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.

Sam Harris: Science can answer moral questions | Video on TED.com

Sam Harris: Science can answer moral questions | Video on TED.com

Not exactly the way I wanted to start blogging again but it'll have to do. Mind you(?) no one's listening anymore. :)

Lift Your Head

We had guests over for dinner last night, nice folk and gracious too. They were quite understanding of the gong show that is meal time with a toddler. They also knew to beat a hasty retreat before the bedtime meltdown. Despite their social graces they did distract us from a few of our nightly routines.

It was already dark when I realized that the chooks* hadn't been shut away for the night. Its best to do it just on dusk because that's when the foxes come out looking for an easy meal. Em wanted to come with me. She snuggled in on my shoulder with both her pink blankets tucked up around her. She insisted on carrying the torch which made or progress a little slower as the notion that torches are for lighting your way hasn't really sunk in yet. She wished Bart, Barney and Beebee "Good night." and "Sleep well." each in their turn as I pushed the door shut, fastened the chain and blocked the bottom with its brick.

As we were walking back to the house she lifted her head and said "Look. Stars. Pretty." Indeed they were. There's nothing quite like a southern hemisphere night sky seen from outside a city. The crescent moon was up, it's light hiding much of the Milky Way, but there were still uncountable shimmering lights to be seen. We stopped just back of the bungalow where the house lights are hidden and looked to the sky.

I pointed out the moon peeking through the trees. Em insisted that it was a half moon even though it was more like a quarter. Ah well, fractions can come later. I also pointed out what I'm pretty sure was Mars. It was definitely a planet and was obviously red so Mars seemed the logical choice. It took a couple of minutes to explain where it was but once Em got it she was quite taken with how red it was.

We talked about that a while and I explained what planets were, at two and half she didn't get it. That's okay, it's never too soon to start practicing not talking down to your child. We stood and quietly looked at the stars for awhile too. Then she said softly: "That's my moon, my stars."

I had to think about that for a second. In the end I said "Yes Em, they are yours." Of course they're not, at least not in the sense she meant it. But that's a lesson for later.

The light of stars is ancient, it's been traveling for tens, hundreds and even thousands of years before it falls on our eyes. To look to the night sky is to look back in time, this fills me full of wonder and awe.

We know so much about our universe and yet we've barely left our planet. Quasars, pulsars, black holes: no one has ever been anywhere near any of these phenomenon but still we understand a great deal about them and are learning more all the time. Our ability to explore, study and learn the true nature of our ancient and huge universe despite the handicap of the immense distances involved makes me proud to be human.

Ancient and huge, those words don't do justice to the scope of our universe. It's 13.7 billion (billion!) years old. The edge of the observable universe is 46.5 billion light years away and a light year is 10 trillion kilometers. It contains approximately 70 sextillion (7 x 10^22) stars. I'm incapable of understanding just how large these numbers are. Every time I try and grasp them they just slip away and leave me feeling oh so tiny and humble, and yet they also fill me with a profound sense of peace.

With so much room, so many stars and planets and so much time for it to happen in, well, it seems all but inevitable that life would come into existence. That thought when it first occurred to me was profoundly liberating. I never again needed to wonder why I'm here: I just am. And that means I'm free to live my life, cherish my family and friends, and help make our unimaginably tiny little portion of the universe as safe and as joyful as it can be. It means there are no arbitrary cosmic rules that I need to fear breaking by doing so. It means I can be joyful, humble, proud, peaceful, loving, awe-struck and filled with wonder as needed, the universe is more than big enough to accommodate them all.

All of these things, in all of their immensity belong to all of humanity. But explaining that to Em can wait until she's old enough to reason for herself. For now it is enough for her to know that the pretty stars belong to her.

*Chickens. I'm getting to the point where some Aussie terms are becoming second nature to say. It still feels awkward when I write them though. I paused after writing 'chook' and wondered if I should change it to 'chicken'. One thing won't change though: tomato going to be a toe-MAY-toe until I die!

Photo by Larry Landolfi

Dancing in the Dark

Our little girl just turned two years old.  For the longest time the hierarchy was Baby (Supreme Ruler of the Universe), Mum (Center of Said Universe) and Dad (That Guy Who Hangs Around a Lot).  This applied to all facets of our life as a family.  If Mum was available then Dad really had to work to get any facetime with The Ruler.  It's been getting much better of late, occasionally Em will even remember her Noblise Oblige and grant me the briefest of unsolicited cuddles.  A boon for which I will cheerfully commit any number of diplomatic faux pas, up to and including "accidently" backing a ute into the leader of a G8 country.  Seriously, you'd better hope Em doesn't take a dislike to you.  I'm wrapped so far around her little finger that if she were to point at you as say "Daddy, kill." you'd be meat so fast your head would spin, literally.  You can't imagine how much cleaning up that entails, so for sake of my soft pink hands, please be nice to my daughter.

Of course this attachment to Mummy isn't always a great thing and we're actively trying to get her to chill about being without the maternal security blanket.  Bed time has been especially difficult.  For the longest time Em would not go to sleep unless Mummy was there in the room with her.  Months ago we started putting her to bed together.  The idea being that she should get used to me being there at bed time to the point where I'll be able to put her down solo.  A few days ago I managed it, not without some fussing and carrying on mind you.  But she did go to sleep with just me present.  Progress.

The next night we both ended up staying.  We were late getting her to bed and she was fussy and insistent that Mummy be there.  Claire perched on the end of the bed and I stood in the center of the dark room.  Claire made her escape early and successfully but I stayed for a few minutes, just in case.

I stood still in the dark for several minutes, silent and a little uncomfortable.  I found myself swaying gently, it seemed to help make the standing easier.  So I closed my eyes and played a song in my head, dancing more in thought than in fact.  As I did so I remembered times on the dancefloor those 20 or so years ago.

I remembered the time I twisted my ankle so badly during Love and Rockets' "Ying and Yang and the Flowerpot Man" that I couldn't stand on it.  One of the staff asked, well, yelled over the music actually, if I needed ice.  I said "Oh God, yes!"  Off they went and a bad French farce ensued. One with repeated misunderstandings over just what had been asked for, ice or an ambulance?

I remembered the time at a Jerry, Jerry and the Sons of Rhythm Orchestra gig where someone came down on my foot just as I was going up.  Spiral fracture out of that one.  I did get two shots of Tequila for the price of one though.  I'd hobbled to the bar and asked the bartender what he had for pain, then laced my boot up tight and dived back in.  One of the best gigs I've ever been to and I was right not to miss a second of it.

Funny how most of those memories involve getting hurt.  I am not by even stretchiest of imaginations what anyone would call a graceful person.  I've scars on all of my extremities to stand in witness to this fact.  I do however dance reasonably well.  Or I do when I'm given my head and room to move.  I suck at anything that requires knowledge and coordination with anyone else.  My method was to shut my eyes, always circle counter clockwise and always have at least one part of my body moving with the beat.  Well, to be really honest I did dance reasonably well back when I danced at all.

There in Em's room I also remembered the time that the almost supernaturally beautiful East Indian girl told me: "You dance pretty good for a white guy."  I was taken aback, first that she'd even spoken to me and second that what she'd said was something resembling a compliment.  Of course at that time my self esteem was measured in parts per million.  I muttered "Thanks", shut my eyes and sank back into the beat.  At the next break between songs she leaned over and said: "You look like Jesus."  Now that?...that really rattled me.  Okay, I did look like Jesus at the time, or at least the Western world's myth of Jesus as a long haired, bearded white guy.  Although I'm pretty sure there isn't too many official portraits of Jesus wearing combat boots and torn black jeans.

I had no idea what to make of this comment.*  Was she coming on to me?  It didn't seem likely.  I mean Jesus isn't exactly know for his sex appeal.  Nor for his suitability as a life partner come to that.  I danced out the next song and slipped away before another could start.  I suspect that I ended up convincing myself that the whole thing was some sort of veiled insult. But I'm not sure, the rest of the evening is blurry from deliberately applied self medication of the malted sort.  Hmm, perhaps my self esteem at that time was measured in parts per billion.

So there I was, two decades and half a world away from that silly young man, standing in the dark, swaying in place, remembering, wondering:  what had changed, am I the same person?

Once upon a time I danced in a crowded room with my eyes closed because I hadn't yet learned that I was worthy of love.  Today I sway in the dark for an audience of one: a bundle of strong-willed toddler proof of how so very wrong I was for such a very long time.  One who's image stands next to every definition I have for love.  One whose eyes had better be closed.

"Lie down sweetie, it's okay, Daddy's here.  Thatsa girl, now close your eyes my love, it's time to sleep..."

*That Jesus comment still puzzles me.  I wish I could go back and ask her what she meant.  Any ideas?  

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.

Dennis

I have one really long hair in my right eyebrow.  I mean really long, freaky long, maybe six time the length of my regular eyebrow hairs.  His name is Dennis.  I've been aware of him for a decade now in that vague masculine way:  "Huh, lookit that.  Cool."  After his discovery I never thought about him save when he sat up to take a look around and I had to coax him back into the bushy fold.  Live and let live was my strategy.

My wife and I had been together for a number of years before she notice Dennis.  Her reaction was more like someone discovering proof that the Prime Minister is actually a robot.  Shock, disbelief and an unholy glee that wouldn't let her leave well enough alone.  She badgered me mercilessly. Badgered? Hell, she downright bobcatted me.

"Let me pluck it."

"No."

"Come on....it won't hurt."

"As if. No."

"I'll do [insert dirty act of your choice] if you let me."

"Ha.  You'd do that anyway, it's in our marriage contract.  No."

"If you love me you'd let me."

"Hmmmm, let me think about that......NO!"

She's a persistent woman that wife o' mine, but then, I'm pretty stubborn too.  I fended her off for weeks.  Finally she gave up asking and simply rolled over, grabbed Dennis by his head and yanked him out.  "There, isn't that better?"  "Fuck no! And may I say: OW!" Having accomplished the deed that had been upsetting the balance of the the universe by remaining undone she rolled back and slept the sleep of the righteous.  I grumbled and rubbed my throbbing eyebrow and plotted folliclular revenge, knowing full well that I didn't have the guts to carry out any of my schemes.

Dennis grew back as hairs are wont to do.  Maybe not as proud and thick but just as long.  I've been hiding him from my plucky wife like a drunkard living in a Temperance Hall would his bottle.

You see, Dennis is a part of me.  A tiny part to be sure, perhaps even the most insignificant part, but he's unique and he's mine.  One day soon enough I'll be gone.  My child will remember me and perhaps my grand children will too, if I'm lucky enough to have them.  But that'd be about it.  The memory of me, of all the things that made me unique, will eventually fade from this earth and it'll be as if I never existed.  I'll be damned if I'll let Dennis be repeatedly plucked until he grows no more.  I'll not let him or anything else that makes me unique fade one second before it has to.  I'll fight entropy, yes, and time itself if I must because there ain't no afterlife.  Not for the likes of me and Dennis.

I'm perfectly comfortable with this quixotic battle.

Just don't tell my wife, okay?  Thanks.