Devo was my gateway drug for exploring new music in 1979. The first time I saw them on Saturday Night Live, I thought they were part of some kind of alien invasion or maybe accomplices in another Andy Kaufman bit. Were they going to whip off their goggles and start reading The Great Gatsby? It was late at night of course and I was watching t.v alone in the dark
on the lower level of our modern raised ranch style house on the edge
of a Western
Massachusetts cornfield. Their emotionless facial expressions and spastic dancing style caught me off guard before I embraced their quirky genius. A hop, skip and a jump later I bought a couple of Clash albums and embraced the modern world.
Middle
age dad bands are a thing. In my small circle of friends I can list off 5 dads
who are in a band just for fun and an occasional gig at a local dive bar. The
same cannot be said of my mom friends. Most are too busy with work, carpools,
volunteer commitments and the occasional book club or night out to make time to
hang out and jam. The “to do” list is infinitely long most days and the tasks
just rollover to the next.
A
few years ago I really wanted to start a band with my friends but no one had
any time to spare and there was a severe shortage of instrument players. Most
of my friends were willing to be back up singers and many could play the piano
or flute but we really lacked killer guitar players. I
took about 3 guitar lessons in 5th grade and then just taught myself
the rest-which means I don’t actually know how to play more than a few songs by
Joni Mitchell, The Beatles or Neil Young. I must have left my guitar at home
after my first year of college and it disappeared at some point- possibly sold
at a yard sale when my family moved. The passing of time and lack of lessons
has not improved my guitar playing skills thus making it hard to actually start a band in the first place. Factor in the time
commitment and the lack of willing participants, the mom band “Whack ol’ Ladies” never got off the ground.
I remember hearing about a musical from the 80's called “Angry Housewives” from one of my Seattle friends
when I was a senior in college. With a sparkle in her eyes she recounted her
favorite song from the show “Eat your F*ckin Cornflakes.” I loved that show
without ever seeing it. When I was 21, I couldn’t fathom a time when I was
married with kids and pets and the idea that someone could write something so irreverent
about motherhood was exhilarating and made me less queasy about growing up. I wanted to be that band of moms singing about corn flakes and carpools with the occasional cover of a Clash or X song thrown in.
Enter plan B- find an existing band or group of singers and
beg to join. Choirs are big in the Midwest- Gay Men’s Chorus, One Voice Mixed
Choir, Kantorei and Twin Cities Community Gospel Choir are only a few. I didn't want to sing religious music and really
just wanted to sing songs by The Clash and X with a bunch of women who appreciated
the irony. Finally I asked the right person who had a friend in Prairie Fire
Lady Choir. At the first rehearsal we practiced a mash up of Mr. Sandman (The Chordettes)
and Enter Sandman (Metallica). It was then that I knew I found my people. We have an eclectic repertoire:
Fiona Apple, George Michael, Prince, Tom Waits, Buddy Holly, The Cookies and
more. We range in age and musical experience and many are not moms at all but we all come together and
escape through singing. Because I often think in song lyrics, the Talking Heads' song “Life During Wartime”comes to mind every time we practice “we dress
like students, we dress like housewives....”
The last time I went to a concert alone, I rode my bike
through the rolling hills of the Connecticut River Valley in Western
Massachusetts to a small church where I saw of all things a hardcore punk
concert. I honestly can't even remember who was playing-Minutemen? Suicidal Tendencies? I was one
of maybe two women there and for sure the only person on a janky old 10 speed.
I snapped up a ticket months ago to see James Blake, a young
British musician with the most hauntingly beautiful voice. I had his first
album on constant repeat when I was traveling recently and his soothing
voice and electronic sound made a perfect backdrop to the insanity of airline travel.
At one point three
friends were going to be at the show but over the course of a few weeks each
one had family commitments that prevented them from attending so I asked one of
my young free spirited friends at the last minute. After a series of comical
mishaps of modern communication, I ended up getting dropped off since my friend
thought I had bought his ticket and I thought he was buying his own. This happens more often than one would think but there I was.
Although I had run into five people I knew at the last show
at First Avenue, it was clear from the youthful crowd that I was not going to
know anyone this time. I did what any modern mom would do in this situation - pulled out
my phone and starting messaging my daughter time zones away, wishing she could
enjoy James Blake with me and we could take in the scene together. I lamented
my solitary predicament and she reminded me that her music loving friend Henry
went to lots of shows alone before he died unexpectedly last month so I could soldier on alone. Mother-daughter pep talks are wonderful no matter what the medium or time of night.
The concert began with a body-thumping baseline that
vibrated every single aging cell in my body. My nose was tickling and my heart
was trying to escape through my throat. I had to retreat to higher ground with as much dignity as possible. There was however a lot of canoodling in the old lady balcony that night, which should not have surprised
me given James Blake's sultry voice. However when the lanky blonde next to me decided
this was the perfect time to show her male friend just how much she was into
him, I had to find another vantage point.These awkward public displays of passion are the kind of concert
predicaments that are way more fun to laugh about with a friend or daughter by your side.
not sleazy at all
Back in the
80’s when I went out dancing in NY and SF or went to hear live music I was constantly surrounded by lust
so I should not have been surprised given the age group of my fellow James
Blake fans- I had just forgotten about that part of the music scene. Life is full of surprises no matter what the decade. Love and Peace.
During
college my negative view of life, love and the world around me was fueled by
the music I listened to. The Dead Kennedy’s, The Clash, Black Flag, X, Sex
Pistols, Minutemen, The Germs and The Buzzcocks provided the soundtrack to my
nihilistic belief that there was no god, the world was a dangerous place and
we wander around in sadness until we die. Did I mention I was a philosophy
major? The universe appeared vast and meaningless and Ronald Reagan was
president.
The
nineties rolled around and I had my first of three children. Suddenly the
universe didn’t seem so bleak after all. Life was brimming with possibilities.
Those screams were going to turn into songs. Scaling the living room
bookshelves turned into a love of hiking. I was too busy changing
diapers to worry about the future and too sleep deprived to care. The Sex
Pistols sounded so angry and I was trying to keep it quiet at my house
so the baby would take a nap and I could rest.
With
not enough time to listen to college radio I lost touch with new music in the
nineties. Whatever I did end up buying came as a CD but I still lugged my whole
record collection around each time I moved because I was sure I could never part with all that vinyl. When I
was pregnant with my third child and my oldest was 7 and youngest was 3, I
thought it would be a good idea to get rid of any albums I had with
inappropriate or curse laden lyrics.I didn’t want my 2 girls to inadvertently put on P.I.L or The Germs. We listened to Jonathan Richman, David Bowie, Talking Heads, Arlo
and Woody Guthrie and lullabies from around the world when they were sick,
anxious, bored or sleepy.
Now
my youngest is 13 and lists The Ramones and the Clash as his favorite bands and
has learned the bass lines for many of their songs. Macklemore’s Thrift Shop is on everyone’s Ipod (f-bombs and all) and we even
go to concerts together. My oldest just turned 21 so now she can have a
beer the next time we see Father John Misty together. Musical F-bombs are the least of
my worries.
In
the last four months two incredible young people
were suddenly yanked away from my circle of friends: a beautiful and wise 20 year old master debater and future policy maker and a sweet and kind 21 year old guitar playing economics major. Their deaths
were sudden and with proper and prompt medical care might have been avoided but no one can know for sure. I can't
fathom a universe that allows this to happen. The only coherent thought I have
come up with this week is that the universe is stupid. These two young adults had so much to give the world through their kindness and talents. Don’t even get me started on the
Newton, CT school shooting.
I’m
angry at the stupid universe and I am still not sure about the existence of God but I am not reaching for the Sex Pistols or the Germs today. Today’s
sadness soundtrack is full of James Blake, Field Report, Jeremy Messersmith, Peggy Lee and
a dash of Phantom Vibration.
Father John Misty started his
show last week trying to explain a twitter comment and photo chronicling his
previous wild night in Chicago and apologizing for not really knowing if we
were really all there or merely a figment of his imagination. He swept back his
curls, sauntered across the stage and launched into “Funtimes in Babylon” --- “I would like to abuse my lungs/smoke everything in sight
with every girl I’ve ever loved and ride around the wreckage on a horse knee deep
in blood
Lookout Hollywood, here I
come.”
These verses came from the
mouth of the same guy that only one year ago was singing about the bucolic
beauty of orchards and romantic love when I saw him perform as a member of the group Fleet Foxes. “If I had an
orchard, I'd work till I'm raw-
If I had an orchard, I'd work
till I'm sore- And you would wait tables and soon run the store”
It’s true that he did not
write Fleet Foxes’ “Helplessness Blues,” but with each verse from his new solo
album, I began to wonder just what he might have been dreaming about in the back of their tour bus last year.
His creative arc from the four part harmony, love and peace vibe of the Crosby Stills Nash and Young inspired music of Fleet Foxes to the darker William
S Burroughs tinged lyrics of “I’m Writing a Novel” has got me mesmerized: “I ran down the road, pants down to my
knees screaming, “please come help
me, that Canadian shaman gave a little too much to me!” He may have played through the whole album last week ( I was only familiar with three songs at the time) but his set was over too quickly. He rocked hard on his most well known tune, "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" - strobe lights, rippin' guitar solo and at one point I couldn't see all of him but I think he was writhing around on the stage. Apparently he used up all his energy by then and did not have it in him for an encore. He apologized and waved goodnight. He was the second opening act for a group I was unfamiliar with called Youth Lagoon. My trusty concert companion (daughter) and I decided to stay for the headliner, watch the crowd, talk about electronic drone music and frat bros, and wait for the merch guy to return to the table so we could buy a copy of "Fear Fun."
I am curious about Josh Tillman's journey and wonder what direction he will take his music and writing next. The mom in me wants to make sure he'll be alright after he travels down this darker road.
Dirty Dancing Girl showed up at the wrong concert last week. Apparently she thought her ticket said "Prince" instead of "Dawes" and believe me nothing says bump and grind more than Taylor Goldsmith's wonderfully sentimental lyrics:
"like the memory from your mother's house from before you got too old
like the feeling from a photograph before its meaning all got told."
Yow! Get down!
I felt a little sorry for Dirty Dancing Girl's boyfriend as he helplessly looked around while she made her moves. If he had asked for my Whack ol' Lady relationship advice I would have told him to find someone who shared his interest in Dawes. She really should have hooked up with the Beanie Brothers up front because their girlfriends were equally confounded by their thrashing and fist pumping more likely to be seen at Husker Du. The Beanie Brothers were having a good time and I'm not sure I would have taken such a liking to them if they hadn't been wearing matching hats.
As with many of the concerts I go to with my daughter, we occasionally get into conversations with other folks there and get a similar response each time. The moms think it is so sweet that the two of us go out together and often wistfully wish their own children would allow them to do the same. I try my best to keep a low profile and limit the embarrassing movements and clothing choices. Occasionally when I tell others I write a blog about music I either get a blank stare and a kind of "what the f*ck are you talking about look" or the person's eyes light up and there is more of a "where have you been--you are my new best friend" look. Some of the younger folks kind of chuckle and secretly wonder how I even know about blogging.
Someday my daughter won't want to go out with me anymore or our musical tastes will diverge but it's a good ride right now and I'll go along until we hit a bump.
Whack ol' Ladies have a persistent problem- finding other WOL willing to stay up late enough to go out and hear live music. It is a recurring dilemma- drag an unwilling companion or go alone and run the risk of looking silly and the avoidance of looking silly is one of the major tenets of the Whack ol' Lady credo.
This WOL recently took along her not so terribly unwilling husband to see Dawes. Normally not one to go out to a music venue late at night, Dawes' gentle, 1970's Southern California sound was enough of an enticement to get him out the door. It helped that my WOL friend had her husband in tow as well. Now, as mentioned before, certain WOL concerts have better WOL/young folk ratios than others. There was a lot of gray hair and denim in the Dawes crowd. Some of the criticism I have read about Dawes' musical style centers on their seemingly recycled 1970's, Jackson Brown era sound. This trait is precisely why many gray hairs were out in force. It's a new twist on a familiar sound. Given that many of the Dawes fans at First Avenue that night were over 40, there really were no outrageously inebriated fans milling about (Drunk-o-Meter rating=1). We all stood around drinking beer and behaving ourselves. Whack ol' Ladies do like to sit down every once and a while and a good chair is hard to come by at most venues. We like our balconies and those with chairs are extra rare. While waiting for the band to take the stage I was stretching my back while leaning on the second floor railing. A kind First Ave employee mistook my stretching for feeling queasy and was a little worried I was going to hurl off the top balcony into the stairwell below. I would have liked to have overheard that employee training session .."and keep your eyes open for patrons who lean over the railings..it could get messy."
Although I never did barf in public when I was young enough for that tendency, I did help a few friends who weren't so lucky. The barf test is a sign of true friendship. I was unwillingly dragged along to an REO Speedwagon concert with my best friend Marilyn because her boyfriend bought a bunch of tickets and she begged me not to abandon her. Although I don't remember how she got drunk, I was definitely the one sitting next to her in the car on the way home. Not only did I have to get her quietly into her house, I somehow needed to clean myself off before my parents caught a whiff of me when I got home. Marilyn died from cancer 2 years ago and this is one of the many memories I cherish of her- barf and all.
