When I was 15, I went through my hardcore Doors’ days. Didn’t you? Although not their most commercial album, An American Prayer became my definition of poetry. I eagerly awaited my turn to read the dog-eared copy of No One Here Gets Out Alive, a Morrison biography, which was circulating through my town and I promised myself that one day I would pay my respects at Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t return from wherever he had fled to escape the fame which had made his life unlivable in the U.S.,* before I got there.
While my son was committed to visiting Napoleon’s tomb while in Paris, a trip to the cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise was on my must do list. On Easter Sunday we took a long Metro ride to make our my pilgrimage. The cemetery is quite large, walled in and covering a hillside in northeastern Paris. Despite our map, we became a little disoriented and missed Morrison’s grave on our initial climb up the hill. Maybe it was the encounter with the fairly fresh grave of one of the victims of the January Je Suis Charlie attacks that caused our confusion. Regardless, we found ourselves in close proximity to Edith Piaf’s grave.
I talked to Liam about who she was and described her rendition of La Vie en Rose, explaining that her version was the definitive one of that classic French song. We paused, paid our respects and then headed down the hill to find Jim Morrison’s grave, inaccessible due to the metal barricades designed to discourage the enthusiastic and devout vandals who have persisted in leaving their mark on his tombstone for more than four decades. It was completely cool and satisfying nonetheless.
Later, we went to Montmartre to view the artists and their work, along with Sacre Coeur. As we walked, from a distance, I heard someone melodically whistling a tune – La Vie en Rose. Perfect.
*if you’re near my age you probably remember the theory that Jim would come back a decade after his “death.”
It’s been a long time coming, but I’m finally ready to admit that my iPod Classic is a goner. I keep getting the black apple of death and it just won’t charge or play anymore. I believe it lasted nearly 8 years, which is pretty remarkable in our constantly demanding an upgrade society. She was along for the ride for multiple trips across the Atlantic, as well as across this country. I probably went through at least 3 or 4 cords which permitted me to listen to my music in my pre-iPod-compatibility car and countless pairs of ear buds. It was a good run.
When I originally got my Classic, it was a big step up from the Nano with which I had begun my iPod relationship. It had so much room on it that I bought music willy-nilly never imagining that I could ever possibly fill it. But, I did, 30 gigs worth of my favorite tunes portable and playable on demand. We’ve come a long way since my Walkman, baby.
What to do now? I’ve got my iPhone but it only holds a fraction of my music because of storage issues and I haven’t committed to buying a speaker that will amplify my songs. All of my music is on my cloud, and I’ve got Pandora and Spotify apps, but I can’t say I’m adept at streaming what I want, when I want it. How are you managing your devices? Where does your music come from? Do I replace my iPod??
It was summer and I was about 13 years old. I don’t know what initially started the disagreement, but words flew between me and the other girl. She was from a family of girls and she was far meaner than I. She wrapped up her verbal assault with a shocking assertion regarding my mother, my brother and myself. The sound of her words stung me with an undeniable ring of truth and I immediately recognized that secrets hurt.
Secrets are kind of like snakes – what makes them scary is that they appear unannounced. If only they would wear collars with bells which tinkled as they approached! Since that isn’t realistic, living life in the open without rocks to hide under seems to me to be the best way of preventing things from sneaking up you. So, that’s what I do.
The secrets that Mary Lambert sings about are not my own, yet this song still perfectly expresses my own sensibility of secrets. I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are. So what.
While I was driving down to Kingston last night to meet a friend, I was impatiently scanning radio stations looking to hear something that wasn’t some nonsense about how I’ll “only miss the sun when it starts to rain.” When I landed on Pink Floyd’s Money, I hit the button to stop scanning and turned up the volume. Good stuff, right?
The answer is yes and no. While the bass line still rings true, the censored version I heard rang false. Is the word “bullshit” really so potentially damaging or offensive that it can no longer remain in a radio broadcast? Have these concerned censors seen what is on television these days?
I know I’ve mentioned the sanitization of song lyrics before – I believe it was in reference to Tom Petty’s lyric about rolling another joint, but the hypocrisy of it continues to irritate me. On a regular basis my children witness advertisements about erectile dysfunction, see sexualized children hawking clothing and glimpse various versions of “reality” which couldn’t be further from the truth. I really believe they can handle a song lyric that references smoking marijuana or uses a word that, quite frankly, is in my frequent rotation of utterances.
You know what? I think it’s bullshit.
Last year’s memories of Mountain Jam are a bit tainted. I’d had a really rough morning, thanks to my middle son, and my early afternoon proved that the day could, in fact, become even worse. As always, my friends pulled me through that day and were once again on hand this year to replace any previous negative associations with laughter – and beer.
Unlike previous years, the weather was spectacular. I think this May have been the first time I attended this show wearing anything other than rain boots. We successfully smuggled some sunscreen in and I do not regret my criminal decision. I would have fried without repeated doses of #30.
The music was great! Chris Robinson (from the Black Crowes) has a new project and I appreciated their set more than I had enjoyed his band when I saw them last. Sean Lennon performed with his band, Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger, and while I may not have been familiar with his band, it was really cool watching the son of John Lennon and Yoko Ono making music. He’s definitely rocking his father’s look and vibe.
As far as Michael Franti goes – well, sign me up to be a member of his church. He preaches good vibes, positivity and love and I’m a believer. He is one of the most inspiring and alive performers I have ever seen and this show was awesome. Musical joy. The Allman Brothers played a super set of rock and roll. As always, their songs seemed to have risen up from some dank mud which also happened to have bred the blues and jazz. While we didn’t stay for their encore, we did hit the road satiated and completely satisfied with our day.
A couple of random things –
- Security was pretty strict and did not permit food or aerosol cans to be brought in. A bit of a bummer for those on a budget or who had packed cans of sunscreen.
- I ate a delicious bratwurst sandwich, with everything, thank you very much. And an ice cream sundae! Beers were reasonably priced ($6 for decent drafts) and a full bar within the lodge was also available.
- Offered as continued evidence that it is indeed a small world, I ran into not one but, two, guys I knew from when I was married. I hadn’t seen either in years and it was more pleasant than awkward.
For the second year in a row my middle son and I went to both nights of the Dave Matthews Band’s pretty much annual stop at SPAC. As always, Carter smiled continuously as he banged the drums and Dave praised the crowd and venue. We had a good time and I got some great crowd photos in the parking lots prior to the shows. We ran into some people we knew and even made some new friends. It was fun and I imagine we’ll do it again next time the band is in town. By then, I hope to have erased some of the less pleasant parts of this year’s shows.
I haven’t kept track of how many times I’ve seen DMB, but seeing that it was Griffin’s 6th show, I imagine I’ve got somewhere between 12-15 shows under my belt. I grew up taking the bus into the city for shows at the Garden and consider myself a concert veteran, but there’s always something new to see, right? Take that man’s penis, for instance. What a shocker that was! I can say with complete honesty that I’ve never before stood in line next to someone who was pissing into a red solo cup – and I hope to never repeat that experience. The close up of a stranger’s
not so privates may have been a blessing in disguise because when that woman on the lawn threw her skirt up and prepared to pull her underwear down to pee on the lawn in front of everyone, it wasn’t that traumatic for me.
Now, urine aside, the only other bodily fluid which made an appearance was vomit. Fortunately, I missed seeing that (re)enter the world, but I became aware of it after someone near me on the lawn stepped in it. Situations like this completely validate my decision to always wear closed shoes, often rain boots, at outdoor concerts.
Now – the good stuff! We met some awesomely friendly people while taking photos, including two adorable hula hooping pixies who were so pleased with the photo I took Friday that they sought me out on Saturday to reward me with a hug. Sweet! I also ran into one of my favorite parents from school and finally met her collaborator in creating 4 fabulous kids. That kind of made my night.
As far as the music goes, the set lists were epic and I’m so glad we went both nights because we heard nearly every song we had hoped to hear. The transitions between songs was flawless and the flute solos provided a fresher sound than the sometimes (to me) tedious violin solos. Highlights were #41, the acoustic What Would You Say, and pretty much the entire second set on Saturday night.
Towards the end of Saturday night I looked around at the crowd and concluded that pretty much everyone would end the night by either fighting, having sex or falling asleep. Me? I slept well.
If I think back on music from my childhood, The Beatles immediately come to mind. They were definitely the soundtrack of many car rides in my memory.
Freshman year of high school, I remember the painful decision of which album to pick – the Red One or the Blue One. I don’t remember which I ultimately chose. I know I loved it.
When my oldest son was born, 5+ weeks early, I didn’t have a pediatrician, nor did I know a single lullaby or nursery song. Or so I thought. Doing the new baby rock and walk, I found myself humming Beatles’ songs, sometimes even murmuring the lyrics.
My first digital camera had a memory stick that held about 8 images or a seconds long video. There was a mini movie of the oldest 2 Lilly boys singing their hearts out to Hey, Jude, including all the Judy, Judys and a perfectly timed and heartfelt “Ow.” I have no idea where that memory stick is and it doesn’t matter. I’ll never forget that moment.
My youngest child turned nine today on the very same day that marks 50 years since The Beatles invaded America. Perfect synchronicity. Quinn’s love for The Beatles is pure and relentless, just like him. He hasn’t yet tired of discussing the tragedy of George’s cancer or John’s assassination. He knows the words to countless songs and when he doesn’t, he enthusiastically makes up his own.
What remains inside of us is a wonder only second to what, in fact, comes out.