Everything But The Girl "Missing"

I had the strangest sensation as I drove by my old girlfriend's house.

My friend Tip had let me know that he would be visiting the East Coast with his kids and new wife, so I made plans to trek up to Rockport earlier this week for a visit with his family and my two small kids.

Tip had sent me directions, but I didn't give them too much thought until I pulled crossed the bridge into Gloucester, which I'd have to pass through on the way to Rockport.  I'd crossed that bridge many times in my early 20s, going to visit the girl from Gloucester that I dated through the end of college and into the first couple years of real life.

Mom always said, "Everybody gets one heartbreak," and this girl was it for me.  We had a deep relationship, and when it ended (and, to put the blame squarely in the right place, the end of things was largely my doing and fault), I was rudderless for a pretty long time.  Years, even.

It took me years just suss out where I had gone wrong, and more years to figure out how I was going to be a better person.  Years before the thought of her wasn't painful.  And years before every little damn thing---book, tv show, song, catchphrase, landmark, coffee cup, article of clothing, et cetera ad finitum---didn't remind me of her.

In my rudderless period, in the years I was living in Virginia, I had a roommate, who had the gone through the same kind of experience.  And for him, there was a house that he'd go by where all the good times had happened.  He'd drive by there and know that someone else lived there now and life had moved on.

When "Missing" came out, it struck a chord with him, and he'd play it when we was down.

I step off the train
I'm walkin' down your street again
And pass your door
But you don't live there anymore
It's years since you've been there
And now you've disappeared somewhere
Like outer space
You've found some better place

And because he played it often, whenever I heard it (mvy used to play it) I'd think of him and then think of me in my rudderless years.

So there I was, following Tip's directions to the beach house he had rented, realizing that I knew these streets, thinking that certainly the map would tell me to turn left at some point where I used to turn right.

But it didn't.  And soon I could see the hill that her house was on, off in the distance, coming closer.

This wouldn't be the first time I had gone by her house since our break-up.  At some point in the rudderless period, when I was home from Virginia visiting my folks, I was restless, unable to sleep.  I took the car and drove from my folks place in Newburyport, along the long and winding Route 1A until I reached the house where her parents lived, where I'd gone to visit her when we were on college break.  I knew she didn't live there, so I don't know what I was looking for, but I felt so sad inside.

She lived within walking distance of the beach, so I parked my car and stood on the sand.  It was late, but there was a woman off in the moonlit distance.  I knew there was no way it could possibly be my old girlfriend, but my mind kept telling me that, yeah, maybe it could be.  Then another voice from inside said, what if it is?  That thought terrified me.  I got back in my car and drove to Newburyport, far worse off, mentally, than when I'd just been restless in bed.

I wasn't thinking about this as I turned off my route to meet Tip, to get a look at the house.

I looked into the back seat and smiled at my kids.  "Daddy used to have a friend that lived in this neighborhood."

The house, on the whole, looked the same as it ever did, with a well-kept yard and a pretty set of bushes and a sloping driveway that tucked behind the house.

On the porch was a gigantic Red Sox banner.  And I knew right away that her parents must not live there anymore---that really wasn't their style.

I kept driving past, and got back on the route to see Tip.

I had the strangest sensation, as I drove away.

Nothing.

I didn't feel sadness.  Or pain.  Or regret.  Or hurt.

I had some warm memories of fun times we had, but it felt so far in the fuzzy past, that I couldn't help but notice that the feeling I was feeling, was missing.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Pat Benatar "Hit Me With Your Best Shot"

This one is not unlike last week's Huey Lewis/100th Monkey story . . .

Not only do different kids learn "cool" at different times, they learn about Sex at different times.

I remember listening to this song with my friend Brian, hanging out in my room.  My clock radio was cranked, and I was doing some badass 11-year-old pseudo-karate moves, in effect hitting things with my best shot.

Brian just looked at me and said, "That's not what she's talking about . . ."

She wasn't taking about boxing?  Or even some kind of metaphorical verbal sparring?

Good gracious! I thought.  She's talking about Sex!  **


Is it possible that other songs are about Sex too, and I have been completely unaware?

Long story short:  Yes.  Yes there are.


Hear the song on Youtube.

** Yes, I was the kind of 11 year old who might actually say "Good gracious."  It's no wonder I was late to Sex.  I was also really into Buddy Hackett.

Patty Griffin "I Smell A Rat"

Let the rumor-mongering continue!

It began earlier this week, when Robert Plant was talking to a journalist and said "I eloped and ran off to Texas."

His publicist later explained that Plant was just being "Cheeky" and was not actually married to singer-songwriter Patty Griffin.

If you've ever watched an unedited interview Plant, you know that he is hilarious, often wry, sometime deadpan, sometimes dry.  I'm sure the "eloped" quote was funny in the moment, but reads much more seriously than he meant it.

Okay, so he's not married to Patty Griffin.

But it does seem like the part about them being a couple is true.

Note that Griffin is on the bill for Newport Folk.

Shall we put 2 and 2 together and have it add up to unsubstantiated hysteria?

If you know anything about Robert Plant, you perhaps know that he is deeply interested in American Roots music, but has (to my knowledge) never appeared at the legendary Newport Folk Festival.

Do I smell a surprise appearance?

Or do I just smell a Jack-White-Is-Coming-To-Newport rat?


Hear the song on Youtube.

Jenn Grinels "Right From The Start"

Here's another suggestion for those independent artists who want to protect their investment and coax good things from the universe.

Maybe you should name your CD something like "Indestructible," or "Safely In Your Hands" or "Delivered By The Post Office With Maximum Efficiency And Care."

Because it seems like you are just asking for trouble if you name your CD "Broken Heartbreaker" and in fact have "Broken" and "Breaker" in large print on the cover.

Care to guess in what condition Jenn Grinels CD arrived in?

And you think that's just a coincidence?

Care to guess in what condition a second copy of the CD arrived in?

Yep, the unthinking, unfeeling, unknowable universe does like a good ironic chuckle.

Both CDs weren't just scuffed or dinged.  Both were cracked into pieces.  And strangely, there was nothing wrong with the jewel cases.  Just the discs were damaged.  Hrumph.

So we requested a third copy, which did arrive intact.

But I'm a little nervous to put it in our CD player, without dressing in some kind of protective gear first.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Robert Preston "Ya Got Trouble"

There is a long-running . . . let's call it "debate" between me and my wife about what makes a good song.

She does not enjoy, and will not listen to any artist whose music and/or voice, is secondary to their lyrical ability.

I, on the other hand, enjoy artists who don't necessarily have a great singing voice who or deliver their songs is a strummy, unadorned way, but whose words pack an emotional wallop.

Despite the fact that it's over 40 years old, I can listen to Bob Dylan's "It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding," and be stunned and amazed each and every time.

But to my wife, that song, with it's repetitive meter and bare bones instrumentation is about as interesting as a 4 year old humming through an empty cardboard paper towel roll (which we listen to a lot, due to having a small child).

To her way of thinking, if it is not musically interesting, it, by definition can not be a good song.  Period.  End of sentence.  End of argument.

Sure, "It's Alright Ma" can be considered great poetry.  But it is not great music.  And if it's not great music, she's not really interested in listening.  Or so she argues.

Naturally, I think that line of thinking is limiting, and a bit crazy.

I can easily love a song that that is musically wonderful, but lyrically vapid, or lame, or simply average.  "Wooly Bully" isn't Shakespeare, but it's a hell of a song.

Conversely, I am also totally willing to listen to a song that is simply strummed, or a bit monotone, or is delivered in a wavering or warbly voice, so long as the lyrics make me feel something.

Johnny Cash, or Springsteen's "Nebraska" or Gillian Welch might sound a little downbeat, or spare, or same-y from song to song, but the writing involved is incredible.

My wife and I will go back and forth about this for car trips on end, with no resolution in sight . . .

After we'd plumbed the depths of this discussion for the 87th time, I did start thinking about how both my wife and I grew up.

She always points out that her parents met, because they liked to dance.  Growing up, she was taken to shows like Sly And The Family Stone, and her folks played records from Earth Wind And Fire and Stevie Wonder.  The music was about the groove.

Meanwhile, over at the Finn household, growing up we listened to a lot of Show Tunes.  I loved Fiddler On The Roof, My Fair Lady, A Chorus Line and especially The Music Man.  (Yes, there weren't too many 4th Graders in my town, who loved Buddy Hackett like I did)

Here's the thing about Show Tunes:  Sure, some of the greatest musicians of the 20th Century, wrote some of the greatest pieces of music of the 20th Century, for Musicals.  But what the songs in Musicals are really about, are the lyrics.

In Musicals, songs are exposition, or show the character's true inner feelings, or resolve a particular plot point.  The songs are saying something, and the words are essential.

And that, I guess, is where we are coming from.  You don't need to know what Sly is saying, to love his music, but where would a musical be, without the lyrics?


Hear "Ya Got Trouble" on Youtube.


Hear Bob Dylan on Youtube.


Hear "Wooly Bully" on Youtube.

Cornershop "Brimful Of Asha"

Here's another Weekend Post:

This one is just so charming and unique, and clearly the band is good.  But even though they've put out acclaimed music since then, they haven't really hit upon anything as accessible as this . . .


Hear the song on Youtube.

Weekend posts are a chance to revisit songs that have happy memories, not of anything in particular, other than just hearing the tunes.

Many of these songs were tracks that I played during my 90s stint as an Alternative/Modern Rock radio show.  They're tunes that I hardly hear these days, but are wonderful to revisit.

Click on the "Weekend Posts" label below, to see other posts like this.
 

Elastica "Connection"

Here's another Weekend Post:

This one was such an insane smash, it's hard to believe that they never really got it together to produce anything half as memorable.

Due to lawsuits (from other bands claiming plagiarism), it took them 4 years to get a second album out, upon the release of which, they broke up.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Weekend posts are a chance to revisit songs that have happy memories, not of anything in particular, other than just hearing the tunes.

Many of these songs were tracks that I played during my 90s stint as an Alternative/Modern Rock radio show.  They're tunes that I hardly hear these days, but are wonderful to revisit.

Click on the "Weekend Posts" label below, to see other posts like this.

The Kinks "Come Dancing"

When I first envisioned this blog, and settled on the theme of writing about single songs and the things they remind me of, the absolute first thing that came to mind was . . .

David's Fish Market and my sister Julie.

I feel like there are large parts of my childhood that involve being in the car with my mother and my siblings, and my mother pulling into the parking lot of a store and saying, "Can you guys just stay in the car, while I do this quick errand?"

Being a parent now, I totally get it---taking your kids into a store it is a total hassle, when you're just trying to get something done.

So when we were old enough, Mom would just leave us in the car.  And when we were old enough to be trusted, Mom would leave us in the car and let us keep the keys so we could listen to the radio.

It was on one such occasion, when Mom wanted fish for dinner, that she left me and my sister Julie in the Dodge Caravan while she went into David's Fish Market in Salisbury. 

The Kinks "Come Dancing" came on the radio and we sang along.

Honestly, I can't recall that there was anything too special about the moment.  We just sang along and enjoyed the tune, and the parent-free 5 minutes.

But for years after that, whenever we'd be someplace and "Come Dancing" would come on, Julie and I would look at each other and say, "David's Fish Market!"

Every Day, I write about what a song reminds me of, and usually it has some deeper meaning or context or metaphor.  But sometimes, the song is just a simple reminder of the pleasure of singing a song with your sister, on an otherwise mundane trip to pick up some fish.


It's Julie's birthday today.  Happy Birthday, Sister!


Hear the song on Youtube.

John Mayer "Queen Of California"

As I've written before, I've got some ambivalent feelings about John Mayer.

At times, I've been a John Mayer apologist, saying that even if you don't like his Middle-Of-The-Road-Singer-Songwriter Stuff, don't write him off.  If he can stand on the Crossroads stage with Clapton, et al, then he's For Real, and someday he may make a record you'll like.

And at other times, I just haven't been able to embrace Mayer at all.

The problem with the former of the two arguments, is that there hasn't been a ton of evidence to support it, at least as far as radio songs go.

But with "Queen Of California" I feel like I have something to talk about.

Now, how much you like this song is entirely dependent on your appreciation for a certain Classic Jam Band, but for me, the playing, the music, the groove on this track brings out something I haven't felt before, about Mayer's music.  There's a level of substance there that was heretofore lacking for me.

Maybe in a few albums, the idea of being an apologist will fade, and I can just be a fan.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Postscript: While I wanted to write something positive, because I really, sincerely love this track, I can't let it go without saying that there's an amazing lyric, that drives me just a little bit nuts.  "Joni wrote 'Blue' in a house by the sea/I gotta believe there's another color waiting on me."  While, at first, I was struck by the cleverness of the line, I then was kinda put off because it sounds like John is equating himself with one of the most acclaimed songwriters of all time, suggesting that he probably has an album on the level of "Blue" within him.  Change the line to "I wanna believe . . ." and it takes out the certainty of his statement.

AC/DC "Jailbreak"

Here's how it went:  I would slip silently through the halls, doing my best to remain invisible.  I'd appear in her doorway, looking for sanctuary.  She would grab a loose piece of paper, from somewhere within her reach.  It might be from a roll.  It might be newsprint.  It might be a corner ripped off some instructions.  In pencil, she'd quickly scrawl an unintelligible line and say, "Come right back."

I'd present the piece of paper.  Which again, could be a tiny corner, or a sheet the size of a full newspaper.  Either way, her signature was only took up two inches of real estate.

"What is this?" the Study Hall teacher would ask.

"Mrs. Laganas says I can come to the Art Room for Study Hall."

"Can't she use a permission slip like everyone else?" the Study Hall teacher would ask, rhetorically.

This piece of paper didn't just grant me access to the Art Room.  Equally importantly, it granted me freedom from Study Hall.

Depending on who the Study Hall teacher was, Study Hall at my school was either a detention-like 45 minutes held in complete silence, or, perhaps worse, it was a kind of unrestricted social time, where the goal was to just basically keep the kids corralled for the period.  The latter was actually harder for me, as a teen, because I was horribly uncomfortable in all but the most familiar social situations.  I was fine among my few best friends.  But having to make conversation with anyone beyond that was an excruciating experience during my teenage years (which, if you've only known me as an adult who's profession is public speaking, you must find hilariously ironic).

So any opportunity to avoid social scrutiny, was welcome.

And Mrs. Laganas was welcoming.

If you had a free period, and she liked you well enough (ie. she knew that you weren't going to show that permission slip to your Study Hall teacher, then go to McDonalds), she'd let you come hang out in the Art Room.

So I went there at every free opportunity, found a corner to work in, and put my head into a drawing.  If Mrs. Laganas had a big class in session, she'd let me hide in the supply closet and do my work.

Sometimes, she'd have projects/assignments for me.  Perspective.  Figure drawing.  Oil painting.

But most of the time, I was on my own, drawing.

"You have an eye," she used to say.

I could draw.  Actually, I could illustrate.  I had this natural ability to look at a photograph or picture, and draw it exactly.

I wasn't all that imaginative.  I didn't paint from my mind.  I didn't even really draw from real life.

I drew album covers.  And Rolling Stone magazine pictures.  And Sports Illustrated photos.  Athletes and Rock Stars and Models and such.

For 45 minutes my head would be down near the table, my eyes darting back and forth between the photo and the white piece of paper.  And when the period ended, I'd pop my work back in the magazine, and head off to the next class.

At home that night, I'd be back in the Art Room---this time, my bedroom---head back in the picture, AC/DC on the boombox (which was, ridiculously, set at the absolute lowest setting possible so as not to alert anyone that I was still awake at this late hour, drawing when I should be in bed).

I'd be in a world where I drew the lines and I didn't have to say a word to anyone.

It was a sanctuary and a coping mechanism that got me though the long awkward stretch of youth.


Postscript:  How cool is it that I married an Art Teacher?  And that my house is about to become an Art Room?  My friend Mike Palmer (with minimal help from me) spent last weekend renovating our garage, to make a studio space, and my wife is offering day camps for kids and evening classes for adults, right out of The Art Shed (the site is live, but not finished . . .).


Hear the song on Youtube.