album, and yes, that was disappointing. But really, what a gift to see this fine singer, looking and sounding lovely as ever, and experience the same songs live that transformed the humdrum life of a 10 year old girl and made her want to bring that same kind of musical magic into peoples' lives. It's been a stellar summer for music in my world - more about that soon.

"Tell people I love them / shake idiots' hands..."

2010-06-16T16:38:00.000-05:00

"And sometimes I hug them / as custom demands."

"The Fight To Be Human," Justin Currie

I mentioned that line to a few fans gathered near to the stage at Justin Currie's show last night and we all laughed. Nervously. When he sang the lines, late in the evening, our little group exchanged a few knowing grins and grimaces. From the furious chorus of whoops that follows his every utterance, Justin Currie is a beloved musical figure in Chicago. The lyrics do make you wonder what he thinks of the listeners, however...

That suggests that he's an ungracious performer, not at all the case. We were thanked repeatedly, genuinely, (being a suburbanite in that urban crowd, I appreciated that he addressed us as "Chicago....midwesterners...Illinoisians..." I have never had a rock/pop musician refer to me as an Illinoisian.) and he's his own worst critic, commenting on flubbed chords, grimacing when he fell somewhat short of s reached-for note. So we aren't those idiots - I think.... As I remarked to the others, "I'd still feel awkward shaking his hand." Maybe we are the idiots, as I thought the funniest part of the night was when he asked, "How have you been?" only to be showered with applause and bellowing "wooooooos!" Says he, "That's a strange response." He then imagined what it would be like if he replied in that manner to a friend greeting him on the street. A little hand clapping then "Woooo!" It is pretty ridiculous. Idiotic, even. Ahem.

Now then, about the important part, the music. Someone asked me how I liked the show and the thing is it's impossible for me to be objective. Heard Del Amitri on the radio back in the very early 90s, I guess, and it was that rare, "Wait, what is this?" moment. Had every album, saw them live whenever possible and when I heard that lead singer/songwriter Currie was going solo, I had no qualms whatsoever. (Solo projects by other favorite performers have not always gone so well for me.)

What I liked about this show:
Lincoln Hall is a cool new-old place for a show.

Justin Currie may be better than any other performer I know at creating a good balance between old and new material. What becomes clear when he plays in Chicago - the audience would only go home happy if he played every song from every album (Del Amitri included, obscure B-sides and unreleased MySpace tracks included). As the crowd yelled out suggestions (becoming a tad annoying after awhile), it was pretty apparent that nobody there was a casual fan. Do I miss the days when Del Amitri could play a huge festival like Taste of Chicago? For Currie's financial security, sure, of course. Do I miss sweating in the 90 degree temperatures surrounded by corporate goons who are there because their company sponsored the show and the casual fans who only know "Roll To Me" and "Only The Last To Know?" Nope. It was quite fun to be in a dark room with people calling out "Chiding Moon" or requesting tracks from "Can You Do Me Good?" an album which was never released in the States. Even Currie seemed surprised when we asked for those songs. It's fun to stump the artist. :)

Best songs of the night: "What Is Love For," "You'll Always Walk Alone." When I was younger, it seemed like every song made me cry. These days - good luck. These two killed me last Thursday night, I was embarrassed to be standing right in front because it wasn't like I was going to fish a tissue out of my handbag...Beautiful performances of songs that are tender and brutal at the same time. "Anywhere I'm Away From You" - a slow-burn funky kinda thing from the latest album. I never would have thought they could pull this off with two guys, but it was great. In other words, you can do anything with great songwriting as your DNA.
"The Way That It Falls," "Just Like A Man," "Driving With the Brakes On," and what is probably my favorite Del Amitri song, "Be My Downfall."

But being fair, being truthful, he doesn't have any bad songs, so there weren't in the performance. There are very few artists about whom I could make the same statement. I guess since he's his harshest assessor, the chaff gets left far behind. The "bonus tracks" on the new CD are better than most "hit" singles I've heard in the last few years from many other people. Most other people...don't get me started.

What made the experience challenging. Traffic - good God, two hours to get from Algonquin to Lincoln Park on a Thursday afternoon/early evening. By the time I found Lincoln Hall I was twisted in knots from that slow crawl eastward. People - am I that insane when I'm about and listening to music? Maybe I am, maybe I annoy the crap out of other folks. The guy using Justin's monitor to pull himself up onto the stage so he could peek at the setlist - what's that about???? I understand getting there early because you want to be close up - I do the same thing. I can't understand taking flash photographs all night and clearly driving the performer nuts. As a musician, I know how distracting your audience can be and it's pretty awful to be singing and have flash bulbs popping off in your face. Take a picture or two and then put the camera away and enjoy, take it in. I didn't take a single picture and it's all quite clear in my memory. Then there's another concert favorite - Mr. Funny Guy, and I don't need to tell you he isn't funny AT ALL. If there's a drawback to an intimate setting, it's that every drunken goofball thinks the performer is his mate at the bar and have you heard the one about? I can do without it unless you have some genuinely clever outburst. I ended up making a vocal observation, but only when asked: Currie started to tell a story involving Gillian Welch. He stopped himself, "Did I tell you this one the last time?" He had but it's a more than awkward to tell one of your favorite singer/songwriters ever that he's repeating himself. But, when no one else stepped up to the plate, I let him know we'd heard the story a few years ago, at Schuba's. He told a very funny story involving Michael Penn instead. He also thanked me for letting him know - but maybe he was thinking I'm an idiot, too.

"well I'm talkin' to myself, not you, so don't get mad..."

2010-06-10T00:07:00.001-05:00

Hi. Back again. Possibly for real this time but, oh, enough of my vain, empty promises. But there's a reason it could be different this time and I might get back to blogging more regularly (as opposed to blogging irregularity, which sounds uncomfortable). I am typing this on the newest wonder of the modern world, the Apple iPad. To repeat what someone wrote on my Facebook wall this morning, *hug* And I thought my little Sidekick made for a cute companion. Paddy O'Mac here is adorable, glossy, shiny, sleek, and, like Tigger, FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN!

Now, to give an honest appraisal, setting up the iPad was headache-inducing and pricey. Of course, you, wise reader, will learn from my errors and will READ the requirements, clearly posted on the Apple Web site, before purchasing. As it is, it really only cost me $180.00 more to upgrade everything to Snow Leopard and get new iLife, iWork. An hour to install, another hour to run all the software updates and shazam. But it took about 24 hours to get all that figured out, 2 trips to the insane Apple Store in Woodfield with those eerily polite and groovy salespeople. I got to hear English Beat's "Mirror in the Bathroom" while I was there, however. An appropriate soundtrack for purchasing a $900 gadget to help me self-analyze for my audience of 4 followers, :)

So, first thing I did on the iPad was update my Facebook status. Yes, I have turned into the people I hate...I don't yet have a Farmville, so cut me some slack. I like Facebook status updates more for the micro-blogging feel. I can post a video about a sloth orphanage, or a FIFA World Cup ad with a great U2 soundtrack, crab about the traffic or a terrible homily or a stomach ache (my tummy is killing me right now), repost a Tribune article or Onion news. And look perfectly normal doing all of those things. Biggest Facebook accomplishments recently: made a video for a huge U2 fan in Miami, someone I have never met but who is a funny, incredibly endearing writer as well as the great motivator of the U2 Nation, and he actually watched it and shared it with other people, etc. The kind of great reach across the divide moment the Interwebs was supposed to deliver, when kids aren't using it to bully each other to death and adults aren't mesmerized by porn and bad political commentary. Oh, other accomplishment - Justin Currie is my Facebook friend. Yes, and I'm sure he's glued to the screen day after day, waiting to see who else "likes" him. The best analysis of Facebook I have seen was on an episode of "South Park," believe it or not. I find the show pretty grotesque most of the time, but friends kept insisting I needed to see the Facebook episode and it is genius. Poke your Grandma.

Second thing I did on iPad - sync my iTunes, of course. Third thing - purchased and downloaded U2's live at the Rose Bowl 360 concert movie. It was almost midnight when I did that - brilliant, as it's like a 2.5 GB download. So i let it go and went to sleep. Awesome to watch the concert opener this morning, standing in my kitchen, eating Oatmeal Squares.

Speaking of music and Facebook friends, tomorrow evening I'll be driving into Chicago for a concert with none other than Justin Currie. I pretty much hate trips to Chicago, traffic and lack of parking and your creepy sidewalk hang-around types, etc etc. But you may recall that the last time I saw Currie, at Schuba's in 2008, I pronounced it one of the best concerts I had ever seen, no question. So I am very excited to see him again, at a new venue, Lincoln Hall. My brother has been to LH and likes it, so I have that to look forward to as well. Justin has a new album, "The Great War," which I like very much. I am not convinced I like it quite as much as the amazing "What Is Love For" but it's right up there and I cannot stop listening to it. I think i have called him the anti-Bono at times and it still fits, I guess the two of them are my yin and yang, dark and light, blah blah.

Bono, of course, is this summer's heartache. Poor guy - welcome to your 50s, eh? I really need Justin to be astonishing tomorrow, because my extra-expensive Red Zone U2 ticket will remain unused for another year. Yep, I am still 13 years old on the inside and I cried when i got the news that the tour had been postponed. Music still means that much to some of us and some days, nights, I am not sure why.

Well, a good start here, I am going to pack it in for the night as the iPad battery is fading (not bad, about 12 hours before it started to complain). I do hope I'll soon be posting a review of tomorrow's show. Sunday I leave for another week in Springfield and ILEAD U. Friday night Synod's drummer is playing with his other band, Mustache Pete, at a place right in Barrington, so I might have news or photos to share. I am on Facebook a LOT so please, look for me there! Hope you've been well.

"If you could only, oh whoa, picture this, a day in December..."

2010-04-06T20:39:00.002-05:00

People who really love music have mysteries in their lives, mysteries they fear will forever go unsolved. Snippets of things heard and loved and then - poof, gone. In a family like mine, where music and memories sometimes won't untangle, we even have shared mysteries. This weekend, as we poured all over mom and dad's living room in various states of fatigue and fullness from our brunch, we went back to a mystery that often unsettles us. As kids we had a 45 rpm vinyl record, I'm pretty sure it originally belonged to my parents. It was Latin in style. I don't know enough about Latin musical styles to correctly identify it as a mambo or salsa or whatever. In fact, we are short in facts in general. We believe it was on RCA or Decca. It was probably released some time in the 1960s. All we are certain of is that the lyrics sounded like a group of men singing, "May-low bee patay-tah." Over and over again. We can all sing it for you like we just heard it yesterday. But we can't find it anywhere.

We remain hopeful, however, because every few years we close the book on a case. The Internet has been a Godsend in this particular obsession, as every goofball with a record collection decides to post his rarest treasures in places like YouTube - treasures like Melvin van Peebles' spoken word, exuberantly jazzy wonderment called, "Lilly done the zampoughie every time I pulled her coattail." This has more of a story behind it than "May-low bee patay-tah."

My brother was an exceptionally patient and kind person who often took his youngest sibling along with him while he did cool college guy stuff. In fact, he still does this. But I digress. So it was that one day, in the late 1970s, we found ourselves on the North side of Chicago, off of Sheridan Road, in a place called Round Records, where he was a frequent shopper. My brother's trips into Chicago resulted in armfuls of vinyl albums being carried home, much to my delight and my parents' eternal unhappiness. I can still remember being the first Cheap Trick album at the Rolling Stone in Chicago on St. Patrick's Day one year like it happened yesterday. But on this night at Round Records, we were just browsing. I no longer remember why, but the upstairs room seemed to be a little more highbrow - maybe that was the classical and jazz collection? It was more brightly lit, more library-like than the darker lower space. My brother was probably in his jazz phase at the time, so we ventured into the upper chamber.

If you've seen Jack Black in "High Fidelity," you have a very accurate picture of what record store employees are like in general, and particularly in that era of truly great stores. No matter what your tastes, they were going to frown upon you and treat you as an utter moron. My brother, being quite the connossieur and spending most of his income on vinyl, usually got more of a VIP treatment, but...as I said, we didn't venture into this upper room much. The guy working there was clearly working on his "hipster doofus" badge or something, and I think he just wanted to see if he could freak out a couple suburban kids, one around 20, the other not even 10. So he put on "Brer Soul," the Melvin Van Peebles album which opens with "Lilly..." My brother was flipping through stacks on one side of the store, I was wandering, browsing for something that might look familiar or might have a picture of Robin Zander on it. But Melvin is hard to ignore. Even at 9 years old, I could figure out what he and Lilly were doing that led to the "BOOM-CHAKA-BOOM-CHAKA-BOOM" and his cries of "DO IT LILLY!" Not that he leaves much to the imagination. I wonder if anyone has ever laid it to me "oven style." Hee.

Well, if that record store guy thought we were going to run away, he didn't know us too well. Instead we got the giggles like two people have never giggled before. But we were far apart in the store and we didn't want to offend Mr. Jazz Snob, so we attempted to stifle the laughter, which of course made it just that much more painful. My brother loves recounting how he looked around to find me, wondering if I was taking in any of this rather perverse recording, and realizing I was shaking from hilarity, my shoulders heaving in my coat, fighting off tears. If he had been worried, there wasn't anything to worry about. I think we yelled "BOOM-CHAKA-BOOM-CHAKA-BOOM!" all the way home and for many months afterwards. I mean, thinking about it now, it IS funny. A spoken word piece with crazy jazzy outbursts, and a piece that pretty much catalogues the best sex you've ever had and the sweaty, wild dance your old girlfriend used to do, relived by shouting out "DO IT LILLY!" I mean, if you can listen to this and not get a grin, you are the world's biggest prude or you ain't got no soul.

But, since we didn't want to bother the Record Store Guy, we left that night without knowing where this recorded wonder came from. And yes kids, I know it's hard to believe, but there was no Google in which to type the words and find the source. No iTunes. We weren't even at the "musical encyclopedia on CD-Rom" stage yet. So, for years, decades, all we had was a memory.

Around 15 years ago, when I first started dabbling in Internet stuff, my brother sent me a message: he had found the source of Lilly's zampoughie. For many years, my brother ran incredibly successful fund-raising sales for public radio, mostly selling old vinyl LPs. While digging through the treasure trove one year, he took a look at "Brer Soul," and there it was. I suspect he bought the LP, and we felt somewhat relieved knowing the source of the song. But it wasn't much use to me. Flash-forward to today. I currently write short music reviews for a blog on my library's Web site and was looking for a new topic today. I had been thinking about spoken word recordings, since it is National Poetry Month. We didn't have much in the library's CD collection, but one item, a jazz recording with one spoken word piece by an African-American doctor, brought it back to me - could I find the Lilly song somewhere?

And then that ol' Internet magic kicked in. One search for "van peebles lilly" and I found the video above. So now, you too can share in the sweaty, "country style" experience of doin' it with Lilly. Listening to this in its entirety several times today, I get the impression Lilly meets a bad end at the hands of our hero? Hard to tell. There is some wild drumming that mimics gun shots, and the narrator mentions telling it to the judge and a desire to see Lilly again, but as if that's going to be a heavenly kind of "again." Hmm. Now, if I could just find the "patay-tah" song.

A Little More ILEAD U

2010-03-08T18:47:00.005-06:00

I posted that info while I was preparing (for the worst) at ILEAD U, worried that the handouts and other materials were not on the student USB drives. But, they were, and now I feel like I left a gaping hole here in blog-land, not explaining what that last post was all about.

Late last year, I applied and was accepted to be in an instructor in ILEAD U, a new initative from the Illinois State Library. The basics: the state library received bucketloads of cash from Laura Bush, herself a former librarian. The monies were in response to a grant project that sought to provide 21st century technology training for librarians but really for anyone working in a library. (You do know that not everyone working in a library is a librarian, right? Please tell me you knew that.) ISL got the money, assembled a team to devise the initiative, then put out a call for instructors, mentors and teams of students. Hence, my application to be an instructor. Truly, what was I thinking? I'm no ace when it comes to technology. I am a pretty darn good teacher, on my best days, and what I lack in techie know-how, I make up for with enthusiasm and goofiness and a desire to make a student successful. A desire to share with other people that you can know just enough about technology to make it do your bidding.

Our student teams had a much more difficult application process. Teams of 5 people had to find a real-life problem in their libraries/communities, write about various ways technology might be a part of the solution to that problem, find partnerships within the community, etc etc. 8 winning teams were chosen for this cohort. We all descended en masse upon Springfield in the third week of February for our first in-person session.

The minute I walked into the instructors' meeting on the first day, I was overwhelmed with a sense of "Why did I think this was a good idea?" It didn't help matters any that 30 minutes before I drove from my hotel to the U of I-Springfield campus, I received an email that a very kind and helpful coworker of mine had passed away, quite unexpectedly. I walked into our meeting worried I'd burst into tears at an inopportune moment, or would simply be surrounded by those IT types who like making people like me feel like dumb ol' girls who don't know a thing about computers and Internet. By the end of the first day, I still didn't really know which end was up, but many of my colleagues seemed like interesting, funny, intelligent people and that's the kind of company I like to keep.

I should mention that we stayed in the spacious, well-appointed Crowne Plaza in Springfield. It seemed particularly spacious on Sunday night, when I arrived, since there were 5 other cars in the parking lot of the hotel, which soars up to about 12 floors and has a parking lot the size of 2 football fields. I tried not to feel too "Bates Motel" walking around the empty public spaces. My brother met me for Chinese food and I even found my way to the hotel workout room, which had really posh treadmills. Back in my room, relaxed from working out after a good meal and a 4 hour drive...I couldn't sleep a wink. The no-sleep policy continued my entire time there, and since we'll be returning two more times, I need to plan more carefully. Bring own pillows, bring white noise-generating machinery, etc.

By Tuesday, the hotel was not only full of library types for ILEAD U, it was also loaded with "farm dudes," as I liked to call them, as a Farm Bureau convention of some type was taking place. We spent breakfast, lunch and dinner at UIS, and in the evenings the students gathered in various parts of the hotel for communal homework projects. Wednesday was my day to instruct, on making digital video and uploading to YouTube, so that evening was my turn to run around and help the students. Every group really impressed me with their projects, their enthusiasm and energy, their ability to learn quickly and not get frustrated when the technology didn't work - which was often. I didn't know until Wednesday evening that the students had been supplied with HD cameras. That sounds great, except HD cameras don't work with Windows Movie Maker XP, which is all we had for editing. Downloaded a needed codec, downloaded a free file converter and we were on our way. Some students took the reins and used different software apps, which was fine with me (although I do like when people will try something new and unfamilar, too, but it's hard to get enthused about Windows Movie Maker).

By Tuesday, I was getting along a little too well with my colleagues on the instructor team, as we had to be shushed several times. You know me, I cannot resist a group that will laugh at my somewhat strange attempts at humor, and I love people who can be silly for the sake of making other people smile. We ended the first in-person session with a goofy "Oscar" ceremony, each student team receiving a plastic Oscar statuette (Graciously purchased by Tom Dorst during a late night stop at the party store!) in a bizarre category, the categories created by another instructor, Andrew Bullen. You can see the student videos here: http://www.youtube.com/ileaduproject and see bits of the ceremony here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJTNIIMeSGI

Considering how awkward I felt walking into that first day and how certain I was that I would be unveiled as a techno-know-little, I'm really looking forward to going back in June! The student teams really made me want to work hard to help them solve their problems. (I made a joke about having a bit of a Bono complex and it's really the thing that pushes me to get involved in stuff like this. It certainly isn't for the money or the all expenses paid trips to Springfield - although I did get to eat sausage, biscuits and gravy every single day!) I'm already working on sessions based on topics suggested by the students or by their project applications (I'm thinking of a session called "EPIC FAIL!" about some of my real-life, failed projects and then brainstorming with the students about what can be learned from them - good idea?). At the end of the "Oscar" ceremony, one student, Linda, asked if the instructor team would also make a video to show the group (I think the students figured if they can bare their souls to us in their CUH-razy videos, we should do the same. Plus, Linda had been the last student to stay up having a drink with us, so I think she felt like we owed her that much. :) ) . Needless to say, the bizarre ideas are already flying back and forth about a video we could make together, if we can find the time and resources to do it. That's me in the background up top, cheering on one of the lucky winners - but really, we're all winners, aren't we?

I hope to tell you more about ILEAD U as things progress, but I think we made a great start of what could become a powerful technology training concept, repeated all over the country.

Live from ILEAD U, Springfield, 2010!

2010-02-22T13:00:00.007-06:00

For those of you accustomed to me blogging only about music - surprise! Here comes the librarian part. I am part of the instructor corps for ILEAD U - Illinois Libraries Explore, Apply and Discover. Librarians, library staff and related community members from all over the state will be coming together this week for our first in-person session at the University of Illinois - Springfield campus to learn about 21st century technology tools. Should be super-fun and exciting.

I just discovered that my handouts for my session are not on the USB/Flash drive supplied to the students - and they're not going to be able to click links on paper handouts. Sooo...I'll bring them here and provide necessary links. If I have time, I'll write more about the institute. Here's a link to the Google presentation:

http://docs.google.com/present/edit?id=0AeL7JePFFG-1ZHJqNHM2a183ZzVwbng0Z2Q&hl=en

or you can use the embedded Google presentation here:

The codec students will need to use their Flip video footage in Windows Movie Maker can be found here: http://www.divxmovies.com/codec/

A clickable copy of the first handout can be found at: http://docs.google.com/View?id=drj4s6k_26c5bnkmh4

The second handout can be found at: http://docs.google.com/View?id=drj4s6k_30d4v8qqg8

Adiós melancolía!

2010-01-27T16:23:00.004-06:00

Ugh, another month went by! Nudge me a little, gentle reader (all 2 or 3 of you...)!

Lately, when I wake up in the morning, I hear in my head a song I barely understand. It's called "Adiós melancolía," by a Guatemalan artist named Ricardo Arjona. He's not only a Grammy-winning musician and writer, he's apparently a rather accomplished basketball player in his native land. I discovered him completely by accident - now I bump into him everywhere. When my friends Tom and Joanna were adopting their now oldest son from Guatemala, I threw them a Guatemalan-themed baby shower and was on iTunes, desperately searching for appropriate music. Found out Arjona is a hugely popular performer from that part of the world, so I took a chance on downloading a selection of his songs, based on this ridiculous little snippets iTunes gives you, and yet, I chose well. This song, in particular, just pushed its way into my head and heart would not let go. Since then, I was flabbergasted when his name flashed in lights on the huge sign by the Allstate Arena, near Chicago - if he's playing at a hall that can also hold the most popular American artists, he's doing something right. And, hooray, some of my favorite songs of his are on the jukebox at Mexico, the best Mexican restaurant near the Library. (Lee Street in Des Plaines)

Clearly, I know enough español to know what the title means. There are words here and there I recognize: "domingo," "cartera," "pupila," even "termostato!" But 98% of it, literally, leaves me hanging and yet it hardly matters. There's so much joy in the jolly accordion playing, Arjona's playful singing, the skipping dance of the melody - I've started playing this one whenever I need a mood boost and it's like musical Jolt cola. I liked this song so much I decided to give some of his others a chance when the baby shower was over and he's got great stuff! Another, called "No Me Importa Nada," is also frequently playing in my car and I like singing along as if I know what I mean. By the way, do not trust Google Translator with song lyrics. Here's how the opening of "Adiós melancolía" translates:

"I have a Sunday Stand-by
If the Monday by you depressed
Inthe holding an amphora
that keeps you odor
I have front row tickets
to see you wake in the morning
It is my firm conviction
that if they comforted me
And the suspicion that no suspicions much I love you
I have your photo placed in the pupil
and your voice dances the stirrup, the anvil

I laugh, I'm crying I have a thermostat
when I turn off these and if you leave me
not to die of nostalgia."

That's more confusing than not really understanding. This is not my first time falling in love with songs I don't understand. I loved singing Mozart's "Ave Verum, Corpus" long before I knew what the Latin meant. I'm very fond of a lot of Irish songs, although most of the recordings I own are by performers, like Sting and Kate Bush, I suspect are singing phonetically. I chime right in, on songs like "Mo Ghile Mear" and "Mna Na H'Eireann," singing tuneful gibberish that I think sounds like Irish. I know Celine Dion polarizes a lot of music lovers, but I think she possesses a fabulous talent, even if the material sometimes doesn't do her justice. Her French recordings are really fun and, imo, give you a new appreciation for her as a musician and interpreter. Two French favorites for me are "Destin" and "Je Chanterai." I studied French for a few years so I do better at pronouncing the words than I do with Spanish, but I have to read the lyrics to really get them. On Christmas Day, due to a tangled web of circumstances, I ended up singing one verse of "O Holy Night" in French, and while I know I made mistakes (the desire of the performer in me to look away from the chart to make eye contact meant a few pronunciation slip-ups!), it was fun to be challenged, too.

I have been asked, at other times, to sing in languages I have not studied. Once, some Spanish for an anniversary Mass at my church, but I already knew the song in English ("Lord When You Came to the Seashore") so I didn't have the extra work of linking melody to unfamiliar words. A week ago, I got called for a funeral at a different parish, with a request for "Time To Say Goodbye," an Italian piece made popular by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman, among others. It's an interesting musical idea. I hesitate to call it a song although it has a very singable refrain. Due to music director nervousness and all kinds of other, um, stuff, I didn't do the funeral. My general feeling was, give me two weeks and I could learn the song very well. 3 days? Yikes. I figured I'd sound like one of those first year vocal students, eager to try out their first foreign language piece, a bit stilted, nervous, and definitely not a native. (Although I think Brightman's Italian is weak, to say the least, and nobody's complaining about her! The last 3 words of her recording of "Time To..." are inaudible, I actually thought she was just...emoting. Wordlessly. Consonants, Sarah, consonants!) Still, even after working on it a couple of days, I've had "Quando sono sola sogno all'orrizonte e mancan le parole..." playing in my head for hours. Which makes me feel guilty over how the funeral thing went - but I hope and pray the music director found someone he felt comfortable with, who knew that darn song backwards and forwards, and gave this grieving family the experience they sought. And as years go by, I hope their sorrow mellows and they, too, can sing, adiós melancolía!

You can check out this happy tune in the homemade video above. Enjoy.

"And we've got nothing to be guilty of..."

2009-12-29T18:10:00.004-06:00

Time for my periodic public confession on the subject of guilty pleasures - this time, literally.

As Christmas approached, I once again started to panic about my voice. Sang a duet in the Advent concert that did not fill me with confidence - even though I know the problem was more with the temporary sound system we were using and my inability to hear anything. (A mash-up of bad hearing and lack of monitors) Fourth Sunday of Advent came, and things started out swimmingly - then I got a mountain of goo on my vocal folds during the psalm, and while nothing explosive happened, I just couldn't sing particularly comfortably, either. So with two strikes on me as I stepped up to the Christmas plate, I could hear Pat Hughes asking Ron Santo if I had the green light, if you take my meaning.

What to do? How to lose the funk and get back my confidence? I spent a Saturday morning thinking about that and thought it might be wise to go back to some of the singers I first admired and emulated, the songs that gave me "Aha, I can do this!" moments of wonder and glee. The first person I thought of (also mentioned in my last post, presciently) was Barbra Streisand. Strange as it may seem, it was this big-voiced Jewish girl from New Yawk that taught me Gounod's "Ave Maria," featured on Streisand's first Christmas album way back in 1967 (I was just over 1 year old when it was released, so I feel absolutely certain it was the first rendition of "Ave Maria" I ever heard, and I believe very strongly in the power of "firsts.") I understand that Streisand's voice is not to everyone's taste and may be a bit out of fashion now, but on a good day, I probably sound more like her than anybody else.

So thank God for iTunes, as all my Streisand recordings are on vinyl (!) or cassette (!!!!) with the exception of The Broadway Album. I downloaded not only a portion of the Guilty album, which was screamingly popular in our house full of women (my mother and next oldest sister were also big fans), but the other Streisand collection I really enjoyed, 'Til I Loved You.If you think Streisand singing with Barry Gibb was a little bizarre, 'Til I Loved You featured two duets with...Don Johnson. And you know what? I like them. I got these songs on my iPod, got in the car to run errands and suddenly I realized I was singing along, note for note, like I'd never had a care in the world. Good medicine, I guess.

Why do I like Barbra Streisand's voice? Well, it's a real, honest to God human voice. Yes, there's some studio reverb on there, but that's it. There's still some Brooklyn in her pronunciation, she even lisps a little bit now and then. She slides and sometimes she sings with tons of vibrato. She whispers and then she hollers and then gracefully moves back to the whisper again. Even though I know she "studied" voice and I know she's a huge fan of classical vocalists, her own singing has this raw, utterly emotional quality that is really hard to find now. I know, there are a ton of big-voiced divas out there who seem to be singing that way, but it's utterly calculated, and much of it is created by the mixing board, not the singer. I love that I can understand every word she sings - you don't need a lyric sheet for Streisand. I love that her singing is often accompanied by acting - a sigh here, a giggle there. Listening to her vibrato, I realized I've been fighting my own too much. People have complimented me on the fact that I hardly have any noticeable vibrato, so I think I've foolishly tried to eliminate all audible traces and I think that causes my voice to crack at times. Just to be clear, all singing is the work of vibrato and some audible vibrato is the sign of healthy singing. Opinions vary greatly on how much, and how fast/slow, healthy vibrato should be. However, singing with completely "straight tone," without any audible vibrato, can really hurt your voice. So thanks to Barbra, I can feel comfortable letting some of that back in.

Listening to these songs again, songs like "Guilty" and "What Kind of Fool?" and the awesome, Quincy Jones-arranged "The Places You Find Love" (it's like Barbra singing Michael Jackson!!!!!), took me back to times when I so desperately wanted to be a "singer" but wasn't there yet. Singing along to these records gave me tremendous confidence and was also a damn good workout - if you can keep up with Streisand, you're a bit of alright. Besides "The Places You Find Love," the other song that blew me away because I've thought of it so often but hadn't gone back to listen to it in decades is "On My Way To You," a collaboration between Michel Legrand and Marilyn & Alan Bergman (supposedly written for Maureen McGovern, but again, this is the first version I knew so it remains the standard, for me).

"So often as I wait for sleep, I find myself reciting
the words I've said or should have said,
like scenes that need rewriting.
The smiles I never answered, doors perhaps I should have opened,
songs forgotten in the morning...

I relive the roles I've played, the tears I may have squandered,
the many pipers I have paid along the roads I've wandered.
Yet all the time I knew it - love was somewhere out there waiting,
though I may regret a kiss or two.

If I had changed a single day, what went amiss or went astray,
I may have never found my way to you."

I cried so hard listening to it on that first revisit I couldn't even sing along.
We can spend so much of life torn up by regret and "what if?" We forget that all the steps, right or wrong, get us to where we eventually want and need to be, if we don't fight the truth and don't want or wish for too much. I can get very hung up on not having been the singer I wanted to be, not being "famous," not having much by way of money or a home or material possessions. But - I have been a singer and I am a singer and that counts for something. God works hard to remind me of that. This afternoon I got a personal Facebook message from a man I graduated from high school with - in fact, I have not seen him since our graduation night. We didn't date, we weren't even close friends, we had a lot of classes together and shared quite a few laughs, but that's really it. He wrote just to tell me that one of his daughters has started performing in school plays and was asking him about acting. He told her about my performance in "Godspell" as a high school junior (!), and how "unbelievable" it was and clearly so, since he could still remember it and that was 26 years ago. About two weeks ago, my 4th grade teacher found me online and sent the nicest note, with a hilarious reminder of my solo performance of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" for our music class.

All I've ever really wanted was to sing for people and make them smile, help them feel things more deeply, inspire them to praise God a little more fervently, make them feel like kissing someone or dancing. It may not always be perfect singing or the best singing you've ever heard, but maybe it doesn't always need to be.

Don't Blink...

2009-12-17T17:23:00.007-06:00

Because the year flies by and you'll miss it.

Here it is, a week before Christmas 2009. I was a poor excuse for a blogger this year. I had so much I wanted to say, a lot of moments I hoped to capture with words and even some photos, but the moments stayed in my head and camera. There was much to celebrate, musically, as I saw and heard some of the best live performances of my 33 years of attending such things. Leonard Cohen's mesmerizing and masterful show at the Orpheum Theatre in Minneapolis. Steely Dan's electric recreation of "Aja" live at the Chicago Theatre. Oh yes, that little folk band from Ireland, U2, somehow managing to seem as big as Soldier Field and the "spaceship" that encapsulated them. (That's a shot of Laurie and me approaching the spaceship/stage) In the days that followed the U2 show, in September, I was overcome with a longing, a mild depression, unlike anything I've ever known, at least in a musical sense. Lucky for me they added a July date for 2010, at which I hope to be once again transported to that profound and life-altering place for which U2 seems to hold the key. What I appreciated on this tour is that all of the elements of social justice and peace-making and progress were still there, but expressed through art, rather than through gab. (Not that I don't love the gab of Bono, believe me) "Sunday Bloody Sunday" transformed into a shout-out to the protesters in Iran - that's not an easy transition to make, even the title is so seared into our brains as an event in Irish history. Archbishop Desmond Tutu offering warm thanks and encouragement to the ONE campaign via video, setting the stage for that great, communal love-making that is any live performance of "Where The Streets Have No Name." (Seriously - it starts and within seconds, it's like 75,000 people making love to each other at the same time, I have no other way to explain it. People sweat, slide up and down, scream, sing, throw their arms about, hug, it's just so...intense. In the best possible way.) I never, ever thought I could enjoy a concert in a football stadium and was never so happy to be proven wrong. A beautiful starlit late summer night, winds coming in off Lake Michigan. Laurie and I ate some sandwiches, sitting on the blacktop of the marina parking lot, and I felt easily 20 years younger. One of the funniest concert moments of my life occurred during that "Streets" scene described above - we had a group of firemen from Miami standing behind us. One was a rather rambunctious vocalist who enjoyed the fact that I, too, know the words to every U2 song. But when "Streets" started, he grabbed my shoulders and shouted, "I COULD DIE RIGHT NOW!!!!" and I knew exactly what he meant. Is it next July yet?

Just a few weeks ago, I sat with rapturous delight, listening to the entirely unfamiliar "songs" of John Moulder, at the record release party for "Bïfrost," featuring my friend Brian Peters. Even if you think you don't "like" jazz, or don't "get" it, you could probably like/get this album. I don't even know how someone comes up with that kind of music, much less plays it. More and more, I am musically dazzled by people who do what I cannot do. I rarely listen to female vocalists anymore, at least not your standard diva types. On a good day/night, I can still do most of that stuff. I need to be challenged, not consoled. (Not all the time, but most of the time)

This is not to say singing is still easy for me. Ah, yes, I remember the days of cigarettes, wine, 3 AM gigs and then...cantoring the next day for 8 AM Mass. It is somewhat comforting when I talk to other singers, my age or older, who tell me this is all pretty natural and that nobody stays that way forever. A recent interview with no less a talent than Streisand indicated she went into her sessions for the latest album, produced by Diana Krall, thinking, "I don't think I can sing like this anymore." Streisand thinks that, too, sometimes? Wow. In a recent flurry of research I've done about the singing voice, I also discovered that Celine Dion, another formidable talent, was disappointed with the recording of that "Titanic" song, saying she knew she wasn't ready, hadn't been singing for awhile, and had an excess of caffeine that day that greatly increased her vibrato. If nothing else, I can take heart from knowing it's not just me.

That same round of research informed me that singers with allergies will always have a very difficult time performing. Also, singers with acid reflux will always have vocal trouble. Reading all of that was enough to make me wonder why I continue to try, and yet, I do. The extremely talented and kind soprano in my choir, Vickie Myrick-Smith, responding to the comments about allergies and reflux, said to me, "You just learn to sing around all of that." Some days, easier said than done. I'm in the "I'll try anything" phase right now. More water. Earlier wake-up and more warm-up time. Fewer allergy meds on the nights before singing. Eat breakfast. Don't eat breakfast. Cut the soda. Drink the soda. Next on the list of experiments is high quality ear plug - one of my biggest issues these days is hearing. If I can't hear myself, what little is left of my confidence flies out the window and the song usually collapses in on itself. Happened last week at our church Advent concert. I was, in fact, supposed to sing a duet with Vickie, an unnerving proposal as it is, since without any effort she can sing me out of the room. But due to time constraints, we performed with a portable sound system, leaving all of the singers without monitors and two speakers aimed out, toward the audience. Not a positive experience for me. So my little high tech ear plug is on its way and I'll give it a whirl, because there won't be a million dollar sound system with me everywhere I sing. Should I ever win the Lottery, I plan on doing a Celine Dion and having my own theatre built - if you want to hear me, it'll have to be there. :)

There's no rhyme or reason to any of it, which is most frustrating. At a high pressure wedding where I'm charging a big fee, my voice will crack at the most inopportune moment - "Ave Maria" or some such. At a no pressure whatsoever Christmas caroling show at the local park district, singing without a microphone, no problema. Grrr. (There's a photo of me with the Singing Librarians of DPPL, same weekend but our outdoor performance at the tree-lighting. I had a microphone that night and boy did I need it! About 19 degrees at show time and we were singing the very high energy Pointer Sisters' adaptation of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town") So it stands to reason some of it is good old-fashioned nerves. Shouldn't I be past that by now?

Anyway, that's where I am today. We had a library holiday party and all staff meeting at the unmerry hour of 8 AM today, and my eyelids are beginning to droop. It's become a tradition for me to make a year-end "wrap-up" video to share with my colleagues and this year, I chose "Don't Blink," my favorite Kenny Chesney song, as the soundtrack.

"Don't blink - just like that, you're six years old and you take a nap, wake up and you're 25 and your high school sweetheart becomes your wife.
Don't blink - you just might miss your babies growing like mine did, turning into moms and dads,
next thing you know, your better half of 50 years is there in bed, and you're praying God takes you instead.
Trust me, friend, a hundred years goes faster than you think - so don't blink."

Stay tuned - I'll try to be back soon!

Sing We Our Joyful Praise to Thee

2009-11-26T16:41:00.002-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving! I apologize in advance for any typos, as I am typing this on my phone. Haven't quite adapted to the tiny keyboard. It's 4:47, the turkey, stuffing, potato soup and green beans have settled in and I have barely stirred from my perch on Mom's couch for 2 hours. My brother and I are amusing each other with a variety of silly things: a couple recent issues of Rolling Stone and MOJO, our mutual love for the blog "FUPenguin," and a collection of books about states, written for elementary students but published in China. Apparently people in China think Illinois is Chicago, surrounded by idyllic wilderness, soaring rock formations, eagles, canoes on glassy streams. We have those things, but we have a lot of strip malls, too...

All in all, a good day. Last year, Dad got a short reprieve from the nursing home and grumbled through dinner. He's been home for months and seems to be doing better every day. Last year, we were starting to realize there was little chance of saving Howe Center, the state-run facility where my sister Susie had lived for 19 years. Now, she's making a fresh, if somewhat rocky start, in a community-based home in Oak Park. My other sister is on the phone with Mom right now, talking over the day. There were rough spots in the year, for sure. Losing my co-worker Kathy to a brain tumor, other friends going through health scares, and major budget worries at work. The ongoing battle with my voice, once my best friend, now a bit of a cantankerous spouse...

But, today is today, and today is good. We had the sweetest waitress in the world for our meal, just an Irish pub kind of place, McCarthy's.
it reminded me of a lunch I had in Ireland, a little dining room literally in the front room of a cozy house, flocked wallpaper and knick-knacks, and some amazing baked chicken and mashed potatoes. We've had some falling down laughs today: did you know there's a terrible song called "El-A-Noy" with a line about the Queen of Sheba coming to our state with "an ass-load of spices, pomegranates, and gold?" My brother is really enjoying the word "ass-load." I helped plan a class reunion that already has people talking about the "next time," and you couldn't ask for a more positive review than that. Advent starts this weekend and I love Advent, it's my favorite church season with the most beautiful music. We have a new pastor at St. Anne's, and while the changes are many and profound, I hope they make us a stronger, more generous, more prayerful community. I hate to pray for myself, but in weaker moments I do ask for my voice to heal and either be what it was or be something different but still useful, still an instrument of God's grace.

But, better to pray for the things I know God can do in all of us - feed the hungry, give shelter to the homeless, protect the abused, no miracles needed there, just hard work and determination, most of all compassion enough to want to make a difference. But today is good and for that I'm thankful. I hope to carry that with me and find ways to make tomorrow good for others. I hope your day was rich with blessings, food, family and friends, whatever it is that brings you joy.

And I'm never going back to my old school...

2009-11-24T12:19:00.006-06:00

...because I can't.

Hi there! When November, also known as "National Novel Writing Month," began, I was determined to get back to blogging. Ha. Making matters worse, I have started writing a second blog for work, strictly on the topic of music in the Library's CD collection. One can only blog so much.

Plus, in the last few weeks, I have been even more insanely busy than usual, with much of the insanity provided by the task of planning a 25th high school reunion for my old pals from Driscoll Catholic High School. When I say I can't go back, I don't mean it figuratively, like, "You can never go back." I mean that the school also closed down this year, not that I was prone to such nostalgic visits. I occasionally drove past the building on my way to the dentist, but when he retired, I did not find much reason to head out to Addison, IL. Addison's recent rush of development makes the Randall Road section of Algonquin, at the opposite end of my town, look positively tasteful and understated. Addison at least has the interesting territorial war between the old school Italians and the Latino newcomers. A pizzeria and a carniceria on every corner.

How did I end up planning a reunion? First, a bit of history. I helped plan the 5 year reunion, then was unable to attend thanks to a knock-out combo of bronchitis and a good college friend's wedding. I was really eager to attend my 10 year, which was then destroyed by my - can I say this in print??? - paranoid and controlling former husband. Last year, due to the magic and the madness that is Facebook, I reconnected with a number of high school friends, two in particular, Corrinne, a Nordic blonde glamazon who could seriously kick your ass if needed, and Jeff, the least Italian Italian man I have ever met. Funny, smart, interesting people with strong personalities - we had them in spades in the class of 1984. In the photo above, top right, Jeff is in the white shirt, right hand up in the air as if he's in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Corrinne is just to his left, almost invisible, with her arms thrown around Gina Reid - she was overcome by Gina's seemingly evergreen "foxiness." I adore this picture. If your four years of high school did not feel like the scene up above, I am sorry. This is pretty much what every day, for four years, felt like at Driscoll Catholic between 1980-1984. And somehow, we recreated all of that last Saturday night, at our 25th reunion. As I put it, around 11:30 PM, when some of us escaped to the outdoor patio, "Enjoying your ride on the crazy train?"

Right, so, how did I help plan this reunion? Last year, late November, I met up with these two old friends for drinks and burgers at The Grafton in the Lincoln Square neighborhood. (My idea of a bar.) We laughed so hard for about 3 hours I could hardly stand it. Jeff got out his smart phone and went onto Classmates.com, and he'd rattle off peoples' names, and then the list of eccentricities would come out. He would occasionally demonstrate a former schoolmate's unusual walk, or God knows what else. I remembered a once-good friend's ridiculous nickname and the spasms of laughter started all over again. I was still laughing a few weeks later. We thought a reunion seemed like a good idea. Then, your real life creeps back into the picture, in good and bad ways, and the memories subside. Then the school closed, the victim of changing demographics, I'm sure. People got mad, held fundraisers, threw up a great hue and cry, but the Diocese of Joliet cared not. (Hey, now THERE'S a surprise)

I felt badly, but not badly enough to say, "Darn it, I'm throwing a reunion." I had no idea where everyone was living, if anyone but a small group would have any interest in attending. Your Shantooz hates the feeling of rejection - you know me, it's all about, "But do you LIKE me???" Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that 25 years and the closing of the school deserved a little notice. So, once again, I put out the word to Corrinne and Jeff. A week later, no response. I resigned myself to figuring that someone else would take care of it or that there wasn't enough interest to justify the work.

Then I woke up one day and Jeff had posted on his Facebook profile, "Hey, Karen Steltman's planning a reunion."

OKAAAAAAAYYYYY. I had no venue in mind, no idea at all what would be appropriate. Fancy? Casual? Food? Just drinks? Music? All of those planned activity or award type of things that make me itchy? However, like the actual announcement of the reunion I didn't really have to worry for long. Jeff's post received an immediate response from Paula, another classmate. She said she'd be happy to help. I think it was about a week later than she had a restaurant booked, the manager was faxing her a menu, DJ was hired and she was out shopping for invitations. I felt as useless as a husband in a maternity ward (or, perhaps, a husband at a wife's 10 year reunion. KIDDING.). My role in this, as I acknowledged in some remarks Saturday night (you thought they could have a live mic in the room and I wouldn't be on it?), was to "buy some stamps, print address labels and deposit your checks." Somehow I ended up in charge of the accounting. Have you seen Stelty's (math) grades? ;)

Checking the mail every day for invitation responses became the source of much joy and heartbreak. Our class was small, just slightly over 100 graduating students. We couldn't even find an address for everyone. At the reunion, we had 50+ guests, including 2 former teachers and a number of spouses. We'd hoped for more, but with much hand-wringing and renegotiating, we got a great dinner and room at The Grotto in Oakbrook (don't know what the restaurant is like but I highly recommend the banquet service - these people really bent over backwards for us for a very reasonable cost - I daresay they made up for it with the cash bar). I got to play DJ during the two hours of cocktails, with a nifty little adapter that allowed me to plug the iPod directly into the sound system. When the real DJ took over, the volume got pumped up to extremes, but he did some nice remixing on The Clash's "Train In Vain" and AC/DC's "You Shook Me (All Night Long)." If I had to choose one song to sum up those four years, I think it would be the latter's "Back in Black."

The photo above gives you a fairly accurate representation of the evening. Some people warned me that their class reunions had been really boring, cliquish, depressing, whatever. Um, that didn't happen. At times, I felt like Jay Gatsby (it is possible I was the only person not drinking alcohol at the reunion), standing off in the distance, watching the lunacy unfold, happy to have had a hand in making it happen. People danced, people put their arms around each other and sang, camera flashbulbs popped everywhere, people drank and smoked and remembered the goofiest moments and some of the bad stuff, too. Everybody looked great - older, yeah, but better that than Botoxed to death. There were moments of hilarity when someone would walk in and we wouldn't recognize him/her. Occasionally, it turned out to be a spouse we didn't go to school with, but a few were classmates with drastically altered hair styles, waist lines, etc. Still, and I'm not sure how, but I thought people actually looked better at the 25th than they did at the 10th.

I am hoping to get a little YouTube movie together of photos from the event, but it's Thanksgiving week, I'm fighting off a sore throat and Advent starts on Saturday - help! If I make the movie, I'll post it here - maybe it will help us locate some class members who are MIA. I may never see most of these folks ever again (the exceptions being Laurie, Mom of Annie and my good friend over all these years. Faith is another high school friend with whom I have remained close, but she was in California nursing a very sick Lily back to health so she was not at the reunion). If I do, great, but the next morning at Mass (YES, I went to Mass the next day on 6 hours of sleep), I did say a little prayer in gratitude for the fun and the laughs and that ride on the crazy train. I am definitely the person I am today because I spent four years with this crew. I'm not sure the politically correct, "zero tolerance," "everybody's a winner" high schools of today would have known what to do with us. Their loss, I figure.

Oh - amazing party planning Paula is in the front row, fifth from the left. I am just over her right shoulder.

"You see it all in 3D - it's your favorite foreign movie."

2009-10-01T19:15:00.008-05:00

MY GOD, where does the time go? I wrote to you in the first week of September, promising that once I was done wringing my hands about singing, I'd tell you all about Steely Dan at the Chicago Theatre. Problem is that I haven't stopped wringing my hands, making it difficult to type.

Let me try and make amends. Steely Dan toured this summer, and Chicago was one of the cities granted a particularly appealing scenario: Steely Dan would perform a series of concerts, during which they would play some albums in completion as well as "selected favorites." There was also a "you call it" evening, fans got to vote online for the songs they wanted to hear. Fun! The Steelies have been a favorite of mine for many years, but unlike many of our human relationship, my fondness for them has continued to deepen over time. I think I "get" their music more now than I ever did, appreciate the musicianship, the complex arrangements and the lyrics more than I was capable of as a kid or teenager, even though I liked them then.

I've talked often and endlessly about how difficult it is to describe music with words. You result to metaphor, of course, but even that falls flat. A metaphor for Steely Dan? How about this: You are walking an elegant avenue in a cosmopolitan city. You notice a new bookstore for the first time, and delighted, you stroll inside. Incredibly attractive salespeople, yet they have a smartness to them, too. Sexy lighting, comfy seating, everything arranged just so. European coffee bar, all manner of tempting sweets available, and the music playing somehow manages to be captivating without being distracting. You cannot wait to start browsing, because clearly the person who designed this place is a genius.

Then it hits you. It's all porn. Really, REALLY outrageous porn.

Even the name "Steely Dan" comes from a particular item in William Burrough's "Naked Lunch," an item I'm not comfortable mentioning here, but let's just say not something you'd whip out at the Thanksgiving family table. Really, as an intelligent, educated, relatively moral (ha!) woman, I ought to not like Steely Dan's lyrics very much, prone as they are to leering, a little heavy on the "old guy pawing at an underage girl" sentiment. And yet - it's the porn in that otherwise gorgeous, appealing, sophisticated environment. Illegal drugs and the people who crave them are other popular Steely Dan topics, and, oh, a whole midnight side of life a lot of us do not see as we crawl like vipers through these suburban streets.

We chose to see SD on the night at the Chicago Theatre when they performed all of "Aja." "Aja" is one of my favorite albums ever, and knowing how much music I love, that is saying quite a lot. Favorite. Albums. Ever. Like, "desert island album." I'll even up the ante - when CDs were new and my parents gave me a lovely "boom box" for Christmas, the very first CD I chose to buy was "Aja." Even though I had it on vinyl, I knew this was an album I would want into eternity. The song "Peg" alone stands as one of the most amazing pop singles ever recorded. Throw in the embarrassment of riches that is "Black Cow," "Deacon Blues," "Josie," "Aja" and the rest of this album, and it's a wonder Steely Dan felt a need to ever record anything again. (Although I'm super-glad that they did.)

The band started the show with an old-timey jazz piece I did not recognize, but it set a nice tone and brought the energy level way up. (There was an opening act that simply washed over me. I was also trapped with some nice, funny, and really chatty guys during most of it, so I had no attention I could give. I must look good in a dark theatre, it's been eons since I've had five guys chat me up at the same time.) Becker and Fagen came out and a lovely background singer made her way over to, yes, a turntable set up on the corner of the stage, dropped the needle on (strictly a symbolic gesture, no speakers connected) and away we plunged into "Black Cow." M-a-g-i-c. "You were high...it was a crying disgrace..." Last time I saw SD was at the not-so-magnificent Allstate Arena, so hearing and seeing them from the front row of a box at the cozy Chicago Theatre was experiencing them on another planet. Next up was "Aja," and I am not kidding - by the time it ended, I had tears streaming down my face. It was that good, that elevated, that transcendent. You could feel every note of it resonating in your body, and there's just nothing else on earth like that feeling.

Well, there's one other thing like that feeling. You know what I mean. And Steely Dan songs inevitably head back to that subject - even the sublime "Aja" has the wonderful line, "Throw out the hardware, let's do it right." And we're back in the dirty but beautiful book store again.

Typically I'd say this or that song were "highlights" but the whole show was pretty flawless. Yes, I had a list as long as my arm of songs I wanted to hear that were not played. Besides the whole of "Aja" I'm thinking they did another 10-12 songs? Wonderful songs, and in true SD fashion, with subtle or even shocking re-arrangements. As Fagen himself once sang, "Nice." If you remember that funky spoken interlude in "Hey Nineteen" (again with the leering...), during this live show they handed it off to Walter Becker, who reinvented it as a bit of comic monologue, perfectly cuing up a favorite thing for me and my brother, the slightly ridiculous "The Cuervo Gold, the fine Colombian...make tonight a wonderful thing" refrain. "Say it again." I can't really explain why, but we get the giggles over that all the time.

My only regret is that I lacked several hundred dollars to see the remaining Chicago shows, during which they performed "Gaucho," "The Royal Scam," and that "all request" set list I mentioned above. No, I have one other regret. Next time, I will remember to bring the tickets with me when I leave for work in the morning, so that we don't spend 2+ hours in the car going from Des Plaines to Algonquin to Chicago in order to see a show. My brother has the patience of a saint but I could tell he was less than thrilled with our roundabout journey. Gave me the chance to test the GPS system in my new cell phone, and it worked beautifully, which bought us time for sandwiches at Panera. I hate to see a show on an empty stomach. :)

A few weeks later, I was eating the same Panera sandwich, chips and cookie, sitting on some asphalt beside Lake Michigan, waiting to get in line for another amazing concert experience. Turn it up louder, Captain...more soon about that soul-shaping evening.

One last Steely Dan thought: My brother was typically subdued throughout most of the evening. He let out a hearty whoop at one point, pretty unusual for anything that doesn't involve a member of the Grateful Dead. But when he turned to me after the show and said, "That was f*cking amazing," I could only nod in agreement.

"From this broken hill, all your praises they shall ring..."

2009-09-05T20:29:00.006-05:00

Long holiday weekends tend to bring expectations. One can't help feeling that one should relax, or do something special or fun. Yet, it's Saturday night on a long Labor Day weekend and I'm having one of those existential dark nights of the soul.

Am I supposed to keep singing?

I thought I'd answered that question a few years ago. Lost my voice, and I mean really lost it, but worked hard and rested and did all the right things and got my voice back. End of story, right? God wants you to keep singing. Now I'm not so sure. Really, things haven't felt quite the same ever since then, but I've adjusted, made it work, slushed down gallons of water, cut out as much soda pop as I could stand. I used to have a glass of wine whenever I felt like it. Now I have 2-3 glasses a year. Yes, you read that correctly. I avoid chocolate, tomato, citrus, mint, spicy foods, heavy foods, greasy foods, late nights, smoky rooms. I take a Prevacid every morning with an almost religious fervour. But over the last 2 months, I've felt it creeping back. The squeaky hinge effect. The gargantuan amount of goop on my vocal folds. A hoarse, harsh sound that shouldn't be there.

So what am I supposed to learn, or gain, from this? This afternoon I sang for a wedding Mass. It was a combination of many factors that make me uncomfortable: unfamiliar church, organist and trumpeter I'd never met before, an old church heavy with musty, dusty smells, a sound system that was good but located in an odd place - I knew you could hear me but it was difficult to tell "too loud" from "not loud enough." Let's face it, my hearing is a disaster anyway. I should mention that both piano and organ were woefully out of tune, creating a dissonance that was quite unpleasant. Somehow, I soldiered on through all the variables. Prelude songs were good. Psalm was good. Unity candle, Mass parts, good good good. Sailed through the Communion song feeling a little bit of dryness in my cords, but nothing alarming. Then, of course, we reached the major drama of any Catholic wedding, "Ave Maria." Schubert's, key of A flat, with the out of tune organ, if you must know. The very first "Aaaaave" came out fine, but the "Mariiiiiiaaaa" unleashed a glop of phlegm onto my vocal cords like Joe Cocker. Had about 3 seconds to turn away from the mic and clear it, but it kept threatening through the entire piece - it never reared its ugly head again, but at that point does it matter? You've now essentially barfed all over the bride's "Ave Maria."

If this was the first time this happened, I'd be concerned. But stuff like this has kept happening over the last few years, leading me to think: maybe it's over. Oddly enough, it's always "Ave Maria," too and I know it's those opening vowel sounds that are killing me. Today was a first because it was a wedding - in the past my "Ave" troubles have been confined to funerals, where there is just as much pressure to do a good job, but where people are more apt to be forgiving and quite frankly where you're likely to be singing to a roomful of strangers you will never see again. Not today - next time I see this bride's parents, what do I say? "Sorry about the disgusting phlegm incident at your daughter's wedding." It's not like you get a second chance at these things.

Which has me wondering if my chance is over, completely. No, I don't mean I'd stop singing altogether. I think the bands are reaching a natural end. Touch had one job so far this year! Synod is working more often, but the band member who hosted our practices for well over 20 years just moved about an hour away. It seems like one member of the band or another is continually on vacation, meaning we turn down as many jobs as we accept. As much as I'd love another opportunity to arise, maybe it's just as well if it doesn't. I could keep singing at church without doing things like weddings and funerals. Difficult to think about all of that, not only as the loss of a creative outlet, something I've enjoyed for decades, but even from a practical standpoint - I've been used to making thousands of dollars a year as a singer for a long time now. But cashing the check for today's wedding felt horrible. I know that 99.9% of the music was perfect, but I can't help feeling that I left a big black mark with the .1% that remained. I try to reason with myself. Singers are human beings, and human beings goof up. This wasn't even something I could have easily prevented - I knew I needed a sip of water, but my water bottle was quite far from me and I hadn't expected the song to start right after the Communion procession ended. But, it wasn't just today. I can think of other weddings where my voice just cracked a little, funerals where I also got gunked during the "Ave." You can't keep excusing it, you have to be honest with yourself, admitting that people pay a lot of money for this stuff and it needs to be pretty damn near perfect to be acceptable. Yes, I saw Steely Dan live on Monday night (they were amazing, I will try to recap that soon) and Donald Fagen forgot some words to his own songs and sometimes sang so softly as to be inaudible. He's Donald Fagen and I'm just a nobody. People don't hire you for weddings to be quirky or unusual - rock singers get the big bucks for being those very things.

I have one more wedding this month and another next month (ugh - at a musty old church with an organist I don't know.). After that, I have some thinking to do. I don't want to walk away humiliated, a person who knew it was time to stop but who kept chugging along until no one wanted her anymore. Leonard Cohen wrote "If It Be Your Will" at a time when he was suffering and needed an answer, needed an affirming presence to say, "Keep singing." But Leonard Cohen doesn't have to sing for peoples' weddings.

Peace to you and I do hope you're having a good holiday!

"If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine..."

2009-08-10T21:43:00.007-05:00

"And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?"

Just when I start to think there are no surprises left for me in the musical realm, someone requests a Grateful Dead song for a Catholic Memorial Mass at my parish.

A memorial Mass differs from a funeral in that the remains of the person are not present. I think that's the difference, there may be other circumstances that call for a Memorial Mass. Perhaps if there's already been a funeral, but an additional Mass is desired and the person has been cremated, you might have remains at a Memorial? I know I could probably look this up somewhere, but it probably matters less to you than it does to me.

I grew up in a household where the Dead were as common as the Beatles and the Who. My brother, almost 10 years older than me, loved to bring his high school buddies over and instruct them to "Ask my sister who her favorite band is." So they'd ask, and I'd say, "The Grateful Dead." Keep in mind I was 6 or 7 years old. What was far out psychedelica to them was a vibrant, colorful, imaginary world to me. Who were Uncle John and Tennessee Jed? What did a scarlet begonia or a sugar magnolia look like, smell like? Did someone live in the brokedown palace and work in the Cumberland mine? I liked the singable folksy melodies, the playful country dance feeling of so much of the Dead's music, even the bluesy shuffle of songs like "U.S Blues" and "Truckin'." These so-called hippies sure seemed like happy, funny people!

So I have retained a love for the Grateful Dead over the years. Yes, I saw them in the "with Jerry" years, and have seen them 4 times in their more recent incarnation as just plain "The Dead." I've also enjoyed a lot of shows by the moveable feast of musicians known as Phil Lesh and Friends. But singing a Grateful Dead song? For an audience, or, better yet, as part of a church assembly? Never happened. Until now. I love when life is like that!

I'm always hesitant to put too much detail here about a deceased person and his/her family. The Memorial Mass last Saturday was for a young man named Rick, just shy of his 50th birthday. A death that seems rather tragic, overcome by heat stroke while hiking in the desert with his son. The family lived in California but parents and siblings are still here in the Chicago suburbs, leading to the Mass at St. Anne's. Rick sounded like the kind of guy you'd hope would invite you over for a barbeque. Frequently. Loved to cook, love to be with family and friends, loved music and the outdoor life. And apparently, loved the song "Ripple" by the Grateful Dead so much he had RIPPLE 3 on his license plate. Makes sense to have it at a memorial for him then.

Now, I know what you might be thinking: you know my squeamishness with weird requests. I'm lucky in a sense that I don't do church music for a living, so I've rarely been asked to do something WACKY at a funeral. Weddings, I've had my share of Barbra Streisand, Celine Dion, the Beatles, etc. And I wish I had a way of getting this through every bride's skull: It's always awkward and doesn't sound right. But, if you know "Ripple," it seemed right to me at this Mass. I've known the tune for years, since I was that small girl making up stories to fit the songs I heard. But as I've already said, I'd never even tried to perform the song. When I shared this anecdote at the lunch table at work, someone sniped back at me that I appeared to be losing my so-called "morals," since I was okay with singing "Ripple" at church after I've torn apart my share of shallow bridal requests. It has nothing to do with morals and I'd be the last person to take a moral high road. It's about understanding what church is, what it means to participate in a Christian sacrament - and it's totally okay with me if you want Metallica at your wedding or you want to dance into the ceremony like those eejits on YouTube. Just get married some place that isn't a Christian church. Chris Brown songs + Christian wedding ceremony = awkward in every sense of the word. Doesn't take "morals" to figure that one out, it's common sense. Because if your need for Chris Brown and hip-hop dance trumps everything else taking place at your wedding, then you don't need a Christian ceremony. A legal one works just as well. Do your dopey dance at the banquet hall.

But "Ripple" worked just fine for me that Saturday. Despite my concerted effort to arrive at the church early, I wasn't able to connect with the visiting musicians to rehearse the tune. Not an ideal situation. The piano player was a very young man, I'd say 16 tops, and when he started out the song, I panicked -- it didn't sound like "Ripple." But, he was doing his best with a song that's not written for piano, and as soon as the two guitars kicked in, I was right at home. I sound about as much like Jerry Garcia as I sound like Pavarotti. Working on the song during my morning commutes, I decided the best I could do would be to capture the same phrasing, but use what I think of as my Alison Krauss voice. No belting, no over-emoting, keeping it as simple and plain as possible. I think it worked. The family had kindly printed the lyrics on the worship program, and next thing I knew, folks were starting to sing along. People snapped their fingers, then clapped in time, and held onto each other swaying. The chapel at St. Anne's suddenly looked an awful lot like a Dead concert - and best of all, the sun suddenly came bursting through the cloudy morning, lighting up the stained glass and the face of every person present. I did my best to encourage them to keep singing, especially on the jolly "Da da da da" part at the end. Got a lot of hugs when it was all over, and in the end, that's what I'm shooting for - pure joy and a bond that breaks through all the artificial barriers our society creates.

"If I knew the way I would take you home."

"In early memory mission music was ringing 'round my nursery door..."

2009-08-03T13:10:00.002-05:00

"...I said, 'Take this child, Lord, from Tucson, Arizona, give her the wings to fly through harmony and she won't bother you no more.'"

Paul Simon's "Under African Skies," lyrics which I assume are about Linda Ronstadt, who adds a lovely harmony to the song. The kind of singing where you don't even have to check the liner notes to think, "That's Linda Ronstadt."

I had time to think about voices this Saturday. I was supposed to be meeting my mother and two sisters in Oak Park, IL, to check out yet ANOTHER possible new home for Susie. You really can't understand how terrible social services in Illinois are until you've needed them. I sit at Mass on Sunday and have to suffer through terrible homilies full of lame, pious aphorisms, "rah rah" cheerleading because we raised a few bucks for the food pantry or misdirected family guidance, and not a word about how our government has abandoned the poor, the disabled and the most vulnerable members of society. WWJD? He'd walk out of your useless sham of a church, that's what he'd do.

I digress. So, that was the plan for Saturday - meet the gals in Oak Park at 11 AM. Was making great time on the expressways, and dealing with the unhappy demise of my iPod with maniacal shuffling through the radio stations. Then the traffic stopped. For 30 minutes. On the highway. Very bad accident in the area where 355 and 290 split, with 5 lanes of heavy traffic and no room to move. Completely missed the appointment in Oak Park (if you've been following the Susie Saga, the house was a thumbs up, by the way), so once I cleared the accident scene I stopped in Elmhurst for a quick bite, and got back on the highway. Only now, a helicopter and other emergency vehicles had arrived, so even the traffic in the opposite direction had to stop. Completely. For 15-20 minutes.

So it was me and the radio for several hours on Saturday. First observation: modern pop/rock/dance music has reached an all-time low, or my transformation into a crabby old person is complete. If you can easily tell the difference between Miley Cyrus, Jordin Sparks, Kelly Clarkson, Taylor Swift, Colbie Caillat, Katy Perry and Avril Lavigne, you have amazing ears. Same thing with all those constipated-sounding guy bands/singers - I don't even know their names, they are so faceless. Who would win in a fight: Jason Mraz or Kris Allen? I really try! Every time I hear a new single from a promising female singer, I always give it a listen, even two or three, because I'm a girl singer, too, and I like to keep tuned into what's new and appealing to people. But lately I rarely get past that first impression because I can't stand that the human voice has been so processed and airbrushed. It's the vocal version of a "blow out" (that's a hair salon term, folks): take a little bit of something and make it seem much bigger, shinier, sexier than it really is. But in terms of the human voice, it also makes everyone sound exactly the same. Exactly the same.

Not so with the old school! Here's where I sound like a terribly uncool oldster, but I say this on purely scientific evidence. In my flicks through the radio spectrum on the weekend, I also encountered - shudder... - what we now call "classic rock" or "oldies." I'll be damned - I didn't have any trouble distinguishing between voices. In fact, some were so iconic I didn't need to know the song to know the singer. Local station "The Drive" (WDRV) was doing an all-live weekend, something that generally makes me cringe, since live albums can be so awful. But in this particular listening experiment I was conducting, it was tremendously useful. Even live, without any studio processing, Don Henley sounds like Don Henley (even when, ahem, the key on "Boys of Summer" has been suspiciously lowered - thought we couldn't tell, eh, Don?), Springsteen sounds like Springsteen, Elton like Elton. Scratchy, hoarse, occasionally garbled or weakened by fatigue or emotion, the human voice in all its relatively naked glory. It's what makes the concert experience so special - I am close to, sharing the air with, that unmistakable voice that has captivated me, even on impersonal recordings.

I know the opposite because I'm a Kohl's shopper. Kohl's plays some of the worst shopping music this side of Muzak. Bland Euro pop, with a lot of "cover" versions - all of them done by completely vague vocalists who have never, ever made the little green lights turn red, if you know what I mean. I know, instantly, that I'm not hearing the original, if it's a song that was first performed by an iconic singer. The worst offender was a sluggish, breathy attempt at Roxy Music's "More Than This" - never were the words, "More than this, you know there's nothing more than this," made to seem so ironic. It's the same reason I haven't fallen in love with this current generation of musicals based on famous pop music. From "Mamma Mia!" to "Across the Universe" to "Movin' Out" to "We Will Rock You," putting these amazing songs, whether ABBA's gorgeous if empty-headed pop or The Beatles' life-changing songs, into the too-trained voices of Broadway or Hollywood types, just sucks the life out of them. People were raving about Elton John's performance of Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl" at their recent Wrigley Field show. I'm sure he hit all the notes, but who wants to hear Elton John sing a Four Seasons-style pop song about Christine Brinkley? Just leave it off the set list, boys. Sometimes, a great song belongs to the person whose voice made it so.

Now, what I can't figure out is: does today's music audience actually prefer these generic singers, or is the music industry just banking on the lowest risk? Is this just radio's last desperate gasp? - after all, radio has long since been programmed simply to keep listeners tuned in for commercials, doesn't matter if they genuinely like what they hear or develop a relationship with the music. Is this the result of the democratization of entertainment and the media, that we only want to hear someone whose talent is normal, accessible, just like the kid you heard in a high school musical? In a world where people are obsessed with being like celebrities, I don't think that's an unlikely conclusion - if you are extraordinarily more talented than I am, even in one aspect, it harms my ability to reach celebrity status. It means that even if I follow all the instructions trumpeted by "In Style" magazine (wear Gwen's jeans, Gwyneth's earrings, Eva's bathing suit!), I'm not really "somebody." It's bad enough that songwriting today consists of stringing together pat little phrases with rhyming words at the end of each, couplets of junior high "poetry." Marry those to singing devoid of all personality and humanness and I say "Why bother?" I sure hope I can buy a new iPod soon.

Take me out to the ball game!

2009-07-27T17:39:00.007-05:00

Had the pleasure of spending a warm, lazy Friday at Wrigley last week. My luck has been BAD lately, like, Biblically bad. I can't buy a winning Lottery ticket to save my life, and every time I turn around, something else is broken and I don't have the money to fix it. It may be that my luck went into a much larger pool of needed luck for the Cubs, who went from downright embarrassing to FIRST PLACE in the division, not coincidentally just two days after my visit to the Friendly Confines. Hmmm....up there is a pre-game photo of the scoreboard. I love the scoreboard at Wrigley. Yes, it would be nice to have a jumbotron just for the occasional big-as-a-house view of the adorable Ryan Theriot, but otherwise, I love the old-fashioned scoreboard just the way it is. Somewhat ironically, my old-fashioned mom hates the scoreboard, because she can never figure out what the score is and what inning we're in, etc. Works fine for me and telling mom what's happening gives us something to do.

Here I am, peeking the camera through one of those fenced-in areas on the walkways at Wrigley. What kind of person could have a camera available and NOT snap a picture of that skyline? The older I get, the more aware I become that I am, in so many ways, a product of this place, a real Chicagoan. Can't escape it, so might as well embrace it. We were fortunate on Friday, it was one of our most pleasant experiences at Wrigley because everyone around us was really nice, just there to enjoy a game, spend a day with family and friends. No drunks, no boorish fans of the other team (or, like our mysterious encounter last year, no White Sox fans on a day when the WSox were not playing the Cubs!), no cell phone yakkers. I had the CUTEST little brown-eyed blond boy next to me, about 7 years old, dressed in a full Little League uniform, from cap to glove, with a Zambrano jersey. Kid looked more like Robin Zander than Carlos Zambrano, but who's to say he won't be a Cub someday? Proof that I'm no good with kids - a foul ball came a-flyin' our way and moments later I heard the boy say, "Wow, that was close." I thought he meant the ball, so I chimed in, "Well, good thing you brought your glove, then." He looks at me like, "Goofball," and explains that he meant the huge jet flying overhead!

You do see the sights at Wrigley, and I'm not just talking scenery. Is it me or are the t-shirts they sell outside the park starting to push the envelope of "eeks"-ville? I mean, the one saying "Albert Pujols mows my lawn," with a guy wearing a sombrero? And I won't even publish what the Green Bay Packers-themed one says! I am no Cardinals or Packers fan, but I'm usually happy enough flipping the TV the bird when Poo-holes hits another homer or something. I don't need to humiliate an entire race of hard-working people. Some of the sights are funnier, however, like the man above, who is wearing a hot dog hat. Surprise, surprise - he was waiting in line for a beer and I was waiting in line for the ladies' room when I snapped this one. I'm kind of glad he didn't see me, as he may have done a Sean Penn and punched my lights out. But really, you wear a hot dog hat, you pay the consequences. I wore my Theriot t-shirt and found that he's generally popular with the ladies, as many of my female counterparts had their #2 on as well. Speaking of Cajuns, Mike Fontenot hit a homer on Friday, which was awesome. I really want Mike to have a good season so he can stay on the Cubs with his college buddy Theriot. Why this matters to me, I have no idea. It just does.

And finally, the best part of the day:

FINALLY, being at a Cubs game to sing "Go Cubs Go!" We went to two games last year: one was a horrific loss to the Marlins, the other was a "W" against the Padres but it was a freezing cold night in May and my parents wouldn't stay until the end. The words to "Go Cubs Go" flash on that ancient scoreboard, but I don't need 'em, I know them by heart. What a great day, in a baseball season that's just about to get interesting. Let's go Cubbies!

"I can't help feeling stupid, standin' 'round, cryin' as they ease you down..."

2009-07-07T19:22:00.004-05:00

"'Cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing. Dancing our sorrow away...no matter what Fate chooses to play..."

I tried my best to fit the Michael Jackson memorial service into my work schedule today, which meant breaking an organizational rule and eating at my desk. I felt that history would vindicate my decision. As you may know, the service started approximately 30 minutes late, so I also had a conflict with an appointment I'd scheduled. Turns out, the appointment arrived right when John Mayer started singing. If I haven't made my loathing for John Mayer clear, allow me to do so now...Hee hee. I'm being too harsh, but really - of all the people to pay tribute to MJ, you come up with John Mayer? I wrote in an earlier post about the intensity of Michael Jackson as a performer, singer, dancer - he did nothing half-assed. John Mayer, on contrast, always seems like he's on the verge of putting himself to sleep. Boo. Who picked him? (I just read that he did an instrumental - thank God, as his singing style just would not work on an MJ song.)

So I was glad to get away for my visitor at that time, but it did mean missing a lot of other moments as well. Below, just some scattered thoughts and impressions on what I thought, overall, was a classy, gracious, loving tribute.

I found it pleasing that the Staples Center stage was adorned very much like a church would be for a funeral. Some large, colorful flower arrangements, a place for the casket, and projected images behind the stage would often simulate stained glass windows! The impression? Church is still the proper place to send your loved ones on to the next part of the journey - basketball stadiums are not, but when you've got 20,000 guests, make it feel like church.
I began watching CBS' Webcast, but quickly became annoyed at the frequently dropped signal and the constant interrupting of Katie Couric. Couldn't anyone let her know that the people watching weren't tuned in for her? What a blabbermouth. I'm so glad I switched to CNN's Web coverage, although I could have done without the live Facebook feed of people chatting. Still, that you can ignore - Katie Couric talking over the service was inexcusable. We missed the first half of Smoky Robinson reading the letter from Diana Ross while listening to Couric make small talk with Babyface. My revenge came soon after, when Couric said, "Smoky Robinson just smoke..."
Most frustrating place where CBS dropped the Internet ball - near the end of a beautifully done video tribute. The clips of Michael dancing were enough to make your hair stand on end - how on earth did he ever move like that?
Best musical performances: the gospel choir singing a slowed-down "Soon and Very Soon," a song we often do at St. Anne's, as Michael's casket was carried in. That just about wiped me out emotionally. (Reading CNN tonight, found it was the Andrae Crouch choir! Crouch wrote the song, so this moving arrangement and performance should come as no surprise) If only ordinary families could see the gracefulness and hope in such a choice! Here's an international musical superstar, and did they choose a dopey pop song or even one of his own hits? No. The joyful message of, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, we're goin' to see the King." And as the Pastor Lucious Smith reminded everyone later, not the King in the sense of the "King of Pop", but the King of Kings, and even a pop icon will bow at that name.
The other musical highlight for me was Stevie Wonder's mesmerizing medley of "Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer" and "They Won't Go When I Go." A stunning performance under the most stressful conditions proved that there are great musical talents and then there are genius, one-in-a-million talents. Stevie made everyone else look a little Junior High Talent Show, quite frankly.
I died a million little deaths for Mariah Carey, who barely survived her version of "I'll Be There." I could not tell if she was overcome with emotion, having a bad vocal day (which happens to everyone - see parade story below...), was ill, can no longer sing the way she did 17 years ago (who can?), or all of the above. It was painful, literally, to listen to her struggle, to see the unhappiness register on her face, because as a singer, I've been there. You're in that moment when you need your absolute best and you cannot pull it off and then those moments are gone forever! I just wanted to give her 5 minutes, some water, some quiet and a little nudge, "Go on, girl!" Love you, anyway, Mariah. And don't read the junk people posted about you on TMZ today. :( Like they have any idea what it takes to be a world famous vocalist.
The Facebook posters were having trouble when some dancers entered the musical numbers. I didn't. They were extremely graceful and appropriate - not unlike good liturgical dance, which one rarely sees! How can you lay to rest a profoundly influential dancer and not acknowledge his gift?
The humorous, down-to-earth stories from Berry Gordy, Magic Johnson and others were certainly appreciated. We'd spent so long thinking of MJ as this mutant freakazoid living on his own planet. Nice to be reminded that he played softball, ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and shared a lot of laughs with his friends. Nice to be reminded, as we were today, that first and foremost, Michael Jackson was a human being. A person, "not a personality."
The Reverend Al Sharpton. Who knew? The man is often reviled, certainly not appreciated by most white folks and many persons of color. When he took the podium, I expected to be annoyed. Wow. That is a man who knows how to express what's in his heart and use it to reach people. I'm sorry, I know he's done some disgraceful things - ironically, so did Michael Jackson - but his words at the memorial were deeply felt and rousing. When he hit the clincher, that the generation who grew up "comfortable" with Michael Jackson was now 40 years old and ready to be comfortable voting for an African-American president - that was a real goosebumps moment for me, an Obama voter at 42 years of age. I felt proud of my generation, very proud that we "got" it and helped bring it to the rest of the world.
And yes, as you've already seen or read or heard: Paris Jackson took the world's collective breath away. I was already weeping pretty heavily as Jermaine and Marlon offered some personal reflections, but I'm not sure anyone was prepared for this darling (and she is beautiful!) little girl to take the microphone and silence all the nay-sayers and critics and haters we've heard for the last two weeks. "Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine. And I just want to say that love him so much." Janet Jackson stood in for an entire world of us who just wanted to wrap our arms around that little girl - can you imagine the agony of those kids, to not only lose the only parent they've known, but to endure hours of media commentary picking apart every detail of his life, with so many suggesting he couldn't possibly have been a good parent? I exchanged words with someone over the weekend who said to me, about the Jackson children, "Yeah, like THOSE kids aren't screwed up," my retort being that everything I'd read suggested the kids were sweet and smart and wonderful. I think Paris proved me absolutely right.

I cried all afternoon, I'm still crying now. But as Stevie said, I know God is good. Driving home tonight, with Michael hollerin' "Go on, girl!" at me through the car stereo, I tried to nail down what was making me so sad. It's like the feeling you have when you awaken from an amazingly happy dream, that rush of sudden, sharp disappointment. They say my generation is cynical, but it feels like we've spent decades watching dreams flicker, fade and die. When they wheeled MJ's casket out, they left an empty microphone in the spotlight, with the chords of "Man in the Mirror" playing softly. That's a big space to fill.

"This is your big debut, it's like a dream come true."

2009-07-07T18:54:00.003-05:00

"So won't you smile for the camera?
I know they're gonna love it..."

Ever wonder what it's like to sing, live, atop a 24 foot long parade float, on the very tippy top of the float, adding roughly 10 feet to your own height? Of course you haven't, but I'll tell you about it anyway. It's fun, exhilarating, empowering, challenging and - nauseating, if you haven't earned your sea legs.

There I am with my colleagues, aka "The Singing Librarians" just before the good ship DPPL set sail down the winding road from Lincoln to Prairie in Des Plaines, IL. It rained a little, and was chillier than usual for July. We had a "set" of five tunes, accompanied by karaoke tracks: "We Are Family," "Celebration," "Sweet Home Chicago," "Twist and Shout," and Michael Jackson's "Rock With You," a last minute request on my part. We all had microphones and a powerful sound system, thanks to Holly's husband, Ron. Holly and Ron have a band together, Different Drummer, so we could be confident in our sound system and soundman!

I was off to a rough start. My voice had been really harsh and hoarse all week when I went for my upper register. No improvement on parade day, so I had to do my best to sing over and around the scratchiness and was somewhat successful. (I'm trying hard not to freak out about that just yet, but do I need to see a doctor?) The other girls sounded really good, and we remembered our harmonies and the arrangements pretty well. Once the crowd got over the shock of a bunch of librarians towering over them on an enormous float, singing rock and disco songs, they got into it! What a fun experience to get people clapping, singing and dancing in the streets, especially given all of the financial woes and stress in our country right now. Here's another picture, to give you a sense of the ENORMITY and grandeur that was the DPPL float. Marge, our secretary, is there walking alongside, and she's easily 5'10". You can see how the float towers over the SUV pulling it! I had to frequently duck out of the way of looming tree branches.

Losing my voice and losing my head ended up being the least of my worries. When the parade ended, I had multiple dilemmas. I couldn't find my cell phone, which meant I couldn't find my parents and sister who were at the parade. I also needed to use the restroom - I guzzled liters of water trying to ease the raspiness in my throat. After much digging, I found the phone and discovered the Library staff entrance was open, so I could hit the ladies' room. And hit it I did - let's just say I'm glad there are no photographs or video of that incident. Wowsers. A cross between "The Exorcist" and that infamous scene from "Alien." While on the float, I was so busy singing, smiling, silently agonizing over my scratchy voice, wondering what song was coming next, I paid little attention to the fact that the float was swaying back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...being up on the top for most of the parade, I undoubtedly felt the worst of it. Once I finally got into the restroom and stood still for a moment - blech. I had a tough drive home and stayed in bed all afternoon, which was little comfort as my house spun around my head and those crazy songs were still pumping through my veins.

Everyone assures me it sounded good (I've listened to some of the videorecordings - when we all sing together, it is pretty damn good! I'm not happy with my scratchy sound in other places.) so of course, the question is: Are you going to do it again next year? Not unless we get something more stable and closer to the ground! I love my job, and I love singing - but not enough to make myself sick over it!

Just an update on the parade. Today I'm at work, but I did manage to watch much of the Michael Jackson memorial on my lunch hour, and a little break later on. I started to write some "brief" comments and it turned into another post, so I'll do a two-for-one deal today.

"And I told about equality, and it's true..."

2009-07-03T16:38:00.003-05:00

"...Either you're wrong or you're right."

Words from Michael Jackson's "Black and White," and, my way of admitting I lied in my last post! Inadvertently, however. I stated near the end that I had never performed a Michael Jackson song, when in fact I have performed several.

A funny thing happens when you spend several decades singing to the public - you forget most of it. I embarrassed myself at a friend's recent bachelorette party by telling her sister it was nice to meet her - when I had in fact met her when she came out to hear me sing several years ago. I'll pass a country club or banquet hall and not always recall if I had performed there or not, and can rarely muster up any significant details. Same thing happens with songs, especially those I've done only a time or two.

So, to set the MJ record straight: I have performed at least 3 of his songs publicly. Two were during a brief stint as a substitute lead singer for the band Crosstown. I sang poorly at those gigs, I think it was the start of my acid reflux issues but I had no idea, just couldn't figure out what was wrong. But with that band I sang "I Want You Back" and "I'll Be There," although the latter was admittedly more in the style of Mariah Carey's then-popular remake. "I Want You Back" is a great song that I discovered in an odd way, via Graham Parker and The Rumour's cover of it, which must have been some time in the late 70s or early 80s. The Jackson 5's version is stellar. I've listened to it often over the past week and what really grabs me is the intensity of Michael's singing, at such a young age. I'm not a big fan of blasé, go-through-the-motions singing. It's a popular style for many church cantors, who see any kind of emotional entry into the music as being a personal intrusion into the assembly's experience. I get that and yet - how can I keep from singing, as the hymn says? How can I be apathetic or reduced to mere technique? A lot of singers do it, and do it well, I guess, but it's not for me.

My other experience singing an MJ song is more odd. Speaking of church and cantoring, this song actually came during a Catholic Mass! At my former parish, Resurrection out in Wayne, IL, I enjoyed the friendship and talents of a pianist named Mary Ann. She did her best to form a children's choir there and worked hard getting the kids involved - not an easy task. So she recruited me to help out, since kids often like my singing, I guess. And she decided we would sing...MJ's "Heal the World." At the time, it struck me as awkward and perhaps just slightly this side of inappropriate, given the source. Looking at the lyrics today, well, it wasn't so bad, really:

"If You Want To Know Why, There's A Love That Cannot Lie,
Love Is Strong - It Only Cares For Joyful Giving."

Truly, I remember almost nothing about that Mass or moment. It just happened and we moved on, which is how a musical life often goes. It has been an absolute blast this week, rediscovering some of the great music Michael Jackson made, on his own and in partnership with his brothers and other collaborators. When I wrote the last post about his dying, I'm not sure I'd fully absorbed it. I heard the news at work, then the following days were busy with Relay for Life, cantoring at Mass, getting into an argument with one of our priests...I sure am good at amusing myself! Last Sunday night, I was home alone, after a very long and frustrating day, and I read a few of the news updates about MJ and the various tributes that took place during the BET Awards, and for the first time, I let myself cry about it. I think, like a lot of people, the tears were for the amazement we felt when that little boy poured out his soul in a song, when the lithe and graceful teenager and young man whirled and leapt and bedazzled us with physical movements that seemed otherworldly, and yes, for the questioning of why his life got too otherworldly, too separated from what we perceive as "normal."

I felt somewhat worse as this week progressed, and photos and video started coming out, showing Jackson during recent rehearsals. He looks great! I haven't been able to see an actual clip, but the general consensus seems to be "Sounded great, looked great." So the planned comeback might have even been in reach - I'll admit openly that I doubted it would ever occur, from the time it was first suggested in the press. A coworker had tickets for one of the London shows and she is heartbroken.

I've included in the top of this post a YouTube video which has eased my tears this week and brought me joy and memories of really good, really simple times. It's my favorite Jacksons song, a goofy dance song called "Blame It On the Boogie." If you don't feel your feet moving a little bit or want to snap your fingers when that's playing - get yourself to a doctor...

Tomorrow, unless the predicted morning thunderstorms steal our glory, I will get another chance to perform a Michael Jackson song for an audience. The library has recruited the Singing Librarians, myself and four of my coworkers, to sing in the Des Plaines 4th of July parade. We had a set of 4 songs worked up but I cajoled my colleagues into adding a tribute to MJ, so I get to have fun with one verse and the refrains of "Rock With You" from the album "Off the Wall." I even got us some white gloves which I decorated with glitter. :) I'll let you know how it goes, if it goes, and possibly share some video with you.

My favorite Jacksons/Michael Jackson songs, in heavy rotation:

"I Want You Back"
"Dancing Machine"
"Blame it on the Boogie"
"Can You Feel It"
"Shake Your Body Down to the Ground"
"Rock With You"
"You Got Me Workin'"
"Billie Jean"
"Black and White"
"The Way You Make Me Feel"
"Scream"

If you really want to appreciate how much Michael stood head and shoulders above the lot who rode his coattails to stardom, watch the video of him performing "The Way You Make Me Feel" with Britney Spears. She looks stunning in the video, but can't come close to matching his moves and her vocal is outright laughable - like some kind of creepy gremlin is singing. Another weird WEIRD moment, which should be subtitled, "When Great Pop Stars Collide," is this clip of a James Brown show where both MJ and Prince briefly take the stage (Prince, literally, in that he practically takes the stage down at one point). It's the kind of thing I love to watch, in a kind of voyeuristic way, because I think it proves that truly great talent, genius-level talent, world-altering talent, just don't work the way the rest of us do, and sometimes we can't even figure it out. Listening to and watching all this music, however, I recognized one tiny crumb of a Michael Jackson-like tendency in myself, and that's that intensity. You see it in the James Brown video - he looks uncomfortable with being called out of the audience and told to perform, "Do something." When you're intense, when you're serious about professionalism and when "almost" is never, EVER good enough for you, you can lack spontaneity. You are not likely to grab the mic and do an unrehearsed song with a local band, and you are not delighted when today's cantor calls in sick and you're needed. You might do it, but you'll often regret it, because it's hell for you inside when you're not your best. This - I understand.

I'm off to Arlington Park to meet my family for Dad's birthday. Early to bed, as I have a 6 AM wake-up call for the parade.

"I took a hundred and ten pictures of you..."

2009-06-26T17:49:00.012-05:00

"I put them all around me and wondered what to do.
Like a temple of memory, a shrine in your name,
to days I can't remember,
to nights I can't reclaim."

Nik Kershaw's "Shine On," from the album "15 Minutes," which in itself is a year's worth of blog posts.

An Associated Press article by Ted Anthony struck a chord this morning: "2 Lost Icons: For Generation X, a really bad day."

I remember distinctly how weird the world felt on August 16, 1977, when legends Elvis Presley and Groucho Marx died. Even as a child growing up in the 1970s, I adored Groucho Marx and all the great Marx Bros. movies, but he was 87 when he died. It had the bittersweet quality of your favorite crazy uncle dying. Elvis' hey-day was a bit before my time, but I appreciated him as a founding father of contemporary rock and roll, an iconic figure. And no lover of music wants to see a influential artist die too young, on the toilet.

Yesterday's news brought on that similar-but-different feeling. I was walking into the library after lunch when a regular, a little homeless gal, yelled out to me, "Didja hear Farrah Fawcett died?" A few hours later, my co-worker Jo was on her way out to a much-deserved vacation, and just threw in an aside, "Weird about Michael Jackson dying." Huh???? Farrah, of course, had been gravely ill for some time. But Michael Jackson?

Ted Anthony describes Gen X thusly: "Cynical, disaffected, rife with ADD, lost between Boomers and millennials and sandwiched between Vietnam and the war on terror, Gen X has always been an oddity." Cynical, I already knew. Now I'm an oddity, too. A bad day for Gen X, indeed, in what has been a pretty bad year for me on the "cultural touchstone" front. About a month ago, my high school, Driscoll Catholic, closed down forever. That would feel weird enough, but it happens to be the 25th anniversary of my graduating class. At a time when most people might be planning a sort of celebration-reunion, we're feeling more like people in line at a wake. I'm not super-nostalgic, but I truly enjoyed those four years, and I guess I liked the idea that maybe a lot of generations in the future would have the same positive experiences there.

Graduating in 1984, inarguably the biggest celebrity superstar of the time? Michael Jackson. It's 1984 in that picture above, apparently from the opening night of the "Victory" tour. Then as now, I listened to all kinds of music. "Thriller," if the newspapers can be believed, is the best selling album of all time (I believe that's worldwide - in the U.S. I think it might be second). My favorite song from "Thriller" was "Billie Jean," and "Beat It" was also great. Strangely enough, I wasn't that enchanted by the title track and it's accompanying video. Possibly a side effect of growing up in a house where we couldn't afford cable at that time! Not really, I had seen the video on free shows like "Friday Night Videos" and it was just too goofy for me. Never a big fan of novelty songs. "Billie Jean," on the other hand, had a fantastic groove, more in line with the great dance music of the Jacksons and MJ's earlier album, "Off The Wall." As a first class roller skater, this was music that made me want to move. :) By the time "Thriller" arrived, it also had fierce competition for my attention with what we called "New Wave" music, and my ardent affection for the band that just missed the number one spot occupied by "Thriller" in that year's charts - Def Leppard and the album "Pyromania." Nevertheless, Michael Jackson influenced everything in our teenaged lives: our hair, our style of dress, our dance moves. Yikes, what a time for fashion statements - you could choose between a red vinyl jacket, black jeans rolled up with white socks and loafers, plus one glove - or, a sleeveless Union Jack t-shirt with a bandanna, kerchief-style around your neck. Burn the pictures now, please...Thank God many of the young men I hung around with dug the whole Duran Duran thing.

So watching his slow, painful fall from grace over the years has been ugly. Looking at him in the picture above, that trim, graceful body, a face and manner that radiate confidence - it's hard to imagine the inner turmoil that led him to destroy his appearance and his career. I will say this, that I give the African-American community a lot of credit for the way in which they stood by Jackson, year after messy year. They shot down the haters and they buoyed him up with love, even when I'm not sure he was worthy of it. (The many charges of child sexual abuse were particularly hard for me to overlook, especially when out of court settlements were reached.) They say his family tried their best to intervene. I can only guess he surrounded himself with nodding lackeys who protected him from what he surely did not want to hear, that he was psychologically unwell, no longer living in a safe reality, and for all practical purposes seemed to be a troubled boy trapped in a distorted, disfigured man's body. I always wondered about his nose. I'm not happy about my nose, it's too wide for my face, but I also know that it lends a quality to my voice that would be lost without it. How could he not know that, desiring instead for a nose shaped something like the Tin Man's in "The Wizard of Oz?" And how could any doctor go along with his desires?

Doesn't matter now, I guess. And then there was Farrah, the face and figure of my late elementary school years. I was a Barbie girl but occasionally an interloper was allowed in, and one such trespasser was the doll of Farrah Fawcett from the "Charlie's Angels" show. What a surprise - I had my choice of which actress' doll I wanted, and I chose the one with huge, fluffy, blonde hair. She also had GREEN eyes, thankyouverymuch. Perhaps most surprising, when I look at that iconic bathing suit shot of her that wallpapered a million boy's bedrooms, I'm pretty sure she has her own, natural boobs! Way to go, Farrah! Sad that a kid can't grow up today and ogle something REAL, he has to settle for those implanted things that look like water balloons. Farrah, like Michael, had her ups and downs, but I really do have to say, for a certain kind of gal my age, she was the definition of beauty. Big ol' smile, slim, sunny, sexy. Healthy looking but also genuine. (I do think she had "work" done later on in life, but really, when you think of her, you think of her circa 1976.)

No, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett were not personal "heroes" or "icons" to me. Never even tried to sing a Michael Jackson song in public, and certainly wouldn't humiliate myself pretending I could dance like that! Never had a crush on him, either, just a few of his albums. And the premature loss of other performers, such as Freddie Mercury, resonated with me far more. Farrah represented an ideal to me, but since she wasn't musical, that ideal ended up getting filtered through people like Stevie Nicks, or even Christie Brinkley, who briefly became rock and roll royalty during her relationship with Billy Joel. (Poor Billy - there goes wife #3, I've heard...) Still, wouldn't it have been good if Michael could have pulled it together for those shows in London? Wouldn't it have been nice if Farrah could have gone the Lauren Hutton route, still modeling into the later decades of her life?

"Shine on, I thought you were gone, I thought you gave in, deserted me long ago."

"You know you only hurt yourself out of spite..."

2009-06-07T19:58:00.002-05:00

I guess you'd rather be a martyr tonight."

First of all, apologies for the lengthy break I accidentally took in posting here. I felt like I had plenty to say, but it's always that coin toss - blog or sleep? blog or workout? blog or play tedious, inane, online word game? Tonight, I managed to fit in a workout, some DPPL work at home, and, so far, a blog post.

You'd think that would indicate a cheery, upbeat frame of mind, but I've actually spent the last 48 hours or so thinking about dying. It was that kind of weekend. Earlier in the week, I'd heard the sad story of yet another teenage boy from the local community who had ended his life "by Metra," as the rather callous saying goes around here (meaning, he placed himself in the path of a moving train, our local commuter line is called Metra). You shake your head, you think "Gee whiz, what's going on around here?" as we've had multiple deaths like this in the last 2 years, but then you move on to another headline. Unless you're me, and you get an email in the days that follow that this time, it's a boy from your own church, and you sang for his Confirmation Mass, so could you sing for his funeral?

Back in the day when I used to get most of the weddings at my then-parish, another cantor who was not pleased about the circumstances used to say it was a "greater honor" to sing for funerals, which she often did, than for weddings. "Honor" seems inappropriate - I don't in any way feel "honored" by my presence at someone's nuptials or their funeral, it's like I'm waiting for someone to pin a medal on me. If someone specifically asks for me for a funeral, I'm humbled, and feel an extra strong sense of obligation to do a good job, because the implication is that somehow, the presence of my voice in that space and time will be of comfort to those who made the request. I've done my share of very, very difficult funerals. Horrible accidental deaths of those young and old. Suicide victims. Once, a murder victim. People who struggled with harsh, devastating illnesses. I feel fortunate that I have never been asked to sing at a service for a young child, I'm not sure I could. I think I've been singing for funerals for something like 25 years, and you might be thinking that they've become easier over time. Strangely, they are harder on me now.

Some of that might be that the Catholic way of doing funerals has changed drastically, a result, I suspect, of competing ideas in popular culture and other denominations. Catholic funerals rarely had lengthy "eulogies," poems, and other kinds of tributes to the deceased, and now that's the norm, even if it isn't in the rule book. As someone who grew up with the old way, I find something comforting and elegant and dignified in the way we used to do funerals (and sometimes still do). I respect anyone's need to pay a personal tribute to a loved one who has died. I'm just suggesting that a eulogy tacked onto an hour long Mass may not be the way to do it. Crazy, I know - but if I am a family member or friend in attendance at the funeral, there's a good chance I know what the deceased was like, his/her best qualities, hobbies, career, sense of humor, favorite vacation spot, etc. When I was called upon to eulogize my co-worker a few weeks ago (did I blog about that? I think I did...), I struggled with how to say something worth hearing - not because her life wasn't worth celebrating, it definitely was, it's just that she was already celebrating in every moment that she had lived, not in any comment I could add. I know it must comfort people to think of their loved ones as angelic figures with shining wings on a heavenly golf course with endless tee times, or even god-like creatures able to watch over their every earthly move and somehow "guide" them or bring blessings upon them. It just doesn't fit very well into my spiritual perspective on dying and the new life we were given by Christ - but I try to let it go because human pain makes us all do very strange things.

So, the day of this difficult funeral was approaching for me, and I already had a knot in my stomach. You don't even want to think about a young man being in such despair and darkness that he saw suicide as the only solution - I can guarantee it won't make you want to sing. I thought of times in my own life when I felt that depth of pain, and felt grateful for whatever combination of hope and guilt and insane optimism that pulled me back from that. I felt somewhat lucky that some family members and friends had also been asked to sing, so I didn't have to walk this particular path alone.

God gave me a little gift Friday night. I was driving back from dinner with family and needed a stop at, yes, Walgreen's - should I rechristen this the Blog of Walgreen's? I write about it enough! I knew a new store was being built in Barrington, but didn't even know if it was finished, so figured I'd go all the way to Algonquin. Through a series of traffic mishaps, I found myself driving past the Barrington Walgreen's, and had just passed it by when I read the huge "Now Open" banner. A quick U-turn, and I was in. Who cares? Well, if I had gone to the Algonquin store, I would not have had a meeting in the parking lot with Judy, a beautiful, sweet-souled woman who used to attend St. Anne's, whose husband died almost 2 years ago. I sang at that funeral, too, and the one for Judy's mother. We stood in the store parking lot, hugging and crying and getting caught up a little. She's one of those people who has that knack for making you feel appreciated and cared for, and as I drove away, I yelled at God a little bit for taking Mel away from her, but also asked Mel if he'd help me out with some prayers for the funeral on Saturday. I'll always remember his funeral for many reasons, but one reason is that I was terrifically nervous that day. It was that time when my voice was still not quite right, and singing was really a struggle because of acid reflux damage. On top of that, Rory was out of town and someone from another church was going to play, and another singer was going to work with me on a few songs. I envisioned an embarrassing disaster, and that this kind-hearted family would never want to see me again. Somehow, I walked in that day and it was a "hit it out of the park" day, even on a duet of a song I'd never done before. I figured Mel had prayed for me that day, and maybe he could do it again?

So, yesterday, at 11 AM, hundreds of people gathered to remember a boy, a boy with a beaming, lit-up smile in the photograph on the program, a smile that could easily disguise an unbearable anguish, apparently. Tough going - I got out, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..." and grown men were beginning to weep. My tactic is generally to look at people but not look at them at those times - the eye contact is almost too much for everybody involved but the one at the microphone has to hold it together. The two other ladies who sang did a lovely job and were marvelously well-composed! (My biggest fear: one of them was going to sing "Danny Boy," but concerned that she might get too emotional to sing, I made myself review it the night before in case she needed back up. I would have made it through the first three words - maybe. Thank God for her and her delicate soprano voice and her strong sense of self-control! Maybe Mel handled that one for me?) Henry Van Dyke was quoted without being given credit, shame shame (the incredibly overused "Parable of Immortality," pretty much a funeral standard these days. Does no one have an imagination any more?). The two poor sisters of this boy, whose lives are upside-down now and probably always will be, wept and giggled and somehow experienced every possible human emotion all at the same time, and most of us cried along with them. The crying is my biggest problem, I have a Pavlov's dog type of response to the sound of sobbing, it just sets me off. Crying + singing = very bad situation, because one either has a nose full of goo, or, a bit later, one is completely dehydrated, if it's been an especially lengthy cry. I had to return to St. Anne's and cantor for the 5:15 and I was pretty awful! Not enough water in the world at that point.

I've been thinking about Mel, dying so suddenly and unexpectedly and leaving behind a bewildered family who adored his every word and action. I've been thinking about this boy, dying so suddenly and unexpectedly and leaving behind a bewildered family who, seemingly, adored his every word and action. Mel wasn't given a choice - but why did this boy choose the way he did? One sister recalled that, on the day before his death, they were driving together and saw a beautiful double rainbow. He had wanted to go find the end of it, she said, and then suggested that by leaving this life behind, he had perhaps found it. But he also pulled a pall of darkness over the people who love him and that rainbow might not shine on them again. It has to be a kind of illness, like a particularly ruthless and fast-moving cancer, like the one that ended my coworker's life a few weeks ago. You fight and fight, and I believe this boy fought, if he was playing baseball and chasing rainbows right up to the last day. Kid, I hope you liked the music. Your mom thought you might like "Halle Halle Halle" because it was up-tempo, and I hope you did. I had to ask an old friend, Mel, to pray for me so I could get through your funeral, so if you can look him up where you are, talk to him and he'll set you straight and get you praying for your family and your friends. They're going to need it now.

"If it be your will that a voice be true..."

2009-05-13T18:03:00.003-05:00

"From this broken hill, I will sing to you."

Sick again. Last Thursday, I worked late and there it was, that funny tickle hanging around in that creepy space between the back of your nose and the top of your throat. For a singer, "funny" might be the wrong word, because there's nothing funny about it. In a way I wasn't surprised. The indoor smoking ban we supposedly have here in Illinois was nowhere to be seen at The Dead concert last week, and a few hours of smoke inhalation almost always does me in. That is funny, as I used to be a smoker myself. I quit when I realized I didn't want to sound that authentically bluesy - don't get a lot of wedding soloist gigs that way...That's me right before The Dead show, btw - this girl was selling adorable bear masks, and while I did not give in and buy one, she gleefully offered up the photo opportunity. Wow, there were a lot of really, really stoned people there.

Woke up last Friday with a nasty sore throat, definitely more than smoking-induced dryness. With gallons of water, literally, I got through a 2 hour long Confirmation Mass and regular Saturday night Mass with only a few moments of wispiness. By Sunday morning, there was almost nothing left, water or no water. Now I sound smoky myself. Dana, the girl temporarily coloring my hair while Avery is out on maternity leave, says I sound "sexy." Great, unless you've got to sing for a bunch of church services! It's beginning to frustrate me, mostly because I've been extremely healthy for the last 12 months, and now I've been sick almost continually since Holy Week. Why does it have to hit at the time when I need my "good" voice the most?

You learn a lot when your instrument fails you. You learn to sing around it, you learn to take it down a notch to make it last longer. For me, the latter is important. My hearing is getting worse, no denying it and I have the doctor's evaluation to prove it. I think I tend to oversing as a result, or at least some of the altos in the choir would have me think so... I don't sing loudly because I need to be heard by others, I sing loudly because I often can't hear myself and singing into a void is deadly. But it's also a Catch 22 - sing loudly, injure voice, then you have to sing even louder to compensate for the injury, on and on it goes. I was fortunate at those two services last week, I had good singers around me and we worked as an ensemble, nobody drowning out the other, so I didn't have to holler. I even had a good chuckle after the Saturday night Mass when someone complimented me for my (unusually?) gentle take on the Communion song, "I Will Be the Vine" by Liam Lawton. Specifically, the parishioner said, "It would be easy to overdo it on that one but you really got it just right." Since I'm known for working a little too hard to hit them out onto Waveland Avenue, so to speak, I not only thanked him for the kind words but filed the thought away: you don't always have to be a musical slugger.

Right now, however, I've got that cheerleader's kind of hoarseness, and the best treatment is rest. Ha. As one of the world's most talkative librarians and a person who lives to drive-while-singing, silence is not a comfortable mode. People tell you to drink tea, but I find that tea is drying. Water, steam, and a steady intake of Haribo "Happi-Cola" candies - now we're talking. I know, what's with the candy? Gummy candies tend to have ingredients like glycerin, carnauba wax, beeswax, emollients that coat and soothe the vocal cords without pharmaceutical ingredients that can harm a singer. Plus, I'm a soda addict and these little guys are yummy, I like the flavor better than traditional gummy bears. I'm a little nervous with another GONZO Confirmation fest this Friday night (GONZO in that it takes 2 hours! The Holy Spirit may really be crying "Where's the beef?" because that's a long time to go without dinner), and some other "pretty" church singing to do next week. Pop gigs are easier with hoarseness, although it goes without saying that I prefer to be healthy all the way around.

That's it for now. More soon.

"Yeah, we're drinkin' and we're dancin' but there's nothin' really happening..."

2009-05-08T17:44:00.001-05:00

..."And the place is dead as heaven on a Saturday night."
Depends on your definition of "Dead," I guess. Some photos from Tuesday night's Allstate Arena Dead concert and "Shakedown Street," the crazoid place in the parking lot where the hippies come to play. I'll write about the show soon.

"But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags that time will not decay..."

2009-05-06T17:55:00.004-05:00

"I'm junk but I'm still holdin' up this little wild bouquet."

I promised a more thorough going-over of the Leonard Cohen concert in Minneapolis, MN, Sunday, May 3, so here it is. Whatever superlatives I can conjure up aren't really going to do it justice anyway. The Orpheum Theatre in Minneapolis is a plush and cozy space, seating about 2,300 people. Quite a mixed bag for our Lenny - a great host of imitators, greying men in fedoras and sharp suits; college kids pierced and tattooed, Rasta-haired or vintage draped; those loud, 50-something white men who seem to appear at every concert these days; swooning women, dressed in their suburban Sunday best, leaning on their dates with their eyes closed and wishing they'd made better choices. I saw no one under the age of, oh, 18? I saw quite a few folks who were pushing 80.

What is with the loud men, anyway? And why do they always find the seat behind me, to rattle my focus and my admiration with a shattering "WOOOOOO!" at some pivotal moment? Why do they think the artist, and Leonard Cohen is an artist, really cares if they would rather hear "Closing Time" than "Democracy" or whatever is being played? Loud men - time to grow up and learn how to respect an artist, and the people around you, for that matter. Your jokes aren't funny and despite the fact that "Closing Time" is a hilarious song, I was glad Cohen didn't do it, just because of your insistent hollering.

My brother had a swooning woman next to him, who mysteriously decided against anti-perspirant on a rather sultry Minneapolis night. Perhaps she thought that made her vaguely European? It made her rather smelly, that's what it did.

See? I'm talking about the crowd because it's hard to write about a poet, it's hard to describe music with words. Highlights for me (YMMV): "In My Secret Life," "Democracy," "Boogie Street," "Tower of Song," "Who By Fire," the recitation based on "A Thousand Kisses Deep," and "Anthem." Oh wait - and that version of "If It Be Your Will" by the "sublime Webb sisters." I truly enjoy going to concerts with my big brother, except in these rare instances where my floodgates open and will not close. There were moments when I didn't even dare to breathe, because a loud, choking sob was going to emerge. Every song was laid at our feet like a dazzling gift, which is why the loud man's "WOO!" was so unsettling. I wanted to turn and ask him, "If the most beautiful woman in the world walked into your home, took off her clothes and said, 'I love you," would your response be, "WOO!?" I hope not.

Why were these my highlights? Being a girl who sings, I did enjoy the vocal work of Sharon Robinson and those sublime sisters, a combination that doesn't work on paper - Robinson, an African-American (I think) with a deep, honey-and-cigarettes voice and the Webb sisters, blonde and British, chirping like little birds. It not only worked, it was magical at times. Then throw Cohen's voice into that mix and somehow it got even better. I didn't expect him to really "sing" at all and instead his singing was powerful and startling. There were moments when he was clearly pushing his voice to its very limit, reaching for notes that seemed beyond his grasp and yet, grasp them he did.

Beyond some very fine singing of many kinds, some songs were better arranged than others. My brother found some of the arrangements a bit "80s" for his taste, too many synthesized instruments. Yet strangely enough, "Tower of Song," with just vocals and keyboards, including a tinny, pre-programmed drum track, just couldn't have been better. Most of the time, the songs worked best with real instruments: saxophone, harmonica, drums, Hammond B-3, and a gentleman named Javier Mas played a variety of stringed instruments, including several I had never heard of! - 12 string guitar, bandurria, the laud and the archilaud.
The arrangement of "Democracy" was the perfect setting for a song that deceptively seems to be "rah rah for America," when of course it's never that simple. I couldn't help but wonder how many blue state-rs in the theatre thought the song was written about Obama - it wasn't. (Nothing against Obama or blue state-rs, as I am a blue voter and an Obama voter.) Quite a few people seemed to be missing the irony of this man singing, "Democracy is comin' to the USA," when of course we claim to have been a democracy for several centuries. I like the song because, in typical Cohen fashion, it doesn't bash America but it doesn't let us off easily, either. "I'm good at love, I'm good at hate, it's in between I freeze," the man says. I think he's good at in between, too.

But the best part of the night was merely being able to sit and listen and savor being in the presence of someone blessed with an immeasurable gift for making words mean something. My brother and I were immediately struck by how thin LC is, much more so than I'd imagined. They say clothes don't make the man but in this case, there's so little, physically, to the man, that he needs the clothes to fill him out! I'd say he seemed frail but that's not right. He was energetic and jovial, and performed with the band for almost 3 hours. And he has an enormous presence, really light-filled and graceful. He would bow to each band member after introducing him/her, a most elegant gesture of gratitude and humility. When it was time for one of the other singers to shine, or for an instrumental solo, he'd step to the back of the stage but keep his attention on the other performer, warmth and gratitude all over his face. Typically, those moments are when the "star" walks off to get some water, wipe off the sweat or pose for the cameras. Cohen - not typical. In fact, one of the first moments that brought me to tears was his simple comment, "We are so fortunate to be able to gather in places like this when so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos." (Prompting, of course, a great chorus of "WOOOO!") It was also fortunate that the sound was mixed so that, except in cases of extreme "WOOO," you could hear every word. A few nights later, when I was plunged into the craziness of a (formerly Grateful) Dead concert back in Illinois, I laughed inside about how different the situations were. At Cohen, the words were everything, even with all those lovely, sexy voices mingling together. At the Dead, it's like, "Words? The songs have words?" and there's a "WOO" going steady all night long.

I'll get to the Dead another time, however. Seeing Leonard Cohen required major amounts of cash and two full days of travel including a vacation day from work. I couldn't sleep a wink in the Radisson, buoyed up on caffeine and poetry and the rush of trucks 10 floors below (maybe that was Hank Williams coughing, 100 floors above me?). I'm writing this tonight from my office in Des Plaines, knowing that just a few miles to the east, Leonard and the band are drinking water or meditating or catching a nap or warming up - the second Chicago show is tonight. I wish I had the money and the leisure to be there, but I'm tied to my own table in the tower of song, many, many floors below Leonard Cohen. (Read: I have band practice at 8:30 PM) I'm so glad I got to see Leonard Cohen live, and I'll treasure the "Live from London" recording of this tour for the rest of my listening days. It's painful to think that he had to tour because someone robbed him of his rightful income, but what a blessing for those of us who might never have seen him otherwise.

"I was born like this...

2009-05-04T20:19:00.011-05:00

I had no choice.
I was born with the gift of a golden voice.
And twenty-seven angels from the Great Beyond,
they tied me to this table right here
in the tower of song."

If there's an ongoing theme to this blog, beyond the awkward juxtaposition of my being both librarian and musician, I think it would be that music is a force as powerful, dangerous, misunderstood, and unpredictable than any drug, any organized religion, any weapon or ideology. There aren't many reasons I would drive 5 1/2 hours to a strange city, where I don't know a soul, where I have to undertake considerable debt for sleeping quarters, meals, and a "hit" of what I am seeking. Apparently, Leonard Cohen is one of those reasons.

If you don't know who Leonard Cohen is, well, shame on you and why are you reading my blog? ;)

I'll make it short - Leonard Cohen is one of the greatest poets and songwriters to ever have lived. He's touring again because - well, I'd guess for a lot of reasons but mostly because he was bilked out of his $5 million in retirement savings by some unsavory management types, most likely during the time he was studying Zen Buddhism in a California monastery. Yes, a guy named Leonard Cohen was studying Zen - I'll also mention that what initially grabbed me about his lyrics is his breathtaking use of Christian imagery. Honestly, the lyrics are just breathtaking, period. I often put little quotes in the header on this page, and I could use L Cohen lyrics for the rest of my life and never get tired of them. His singing voice is not for everybody, I understand that. You may need to dip your toe into the water through the 8 zillion cover versions of his songs that are out there, by artists as diverse as Jennifer Warnes, Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright, Don Henley, Billy Joel, Sting, Martin Gore, Trisha Yearwood, Peter Gabriel, Judy Collins, The Handsome Family, Nick Cave, k.d. lang - it's just insane. Everyone wants to sing these songs, because they understand they cannot possibly write anything like this themselves. Cohen is also a musician's poet, writing often about the "workers in song," as you might be able to tell in the words from "Tower of Song" which are today's post title.

So, Leonard announced his tour and my brother and I hovered over his Web site, waiting for dates. Dates came and panic ensued. One Chicago concert, on a night when we already had tickets for the Dead. What to do? It was possible he would add a Chicago show the following night - but my brother would already be driving the Urbana-Chicago route the two previous nights (he's also at the Dead tonight!). Cohen had a show scheduled for Minneapolis, and another in Detroit. After a mad exchange of emails, we chose Minneapolis. And yes, he added that second Chicago show, but my brother really wasn't up for three nights in a row of driving between his home in central Illinois and Chicago anyway. Tickets for Minneapolis, ouch, were $200. Each. The length of the journey also required a hotel stay. I found a deal on Orbitz for the too cool for school Graves 601 in Minneapolis, was quite full of myself about that - and then blew it by booking for the wrong day. We ended up with a pretty good deal at the Radisson Plaza, which happened to be all of 2 blocks from the Orpheum Theatre. Their FireLake restaurant also makes a mean buttermilk biscuit for breakfast, and was so quiet last night you could hear a pin drop. I'll take it.

So yesterday was the big day. We headed out from my house at 10 AM. I was determined to make the most of this mini-vacation, so I decided we would lunch in...the Wisconsin Dells! We'd heard that Lake Delton was full again and I really have never seen the place off-season. Wow. No wait for a table and relative quiet at the Moosejaw pizza parlor, which is pure, screaming INSANITY on a Friday night in July. My calzone was pretty so-so, but it's hard not to be amused at a restaurant full of small children wearing paper moose antlers. The lake looks blue and clean again - pretty neat. Then we were on our way to Minnesota - oh heck, I'd never been dere! It's a pleasant drive, lots of green, lots of spooky rock formations jutting up dramatically from the pine forests, lots of sparkling lakes and rivers.

In the blink of an eye we were in downtown Minneapolis, which is...like every other downtown of a Midwestern city. My brother says there's a cool, funky part of town - we weren't in it. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and we were eager to stretch our legs and find a place for dinner, which wasn't easy in this part of town. You had two options - lots of those blah, corporate-owned restaurants like Chevy's and Applebee's, I guess because there's also a large sports stadium nearby, or, overpriced "theatre district" steakhouses. Moosejaw was suddenly looking pretty good. Time was a-wastin' so we ended up at Panera, which was fine because it was cheap, tasty and we could sit there for 90 minutes and no one cared. I'm just not a city person. Everything looks dirty, smells bad, I agonize over the homeless people and feel oppressed by the dingy "gentleman's clubs" and angry-looking pedestrians. Nevertheless, we walked around. One cool thing to see: the First Avenue night club, one of the co-stars of "Purple Rain."
The walls on the First Avenue and 11th Street sides are painted black and covered with stars with the names of the most performers to play there, so we had fun reading the names. Of course, my brother has actually gone to shows there. My claim to fame will be walking around outside, I'm guessing. I chose the Black Crowes for the photo, I like seeing them anywhere! Another famous person we spotted : this statue of Mary Tyler Moore, just about to throw her hat up into the air. I sure dug MTM when I was
growing up and the statue is a cute tribute to a very funny show and a woman who was definitely a style icon in my formative years. Sorry that it's not a very good photo - I only felt like fussing with the camera phone. The picture of Murray's steak house, "Home of the silver butter knife steak," is also not very good. I had no idea I'd be creating a travelogue.

"So," you ask, "How was the main event? How was the concert?" You'll have to wait. It was beautiful and tender and poetic, and I want to savor it a little bit more before I try to tell you about it. Better yet, you can buy a concert CD and/or DVD, and it is absolutely worth your time and $$$. Please, support Leonard Cohen's retirement fund - the angels will have him tied to that table a bit longer. But I will write about the show, and I'll end this just by saying I'd have walked 5 1/2 hours to get there. :)

"Honey, when they gonna send me home?"

2009-04-28T17:59:00.003-05:00

I don't know what you're doing this week, but I'm hanging out at the courthouse. (I swiped those pictures off the Web site - think they will sue me?)

Because I have been summoned for jury duty. Now, you may feel differently about this "unique, sacred and rare" American experience, to use the judge's words as he "indoctrinated" us yesterday morning. For me, the words "jury duty" summon up one thought: My butt is really going to hurt after a few days of this. I only had jury duty one other time, in Cook County, somewhere in Skokie. I was cranky because they called me in on the last Friday I had off that summer, when I was still working at the community college. However, the court there is right down the street from the Old Orchard shopping mall, Lord & Taylor was having a sale, we got a two hour lunch and then dismissed almost immediately afterwards. I could handle that.

This time, jury duty takes place in beautiful McHenry County. I live at the farthest east end of McHenry, and the courthouse seems to be at the opposite end. Of the earth. Despite being 10 miles closer than the library, it takes me almost the same amount of time to drive there. Yes, parts of the drive are pretty: rolling farm fields, the Spring sky reflecting in ponds, trees showing just a hint of green. Parts of the drive are hideous: strip malls, ramshackle old houses, crummy liquor stores. Along the way today, I discovered a roller rink with a special sign advertising its "Good Friday afternoon skate." Because what better way is there to remember that Jesus was wounded for my transgressions than by roller skating? Another sign on Route 47 in Woodstock has me curious - it's a home-made real estate sign, sitting in front of an ordinary and fairly old ranch house. The sign promises a top-notch Bull Valley home "just right for a prominent McHenry County attorney." It must be a different house, making it even weirder.

I just found out I'll be spending another day there tomorrow, so I might as well suck it up and shut up.

I'm a little frustrated because I documented many of my experiences on Monday and today and emailed them directly to Blogger for publishing, Except that I didn't, just slightly mistyping the email address - and then deleting the messages since my mobile phone was getting pretty stuffed. It's never as good the second time you try to do this. By the way, we're allowed to bring a laptop but there's no Internet connectivity, so... why bother?

Monday morning, quite a few of us were late because - get this - they don't really have enough parking. Okaaaaay...Of course, you have to go through pretty elaborate security. Why, in a post-9/11 world, does this surprise or upset some people? A fellow juror was complaining to me today about the "rude people" working security. To a fault, they have been incredibly kind and friendly to me. Like, when I walked in with my daily Pepsi Max on Monday, I immediately saw the sign saying "No food or beverages." I asked the guy if he would mind tossing it for me, and he says, "No, it's okay, you're a juror, go right ahead." I have not seen one bit of attitude from these guys. One of them came up to give us a briefing and you'd have sworn you were on an old "Night Court" episode, the guy was a hoot. He also explained the alarming frequency with which they find drugs, weapons, cell phones made into weapons, etc. Hence the security, which is still rattling some of the jurors. Get over it, folks, and I hope you don't plan on flying anywhere anytime soon.

Then a judge came in, witty and smart and well-spoken. He kept saying a real courtroom would be nothing like what we've seen on TV or in movies. Clearly he meant your "Judge Judy" type of show, since, at least in personality and demeanor, he and the bailiff were exactly what I've seen on TV. I half expect to pass Sam Waterson in the hallway.

Then - the unbearable hours of boredom began. They have 4 TV sets in the room, but you know how much I love television. What I do enjoy, occasionally, is glancing up while a game show is on and the closed captioning reads, "Cheering. Music. Applause." Lends a more surreal quality. They have a generous supply of magazines, all of them 2-3 years old. Now, maybe that's intentional, so that you can't read anything that might have to do with a trial? Or, maybe they buy a selection every 3 years, and you'd better like it.

Reading out-of-date magazines has a fascination about it. I practically laughed out loud at the glowing articles praising "the next big" celebrity, when it was someone we haven't heard or seen since. In an old Harper's Bazaar, there was a photo spread of Lindsey Lohan and Kate Bosworth in Paris, the guests of some fashion house. Now, two years down the line, it had the most lackluster, "Who cares?" quality to it. Bosworth seems to be making a career out of showing up at new shop openings (woohoo) and Lohan - well, does anything positive or influential come to mind when you hear her name? Actually, I read a recent article saying that lesbianism seems exceptionally fashionable right now, and perhaps she contributed to that. Anyone want to bet on how long she continues to be a lesbian? Right.

I also did about 3 crossword puzzles, read the current Vogue and Allure, and sent out a million emails and texts. (Or, "textes," as they say on the South Side) Once the formalities of yesterday morning were finished, the jurors, hemmed in cheek by jowl, began yakking with each other. Help me, Jesus. There's a table in the back of the room that is particularly annoying. On Monday, it was 4 chatty gals. You'd swear they were drinking at lunch, because in the afternoon they got really rambunctious - but don't you dare take a glance at them while they're hooting and hollering, because they make a little comment about how "People don't like how loud we are." No, you're right, we don't. It's bad enough we're all stuck in here, must you act like chimps? Today it just escalated, as Loud Guy decided to join the gals, who fawned over him, giggling and guffawing over his little jokes like he was Jay Leno.

My iPod could not really drown them out without causing serious damage to my already poor hearing, so this afternoon I took refuge in the little snack room/restroom area. Other jurors would occasionally stop in for a cup of coffee, and I think a few were miffed at me. It's a little like a long plane ride. Everyone is too close for comfort. People have sneezing fits and coughing spells, and in this current swine flu panic, those aren't particularly welcome guests. One of the Chatty Gals has a distinct smoker's hack, which kicks in every time she has one of her frequent laughing fits. Nothing like listening to someone cough up a lung every 15 minutes or so.

I especially miss my Skokie/Old Orchard courtroom experience at lunch break. Let's see: on Monday I explored the world's largest Wal-Mart Supercenter. It's essentially a warehouse-type building with a Wal-Mart plus a full grocery store, and on the perimeter but still inside the same building, services like an optician, a nail salon, a game room, a bank, a Subway sandwich shop. As close as it gets to a mall in this neck of the woods, I guess. I threw all my social justice beliefs out the window and purchased an $8, made in Vietnam t-shirt, for which I feel I am already burning in hell. It's orange and has a great tattoo print, sprinkled with sparkly things.

Today I was determined to have a better lunch experience, so I went west, young man, into historic downtown Woodstock. There's an old-time village square, with a stately courthouse (I bet they don't have an Internet connection there, either), an opera house (which I somehow missed...) and tons of tchotchke shops, restaurants, bakeries. Oh, and a Starbuck's, which may have been in the opera house for all I know. But today, despite clear, blue, open skies, was just too darn cold for wandering amongst the overpriced gew-gaws. Nothing tempted me to even leave the warm cocoon of the car. I could hear my mother saying, "I just know you can get this same thing cheaper at TJ Maxx." And she does know, because she works for TJ Maxx. It drives me crazy when she says while we're trying to enjoy a day together, in Door County or Long Grove, but - she's still right. Plus, I had a distinct feeling I was going to find tchotchkes more for the Red Hat Lady crowd than the tattooed librarian crowd.

So I ended up at Walgreen's, getting a bag full of goodies for under $30. I can kill a lot of time in Walgreen's, as you've probably surmised from other posts. Beauty products, magazines, organic stuff, snacks. Did you know that a small package of Buddig turkey has only 90 calories but about 7 zillion milligrams of sodium? I was purposely pokey in Walgreen's today, since I had nothing to do and because I heard two good songs while browsing. The first is really a gooey, guilty pleasure, "You Won't See Me Cry" by Wilson Phillips. Ah, those senseless lyrics, bathed in those dreamy harmonies! The second is, truly, a wonderfully well-written song, one of my all-time favorites by Phil Collins, "Don't Let Him Steal Your Heart Away." A piano-driven charmer, it reminds you that Collins was once a musical theater performer, long before he wrote Disney musicals.

After lunch I decided to try for a catnap in the sleepy warmth of the car. Ha. A Jeep pulled into the spot next to me, its driver rolling down the windows, lighting up a smoke, then beginning a loud, lengthy conversation on his cell phone. On Monday, after lunch, I thought I'd seek out a quiet corner for reading, so I picked a little chair underneath the coat rack, with one of those flip-up writing surfaces. Ah, that's good, although the Chatty Gals are in the vicinity. The men are mostly quiet, I think, they don't feel like they have to socialize. One guy had grabbed the desk next to me, attention focused on a thick hardcover book he was reading. Sigh. Then another guy approaches, with that giddy demeanor that screams, "Hey, I'm gonna make a new buddy!" The thick hardcover book was a "World of Warcraft" novel, and for the next 45 minutes they tormented me with talk of warlocks and shamans. Oh, if only I'd had magic powers right at that moment...instead I excused myself to the ladies' room, hoping the convo would break up upon my return. Ha. Apparently chivalry is not part of the code of ethics in the WOW universe, as giddy goofball had stolen my chair. Hoser.

That's enough for today. I sat all day now I'm sitting here typing! More tomorrow from the Midwest's capital of bad posture and boredom.

"Simple little bookworm, buried underneath...

2009-04-27T19:25:00.005-05:00

"...is the sexiest librarian."

No, no, not me, I just needed a song to fit the circumstances. I don't think "Librarian" by My Morning Jacket is all great shakes, but it works. I just wanted to show you my groovy airbrush tattoo which I got...at the library. In fact, almost all of us librarians got airbrush tattoos Saturday night, at our annual fundraiser, "Do the Dewey."

The girl doing them was of course all, like, Chicago-edgy neighborhood-former Goth whatever, although very nice and she put up with our goofiness. Nevertheless she upset me when I sat down with my chosen stencil and she said, "Oh, a Journey fan." PUH-LEEZE. I mean, I don't hate Journey, but I'm not even going to temporarily tattoo anything that relates to those hairballs on my body. I liked this because A) I have a silver marcasite necklace with the same design, a winged heart, and B) I thought it was kinda Stevie Nicks (which the tattoo artiste agreed with, also agreeing that was more "me" than Journey) and C) I thought it a fitting tribute to my coworker who had died just days earlier, a heart continuing on its journey.

As opposed to "a heart continuing to love Journey." Yeesh.

What did my fellow librarians choose? Well, my good friend Roberta got a bio-hazard symbol on her neck (she's way more art school than me), Steven got some very old school dice on his neck, and Sandra (our director! That rocks!) and Cheryl got variations on the moon and stars in various places. Joanne, ever the businesswoman, got a gecko, which she referred to as "the GEICO guy." Gail got a pretty tropical flower. I'm sort of mad I didn't choose the Hello Kitty. Fascinating to see all kinds of local businessmen, community advocates, Rotary Club members and the like, lining up for a tattoo up in the reference stacks. (One floor down, Chicago swing band Bopology cracked me up with repeated comments like, "Come on up and see us, we're in Periodicals." I was bummed when I found out a musician friend of mine had played with them the last time they were at the 'brary, two years ago. But, we do swim in a relatively small pool.)

I attempted to get a real tattoo a few years back, during a particular bad stretch when I needed to do something outlandish and obnoxious and out there. I waited at a place for two hours on a weeknight but they were packed and I finally drove home annoyed, but woke up the next day without any regrets and without the Journey logo on my arm...

"Your life, woven day by day..."

2009-04-26T22:37:00.004-05:00

"...Is a new design of the glory God displays
on the canvas of creation,
Through the poem of history,
In the pattern of redemption
Running through the tapestry.

Your life in Christ can be
The greatest story ever told."

In the last 2 years, I've learned a whole new set of skills, as my Web Services Librarian job means being a blogger, videographer and, supervisor to a "Webmaster." This week, all of those new skills came together under the worst of circumstances, as our library's Webmaster passed away after an incredibly brave and graceful fight against cancer.

When another coworker passed away last summer, it seemed only natural to honor her, and she was well-loved, with a blog post on the library's home page. And now Kathy, our Webmaster, deserved just as much. Yet knowing she was a woman with a computer science degree, someone who'd really studied Internet technology as opposed to a dabbler like me, I felt I owed her something more. So along with the blog post, I created a simple video, with photos and some DV footage, put together with music, text, a few effects. Kathy liked to jazz things up on our Web site, so while the purist in me called for simplicity ("YouTube's going to compress this into a big mess!") I could not resist some bells and whistles. I am not going to put much about her personal life here, out of respect for her and her family's privacy. If you'd like to read what I wrote about her or watch the short film: click here In the picture up above Kathy is on the far left, part of our library's Relay for Life team - she walked for the cure every year, even after her own diagnosis.

I hope to never cry this much at work again. After listening to countless songs for the video, I chose Avalon's recording of "The Greatest Story," a song I find very inspiring and encouraging at times when I feel so small, insignificant, times when I feel like I have failed at life. "We cannot measure worth by human standards, that's always a lie, oh you have to see through heaven's eyes..." I chose it for Kathy because she was so quiet, unassuming, utterly lacking in pretension, and yet she did so many things and did them very well over the course of 51 years. And I knew she was a Christian, so I felt comfortable using an overtly religious song.

The blog post and video ended up being good preparation, despite the flood of tears and nose-blowing trips to the ladies' room, because I was also asked to be one of 4 speakers at her memorial service. I know what you're thinking: "Well, you sing at funerals all the time, and you do a lot of professional public speaking, so you're a natural choice." One of the blessings of being a singer is that you use someone else's words to convey your deepest emotions - unless you want to be perceved as a human iceberg, you'd better not write a eulogy made up of someone else's lines.

Truth is, there are several people at the library who knew her far better than I did, but (see reasons above) it also made sense to ask me. (Our director also spoke and was lovely and thoughtful, as she always is.) I thought of all the bad eulogies I've heard over decades of singing at funerals. My definition of a bad eulogy? Too much about the speaker, not enough about the deceased. Too long. Axes to grind or scores to settle. Weird, inappropriate shit (I could write a book). Long lists of impossibly perfect traits that no one human could embody in a lifetime - you're just making that stuff up because you loved this person. And 10-15 minutes filled up with golf and fishing anecdotes, how much mom loved to cook and entertain, what a successful businessman Mr. So-And-So was, vacations with the grandchildren, blah blah, and no mention, anywhere, of faith, hope, love, Christ. Somewhere along the line, Catholics, in particular, took the idea of "Words of remembrance" and turned it into a cross between a resume, a celebrity roast and an obituary. So I knew everything I didn't want to say. I thought what I wrote was decent, but I mentioned above my tendency to fall back on other peoples' words, and I did end up by paraphrasing from the last verse of that wonderful song, "Be Ye Glad": "And there is no disease and no struggle that can pull you from God, be ye glad." I said it my own way, but I was grateful for the flash of inspiration that dropped the lyric into my head.

The service was this afternoon. The cozy, sunlit Lutheran church was packed to the rafters. We sang some great hymns, "Precious Lord, Take My Hand," "For All The Saints" and "Lift High The Cross." After a welcome from the pastor, a handbell choir performed two pieces. At first I found it an odd lull, when things had only gotten underway. But it immediately changed the mood in the space, which had been filled with organ prelude music moments earlier, the player alternating between delicate Bach pieces and fiery arrangements of "Amazing Grace" and other familiar tunes. The bells rang and reverberated and I felt my blood pressure go way down, it was like 300 people took a deep breath and relaxed all at once. Nervous about speaking, I was also thankful for the distraction of the unfamiliar music. "Oh, what an interesting chord they just made! Ooh, nice modulation on that last refrain." Then we started in earnest.

This is the second Protestant memorial service I've attended in the last 3 years and I have to say, they get it right, I think, more so than we Catholics. All the ritual stuff is there, but the sermons and eulogies just seem better, truly thoughtful, and always with a mind for the Scriptures, an eye on God. I can't tell you how many Catholic priests I've heard essentially reading the person's obituary as a homily. Excuse me, Father? We are the family and friends of the person who died. We KNOW all that stuff. Your job is to enlighten us about the mystery, the suffering, the promise of new life, the things we aren't so sure about. Anyway, Kathy's pastor gave a beautiful sermon and was just so connected during the service, so present.

That's almost heartbreaking for me to say, because my own church experience this morning was just awful. For all my affection for the people at St. Anne's and the way we do things, there's the occasional Sunday when I just want to run screaming from the place. Today was one of those. So much noise and clowning around, everything being rushed through as if the ship was going down but let's try to cram it all in before we go under. This sweating, manic priest flinging holy water at us as if the act of ruining our choir music will somehow remind us of our baptism. So much talking but so much of it clanging and hollow. Oh well. Next weekend, I am singing for a special First Communion service (sure to go on for several lifetimes) and then I'm excaping for a few days. Maybe I'll feel better next time I'm there.

I am home tonight, quiet, alone, with two lingering thoughts. First, that I let my own desire to work independently keep me from getting to know Kathy as well as I should have, and I have to keep fighting that urge to hide behind electrons, not answering the phone calls, not setting up the lunch get-togethers and informal chats. I've been meaning to tell my neighbor, for years, that I'd be happy to dogsit anytime - but I did it tonight, right after she told me she'd been let go from her big-time corporate job. Time's a-wastin', we both agreed, and that's the second thought I'm holding onto tonight. When Kathy started at the library, she was the same age I am today and never saw this abrupt ending, this cruel and impartial disease, coming her way. "Your life in Christ can be the greatest story ever told" - if you do something with it.

"The Greatest Story" was recorded by Christian singing group Avalon quite a few years ago, at least 12-13 years. I used to listen to a lot of what is known as "CCM," or "Christian Contemporary Music," at that time - it was, imo, the smarter, warmer predecessor to what is now "Praise & Worship" music. (The lyric to "The Greatest Story" is similar to Michael Card's "The Poem of Your Life," which has a great, stirring, Celtic flavor, but "Greatest Story" has the better lyric, I think. Less academic, not so caught up in the cleverness of metaphor.) P&W music does two things - it praises and it worships. The best CCM writers found other purposes for Christian music as well, understanding that songs are also needed to uplift the human spirit, to encourage, to challenge, to comfort. Our praise and worship may make God smile, but God certainly doesn't need it, and we should be sure we are devoting just as much energy to doing good and serving others.

"Forget your troubles, c'mon, get happy..."

2009-04-18T21:55:00.000-05:00

Yes, that's right, it's the de rigeur singer's blog post about Judy Garland! Sort of.

I hadn't thought about Judy Garland for a long time, when suddenly I was thrown into circumstances which required me to think of her quite often. My employer was throwing a day-long, "Wizard of Oz" hullaballoo on the Saturday before Palm Sunday, and my services as a singer were required. Not in the role of Dorothy, mind you. At my age that might have been more than a bit unseemly. I played the role of Glinda the Good Witch - really, an entirely appropriate part for moi-meme. Glitter, foof, feathers, good-natured guidance of my fellow residents of Oz and the children in the audience, and a fussy sweetness bordering on theatricality - very much like being a cantor. ;)

But the entire process (I also wrote the script for our little escapade and helped run the rehearsals) got me thinking about Judy Garland. I also had the pleasure of reading a lovely little essay about her in Vogue (one of the only good side effects from having my hair "done" occasionally), written by, if you can believe it, Susie Boyt - if her name doesn't mean anything to you, chew on this: she's the daughter of artist Lucian Freud, making her also the granddaughter of THAT Freud. Wow. And you think Liza Minnelli had a "tough act to follow" kind of life. But Ms. Boyt is a successful writer without her famous name and, if this essay is any indication, a writer of tremendous charm and engaging introspection.

The essay focused on the thing about Judy Garland that gets me, too. It's that voice. When you listen to the "Wizard of Oz" songs, when she's still just a kid, there's such an emotional weight in her voice, as if she lives on the verge of tears, whether they are tears of joy or sorrow. It's not even just her musical voice, her speaking voice hangs like ripe fruit on the branch of the air, just dangling there, heavy, laden with feeling. I think the opening, set-in-Kansas scenes of the movie are just as frightening as the flying monkeys and rusty tin man, because she sounds genuinely frightened by that horrid woman threatening her dog and then, of course, a tornado. Her voice is really something - and what would it have been like to be born with that gift? Boyt finds a personal ally in the voice of Judy Garland, leaning on the songs throughout the darkest times in her life, not because they lift her up but because they commiserate with her, they understand, just like a good friend. No gettin' happy required.

One of my first memories of Judy Garland, and it's a faint memory to be sure, is seeing her perform "Get Happy" on television. I can't figure out what show it was - plenty of clips on YouTube, none ring a bell other than that crazy, kooky tune, which has been stuck in my head ever since. I had to be very young, no older than 8 or 9 years, and even then, I remember thinking, "She's singing about being happy, but she's sad, I can see it in her eyes. She sounds like she might cry." It was the 1970s, and I was a long way from understanding and loving Gospel-style music, so a song that seemed to be suggesting that a good way to "get happy" would be dying was also puzzling. "The Lord is waiting to take your hand...we're going to the Promised Land - it's quiet and peaceful on the other side." Now I can hear that language in a much different way and I appreciate the "happy" that's found in letting the Lord take your hand - it's not terribly far off from my own singing of "O Happy Day" at St. Anne's every Easter Vigil.

Judy Garland died before I was three years old, so it's also true that all my memories of her must be posthumous. So knowing that she died young, and tragically, might have colored my sense that her voice was sad and blue all on its own, regardless of context. And yet - how can you hear someone singing "Come on, get happy" and still hear sadness if it isn't there? I was puzzling over all of this because sometimes it's clear to me people hear things in my voice and in my own singing that I don't hear, that I'm not even trying to express or that I don't know how to put across. Sometimes I also know what it's like to be a sad person forced into a situation where I have to forget my troubles and, c'mon, get happy - it can be a difficult thing to do. Keep that smile, let your voice soar over the space, look 'em straight in the eyes. I guess it's better than having to listen to someone else try to convince me to get happy.

I started writing this almost 3 weeks ago and I know I had something more profound to say, but I no longer know what it was. Yes, everyone has been asking me what I think about Susan Boyle, the overnight Internet singing star from Scotland. If I can find time tomorrow, I'll let you know.

Blog in a cloud

2009-04-16T17:01:00.003-05:00

Here's what Wordle makes of my blog as of April 16, 2009.
Never seen Wordle?
Check it out and make your own cloud.

Until I can find the time to write something new...

2009-04-06T21:23:00.004-05:00

Here is some relatively raw footage from, well, a moment when I truly was a "singing librarian:" the Des Plaines Public Library's live performance of songs from "The Wizard of Oz," Saturday, April 4, 2009. I think you'll be able to figure out which one is me. I started writing about the whole experience, Judy Garland, etc. etc. but - I finished a few sentences. Things have been very hectic, and now it's Holy Week. Something, soon, I promise!

"God I'm going down, I don't wanna drown now..."

2009-03-22T21:36:00.006-05:00

"Meet me in the sound."

This was mostly written last Sunday, March 22. I've touched it up somewhat and will publish, while I struggle to come up with something new to say.

It was a noisy weekend. Considering I've been in rock bands for about 30 years now (ouch!), I'm not a big fan of noise (despite what my dad says, I don't think rock music is noise). Since I got home tonight, for example, something in the crawl space keeps making an annoying banging sound when the heat turns off. Earlier it was about every 6 seconds, now it's less frequent, but why can't it JUST STOP???

Friday night I attended, along with many coworkers and colleagues, the North Suburban Library System awards banquet. Was nominated, didn't win, which didn't matter to me personally but felt awkward professionally, with my office mates and bosses all sitting around me as someone else's name got called. I kept joking all day that I was going to "do a Faith Hill" and mouth a big "WHAT?????" when someone else won the award, but you know me, I'm all talk, no action. ;) Otherwise it was a night full of speech-making, laughter, applause, music, dishes and silverware clattering, it was noisy in the way that might surprise you, given that it's a room full of librarians. Give us a few free drinks and the volume gets cranked way up.

Got to bed late but had to hustle on Saturday for a wedding gig out in Lombard, IL, sound check at roughly 5 PM. Except we never got a sound check, because the banquet hall folks were busy tearing down from an afternoon event and then setting up three different rooms for the evening - talk about noisy. Banquet hall employees, from my experience, are never happy people. It must be a tedious, tiresome way to make a living - rolling those heavy tables around, putting out the linens and water glasses and flatware for the 8 millionth time, while the big boss shouts out orders and hollers at you if you're not moving quickly enough. Perhaps worse, the same crew came in at 11:01 PM, as soon as the wedding reception ended, and practically threw the band out. We're used to having a good hour or so to put away our (excessive amount of) equipment, and at a certain point Saturday night, the banquet staff started picking our stuff up and just throwing it around the room, while the drummer and I stood frozen in our tracks. (The rest of the guys were changing in the mens' room.)

Noisy noise, and of course gigs themselves are pretty noisy, too. I was working with Synod this weekend, and despite our standard issue PA problems, we sounded pretty good - when we weren't screwing up. Gosh, I messed up a song so badly Saturday night I felt like calling a "do over," so embarrassing and again, kind of a first for me, in a bad way. The song just started off all wrong, the guys were playing way too fast, and since the previous set it was obvious someone (ahem) had turned up the instruments without turning up the singers as well, so I was having a hard time hearing myself and keeping up with the tempo, and I just kept losing the lyrics on the refrain. Something I hope does not happen again. There were a few moments of absolute hilarity and musical chaos, "all the tumult and the strife," when we were not on the same page at all. But, also some really good moments, a few songs that had a nice groove, and my voice felt strong, clear. We're buying some new PA stuff before our next gig, it will be interesting to see what that does for our sound.

A fun aside about the wedding -- it was full of old acquaintances from the Spring Valley Concert Band, with whom I did some singing over the last 4-5 years. As we waited to begin our first set, I glanced around the room and spotted one familiar face, then another, another...funny because in all these years of gigging, it's been pretty rare to sing for someone I know. All the Spring Valleyites were kind and welcoming, I really need to get to one of their concerts soon. (And a big cyber shout-out to Joan Kleppe, healing from hip replacement surgery. God bless, Joan, and I hope you're back hanging with the cats in the band real soon. Love ya!)

It's funny, musicians and spiritual people tend to emphasize the difference between our "Saturday night" and "Sunday morning" lives, but in my life the two can run and blur together in a funny way. Sunday morning isn't always quiet and peaceful, and last Sunday was a prime example, as our associate priest who thinks LOUD is somehow more meaningful said Mass, terrorizing one and all with his bizarre and yet so random tirades. You just never know what he'll be foaming at the mouth about, and if it will be your turn. Between his bellowing and the choir, the band, it didn't feel any different from the gig I'd left 11 hours earlier, except that the wine was consecrated and no one asked for the Cha-Cha Slide.

Sometimes my life is so full of sound - and I'm happy for it. Othertimes, I crave some relief, whether from an over-amped guitar player, too much trivial chatter, or a self-righteous priest who enjoys the sound of his own voice. Yet I try to remain aware that sometimes I'm the one enjoying the sound of my own voice, and also that on the days when I most need stillness, someone very near might be dying for conversation or song or attention. Biblically we are told that God came to Elijah not in violent wind and thunder and sound, but in a small, still voice, and by listening to that almost imperceptible sound, a whisper, Elijah finds Elisha, a devoted and faithful friend, follower, companion. Is it possible God is also in the larger, more intense sounds, too? Or are they just Shakespeare's "sound and fury," utterly insignificant time and energy sappers? Can I also hear the voice of God in the organized chaos of a U2 concert or when I'm up at the cantor microphone, hollering on "O Happy Day" for all I'm worth? Can the soothing murmur I hear in my head and heart sometimes be a lie, sometimes be my own voice substituting for God's? I meet people, friends and strangers, I meet God, I meet myself in the sound. The tricky part is figuring out which sounds to tune out and which sounds demand that I sing along.

You may be wondering about the photo - I (illegally) borrowed it from the awe-inspiring "Brick Testament" - yes, that's correct, Biblical scenes created entirely out of Legos. It must be seen to be believed - keep in mind, the creator has chosen some of the more violent and repulsive scenes of both Old and New Testament, but, there are also chapters which will have you giggling. I particularly enjoy any appearance by God, who is portrayed as your caricature, white-bearded older man, always with a very angry look on his face. While I mentioned Elijah, the Brick Testament picture is actually Moses, asking God to show him His glory. That little chapter from Exodus is my favorite on Brick Testament - just because it's so weird anyway! Sorry this is a week behind, but I'm sure to have more to tell you about soon, as I'm 6 days away from performing as Glinda the Good Witch at my library job.

"I found grace inside a sound..."

2009-03-13T12:36:00.006-05:00

"I found grace - that's all I found."

2-3 times a year a new album worms its way into my brain, some switch gets turned on and my OCD nature kicks in - and the album plays endlessly, all day, all night, until it's officially settled in. God knows what other information is getting evicted in the process - another friend's birthdate I'll forget, another Internet password lost forever, while I store up lyrics to songs I'll never have the opportunity to sing. (To be fair, this also happens with the best choir songs, which I do need to memorize!) Such it has been in the last few years with "Raising Sand" by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, "What Is Love For" by Justin Currie, "15 Minutes" by Nik Kershaw and now..."No Line on the Horizon" by U2.

Wake up too early, before the alarm, with a slight headache, and there's that jangly guitar from "Magnificent." Trying to focus on the tedium of redesigning our Staff Intranet at the Library, and there's the spooky Greek chorus of "Unknown Caller:" "Restart and reboot yourself! You're free to go!" (Mac users, rejoice - the unknown caller also commands, "Force quit and move to trash!") Late night commute home, and I need some quiet so I leave my iPod in my purse, but it doesn't matter, because here's that slamming riff in the refrain of "Breathe," and Bono's wailing, "I can breeeeeeeeathe...now." I'm delighted really, although I'd prefer that it not interrupt my sleep, but as I've written so many times, it's a joy to discover new music that you love, that moves you, inspires you. "No Line on the Horizon" is definitely a keeper.

This was supposed to be U2's return to experimentation, a sound more "out there" than the last two albums, but I don't know about that. There are elements of the bizarre, and fewer straightforward pop tunes, but a good song is a good song, no matter how you dress it. Everyone crows about "Achtung Baby" being their masterpiece of smashing the clichéd pop sound and yet, which song remains the strongest from that collection?: "One," the simplest of guitar driven ballads.

The critics have been pretty kind to "NLOTH" and yet, why is it they still don't quite "get" U2? Case in point: I think it was the Daily Herald music critic (I'm not taking the time to look up his name, although he's a halfway decent guy, we've exchanged a few emails) who said that the lyrics to "Magnificent" will only fuel the fires of Bono's detractors who claim he has a "Messianic" complex. The lyrics he quotes are, "I was born, I was born to sing for you - I didn't have a choice, to lift you up." I guess I can see how a person might hear that phrase and think Bono is singing that to us, his audience - "I'm going to lift you up with my singing," but, I'm sorry, I think it's pretty obvious he's singing that to God. "You gave me the voice, so I have no choice but to use it to 'magnify' you" - hence the title of the song, and Bono's own comments that he wrote it as a modern-day "Magnificat." The Magnificat is Mary's Biblical song, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior..."

Yet no one accuses Mary of having a Messianic complex.

Even if the lyric in question was doubtful, by the time Bono is singing, "Justify until we die, you and I will magnify - oh, oh, the magnificent," I think it's in-your-face obvious. Earlier in the song, he does seem to be speaking of romantic, person-to-person love - but again, unless you've been completely separated from religious imagery and language for your entire life, it seems clear that he's proclaiming that earthly relationships have the potential to mirror and magnify the love of God for people. Christians, believe it or not, do feel called, chosen, obligated to do good (it doesn't always happen that way, sadly for us), to use what we've been given to praise God and do His work on earth. That doesn't make us wanna-be Messiahs, it just makes us Christian. I have to think people of other faiths feel same desire to be God's servants on Earth.

All this just to say, enough with the Bono hating already. So much venom and energy wasted on hating someone who dares to be a force for good in the world (while we stand on our heads to defend girlfriend-beating R & B singers and child-endangering pop stars...). My favorite song on "NLOTH" so far is called "Breathe," and that's a quote from it in my title today. I don't even want to take the route of comparing the lyrics to a Biblical moment, but it does call to mind Jesus on the edge of a cliff, Satan offering him everything he sees: "There's nothing you have that I need - I can breathe." (Am I the only person who thought of that same moment in "Vertigo"'s B-part, "All of this, all of this can be yours? Just give me what I want, and no one gets hurt?")

If nothing else, it's clearly a thumbing of the nose at all of Bono's detractors, "Every day I have to find the courage to walk out into the street, with arms out, got a love you can't defeat. Neither down nor out..." I've been listening to this every day on the way to work and it stops me in my tracks, almost literally -- I get into my usual morning mood, cursing at every slow driver, every jerk who cuts me off, hardly recognizing my own scowl in the rear view mirror, and then this song starts and I'm singing, "The songs are in our eyes, gonna wear them like a crown. Walk out into the sunburst street. Sing your heart out, sing my heart out - I've found grace inside a sound, I've found grace, that's all I've found." And immediately, I take that deep breath that I need and think, "I'm this angry, this worked up over somebody's driving? Over someone's trivial lack of common courtesy? I'm in a knot over my own carelessness with money, or my ego's need to be propped up over my singing?" or whatever. I can breathe now. There's nothing you have that I need and I need to stop being so self-absorbed.

Isn't that old picture of the boys a hoot? My co-worker Heather and I kid each other about liking U2, she always says I can "have" Bono now because she doesn't think he's aged as well as Edge. ;) And how about Adam's blond fro? WOWSERS. I've always vacillated between Bono, for all the obvious reasons, and Larry, because, well, he's a cute blond guy. (And the crabbiest rock star ever!) I'll leave the photo up here unless the BBC sends me a cease and desist letter.

I'm not going to review the new album, per se, I'm really not any good at describing music to people, I can only write about how I relate to it. For fun, I'll rank the songs based on my own reactions - your mileage will most certainly vary.

1) Breathe - see above.
2) No Line on the Horizon - version 2 and version 1. I prefer the vocal performance on version 1, just by a hair, and the remixed music and background vocals on version 2. Love everyone yelling "NO! LINE!" on that second version.
3) Magnificent - see above.
4) Unknown Caller - I have to think Eno had a LOT to do with this one. I don't like to get too personal here on the bloggy-o, but I had a moment last week when I swear the slightly inhuman chorus of this song was speaking directly to me. I'd kind of bottomed out and then, I just remembered those voices: "Go! Shout it out! Rise up! Hear me, cease to speak, that I may speak!"
5) Cedars of Lebanon - Bono, transformed into a journalist toiling in the war-torn Middle East. When I read the reviews, I thought, "Ugh, sounds cheesy." It's really quite powerful - gives you the images without forcing you into feeling anything. Bono uses the same, deep, smoky voice he used so well on Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" a few years ago, a half-singing, half-speaking tone.
6) Stand Up Comedy - some critics are calling this a poor attempt at funk. I kinda like it. Not their best moment lyrically, but it makes me want to move, and how many of the world's most popular rock bands can get away with the line "God is love" smack in the middle of a funk song?
7) Get On Your Boots - I don't care if it's derivative of a few other U2 songs, I'm still liking it.
8) Moment of Surrender - If the chorus didn't remind me a little too much of "Stuck In a Moment" from a few albums ago, I'd be all over this one, too. I'm really enjoying some of Bono's vocal risks on this album, Eno and Lanois must have really coaxed him out of a comfort zone, his range is all over the place, and on this song in particular he's got almost a Gospel shout going on at times, great stuff.
9) I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight - You have to love a song with lines like, "Every beauty needs to go out with an idiot." Probably as close to a party song as you'll ever get from U2.
10) Fez: Being Born - There's apparently a storyline threading through this album, if one reads the liner note interviews and watches the accompanying Anton Corbijn film. Sometimes, I think it's better to just let the songs speak for themselves. The critics have really raved about this part of the album, but I haven't warmed up to it yet. Same with...
11) White As Snow - these last two aren't terrible by any means, they just don't connect with me, I guess. I didn't really care for the film that comes with the deluxe album, and these two are a big piece of the film, which may explain the problem! I guess, by my definition, these aren't really songs, they are musical pieces, telling a story, but a story I don't relate to very well.

"You used to stay up to watch the adverts..."

2009-03-06T22:33:00.005-06:00

"You could lip-sync to the talk shows."

U2's "Stay (Faraway So Close)," a song that always, immediately, transports me to Oxford Street, London, and the dingy 7-11 where I could, indeed, check my change.

There are plenty of things about me that make people suspicious, uncomfortable, crabby, but the one simple fact that disturbs people the most is that I don't have a television. That's actually an exaggeration - I have a television but it doesn't work, unless I want to watch an old VHS tape. I refuse to pay for cable but this little TV I have, maybe an 8" monitor?, it won't even pick up network shows. I have lived this way for 10 years, come May. It infuriates, exasperates and intimidates people, even total strangers. Reactions range from incredulous: "You HAVE to have a TV," to pitiful: "I have an extra TV at home that you can have," to defensive: "Well, I LOVE television, it's what keeps me tuned into culture and news," because I, of course, am completely out of touch...

Am I an elitist, to use that dirty word the Republicans hate so much, because I don't have a working TV? Maybe. Case in point: last Sunday, my father was still in the hospital, so I went to visit him and he had the TV on, as he pretty much always has for the last 40 years. Ahem. We were trying to eat our dinner and he insisted that "America's Funniest Home Videos" was the only decent thing worth watching at that hour, despite his non-stop complaining about the terrible content. The winning video that night, with a grand prize of $100,000, featured a chihuahua that walked on its front paws. Cute, right? Except that la petite chien had a full bladder, so it also peed all over the place while walking on its paws. The audience roared, guffawed, clutched at its collective stomach with laughter.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present that scenario to you merely to say: and we wonder why we can't manage our finances and corporations any more? Anybody out there got any working brain cells left? So, if hating that kind of "entertainment" makes me an anti-American, liberal, commie elitist, then sir, I am guilty as charged.

Do I miss having a television? Occasionally. I would have liked to have seen and heard Springsteen's appearance on this year's Super Bowl, to see if it lived up to the hype and my friends' mostly glowing reviews, and perhaps to see if I could catch any lip-syncing. Does anyone GET the Super Bowl music producer's comment that he has to use pre-recorded music for most of the performances because "it's the Super Bowl and it has to be perfect." HUH? The glory, the excitement, the LIVeliness of live performance depends on it being LIVE, not on it being perfect. Talk about clueless. It's like saying, "We brought in only the best NFL players from across the country to play on these two teams, letting their lesser players sit on the bench, because this is the Super Bowl and only the best is acceptable." When did being human become less than acceptable?

I miss a television when the Grammys are on, or any kind of one-off musical show. I particularly missed having a TV this week, when me bize, U2, hung out with David Letterman all week. But, with the special magic that is the Internet, I've been able to "watch" anyway, and whenever I feel like it, at the Letterman Web site. What can I say? I have been glued to the computer, watching U2 shovel, play "Guantanamera" for unsuspecting callers to the Letterman office, and generally charm the socks off of the audience. (Watch their Top Ten list, if nothing else. It's friggin' adorable!) My every encounter with U2 makes me love them more. A completely adolescent response, I know, but it is what it is. They are my Fab Four. As a very young child, I was obsessed with The Beatles, they were my imaginary playmates when my siblings left for school in the morning. But then I found out they had already broken up, years before, and all you ever heard about were the angry words, thrust at each other through separate interviews, and the drugs, arrests, marital strife, and the sometimes not so intriguing solo albums (some were quite wonderful, can't deny that). The songs lived on, and I will always love them, but that intangible magic didn't stick with me.

I've loved a lot of bands since that time, but there's always a let-down. A period of terrible, embarrassing music (Cheap Trick). More personnel changes than the Cubs (Squeeze, Del Amitri). A complete break-up (Squeeze, Del Amitri, Utopia). Plagues of frogs and blood (Def Leppard). My affair with U2 began the way all great loves do, as almost nothing at all. They were my brother's music first. He brought home the first two albums, I liked "I Will Follow," "Gloria," but just didn't connect with the band at first. They were being produced to sound like a lot of English "new wave" bands at the time, I didn't hear anything distinctive. Plus what was with the made-up names? Then "War" came out, and I had the trial by fire of being packed in the sardine can that is The Metro in Chicago, waiting for The Ramones to take the stage, when the DJ decided to play "New Year's Day" and "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and the crowd just erupted. I am claustrophobic, don't much like crowds, and this was intense, the sense of being moved, utterly unable to not move, by music and bodies and feet and hands, hundreds of people surging like a wave. Never forgot that, the power of a song to do that to people, to strangers.

And then, they just started creeping into my life, song by song, word by word. Persistent, even nagging suitors they were, using everything from Irish fiddles to Christian imagery to Billie Holiday to belly dancers to win me over, and dammit, it worked. It seems like millions of people don't like U2, particularly that flabby, overrated sector of society known as "music critics," and it's impossible for me to imagine at this stage of my life. It's like I don't just adore them, I want to be them. I admire the simple fact that it's still the same four guys, after all these years. They didn't decide to dump the bass player when his drug problem overwhelmed him. Edge didn't need to scrap the rest of the band for a stab at a solo career. They do all kinds of separate things, but in the end always go back to the place where we need and want them. Can you imagine if the Beatles had continued to work together for 30 years? Zeppelin and The Who, without self-destructing drummers, hearing loss and mind-ravaging drugs? Yes, a version of The Rolling Stones has been kicking around for a long, long time - when was the last time you cared about a new Rolling Stones song?

I haven't listened to U2's new album yet, and I'm hesitant, expectations too high, but I already love the two songs I have heard, "Put On Your Boots" (even if it sounds like a cross between "Vertigo" and "City of Blinding Lights") and "Magnificent." I read the reviews but I don't know why I bother. You're either in the romance or you're not. It's like when you're in love and a friend or family member says something disparaging about your lover - it may even be true but you don't want to hear it. (I am not suggesting I think of U2 as a "lover," it just makes a good metaphor) The Daily Herald critic, for example, takes issue with Bono's lyrics about "God, love, faith," as if, in 2009, there's anything else worth writing about. Yes, please guys, write some mindless party songs, or some rap tunes about your bling and hangin' wich ya shorty. God knows we need more of that. Bono's got to be close to 50 by now, so what subjects should he be tackling? Or perhaps it's the mere idea of "subjects" that's too old school for our music critic. Write songs about nothing, songs as disposable as a video of a peeing acrobatic dog.

Okay, this is too long! I want to edit it and get it right, but I've been struggling with a migraine since Thursday morning and it's coming back. Time for a Maxalt and a good night's sleep. I will come back over the weekend and finish up with a part two about U2, and why I think they're the best thing going.

"Be A Clown! Be A Clown..."

2009-02-28T11:36:00.006-06:00

On Thursday, I spoke for a few hours to a lovely group of local librarians who are members of the Reference Librarians Association (actually, I think the program was open to anyone, but sponsored by the RLA's CE committee). The program took place at the North Suburban Library System's headquarters in Wheeling, IL, and truly, it was an honor to speak in an auditorium in which I've attended many a program and meeting myself over the years. I'm just getting into this newish gig of taking my act on the road and speaking to library groups (this was my fourth try) and each time I learn a few things and, I hope, improve just a bit.

The RLA posted a really kind blog post about my presentation, including a snippet of video in which you can hear me goofing around while adding special effects to some video footage, using Apple's iMovie. (Hence today's "Be a clown!" subject line - I'm always freaked out when I hear my voice on recordings anyway, but hearing myself be so completely silly...on the other hand, what else would I be?) I had asked the group for volunteers, and we shot footage of them introducing themselves, and then I used that footage to demonstrate some basic editing techniques. In the photo above (thanks to Richard Kong for photos and video), I am helping our volunteer camerawoman get started while our willing performer waits for her cue. In a perfect world, we'd have had a small group in which everyone could have some hands-on time. Hmm...somebody needs to write a grant so we can get a bunch of laptops and cameras and create a mobile workshop!

Thanks so much to RLA, to my colleage, Christina Tropea for inviting me, to H.W. Wilson for their generous sponsorship, and particularly to the warm, friendly group that attended on Thursday. I even got to reconnect with a Dominican classmate, Steph, who is now working in Barrington, and also met a lot of people whose names I knew but had never met personally. The people at NSLS are also super-helpful and friendly, it's always nice to see Judy and Anna and the gang again.

But now I have to get busy to being a singer again. Gig in Alsip tonight at the mysteriously named "Chateau Bu-sche." I need to be there by 5:30 for soundcheck, then Synod plays from 9-midnight.

Here's the RLA's blog post: RLA CE
Here is the wiki I created for the workshop, Putting the You in YouTube.

"My baby wears big ol' diamond rings..."

2009-02-27T22:27:00.004-06:00

"My baby says she need them things.
Takes a lot to rock you, baby.
Takes a lot to make you smile.
Takes a lot to rock you, baby,
you make me crawl the extra mile."

Dwight Yoakam. Really fine country singer, songwriter and now, apparently - frozen food entrepreneur.

Seems like lately I keep posting about Friday nights at various types of retail establishments. I generally don't have time to run errands during the work week, so particularly on a payday Friday, it is likely you'll find me shopping for something, somewhere. My dad has been in the hospital since Monday, so tonight was my first opportunity to visit him. Mom and I ate some hospital mac and cheese (not bad), we all watched "Wheel of Fortune" and "Chicago Tonight" together, watched a little bit of the David Foster "Hit Man" PBS special and then - I needed to get to Walgreen's. I'm not exaggerating the need, as one of my allergy meds was waiting for me and I was really starting to miss it these last few days, feeling kinda stuffed up and drippy. Gross.

So, Walgreen's. You probably either love drug stores or you hate them. I've been haunting the places forever. When I was a kid, a kind of "fancy" drug store opened up in Berkeley, IL, just a short bike ride from my house in Hillside. It was called Caron Drugs, (or something close to that) so even the name seemed to be luring me to spend, being both "caring" and so close to my own name. It was a proper drug store, with large testers of "fancy" colognes (ah, that first bottle of "Wind Song." I also remember buying my mom some Yardley English lavender soap, thinking that was elegant and ladylike, and her saying, "Oh, yuck, I hate lavender." To this day, I don't think I have ever purchased a gift for my Mother that she has really liked.), an awesome selection of rock magazines and candy, endless displays of Pine Bros "cough drops," (my favorite "candy," actually) and then just aisle after aisle of weird stuff.

Walgreen's does not have quite the same vibe. Caron Drugs had carpeting, and softer lighting, and gift-type items, too, sort of like the old card and gift shops - figurines, tchotchkes, scented stationery sets, porcelain replicas of the Bible with a thermometer attached...For whatever reason, I had an endless fascination with stuff like that, kind of still do. And Walgreen's will have to do if that's all you've got on a frosty Friday night and the man in the white coat is holding your Flonase hostage behind the counter. (The last of those elegant, local drug stores I have seen is up in Lake Geneva, WI - anyone know if it's still there?)

I swear to God I'm going to get to Walgreen's. First thing - Walgreen's plays the most awesome, ridiculous, weirdsmobile piped-in music. Tonight, in order:

"All About Soul" by Billy Joel, one of those songs I cannot keep myself from singing with even while I'm browsing the L'Oreal at the drug store;

"Toulouse Street" by The Doobie Brothers - I didn't even know this was the Doobies, it sounds so much like Crosby, Stills and Nash, although I also knew it wasn't them;

"Godzilla" by Black Sabbath - needs no introduction;

"Stray Cat Strut" by the Stray Cats - last Christmas, at the dinner table, I thought of this song, because I used to make up words to it about one of my high school teachers, and the memory made me laugh until I wept.

Right at the moment when my ears couldn't believe I was hearing "Godzilla" (even a store clerk was cracking up), I was also snagging an armful of my new favorite "alternative to Pepsi" drink. Only Walgreen's sells it, and it is saddled with the unappealing name of PureAmerican Zero Calorie Acai-Blueberry-Pomegranate-x³.
I don't want to know how many unnatural chemicals go into every serving of PA Z C A-B-P-x³. Without it, my urge to chug several 24 ounce bottles of Pepsi Max comes screaming back, so I buy it by the bagful when I can. Then, my eyes were tempted by the frozen foods display - anything here that would prevent me from making a trip to the grocery store on Sunday, when I'll be dead tired from a gig?

Ohhhhhh, you know how tempted I was by the Bakersfield Biscuits Dwight Yoakam's Chicken Lickin' family of products. So tempted, I convinced myself that taking a digital photo of said products would not generate an announcement of "CODE RED - FROZEN FOOD AISLE" at Walgreen's, and most likely no one would pay attention to me. "Just Heat 'Em and Eat 'Em." I love this as much as I love the nights when I'm in Jewel, and a canned jingle starts playing over the PA system and I realize it's not the bland-voiced Jewel lady - no, it's Smoky Robinson, spreading the word for his line of soul food entrees and sides. Fabulous. If I'm going to eat unhealthy prepared foods, I like knowing Dwight Yoakam and Smoky had a hand in making them. I fear the day Bono comes out with food line, "Bono's Biscuits" - all hell would break loose and I'd gain 40-50 pounds overnight. Especially because they'd be soaked in booze. Don't believe me? Go to any Web site selling Irish gift items. Look at the food items available - chocolates, beverages, cakes, jams. Every last bit of it is drowning in Irish whiskey.

I really do love Dwight Yoakam. And I kinda love wandering around Walgreen's late at night. I didn't buy any Chicken Fries, but maybe next time, I'll pick some up, heat 'em and eat 'em, while chugging on a zero calorie chemical drink. It does, indeed, take a lot to rock me, baby.

A cautionary tale for Ash Wednesday - told in photos

2009-02-25T12:07:00.002-06:00

Photo 1:

Photo 2:

Draw your own conclusions.
My conclusion is this:
plastic babies don't belong in delicious cakes.

Get your ashes today, you heathen.

"Is it any wonder I'm tired?"

2009-02-24T17:53:00.006-06:00

This week's calendar is bringing stress, great, big, heaping gobs of it. Really, it started on Friday, when these two strangers who used to be my parents began a twisted conversation with me about Medicare and hospital bills and failed investment schemes and insurance letters and my sister's place of residence and by the breathless end of it all, the best I could muster was, "Look - we can only put out one fire at a time." If you haven't experienced it already, let me warn you: it is a living hell watching your parents age, for so many reasons. You're so frustrated for them, seeing their energy wane, realizing how the simple business of life now confounds them at every turn. As you'll found out in just a few paragraphs, my dad's health is an ongoing problem and it's draining the life out of my once vivacious and light-hearted mother. And our society does nothing for the aging, it only wants to deal with them if they're that new kind of Baby Boomer senior citizen, wearing their comfy Rockports while strolling the aisles at Trader Joe's, cheery and entirely self-supporting and healthy. Yes, PLEASE give those people some "economic stimulus" while you ignore my suffering parents and disabled sister.

Saturday brought more typical annoyances. Just enough snow in the driveway and street to make it impossible for me to pull the car out, but of course, the guy we pay to snow plow showed up at 2 PM - on Sunday! Talk about NO HELP WHATSOEVER, I'd already shoveled. I hate shoveling or doing any kind of physical labor before singing, but sometimes there's no other solution. I sang at church that night, so at least it was just an hour, but I was definitely not at my best.

On both Saturday and Sunday, I also had hours of work-work to do at home. I needed to make up some time, but I've also been preparing a talk I'm giving this Thursday at the North Suburban Library System. So I spent hours huddled over my Macbook, to the point where every bone and muscle ached. Monday was a busy day at the library, including an evening class, "Intermediate Internet." When I first started at DPPL, I immediately said I wanted to teach, that's what I'd been doing at the community college and I feel like I'm pretty good at it. Steven, the librarian in charge of the classes, cautioned me, "Um, it's not quite the SAME here as it is at a college." (He also came from an academic background) And he was right. It's not even the same as the classes I taught for senior citizens and Internet beginners at the college. Many people sign up for the DPPL computer classes, and their reasons are varied. Many seem to be looking for a social outlet, they want to meet people or they want to be heard, or they just want to keep busy. Many speak only minimal English. Many do not know how to type or use a mouse (and yes, those folks often sign up for "Intermediate Internet," when they really need "Basic Computer Skills," another course we offer). The classes are free and they can sign up for as many as they want, so even though I've only taught a handful of them, I always recognize people! You never know what will happen. One time a man older than my father continually interrupted me with personal anecdotes about his successful career and his disastrous marriages, ending the evening by leering just a little too closely while whispering, "I'll be dreaming about you..." DEAR LORD. Another time a young, slightly developmentally disabled man (with autism, perhaps?) kept clicking on online videos and banner ads that made all kinds of noise, and he would cackle in delight, throwing the class of the rails repeatedly. Last night, things got off to a very poor start when an elderly couple arrived late - they'd gone all the way to the Mount Prospect Public Library instead of ours, and were apologetic upon arrival. I tried to get them settled but they chatted with each other a bit, the gentleman seemed to be hard of hearing. Suddenly, a man seated next to them just blared out, "WOULD YOU TWO SHUT UP???" Jeez, that made me uncomfortable!

Not as uncomfortable as my early morning email check this morning - should I be embarrassed that turning on my phone and checking my email is the first thing I do every day? There it was - an email from Mom, with the subject heading "Dad." Knowing Dad had a blood test yesterday, I knew this was not good news. Dad's back in the hospital, needing blood transfusions and additional attention. As much as he hates the hospital, it's probably the best place for him right now, because nothing we're suggesting at home is helping, and this way it gets through to the doctors that, YES, his health problems are serious and ongoing. They're always so quick to send you home, send a bill, take a pill, we'll check back with you in 6 weeks.

Today I had to "teach" a different kind of program, what we call a "drop in" session for the Internet. We used to have those at the college and no one, I mean NO ONE, ever showed up. Here, I had people waiting outside the door. It was calmer and quieter, though, and people legitimately needed help which I was able to give, and there's something very satisfying about that. That was this afternoon, tonight I'm off to St. Anne's for our usual choir practice and our usual overindulgence in carbohydrates, this time courtesy of a "Mardi Gras" celebration.

If it's Mardi Gras today, that means it's Ash Wednesday tomorrow, which means a full day at work, then singing for Mass in the evening. I'll get home around 8:45 PM, then will make my frantic last minute preparations for Thursday's workshop out in Wheeling. I'm bringing 4 different cameras with me, plus my laptop, plus some accessories, so I really need to pack wisely. The workshop is called "Putting the You in 'YouTube,'" and it's being offered by the Reference Library Association Continuing Education group, sponsored by H.W. Wilson. When my colleague, Christina Tropea, invited me to give the talk, I thought, "Who's going to sign up for ME?" and envisioned a small group, maybe 8-10 people, in a casual, hands-on environment. Well, we have almost 50 signed up and since it's a free program, there's a possibility more will show up, so needless to say I feel a bit of pressure to deliver something worthwhile. Librarians are not an easy audience, because they're smart people, well-educated people - you better know your stuff and quote your sources and be on top of your game.

I'd like to think I can relax after that and bask in the glow of a job well-done - except that, on the same afternoon, I have yet another rehearsal for our Library's musical performance of songs from The Wizard of Oz, then band rehearsal that night, and I have a gig this Saturday night. A 3 hour wedding way down south in Alsip, IL. Haven't had a gig since December and haven't had a gig with Synod since JULY. Could be interesting! But I also dread that Sunday morning fatigue when I've got to get up for church. On the other hand, I couldn't call this the Everyday Adventures of the Singing Librarian if I wasn't doing all this...

Is it any wonder I'm tired?

"Is It Any Wonder?" is by the band Keane. I have likened the song to Freddie Mercury singing with U2, and I stand by that description.

Jesus, Take the Wheel...

2009-02-19T19:13:00.005-06:00

"...Take it from my hands,
'Cause I can't do this on my own.
I'm letting go, so give me one more chance,
to save me from this road I'm on.
Jesus, take the wheel."

When "American Idol" cutie-pie Carrie Underwood released "Jesus Take the Wheel" as her first single a few years ago, I was like, "Uh, yeah, sure." It was just the title that threw me - it sounded ridiculous at best, "Gaither Family Reunion" at worst.

When I actually got around to listening to the song (always a good idea before passing judgment), it was much better than I expected. Doesn't hurt that the preposterously lovely Ms. Underwood has a big ol' set of expressive pipes (I used to tell people that, in my dream world, I would look like Kate Hudson, but I think she's been upstaged by Carrie). (I'm trying to use as many parenthetical comments in this post as possible.) (Kidding!) Even the sentiment of the song was more tender and genuine that I expected from the oddball title, which had that "Jesus Is My Co-Pilot" 70s vibe going on. And I understand all too well the metaphorical quality of the wheel and the road the singer is on - it's not really about Jesus saving the girl from a car wreck.

Or is it? Last night, I was elated to discover I could actually leave the office at a reasonable hour - just in time for the icy snow to start. So, my 40 minute commute became an hour plus of steering-wheel-gripping angst. My neck and shoulder had been killing me all day, and there's nothing like slipping and sliding through backed up expressway traffic to amplify pain. Felt good to hit the highway exit at 59, like I was home free, sped through the I-Pass lane, and then...

JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL. PLEASE. The light at 59 was red, as it always, always, always is, so I hit the brakes. My Ford Focus had other plans and just kept right on going, at a jaunty angle, I might add. Brake. Skid. Brake. Skid. Brake, that weedy ditch at the edge of this ramp is moving closer, as is the traffic speeding north on 59, UM HELP.

And then here's the spooky part - of course, I'm doing all of this, braking, skidding, sweating, trembling and...fumbling with my iPod at the same time. I am that multi-tasking driver you hate and cuss out every day. I had found the right song as I I-Passed, I just need to hit...PLAY. BRAKE. SKID. PLAY. And the car stopped - right as LeAnn Rimes, another country girl with an astounding voice, belted out, "ARE YOU READY FOR A MIRACLE?"

Still shaking, and yet I laughed out loud and responded along with the choir: "Ready as I can be!"

Do I believe Jesus takes the wheel on a snowy night when you're panicked and your car's poor tires aren't doing the trick? I don't know. I've had enough car wrecks to think "No." Do I think that song is about a potential car accident? No, I think it's the wreck we make of our lives, it's the metaphorical road we shouldn't have gone down, it's the wheel that can get us out of the mess or keep us firmly entrenched in misery. "Torn by what we've done and can't undo," to quote another song about mess and hope and desire. ("Song of Bernadette," a collaboration, I believe, between Leonard Cohen and Jennifer Warnes. Can you imagine being lucky enough to have Leonard Cohen say he'd like your contribution to a song he was writing? I mean, it may have even been the other way around - but still.) God knows I can use some steering and braking help on that road, and I've sung enough songs about it.

Nevertheless, I was grateful for the moment when the car stopped, the world stood still, my heartbeat could slow down and LeAnn and her gospel chorus could put a smile back on my face for a few minutes. What's wrong with being literal once in awhile? If Jesus really took the wheel, my drive to work would be a lot more pleasant every day, that's for sure. :)

"Are You Ready For A Miracle?" is a marvelous gospel song I know only from movie soundtracks -- it was used in both "Leap of Faith" with Steve Martin, and the LeAnn Rimes version was in "Evan Almighty." No, I never saw either film. Just like the song. "Leap of Faith" also had Don Henley's really cool version of "Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat." Yes, the song from "Guys and Dolls." I may write a little later about gospel songs, as I have recently rekindled my romance with the best gospel album I've ever heard.

Isn't that Sacred Heart picture over the top?
It looks like He's wearing a very cool, vaguely Goth t-shirt, like, He's buying his threads same place Joe Elliot from Def Leppard shops. (see photo)

"Every breath you take...

2009-02-14T12:43:00.007-06:00

I'll be watching you."

I have written often and effusively about my admiration for Sting, as singer, songwriter, musician, and, let's be honest, astonishingly good-looking fellow. Ahem. I may be a librarian but I have eyes. People assume that because I like Sting, I was also a big fan of The Police. Kinda. I loved "Roxanne" and a few of the earlier songs, grew less interested in them when they really plunged into the white man's reggae/Caribbean sound, and then rekindled my relationship when they began to vary their sound a bit on albums like "Ghost in the Machine" and "Synchronicity."

You can also tell I don't listen to songs, think of songs, the way normal people do. Once a song gets woven into the pattern of my life, it's pretty much impossible for me to listen to it objectively, if there's any personal association I can make. That's a big "if," mind you. I do not hear, say, "Lonesome Loser," by the Little River Band, and think of anything more personal than summer vacations in the Wisconsin Dells and my beloved Cubs. But a song like "Every Breath You Take," on the other hand, comes wrapped in a thick layer of memories and associations. An enormous hit, which earns Sting, its composer, something in the area of $16,000 a minute, I've been told, it entered into the public arena the summer before I graduated from high school. Despite the darkness of the song's lyric, I listen to it and hear summer heat, late-night parties, motorcycles and cars and breezes through an open window. I recall a time when I could talk on the phone for hours (what happened to THAT person?), when I didn't have a job, when life seemed very much like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates and I was determined to eat every last one of them. Well, except for those ones with the coffee filling. And the dark chocolates, you can have those, okay?

So, last night, I make a quick run to the Jewel. Friday nights at the grocery store are never pleasant. Bored teenagers with nowhere else to go, generally gawking at the condom displays and egging each other on to buy beer or cigarettes. Large Mexican families who seem to be spending the entire evening there, the kids playing in those plastic cars the stores have now, mom dressed up like it's date night, dad often checking out the condom display after the teenagers have left. Why not? Mom's looking good tonight. I was in the Valentine's candy aisle, unable to decide between the Butterfinger hearts or the solid chocolate ones (I ended up buying both, of course!), when here came the other type you see in the grocery store on a Friday night: the vaguely spooky person. This one was female, about 4' 8" tall, all zippered up into a parka, grinning and muttering to herself. I used to be wary of people like that, lately I've developed a bizarre fascination, so I kept an eye on her. Really, it was easy to do, as she kept walking in front of all the rest of us as we pondered the difficult choices candy forces us to make. Then, she spotted it - the gentleman you see above, the "Animated Flirting Frog," to quote the package. Immediately enamored of him, she picked him up and began squeezing him quite violently. Oh dear.

The Animated Flirting Frog sings "Every Breath You Take," the vocal work done by someone capable of quite a keen Sting impersonation, Geordie accent and all. The frog gyrates and bats his eyes while the music plays, you don't know how I longed for a phone with a videocamera. And Parka Gal was delighted, she cackled and watched his frantic performance all the way through. I got out the camera as soon as she was gone. Mere seconds later I ran into Glenn Rutz, the former drummer for Synod. Glenn probably thinks I'm nuts anyway, but I am relieved he didn't find me snapping a picture of a frog doll in the Jewel on a Friday night.

I don't know how I feel about this or even why I'm telling you. Part of me thinks it's just not right to mess with a great song. Part of me thinks Sting doesn't need the $16,000 a minute he's getting from that frog - but, he wrote it, he can do what he wants. Part of me wants to buy the singing frog when he's 50% off tomorrow morning, but gosh, there was only one left - leading me to acknowledge that X number of shoppers bought the Animated Singing Frog and this morning, tonight, perhaps along with an engagement ring or a bouquet of roses, someone will be receiving this musical, British amphibian. "How my poor heart aches, with every step you take."

I think I'll just say "Happy Valentine's Day" and let you draw the conclusions. I had planned to do another Top Ten, perhaps love songs, to acknowledge the occasion, but, I'm at work, where we are feasting on chocolate-covered delights and blasting love songs in the Readers' Services department. To spend a day at work laughing with friends with U2, Sting, Joni Mitchell and James Taylor playing in the background is not a bad thing. Love to you, however you like it.

"God bless this happy home...

2009-02-13T06:37:00.000-06:00

God bless the hugs and kisses.
Keep us all safe and warm,
keep us in ignorant bliss."

Started this post on 2/11/09, finishing up on 2/12/09.

After 4 days of a giddy preview of Spring weather, woke up this morning to dark skies and the quite soothing sound of falling rain. I'll take it, it doesn't need to be shoveled, for one thing. My dreams last night were beyond bizarre and I blame that on the Simply Sleeps, which I took to compensate for a lack of Zyrtec. Dreams: I signed up to take some classes in order to receive the sacrament of Confirmation. The woman running the classes checked some paperwork and said, "Seems like you already did this. 7th grade?" I said "Yes" and she set me free, and I found myself in a busy mall, with a group of teenagers. Then suddenly, we were all led into a rocket and fired into space, I kid you not. It got weirder, too much to share here. Let's just say waking up to the rain on my own roof was something of a relief.

After the usual morning schtuff, the bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, the tremendous effort to make something of my hair, I was in the Songbird-mobile and on the road. iPod at the ready, I went back to that Nik Kershaw album I liked so much at the end of last year and here was the song "God Bless." The first stanza, quoted above, got me thinking about Americans and how much we like our comfort, our security, how petulant we've become with all this financial chaos spoiling the retail frenzy in which we've lived. I thought about how tired I am of "serious" newspaper articles whining about the lack of customers for $750 designer shoes and million dollar mansions. I'm a lot more concerned about the homeless, the severely unemployed, the children who aren't getting enough to eat, people driven to desperate acts in order to simply survive.

I barely form those thoughts in my head when - in the teeming rain - here's a homeless man, at the bottom of the ramp that leads from the Northwest Tollway to Arlington Heights Road. Hard to read the sign, if I remember correctly: "Homeless veteran, stranded. Need money for bus ticket to Madison, WI." He's a chubby fellow in baggy fatigue pants, a warm jacket, a sizable suitcase. He's also soaked. (An aside - he was still there on Wednesday morning. There are often homeless people at this location, but this was the first time I saw someone there two days in a row. I envisioned him spending the night in Busse Woods and shivered a little.)

"Heaven help old Joseph Bloggs in his cardboard box,
Reaching out his hand for a piece of me.
Heaven give his dog a bone,
leave my conscience well alone,
Then make them jump about as happy as can be,
but the Devil take the rest of them, the Devil take the rest of them."

I thought about all the stuff I hear about the homeless: "Don't give them money, they'll just use it for alcohol or drugs. Buy them a sandwich and bring it to them. There are public programs in place to help them, so they don't need a handout." I, of course, don't agree with anything of those things (unless the person specifically wants a sandwich) - however, I was having a mini-financial crisis of my own for the last 10 days, due to some very poor record-keeping. I had $2.50 in change in my wallet, almost embarrassing. I considered giving it to him anyway, when, for the first time since I've made this commute to work, both cars in front of me offered the homeless man something instead. One of those moments when the light changes and, one could say, the light has utterly changed - if you get what I'm saying.

The news is full of job loss, dropping stocks, nervous consumers and the latest catchphrase of the new millennium: "economic stimulus." It sounds like caffeine for your checkbook. I have no idea how I feel about any of it, because I don't trust the media to present it fairly, I don't trust the politicians who are supposedly hammering this thing out for the common good, and I don't trust the common to know what's good for them. Like, I'll be honest: yes, I'd love a bigger tax refund this year, mine is messed up because I juggled around some retirement savings to help pay off my home equity loan which helped pay off my education loan. Got all that? But, I'm also very well paid, at my reasonably secure job, with full benefits, a roof over my head, an inexpensive car in the garage, some manageable credit card debt. There's no reason for me to be given a break in my taxes, and even less reason for Rush Limbaugh to catch a break. Sorry - not a popular thing to say, but I feel like I'm being truthful. Give the break to my parents, whose retirement fund has evaporated and whose jobs have been slashed; give it to my sister, to supplement her meager SSI checks; give it to my choir friend Judy who just lost her banking job AGAIN, with kids in college; for God's sake, provide some help for the homeless vet in need of a bus ticket. All I'm gonna do with that money is buy another pair of shoes or go off the rails at the Grand Victoria for the umpteenth time.

"God bless the beautiful,
God bless the loved and lauded.
Save them from what they do,
Save those who can afford it.
God bless the stock exchange,
God bless the corporations
Give us our daily bread.
Forgive us poor relations.

Heaven help the little man,
getting by the best he can
Say's that it's no life but it's a living.
Heaven help the down at heel,
I wonder how they feel.
Does anybody know?
I simply can't imagine."

The economic situation is certainly challenging professional musicians - now there's a group that could use some stimulus, Mr. Obama! Tonight I'll be rehearsing with Synod. We have the fullest dance card we've had in years, and I'm sure that's due to our going rate, which is about 1/3 of what Touch makes. Yep, same number of musicians, same amount of work - 1/3 the paycheck. In fact, we recently signed on for my pastor's farewell party in June, for a paycheck of zero dollars. We don't care, we play because we love it, it's not our "day gig." But I feel for my friends who love music just as much, maybe more, and thereby chose to make it their profession. Collections are down at church, but thus far we've been able to keep supporting some of the tremendous musicians who play there. If I didn't get to hear Nick Bisesi play sax once in awhile, particularly while I'm singing along, I'd be seriously bummed and definitely less inspired. I wonder about some of my other musical acquaintances, the guys I don't see that often - are they surviving? Can they get a decent meal once in awhile, and keep the heat on in their apartments, if the gigs have vanished? And yet, what's a world, a life, without music? To me, nothing at all. So if you get a tax break, hire a band, would ya? :)

"Heaven help the human race,
put a smile upon it's face,
With its sad and sorry eyes
upon my television.
Heaven help with all its might so I can sleep at night,
So I can enjoy what I've been given.
But the Devil take the rest of them..."

I don't know a thing about Nik Kershaw's personal or political beliefs (although he has a funny Web site), but I do feel certain
that the lyrics of "God Bless" are not meant to be encouraging, "Yes, it's okay to love your football team and curse the rest of the world."
I think he makes a valid point that comfort and security lead to blindness and ignorance - let me enjoy what I've been given, take this
mess and anguish out of my sight. I get paid tomorrow so if the homeless vet is still there, I'll have something for him the next time.
It's not enough anymore to sleep at night and enjoy, not enough to hope that "Heaven" helps. I have to do the helping.

Can't Buy Me Love

2009-02-12T17:53:00.002-06:00

I almost always write about music and don't give the librarian side of the house enough attention. Here, two birds with one stone. I often make promotional videos for the Library, which end up on our Web site, YouTube channel, etc. I'm even teaching a workshop for library people about video and YouTube in just a few weeks. Here was today's project, featuring one of the best songs ever by one of the best bands ever. My coworkers are such good sports - they put up with my outlandish directions and have nicknamed me "Kitten Karentino." Enjoy.

Sometimes, even music cannot substitute for tears...

2009-02-09T16:02:00.004-06:00

I knew I hit "Publish" too quickly on that last post, the one about songs that always make me cry? On a recent, lengthy car trip, I heard several by another singer-songwriter who is definitely in the "Crying Songs Hall of Fame," Illinois' own Dan Fogelberg, may he rest in peace. Dan could get you coming or going - the sadness of passionate love gone sour (See the entire album "Exiles"), the sadness of too much time having passed ("Another Old Lang Syne"), the sadness of losing elderly family members ("Leader of the Band"). Just thinking about some of those songs can get me weepy. You wonder how some people get a gift for hitting a nerve on that way, through words and music. I'm grateful to "BR" who wrote in and mentioned "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" - Billy Joel is such a fine writer and singer and his songs often push me over that emotional brink, too. "This Is The Time" comes to mind, "Until The Night," and yes, the Italian restaurant song. (I think I know you, BR, and if you are who I think you are, thanks for writing and I hope you are doing well, too - and if you are who I think you are, I'm sorry for anything rotten I did as a younger me.)

Getting back to the crying+songs theme, however - words and music can also leave you stone cold. For two days last week, I was iPod-free due to a mix-up with my charger. Is there any fresher hell than being stuck with modern radio? What a ghastly concoction. "Radio Ga-ga," (or, "radio ca-ca" to quote the original source, Roger Taylor's kid), indeed. I listened to the radio for about an hour and a half on Friday, and the number of songs I enjoyed was minimal, a mere fraction of that time. Someone please find the person who decided that varied melodies in pop songs were trite, and well, punish them appropriately. (Mr. Burns: "Smithers, have the Rolling Stones killed." Smithers: "But sir, those aren't..." Burns: "Do as I say!")

I think that person, the melody-killer, may have been John Mayer. Is there anyone more drab and lifeless in the music industry today? (Yes, I know - Eric Clapton. But he can't help it, he was pickled by all that heroin and booze.) His dreary, yet cloying "Say What You Mean To Say" is one of the worst examples of this new school of crummy modern songwriting. Colbie Caillat also takes the same repetitive phrases and injects her breathy, dullsville singing voice. Mayer's voice is distinctive only for sounding like he needs sinus surgery - but why does he make that so boring when Dylan, Tom Petty, Stevie Nicks and so many others worked the same issue into exciting careers?

Taylor Swift, while not appropriate for my age group, at least tries to write lyrics that are distinctive - but again, can't somebody explain that, oh, varying the melody in the 6 lines of the verse and the 4 lines of the refrain might give the song a little staying power? I can't get past the first refrain, my brain gets bored. The melodies are like the little tunes played by children's electronic toys. Memorable at first, then after 20-30 plays, you want to kill someone.

What other horrors did I experience last week? Oh yes, that new kinda guy singer, Constipated Man? Sometimes he's on the hard rock station, or, he might be doing a crunchy yet whiny ballad on the "alternative music for your mom" station. But wherever he is, he sounds like he could use a glass of water (scratchy throat) and more fiber in his diet. Who likes that singing? Clearly, someone is buying CM's records, maybe requesting his tuneless hackings on the radio. I can't give him more than 5 seconds of my time or the road rage escalates. I changed stations and found Coldplay, that first big single that I didn't like, "Clocks" maybe? They all sounded alike until that last album, thank God for Brian Eno. My standard line is that Coldplay is like U2 without balls, but that's a terrible thing to say, really. I think they're more U2 with a bad head cold and too much Nyquil.

I was briefly challenged by The Loop. WLUP is our longtime Chicago rock station, and God bless 'em for hanging on so long. I turned to them this morning and, o, wonder of wonders, they were playing some ZEPPELIN, "Over the Hills and Far Away." I chuckled and thought, "Betcha I hear some Van Halen and some Aerosmith before I get to work." Then, they flummoxed me, by instead playing "C-lebrity" (or however you spell it) by Queen with Paul Rodgers, followed by my buddies The Black Crowes, though granted the rather predictable "Hard to Handle." The Queen song is better than it has any right to be, largely due to Rodgers' impeccable and muscular lead vocals (wow, he can still sing!) and some dreamy harmonies. Lyrically, the pot needed a little more stirring on this one, but there were a couple moments when Brian May's voice cuts through the tight harmonies and it just got to me in a very sweet way, reminding me of those great records of my childhood. I'm like an old person now, wailing for the past - but remember when a four-member band could have four exceptional songwriters and musicians in it? Maybe even four exceptional singers?

Then the Loop went back to playing Sammy Hagar (which I left on, the song "Heavy Metal," kind of cracks me up but great for driving fast!) and Ted Nugent (blech - Ted's political BS and zest for killing animals have turned me off to the Gonzo one). I fared little better on the drive home, scoring "Killer Queen," but having to suffer the bland indignity of Maroon 5 - they don't bug me the same way the John Mayer Army does, they're like a less hairy Bee Gees, is all - and one of my least favorite Police songs, "Message In A Bottle." In fact, it may be that song which fueled my very strong hatred for songs that repeat and repeat and repeat. The "Sending out an SOS" part at the end? That tacks another minute plus onto the song? Nobody in the studio heard that and said, "I think I know what you're trying to accomplish here, but this is annoying as hell?" Maybe they did, and one of the infamous fistfights broke out? I gave it my best shot, but after about 8 repeats of that phrase, I, too, was sending out an SOS.

I like to think that I'm not nostalgic ("then give me another word for it..."), but musically I'm growing more in that direction. So little of the new music interests me or sustains my interest. Plenty of novelty to be had, but novelty is like cheese - tangy and filling when fresh, smelly and poisonous when stale. I kissed a girl, and didn't like it! Etta James should be mad that Beyonce sang her signature tune at the Inaugural Ball - I was mad, it was like an utter disconnect from our amazing musical heritage - like having Jamie Foxx sing "What'd I Say" while Ray Charles was still alive, uninvited to the party. Somebody unplug the auto-tune and give these kids some music theory and poetry classes, or just give them 3 or 4 hundred albums from when I was their age and suggest they listen to something substantial before dropping their next pile of whatsit on us.

I was working in the liturgy office at St. Anne's a few weekends ago and Rory put some Paul Simon on, specifically a bunch of songs from "Graceland" and I thought, "These were the songs of my early college years, our Saturday night music, driving around music. Not throwaway, emo drivel, not head-thumping, brainless pop, but these great songs, meaningful songs, which still sound that way after several decades." That's why I gave Paul Simon the honor of today's subject line quote (from "Cool, Cool River," the "Rhythm of the Saints" album).

Okay, I'll try not to be so crabby next time. If it helps, I LOVE the new U2 single!

That song always makes me cry...

2009-01-26T14:35:00.000-06:00

Yes, ladies and gentlemen: how about a top ten kind of list? In other words, a lazy blog post?

People always ask me what songs I like best, etc., which is really silly when you like as many songs as I do. But, I figure maybe if I sometimes group them into themes or styles or what-have-you, I can sort of name favorites.

Today? Top Ten Songs That Always Make Me Cry, in honor of The Darlings from the old Andy Griffith Show. I also got on this train of thought by an earlier post on one particular song, with which I will start my list:

10) "Heart of the Matter" by Don Henley - many stomach aches have been caused by this song, what can I say? The start of a really good cry, for me, begins in the stomach. Go back to my New Year's post to revisit the angst.

9) "Angelia" by Richard Marx. The song is sad enough, "Where you running to now?" sung over and over again by an increasingly despondent Marx - who has a real knack for sounding on the verge of breakdown and yet attractive at the same time. But for whatever reason, it's the sax solo takes me right over the edge. I have heard this song in Walgreen's and have rushed out, so powerful was the urge to sob while standing amongst the rows of chewing tobacco and canned Geisha mandarin oranges. Richard Marx may get a kind of lifetime achievement award here, as I could easily include "Silent Scream," "Hold Onto the Nights..." Even his happy songs can jerk tears, because they reverberate with positive thinking and family loyalty and all that stuff we don't often celebrate in popular culture.

8) "Don't Blink" by Kenny Chesney. 102 year old man chews on pipe and reminds you that, very soon, your spouse will be dead and your children all grown up, so "don't blink." Feels ten times worse when you have no spouse to even properly mourn and a nagging feeling that you let most of your life go by listening to records and surfing the Web. "Life goes faster than you think." Sure does.

7) "Against All Odds" by Phil Collins. For a little, baldy English guy, Mr. Collins has always been a master of dramatic, cathartic vocal performances - at least in his solo career, not so much all that silly Squonkish Genesish stuff (which I love, it's just much more repressed). By the end of "AAO," he sounds seconds away from throwing himself in front of a train or off a cliff. One unhappy singer, and if you're already feeling bad about things romantically, this one will take you right over the cliff with him.

6) "Forever Young," yes, the version by Rod Stewart. Save me your "Only Dylan can sing this one, man" spiel. This is an entirely personal thing. Rod the Mod's jaunty version of this reminds me so much of my very dear mom, a huge fan of the blond one and, someone who is truly forever young in my mind. "And when you finally fly away I'll be hoping that I served you well." Not a moment I'm ready to think about just yet.

5) "Another Day" by James Taylor. Again, the personal: the opening and closing lines of this song are, "Wake up, Susie, put your shoes on, walk with me into this light." I do not know the story underpinning this song, but in my mind, I see my own sister, Susie, and the song has a farewell feeling to it, hauntingly beautiful, and again, makes me think of moments, situations, goodbyes for which I am completely unprepared. Help.

4) While we're visiting with Mr. Taylor, let us also consider "Walk Down That Lonesome Road." A song I discovered through my brother, and is consequently sort of tangled into my affection for him and, yet, one of those goodbye songs, too. More and more, it just reminds me of myself, too: "Carry on, carry on, never mind feeling sorry for yourself. It doesn't save you from your troubled mind." No, it doesn't.

3) "Change Our Hearts" by Rory Cooney. Rory, as you may know, is my choir director at St. Anne's. I knew this song long before I got to St. Anne's, it was a favorite of our choir at St. Walter's, and now it comes bearing so many memories, good times and terrible times, Ash Wednesdays and Lents and regular Sundays, relationships gained or lost, hurt piled upon hurt, the death of the choir director who first taught it to me, Margaret Quirk - and yes, of course, the realization that the call to change has been pretty faithfully ignored from year to year, that one's heart is roughly the same as it was decades ago, perhaps in worse shape. I could probably say these same things about a number of other liturgical songs, but this one is especially meaningful to me and yet, despite the heavy, mixed bag of emotions, I still really like this song. Some others have become too fraught with the bad and the ugly for me to hear the good anymore - not so here.

2) "Anyway" by Martina McBride. Oh, this one's a button pusher from start to finish, but it's that darn last verse that gets me: "You can pour your soul out singing a song you believe in, that tomorrow they'll forget you ever sang...sing it anyway." Because every singer wakes up some mornings and feels that way - you're exhausted, you gave it everything you had, and nobody really listened or paid attention or appreciated it. In fact, I felt that way this morning, after what felt like a lackluster performance at the Barrington Area Choral Festival last night despite my every intention to hit one out of the park. This song meant a lot to me during the months when I struggled from losing my voice and felt like perhaps I was the only one who really cared that I had lost it.

1) "Breath of Heaven" by Amy Grant. Feels a bit odd to throw in a Christmas song, but, it's my list and I'm sticking with it. Grant has an uncanny knack for always sounding a little bit blue, even when she's singing about Jesus or what-have-you. So, when she unleashes that talent on a song like this, it's quite unnerving. I'm Mary, and two thousand years from now you people will make statues of me and put me on greeting cards, but right now I'm about 13, I'm pregnant because of some spooky apparition that showed up in the middle of the night, I'm freezing to death out in the desert, and oops, now the baby's coming and somehow I'm supposed to "get" all of this. I like this song because most of the rest of what we hear about Christmas Eve makes it sound all kinda cuddly and sweet. Very clever to end the one verse: "Help me be strong. Help me...be. Help...me." Since blue Christmases seem inevitable around my place, this one serves me very well. Thanks, Amy.

I could add more: "Somewhere," from West Side Story; "Probably Wouldn't Be This Way" by LeAnn Rimes (those two might be the makings of another list, "Top Ten Songs About People Dying?"). This is a good start. Get out a box of tissues and enjoy!

"Yeah, you can try and change the world, well, baby that's fine..."

2009-01-23T23:36:00.004-06:00

"But is it such a hateful crime to start with me?"

"Start With Me" (Del Amitri) popped up on my shuffling iPod tonight while I suffered on the treadmill, and I laughed out loud at that familiar line from the chorus. I could sort of picture myself saying it to President Obama - could you fix me first, then fix everything else?

I realized with some embarrassment that when I made up that year-end list of good things that happened in my life, I somehow left out our new president. As bad as that was, the feeling was compounded when I woke up on January 20, 2009, Inauguration Day, not at home, or at work, surrounded by like-minded people - no, I woke up in Phoenix, Arizona, McCain country, while visiting my lifelong friend, Jayne. Awkward, to say the least. Did I let it dampen my enthusiasm for the new regime? Hell no, as they say out west. I even had a line at the ready: "Hey, if you like John McCain so much, you should be glad - we're letting you keep him!" No one out there found that as amusing as I did. Go figure.

Yes, I'm pumped up about President Obama, and getting a kick out of his youthful, genuine wife (loved, loved, LOVED that inaugural dress and matching coat) and spunky kids. I'm also scared for him. A country full of racist nutcases ever at the ready, and a world full of awfully big problems to solve. But he doesn't seem scared so why should I be?

Arizona is a compelling place, a state where one finds those enormous, wide-open spaces that once characterized this entire country. Do you ever wonder what the world looked like, felt like, when it was mostly devoid of people and their stuff? You can sort of guess it when you drive through the desert. We did just that, leaving Phoenix for a 90 mile trek to Tucson. Tucson is probably a very fun city. All I saw was a string of greasy, sad motels, a Denny's and a run-down high school gymnasium. One hotel was $25 a night, a low-slung building surrounded by a propane tank yard. I'm guessing it's a non-smoking hotel...Things were so bad I "borrowed" a roll of toilet paper from the dumpy motel to bring to the high school, since they didn't have many amenities. The motel room smelled like cat piss and three raggedy looking men were barbecuing in the back of their truck in the parking lot. I thought about my uncle Jerry, who died in Tucson a few short years ago, reading the morning paper while sitting outside of his trailer home. If I ever met my uncle, I do not recall it. I wonder if he liked Arizona for the warmth and the mysterious desert shadows and the soaring mountains and hills, or if all he ever knew was a trailer park and the worn-out, roadside life. Maybe he liked that, too.

Back in Phoenix, my friend and I also made a trip to the Lone Butte Casino, out on the Gila River reservation. I've been to 5 native American-managed casinos in my lifetime, and here's the deal - you're not going to make any money. I shouldn't say that, I did walk away with a profit the first time I went to the Green Bay casino, the name of which escapes me at the moment. But that was it. Ho-Chunk, in Baraboo, Wisconsin, near the Dells, holds the record for "losingest casino" in my book, but the ones in Arizona come close. This Lone Butte place was new and Jayne was excited about checking it out, but it was a Monday night, and with our nation's economic woes, you didn't see many folks gambling, and you saw even fewer winning anything.

A particularly drunk, middle-aged woman caught my attention. Normally I avoid people like her as if they were plagued, but, oh heck, I'd had a glass of wine and my people-watching vibe got the best of me, so I grabbed a machine close to her. She frequently and loudly called her slot machine her "bitch," and let everyone in the building know that it was her birthday and so she expected a big jackpot. She must have seen a TV commercial or maybe a movie in which a casino winner was showered with confetti, because she also hollered on and on about "CONFETTI!!!!" anytime she got a little win. Perhaps she thought the casino staff would arrange a birthday jackpot for her? Silly girl. The only thing they'll arrange is for you to lose as much as you came with - or more, with so many ATMs at the ready. Her friends finally dragged her out to the parking lot, no jackpot, no confetti. I hope she wasn't hurting too much the next morning.

The next morning I was bleary eyed and, well, more broke than I had been 24 hours earlier, but also secretly grateful that my friend put the TV on so I could watch some of the inauguration. I cried a little, from joy, from worry. I felt elated and yet wondered if that was the wrong way to feel - is the mess we're in too big to fix? The press, so eager to uplift President Obama on Tuesday morning, has already started tearing him apart - and it's only Friday, first week. I guess people want their miracle fix and they want it fast. So maybe the tears were more appropriate than the elation. While I breathe, I hope - "Hopium," as some cynic who writes for the Chicago Tribune puts it, John Kass probably - "Krass" is more like it, but, that's his problem. What's so wrong about hoping? Without hope, I'm not sure I could get out of bed anymore. When you're on an open road in the Arizona desert, with nothing but sky and sand and bewitching colored rocks stretching out in front of you, moon and stars or sun glittering overhead, you can't help but hope. When more than a million people gather on the Mall in D.C. and everybody's grinning and being polite with each other, waving little flags, snapping photos, weeping from joy, swaying to music, throwing their arms into the air as if heaven really is in reach - well, you can't help but hope.

If it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all...

2009-01-09T22:15:00.003-06:00

Yes, desperate times call for Hee-Haw references, what can I say?

"Desperate times?" you ask. It's only January 9, although it will be January 10 shortly, and I already have that bad feeling in my gut about the year ahead. I'm not usually like that, I'm pretty good at finding that ray of sunshine in just about every gloomy day, but lately...I feel like I hardly get through a day without some stupid thing happening - the car needs work, the kitchen sink has a leak, the bills keep piling up, upcoming travel plans are getting sort of thwarted by forces beyond my control, weird people keep popping up out of the woodwork to make me question the very value of relationships, there's that whole thing with my sister needing a place to live (and a good, safe place), my dad's health, the health of other people in my life. My own weird health, for that matter - I have been monk-like in pursuit of a reflux-free life, and every positive step I take just seems to bring on some new strangeness. Suddenly, it's like my body won't even digest water, I drink it and it seems to just linger in my esophagus for hours....gross. After a staggeringly successful run with lottery tickets during the month of December, I can barely scrape up a $5.00 win this month. When the luck runs dry around here, it's positively Saharan. And it's only January 9.

On a longer than usual commute home tonight, I was thinking about time and how there's never enough of it. Perhaps I really need to get serious about saying "No," and do a better job of cleaning emotional house and trying to phase out the friendships that aren't anything but a drag. When have I ever been that person, though? For as long as I can remember, I've had people in my life that I don't particularly welcome, but who gosh darn it LIKE me, and therein lies the headache. For several years now I've had a genuine phobia over phone calls. It's become quite difficult at my new job, because while almost no one has my work phone number, it's also easy to call the switchboard and get connected to me, and our phones do not have outside caller ID. So when I know it's an outside call, it takes all my energy to pick it up and answer. And sure enough, occasionally it's that friend I'd rather been trying to avoid for months, because I have nothing to give anymore. Sigh. I think a few of my musical associates may have to be cut free this year, too, and yes, the more fiscally rewarding ones! I just can't do it anymore, I just can't sing with "sequences" (read: karaoke tracks), I just can't justify taking large sums of money for a band that isn't doing its homework, isn't keeping its audience satisfied, can't take simple requests because its repertoire is too small and its musicianship too limited and lazy. I can't do it anymore. I gave it my best.

It's hard not to look at my state, my country, without feeling queasy and anxious. Go, Blago, Go. That would be a good start, but really, it's just a thumb in the dam that's ready to blow anyway. It's easy to feel smug working at the Library - heck, we are more popular than ever, because people like using stuff for free. But the same city that pays our bills is laying off staff, even canceling summer events like the 4th of July parade just to save money (hello, Corporate sponsor??) ...it just seems like the halo could wear off any minute now. Is being the person who makes the YouTube videos worthwhile enough to retain a job in hard times? I'm kidding, of course, I do more than that, but being one of the newer kids on the library block still makes me worry I could somehow fail to meet expectations and could find myself on Foreclosure Row with so many others.

No, no, I'm not going to become this person, the kind who thinks the players in a huddle are whispering about her, the kind who brings her own guillotine to the party, just in case. But dang, how about a little sunshine? I'll take anything: a great new album by someone I love, some singing gigs that sound fun, maybe a huge bag of cash falling from the sky? Even a small bag? A ten spot? Could I lose five pounds without trying and without getting the flu? I'll take it. Even some literal sunshine - we're due for 4 inches of snow tonight. I've got a lot of hard work ahead of me this winter and spring. A workshop on video for libraries, another teen Confirmation talk on the Creed plus an additional one for adults, tons of staff training workshops at the Library plus a new initiative I'm trying to kick off, offering Web 2.0-type workshops to area non-profits, three weddings with Synod (!), and who knows what else? Plenty to do for a singing librarian. (Oh yes, and in my role as one of The Singing Librarians, aka The Dewey Sisters, I'm helping lead a singalong of songs from The Wizard of Oz for an event at work. And you thought being a librarian was all stuffy and quiet!) I'm just aching for some heavenly reassurance that God's in His heaven and all's right with the world -- when I can see pretty plainly that all is not right with the world. Still, I'm going to shut up right now and be grateful that I'm warm and housed, with money in my wallet and friends who call even if I don't always want them to, with food to eat and songs to sing. I may not be lucky, but I've got it good.

"The trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness..."

2009-01-01T21:32:00.004-06:00

"They're the very things we kill, I guess.
Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms,
and the work I put between us, you know it doesn't keep me warm."

Happy New Year.

When the alarm clock went off this morning, what were you dreaming about? Here's what was going on inside my head. I was on what was supposedly an island, but which appeared in every way to be a desert. If there was water surrounding it, it must have been a long way off. The mid-day heat was blistering. The sky was white, even slightly grey, but cloudless. The ground was nothing but endless drifts of sand - no concrete, no blacktop, no sidewalks, no grass, just sand. I can verify this because I was barefoot, the tops of my feet buried under the sand, which seemed only slightly cooler than the air above because the sun couldn't shine underneath the sand! It got weirder because, barefoot though I was, I was also dressed in a bridal gown, although a very loose-fitting cotton dress, a very formal peasant dress, I'd call it. A sort of shadowy groom figure was with me, too - he was no one I know or have ever known. Blond, sort of shaggy haired, wearing a white suit. (Robin Zander? Owen Wilson? Mike Fontenot?)

It was not a particularly romantic situation, despite the impending nuptials. This groom of mine was concerned about where our guests would eat and then stay after the wedding, so he took off to scout out three buildings that surrounded the area in which we stood. There was not another soul around, just wind and heat and sand. The three buildings shimmered a bit, suggesting they were just a mirage. He left, and I decided I'd better investigate the church in which we were to be married. It was a one story building, and in stone or concrete on the facade of the building, religious symbols had been carved out, they were fairly typical symbols of the Eucharist, a chalice with a host hovering over it, and a cross, some human figures. Walking inside, the place was tidy, very small, and then I discovered something strange. The figures were all women. One of them was clearly meant to be Mary, and she was often portrayed as if she was inviting you to Eucharist - holding out a chalice or holding out a "host." Then two large, jolly, dark-skinned island ladies appeared. Turned out they were the ministers of this church and they told me their beliefs were somewhat different, that they believed Mary somehow gave us the original gift of the Eucharist and therefore they worshipped Mary above God, Christ, etc. They were extremely friendly and still, I felt a vague sense of dread, like, "Do I want to get married here?"

And then the alarm clock went off, and I thought, "What day is it? Where do I have to go today?" And I realized I'd been dreaming about church and Mary and wedding feasts and Eucharist and, my alarm clock was buzzing because I needed to get up for Mass, for the feast of Mary, the Mother of God. I blame it on the New Year's Eve cocktail I'd imbibed, a really fabulous creation called a Poinsettia: cranberry juice, champagne and triple sec. The rest of it all makes "sense," only from a standpoint that everything in the dream was something I'd encountered lately - I'm planning a trip to Phoenix and Tucson (there's your desert), I recently scheduled a training session at work for January 23 and thought, "Cool, Robin Zander's birthday," Owen Wilson has a hit movie out, and the Cubs (SIGH) just traded Mark DeRosa to give Mike Fontenot more time at 2nd base (the SIGH is nothing against Mikey, whom I also really like), so I was reading about all that while the Poinsettia while making its way through my digestive system. No clue about the wedding part, however.

Cocktail or not, I made it to Mass, although I cheated a bit and went to the church in my neck of the woods, Saint Margaret Mary, rather than my usual haunt, Saint Anne's. Reason? Simple. St. Anne's only has Mass at 9 AM - please! SMM had a bunch of Masses scheduled for the holy day, so even the terminally sleepy could meet their liturgical obligations. It's always funny to go to Mass and just sit in a pew, rather than singing with the choir or cantoring, or participating in whatever ministry you choose. I tend to be a little antsy. I liked the presider today - no idea what he's like otherwise, but his homily was intelligent and yet down to earth, and other than that he just did what a priest is supposed to do, rather than trying to make the Mass "special" and consequently all about himself. The singer sorta cracked me up. Sometimes she sang confidently and while a little all over the map when she'd reach for high notes and quite breathy, her sound was not totally unpleasant. I sensed that she did not read music, however, because if she got to a piece she didn't know well - LOOK OUT!!! Notes and words were flying through the air! To quote one of my favorite Christopher Walken SNL moments, "WOWEE WOW!" The perfectionist in me (not that I am perfect, I just so wish I could be and work way too hard at it) cannot imagine getting up in front of a microphone and trying to sing a song I haven't really learned.

Maybe the marriage part of my dream was subliminal, as my parents told me later that the priest at the Mass they attended spoke this morning about the "marriage of heaven and earth," in the context of Christ's birth to Mary. Who knows? After Mass, I called my parents and they were up for some lunch at McCarthy's, a pubby kind of place we like out in Vernon Hills, so off I went in the car. I spend a ton of time in the car, and my iPod is my best travelling companion. Except that today it was still on the charger at home, as I had anticipated coming home after Mass. This meant - HORRORS - being trapped with the radio. So, I'm driving and flicking the channels, flicking the channels, trying to find something worth keeping on. I stumbled upon the last 3-4 minutes of "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" so I left that on and sang along. Really some nice imagery in that song, along with those magical harmonies, and yet while I was admiring all of that I was also remembering a passage in the book "Girls Like Us," in which a lover of Joni Mitchell describes some of her most "arrogant" musical colleagues, and heaps the bulk of his dislike upon Stephen Stills, composer of "Judy Blue Eyes," of course, and Don Henley.

I stayed on this train of thought, wondering as I have before: "Do those people become arrogant because they recognize that they have unique and profound talents, or is it the arrogance that comes first, which gives them the courage and the hard shell it takes to forget a talent and force a weary world to listen in hopes they will recognize the gift?" Generally, when someone says to me that they find an artist "arrogant," or prideful or what-have-you, I tend to be forgiving if the artist is someone I genuinely admire. Don't get me wrong, I dislike arrogant people, I just think some people have more reason to be cocksure than other people. All this is tossing around in my head while I flick at the radio some more, when here comes Mr. Arrogant #2, Don Henley.

About 18 years ago, I found myself in a very unusual position. I was hungover, I had walked out of my job at noon because I was sick and hadn't slept all night, the temperature was hovering around 100 degrees on this particular summer day, and - the person in my life had just called off our engagement, after months of wedding planning. I was still living at home with my family, so going home right at that moment was not an option, but where to go? The car, and for hours I just drove, no destination, no direction home. I don't remember eating, drinking, stopping anywhere, the only other detail I remember is the album, "End of the Innocence" by Don Henley. He may be an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but I will always think of him with kindness just for giving the world this bunch of songs, which certainly helped piece me back together not just that day but for many days and nights that followed. And the best of the songs was "Heart of the Matter."

"I've been trying to get down to the heart of the matter,
'cause everything changes, and my friends seem to scatter
but I think it's about forgiveness, forgiveness,
even if you don't love me anymore."

When you think about the decades of pop songs about failed relationships, love gone sour, bitterness, revenge, jealousy, "Heart of the Matter" is something of a miracle -- even songs that offer forgiveness often couch it in terms of "You're going to be sorry you lost me" or "I don't care anymore, I've moved on." There's none of that in "Heart of the Matter," and for me that's where its power lies. I'm still in pain, I still don't get this, but in the end it's the forgiveness that's important, rather than any other profit or loss that can come from the situation.

I've often thought about composing a little list (blog fodder?) called "The Songs That Always Make Me Cry, Without Fail," and "Heart of the Matter" might be right at the top. So finding it by accident today gave me a good, cathartic cry to begin the new year. Many years removed from the circumstances under which I first appreciated the song, forgiveness still feels like one of the things that matters most, both the people I have had to forgive and the people who have had to forgive me. "We all need a little tenderness - how can love survive in such a graceless age?" I hope your new year brings you tenderness, grace, love and forgiveness when you need it, whether it's yours to receive or yours to give.

So this wouldn't be too much of a downer, I'm including that completely ridiculous picture of Sting kissing Don Henley, while Mrs. Sting looks on and laughs. Hope your New Year's Eve was good. At the store on NYE morning, the guy in front of me was buying a bottle of cheap champagne, 60 cans of Old Style and two enormous bags of peanuts. I hope he was having some friends over. I saw him get into his mini-van - it had a rosary on the rearview mirror so maybe he dreamt about the Virgin Mary, too...

"Time goes by, time goes by..."

2008-12-30T17:28:00.000-06:00

"...if you didn't laugh, you could almost cry.
What do you think of it so far?"

Whenever the year draws to a close, I think many of us try to determine what we made of the 12 months we were given: what we want to keep, and what moments or occurrences we'd like to leave behind. I feel like I've been so focused on the negative lately. My dad's latest health crisis went on for 6-7 weeks, and still hangs like a shadow over my parents' lives, along with the uncertainty of how we're going to care for my developmentally disabled sister in the coming years, thanks to the state of Illinois and lots of callous, self-serving politicians. Some days I still feel like I'm feeling my way through at a new job, inevitably putting my foot in my mouth at times or grasping to discern the culture of my new employer - which I need to emphasize is almost all good, good stuff, it's just different and I don't always know my proper place. And that's stressful. Apparently once you are an "adult," at least in terms of years, some kind of emotional drama has to occur every couple of months, too, just to make sure you're still feeling something. I sure could do without all of that stuff. Money's on my mind just as much as anyone else's. The band work really dried up this year, even the free gigs (mmm...food coupons for funnel cakes...) and I have mixed emotions about all of that anyway. My car needs work, my house needs work, I need work - ha! - but it all has to wait. Much like my beloved Cubbies, maybe next year.

Why did I mention the Cubs? I'm not sure I will ever recover from this year's post-season collapse. PSD - post-season depression? Look it up in the DSM, after one hundred years it must be there.

But jeez, I don't want to be a Gloomy Gus, one of those jerk "friends" everybody has who never listens to your problems but goes on and on about their own. One of those people who always has a story to "top" yours in the awfulness department. No, there's no one more tiring than a victim, especially when the "crime" is just harsh reality settling in, or some petty annoyance. I've got a job, I've got reasonably good health if I ease up on the soda pop and taquitos, I've got a great little house and a car that gets me there. So, I thought maybe I'd take a few minutes before the end of this year to try and remember what was good about it, in hopes there will be more of that next year and less of the bitter stuff.

High on my list: finding a miraculous migraine drug that works so well for me I have (knock on MacBook) forgotten what that excruciating, nauseating pain feels like. I never thought I would see that day! Of course, I wrote this, and before getting a chance to publish it, I got the chance to relive the excruciating, nauseating pain by running out of my miracle med on Christmas Eve, when the pharmacists are in their kerchiefs, Ma in her cap. Having just lived through that, I'm even more grateful for my little friend Maxalt.

It was also a huge high earlier this year to feel like my voice had come back 100 percent. Now, I felt like I had some setbacks beginning late summer, but, I also stepped back and tried to identify what might be causing the problems and I've made some huge lifestyle changes, some of them pretty unpleasant. (Today, for example, I fell off the wagon and drank an entire Pepsi Max.) But knowing that my voice was there, strong as ever, allows me to relax a bit and know that all is not lost forever, that there's more singing to do. That's important to me. I am always up for a new type of musical experience and I got that in October when I worked with Dave Gessner, Joe Valentino, Jimmy Zito and "Ron," forever in my mind as "the mysterious bass player." Way too much fun for something I get paid to do, and I sure hope it's not the last I see of these guys.

I really enjoyed my first opportunity to speak at a national conference last Spring, when I presented at "Computers in Libraries" on the subject of video and YouTube. Unfortunately, I didn't have my new migraine drug then, so I was sick the ENTIRE TIME, but I still look back on it as a positive, career-related experience. I also shared a hotel room with my colleague Roberta, and felt like I came home with a really wonderful new friend. And as they say on TV, that's priceless. In the Fall, I spoke to a large group of Readers' Advisory library staff persons, the ARRT (Adult Reading Round Table), at the beautiful Schaumburg Township District Library, and even gave a keynote presentation at my own library in Des Plaines. Pretty satisfying to know some of your peers have that kind of confidence in you and interest in what you have to say.

Musically, I attended what truly may have been the best concert I've ever heard or seen, Justin Currie live at Schuba's. Having a spot directly in front of one of my favorite writers and singers certainly helped create an unusually electric atmosphere, but everything about the show was amazing. In a big, boomy, noisy hall, you can hide a lot of sins. With a hushed crowd hanging on every note at Schuba's, Justin just absolutely floored me. The voice - yikes. I can still really fall in love with a human voice. I can think of only a handful of other shows that gave me the kind of energy I felt after this one, and sometimes it had just as much to do with an awe-inspiring stage set-up and spirituality (U2) or the romance of a perfect summer evening (Sting) as it did with music. But Justin's show at Schuba's was just about music, no trappings, no romance (although he completely cracks me up).

And to cap off the year - I was eating at Chili's recently when a song started playing and it totally distracted me from the conversation. I kept thinking, "What is this? I know this song, I know it." And it was "Walking Through You" by the aforementioned Justin Currie. In Chili's! There must be a god somewhere. It reminded me of hearing Kate Bush's "King of the Mountain" at Outback Steakhouse once. Weird, but I'll take it over the other crap those places play!

Also at work, I completed what was the largest, most expensive project I've ever attempted, the creation of an all-new Web site for my library. Wowsers. Have never pulled an all-nighter for work before, either! I'm super grateful not only for the support and encouragement of my coworkers but for the team of professionals who did all the hard stuff for me - people with amazing skills, abounding patience and, I hope, good friends as well. I'm not much good at "networking" but this was a rare time when I really took advantage of that approach to something, by contacting a graduate school classmate and eventually hiring him as the overall designer of the new site. I learned that can be a really, really smart thing to do and must remember that down the line. Something about my independent nature really finds it difficult to stretch relationships and say, "Hey, want to help me out here?"

I guess I'll stop there. It's a good list, no? I could pad it with all "the small, simple pleasures that make up a life," kind of a recurring theme in my old blog. (And a quote from "Lilah" by Don Henley) But this is long enough as it is. Nik Kershaw asks the musical question," What do you think of it so far?" and so far, so good, is my reply. Happy New Year.

Listen, listen with your heart...

2008-12-22T23:11:00.000-06:00

Steven Curtis Chapman's encouraging refrain in "The Music of Christmas," but easier said than done during the "holiday season."

You need another blog complaining about Christmas music like you need a hole in the head, I know. Like we need more snow here in the Midwest. Good news: I'm not going to go on a rampage and tear apart every Christmas song, the way some newspaper columnists have recently done. Ho-ho-hum. Slow news day, boys? Yet, being a musician and a person who is, so my mother says, overly sensitive about music, I am not without opinions on the matter.

First problem: Christmas music starts too soon. As a Catholic, I don't believe Christmas starts until December 24th. So beginning the music November 1st guarantees I'll be completely fatigued from it by Thanksgiving. Then what? Start the Easter music? I gather from conversations at work that some people really like the 24/7 Christmas music stations. I can't even turn them on. Because, the music not only comes too soon, there's...

Second problem: Too much of it. I do agree with a recent article I read on MSNBC or the Tribune's Web site or wherever that Christmas music was better when only a few artists released Christmas albums, and often just single songs. That's when you got classic recordings, whether it was Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" or Tony Bennett's "Christmas Song" (sorry, he outdoes the song's composer, Mel Torme, in terms of warmth). (Why not another parenthetical comment: I'll never forget performing "White Christmas" with the Spring Valley Concert Band one year, getting back to my seat and having Mr. None-Too-Bright next to me whisper, "Nice job, but nobody can touch Frank Sinatra's version." Yes, everybody loves ol' Blue Eyes version of that, Mr. Ding Dong. Oh, Crosby, Sinatra, who doesn't get them all mixed up?) But back to classics. It was this wise and gallant restraint of the past that brought us Springsteen's "Santa Claus is Coming To Town" - imagine the horror an entire album like that would have been? Clarence ho-ho-hoing through 10 other holiday hits? And let us all say a prayer that Paul McCartney stopped at "Wonderful Christmastime" - and why on earth are people now covering that song, rather than allowing it to slowly creep away from our memories? Brrr. And now that Springsteen's "Santa Claus" has been copied by 8 zillion other "artists," your holiday shopping is ruined, because Christmas music isn't just on the radio 24/7, but it's smashing your eardrums in...

Third problem: Every store. Good gravy. Do stores get a discount on the world's worst holiday music? I have heard some dreck this year that was so bad I almost had to leave the premises. (That's the part my mother says is "overly sensitive to music.") One example: an acid jazz version of "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm" that consisted of some electronic beeping and thkking, with a fuzzy-voiced woman repeating that one line, over and over and over and over and over...through a megaphone. Someone, somewhere, in a recording studio, thought this was a good idea? Listened to this finished product and thought, "Release it. Now it belongs to the ages." The stores, obviously desperate to avoid anything too religious, somehow manage to find the worst novelty songs instead, from every era. Springsteen is now huffing and puffing through a rendition of "Merry Christmas Baby" that makes him sound like he's being disemboweled. I don't really care, but to have to endure the 5 or 6 minutes or it while trying to pick out a gift for someone, wow. I had to make a quick stop into Walgreen's tonight and found myself singing along with the piped-in music. Why? I think because it was Mellencamp's "Pink Houses," and subconsciously, my brain was just ecstatic not to hear another hammy, painful version of "Baby It's Cold Outside." Ain't THAT America?

Christmas albums really are a bad idea, for the most part. I don't own one that doesn't have stuff I skip over - even the James Taylor one, one of the best I've ever heard, has - GACK- "Baby It's Cold Outside" and a few other tunes that make my skin crawl. The Lettermen's Christmas album, literally the first bunch of recorded songs I ever recall hearing, has "The Little Drummer Boy." Help. Remember when Seger graced us with his constipated version of that song? Wow.

So, what do I like when it comes to holiday tunes? Not much. :) Sorry, you knew I was going to say that, didn't you? I think I have lost patience for most of it because of the oversaturation. Plus, what the people in the pews don't know is that the choir starts rehearsing Christmas songs in September, so by 12/24 those songs start to seem as fresh as the gum underneath your movie seat. (Less likely with songs you really like, however.) I like simple, tasteful, warm. I don't like songs with a lot of ding-dongs in them. I don't like big diva moments. Sometimes I like a very unusual arrangement of something - Steven Curtis Chapman's all-instrumental "Carol of the Bells" is far preferable to me than the incessant clang of a vocal version, and his rewrite of "Angels We Have Heard on High" with a completely different melody that borrows heavily from Toto's "Africa" is just pretty darn cool. But - acid jazz? Not so much. Glad made a nice a capella Christmas album, but too much of that "hoooo hooo" stuff they do and you're reaching for the forward button.

One problem with many contemporary Christmas carols is they try too hard to make Mary and Joseph seem like normal folks - which of course they were, but it's too much to start putting words into their mouths. Yes, they might have wondered what the neighbors were going to think, yes, Joseph might have had moments where he thought he got a raw deal, yes, they might have had very loving moments together as a married couple - but there's something weird about making too much up, it's like the "Da Vinci Code" guy writing Christmas carols. I heard one lyric tonight, the essence of which was that Mary and Joseph found themselves certain that their baby was going to die for the world - I have a hard time going there, especially with the words couched into a pretty song. "Mary, did you know?" Probably not, but what good does it do our heart either way?

So, I spend most Novembers and Decembers avoiding all but a hand-picked group of Christmas tunes by favorite artists and try to numb myself to the rest. The best Christmas music, really, is when your church service begins on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning, and the whole building comes alive with people singing together. That puts me in the spirit. No divas, no schtick, no Clarence, no putting words in baby Jesus' mouth. That's worth listening to with your heart.