Stan Rogers, The Beatles and Me

Once upon a time this was a blog about my life in music. These days, not so much. Funny how having a child and owning a business takes up all the time I have. Funny too how such a tiny little person takes up so much of my thoughts. I'm not complaining mind you, for the most part life's pretty good.

The thing I haven't confessed to anyone is that I haven't even been listening to much music for the last couple of years, let alone making it. I don't like having music on in the background, I've never really understood the point of that. Either the music is interesting and deserves my attention or it isn't so why have it on at all? Em and I have impromptu dance parties once in a while but that's a different thing.

Another problem is I like to listen on headphones. Unfortunately I'm not kidding about tinnitus and I'm afraid that headphones make it worse, even when the volume's low.

At work I mostly listen to podcasts. The nice thing about them is that if I have to pause it because someone's come into the shop it doesn't really matter. Unlike music, non-poetic spoken word pieces don't suffer much when repeatedly interrupted.

All of this has resulted in a long hiatus that I've recently broken. Broken to good effect I must say. My ipod hasn't been updated since I left Canada. The songs on it are all old favorites worn thin my repeated plays. This hiatus has refreshed them to a remarkable degree. The song at the end of this post has always been one that really kicked me in my soft, squishy emotions. I listened to it today for the first time in what must be two years. I'm not ashamed to say that I got goosebumps and tears in my eyes. I'm not presenting it here because I feel anyone else will have the same reaction, but it's a damned fine song with a damned fine sentiment regardless.

As to making music, I've finally set up my digital recorder. In a fit of inspiration I wrote and recorded a couple of things. At first it was just a verse structure, pretty simple and straightforward with just bass and guitar. Claire said it sounded like the most optimistic thing I've ever written. There's no lyrics yet but I have an idea of what I want to say and what Claire heard in the music was spot on. But then I thought it needed some kind of slower intro/bridge bit. I took the elements of the riff and played around with it till I got something I liked. Only to find that the intro has become something that can, and probably should, stand on its own.

This happens to me every time I try and write a complete piece. I can write one thing that I really like but when I try and write something contrasting to go with it that bit ends up being something else that no longer fits. Then I end up where I am now, feeling just too tired to try and think up yet another part that'll probably end up not working either. Ah well, at least it's a start.

The other thing I've been thinking about is writing more about music. My latest idea is to go through the Beatles discography from the beginning. You see, I've never really listened to them. Sure I've heard the songs, it's almost impossible to grow up in urban North America without hearing them. But I've never listened to them in detail, nor have I read much about them. Just the occasional short article where the author asserts that they had some profound effect on youth/music/culture etc. Assertions that never seem to have any backing other than that author's opinion.

The Beatles are perfect for such a project. They have a limited output, only 12 or 13 albums depending on how you count Magical Mystery Tour. They're 1/2 dead and never reformed in any way. I won't have to deal with issues like deciding whether The Who minus Keith Moon was actually The Who or did Entwhistle's death mark their final demise. And they have that huge mythology surrounding them.

I wonder if they hold up as anything other than nostalgia. I wonder if they'll speak to someone like me, an adult who grew up in another era on an odd combination of punk and classical. I wonder if their music is still relevant in the 21st century, divorced from cultural movement that is was so much a part of. Ha, I think I might just have talked myself into this. We'll see.

In the meantime please enjoy Stan Rogers' "The Mary Ellen Carter" It's too bad the video has credits running over it. I preferred this one because the only other I could find didn't have footage of Stan singing.

Who We Are

It all seemed so important and then, much later, it all seemed so trivial. We stopped judging people by such a narrow criteria. We met people that liked Emerson, Lake and Palmer, or The Eagles, or god forbid, Vanilla Ice and we didn't despise them, some even became friends.

But it was important, it was vital, just not in the way that we thought it was. We learned something, many things.

We learned that we weren't alone. For the first time, we chose to be a part of something that was wholly our own. We paid the price of membership, the clothes, the hair, the attitude, the uniform. We learned the strength of numbers, but also that a uniform exterior doesn't mean a uniform interior. We learned that it's possible to choose the symbols of our allegiance and through that we learned to be independent again.

We learned limits. Some of us chose to go down, the whole way down as we watched in awe and horror. Some made it back stronger, some made it back damaged and some didn't make it back at all. It was hard learning that we can't save everybody no matter how much we have in common.

We learned the most important lesson of all. Is it any wonder that the first great love of our life came with a soundtrack? We threw our passions at the sounds coming from a needle scratching plastic and at the figures who made those sounds, both right in front of us in the smokey air and impossibly, electronically far away. On the dance floor we rehearsed setting free the exaltation and energy bottled up inside. Sometimes we ended up bloody and bruised, but that too was practice. We let it all out and to our wonder we saw it reflected back at us from the sweating mass. We learned that if all those people could feel the same way about the music, then that cherished, longed-for individual sitting right there, so near, could be feeling those same longings for us. And just perhaps, it might be safe to set those feelings free. We learned how to love.

So yes, it was important, not the details but the experience and all it taught us. Nurture those memories, follow Memory Lane all the way to Nostagia, those experiences made us who we are.

*I must confess: I wrote this back in February as a Note on Facebook.  By coincidence it was the same day Lux Interior from the Cramps died.  Not sure why I never posted it here, but I'm feeling all nostalgicy again so here it is.

The State O'Things

Well, thanks to Fritz I've got a lot more traffic here than I usually do.  Thank you sir, you're a gentleman and a scholar.  I don't feel like I'm back as such, but I certainly haven't been posting for the last little while.  Being a new father will do that. Mind you, I've never been particularly consistent about posting.

I'm a little at sea about what to do about this blog.  It started as a motivational tool to keep me practicing guitar and soon developed into an exploration of just why I spent so much time playing music when I never got paid, recorded or even played more than two gigs a year.  I found an answer to that question and my motivation to write ebbed, as did my desire to play.

I can't really call myself a musician anymore.  The band has folded and even if it hadn't I'm on the other side of the world.  I don't practice as such, my only playing is strumming for my daughter, singing her #1 favourite: "Yummy Yellow Strap".  Our routine is for me to play some simple changes she can shriek along with.  Then I tune the guitar to a chord and she has a bash until the yellow strap on the guitar become more interesting, and tasty apparently, than the music.  I then sing a couple of rounds of  YYS and we move onto something equally fascinating, like chewing on junkmail or bashing empty boxes.

So what do I write about?  I'm reluctant to become a daddy blog although that's a subject I have very strong feelings about.  I'm not likely to become a cycling blog although that's a passion of mine for the last 20 years.  I've never really felt the need to be exclusive in content, to the detriment of my hit count.  I guess I'll just carry on as I have been, writing about the things that move me and things that I need to figure out.

In honour of Fritz's kind link here's the state of my cycling life.

I mentioned my dilemma about what I'm going to do for work in this dry, dry land.  Since I wrote that post we went to the Victorian government department of small business.  They were very encouraging about starting a cycling business.  I got a bunch of handouts and have started reading them with an eye to compiling a list of questions for a professional to answer about owning and operating a small business. It's been pretty straightforward so far.

I'm uncharacteristically optimistic about this endeavour.  During the day I'd have to describe my mood about it as positively cheery.  At 3 in the morning whilst cradling a screaming Em, pacing the hall in a soothing march my doubts gnaw away, digesting all that yummy positivism.   "What if I can't get financing?"  "What if I get financing and can't make a go of it?"  "Will I have to flee back to Canada or will I end up in debtor's prison?"  "Will getting the LUC to smuggle me dope and cigarettes keep me from becoming some hairless felon's special friend?" "Will I ever get a decent night's sleep?" and so on.

I've also been wondering if my optimism is coming from somewhere else.  You see, the light here is different.  It's somehow cleaner, purer, like it's fallen straight from heaven unsullied by common air.  I'm not the only one to notice this; I first read about it in Bill Bryson's book "In a Sunburnt Country."  Mind you I didn't give it much credence, Bryson's book is as much a love letter to Australia as it is a travelogue, and those in love aren't the best of witnesses.  Is this light illuminating things as really are, a celestial arc-lamp of truth?  Can it be as easy as making the decision and putting in the work?  Or am I being fooled, being sun-addled into risking money that I don't have, risking my daughter's future?

Ah well, self-doubt is a comforter I've had since my bike had 3 wheels and no brakes.  Nevermind that it's ragged, faded and in bad need of washing.  It's mine, and I won't be parted from it without throwing myself down and screaming until I turn blue.

As to actual cycling, I haven't done much since last September.  Let's not talk about how large my waist has become.  We brought our Brompton folders but the nearest town is 20k away, not too far to ride but too far to tote a 7 month old baby to.  Everytime we go to Melbourne if find myself oggling the cyclists passing by to the point were I feel just a little dirty about it.  I've taken to wearing sunglasses all the time and hoping that people assume I'm perving on all the pretty young things walking around.  Speaking of which, unless something has changed drastically at home the girls here wear a lot less clothes than I'm used to.  I'm terrified of Emlyn's teenage years, terrified.

Now, just in case I actually go through with this mad idea to start my own store I have some questions for you my gentle readers.

What was the worst experience you've had at a local bike store and what's the best?

I have my own ideas about what cycling retailers do right and wrong but a sample of one is pretty paltry.

Thanks.