Bad Music and Good Memories

Jay and Peaches picked us up for the REO Speedwagon concert in Jay’s parents' Chevy something or other.  Marilyn begged me to go along, knowing full well that I hated REO Speedwagon with every Grateful Dead loving bone in my body.  I knew this was going to be torture but she and I were best friends and she was hoping Peaches and I would hit it off so we could all double-date in the future. His passion for REO Speedwagon already put him at a HUGE disadvantage for that scenario. It also didn't help that he preferred polo shirts and acid washed jeans to concert t-shirts and regular old blue jeans. My high school dream date played love songs on guitar, read books by Kurt Vonnegut and preferred biking to football. As I slipped into the backseat with Peaches, I knew it was going to be a very, very long night.

       Jay was captain of the football, baseball and wrestling teams at the boy’s boarding school down the road from where we lived. Although he boarded at the school, he was from Athol (actual name of a town) and was attending Deerfield Academy on a scholarship and unlike most of the other boys there, he was not a Mayflower descendant. He adored Marilyn and followed her around like a gorilla-sized puppy.

Peaches (what the hell was his real name anyway?) was way more interested in drinking the whiskey he sneaked into the Springfield Civic Center than trying to strike up any conversation with me. He and Jay danced and sang along to every song, pumping their triumphant fists into the air. By the end of the night, Peaches and Marilyn had polished off the whiskey and Jay and I helped them out to the car.

Interstate 91 follows the Connecticut River from New Haven, Connecticut through western Massachusetts, into Vermont and New Hampshire and continues all the way to the Canadian border. Drunk Peaches had sprawled out across the backseat so I squeezed into the front next to Marilyn and leaned my head against the passenger side window for the 30 minute drive back to South Deerfield. Peaches let out an occasional mumble or inebriated exclamation about how awesome the concert was from the back. The dark car filled with Marilyn and Peaches’ whiskey infused sweat as we made our way out of the crowded parking garage.

“And I'm gonna keep on lovin youuuuuuu

Cause it's the only thing I wanna doooooooo

I don't wanna sleep

I just wanna keep on lovin youuuuuu!”

We had just passed by the new Ingleside Mall in Holyoke when Marilyn leaned over to open my window a little more and in the span of seconds my brand new purple jumpsuit felt warm and wet -her whiskey scented dinner suddenly covered my lap.

        “I feel much better now.” She calmly reported.

I don’t remember if I screamed or jumped up in my seat but we did pull off the highway and I tried to scrape the goop off my pants with the scraps of paper we found in Jay’s car. Marilyn wiped a scant stream of barfy spittle that ran along her face into her golden mane of hair. She was beautiful even with barf on her face.

      I walked Marilyn into her dark, wood paneled house past her sleeping parents and got her settled into her room before walking across the cornfield to my house. I decided it was more prudent to go in from my garage so I could slip into the laundry room and rinse off my barf soaked clothes before anyone could lecture me.

Our friendship endured the barf test as well as many other Marilyn inspired antics. She was fearless and constantly dared me out of my introvert comfort zone.  Although we had only become friends the summer after my sophomore year in high school, it was as if we had been best friends our whole childhood.

Marilyn was so eager to leave our small town that she graduated a year early with my class in 1981. She gaily skipped off to RISD where she studied painting and glass blowing.

After high school we rarely saw each other as she was determined never to return to South Deerfield and I shared her sentiment. She spent one summer on Cape Cod working in a tourist shop and then left the East Coast entirely after her sophomore year to work in the glassblowing community in Seattle. She visited me with her boyfriend Preston Singletary during the summer of 1984 when I worked in Boston and again in 1985 when I lived in San Francisco. Once she married Australian artist Andrew Antoniou around 1990 the Pacific Ocean (and lack of money) kept us further apart. I can’t remember precisely the last time we saw each other but I believe it was in 1991 when I was living in Oakland and she and Andrew came to visit the Bay Area. After I moved to the Midwest, time and distance created a bigger gap in our communication, not to mention the three children I was busy attending to daily but we continued to write long letters a few times a year.  When email finally became the preferred method of communicating we felt even closer. Early in 2009, I tried to convince her to join this new thing called Facebook so we could peer into each other’s lives more easily. One of her last emails to me apologized for not figuring out Facebook but that she was battling ovarian cancer and wanted to focus on healing. We reminisced about our epic cooking sessions at her house when were teenagers creating entire gourmet meals to be enjoyed only by the two of us using her family’s fine china at their big dining room table, all the while serenaded by Heart or Iggy Pop from the stereo in their den.

My children never got to meet my best friend but they have heard all of the stories. I always credit her with rescuing me from teenage angst and keeping me sane. She dragged me out of my shyness and forced me to confront those fears and for that I am grateful. 

Marilyn left this world on November 11, 2009.

Being 13 Again!

     Worried about feeling old? Guess what?  If you have not already gone through menopause, then you have something to look forward to! You may be honored with the experience of living out those darkest days of adolescence all over again. This bonus adolescence is extra special because it is enhanced by the addition of wrinkles, gray hair, stretch marks, forgetfulness and some belly fat that just will not go away no matter how much you exercise. Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?  You get to be 13 all over again! You thought you were missing your youth and then it comes back to visit you. Women are so lucky. Forget about the whole  business of  those child bearing years coming to an end, you get to be sad and happy and sad and happy all in the span of 10 minutes. This bonus adolescence might even last longer than your first one if you are extremely fortunate. You can be 13 again and again for like 5 years. Getting old is so much fun! 

     Remember when you were in 7^th grade math class and you thought you could get your period at any minute and since you were wearing tight white pants and the teacher didn’t let students leave to use the bathroom, you would most likely start gushing blood all over the place? Menopause is just like that only maybe without the watermelon lip smacker in your back pocket.  Those final menstruation years are full of surprise appearances. That aging uterus is having its own fire sale in there and everything must GO, GO, GO! 

      Were you missing that time when you were going through puberty and suddenly  all of your clothes didn't fit one day because overnight some kind of freakish  internal mechanism expanded your hips and chest? Your new menopause belly and flappy arms were created by that same perverse internal mechanism all these years later. Yay!

     Maybe we will feel better if we sing "How Lovely to be a Woman" from  "Bye Bye Birdie" over and over until this phase passes. Or better yet, let's all form an old lady band and sing some Ramones' tunes. 

“Home is where you wear your hat.”

-Lord John Whorfin / Dr. Emilio Lizardo from

The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension

I drove my eldest child to the Oakland airport a couple of weeks ago, past the city where she was born, past the exit I used to take back to my Oakland apartment when I returned late at night from trips to Los Angeles, Stockton or Baja, California in the late 80’s with the man who is now my husband. Past the exit I felt the clutch slip on my first car but didn’t know that’s what was happening and thought I was going to die a fiery death.

On this trip to the airport, my eldest and youngest child and I drove past the Oakland Coliseum, which might be called the Oracle Arena because every big arena seems to be named after a business now. This is the same venue where I saw the Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan in 1987 and later in 1989 where I viewed the Boston Red Sox play the Oakland A’s and I could not let go of my ingrained childhood loyalty to the Red Sox. The Red Sox lost but the series continued when the A’s faced the San Francisco Giants in the “Battle of the Bay.” There was a little natural disaster called the Loma Prieta earthquake in the middle of all of this rivalry and once all the dust settled and baseball could resume the remaining games were all held at the Oakland Coliseum.

This Oakland airport is the same place I sat crying into a payphone when “People’s Express” cancelled my flight to Massachusetts in June of 1985. It’s there where I learned about credit cards, business bankruptcy and reading the fine print.

After my eldest daughter effortlessly waved goodbye and disappeared into the airport last month, my youngest child and I drove past the exit that once had a view of giant homes and 1970’s era dark brown cedar shake apartment buildings which appeared to hang precariously onto the hillside over the Walnut Creek tunnel until they were consumed by the Oakland Hills fire in late 1991 when I was 7 months pregnant.

I almost never think about the Loma Prieta Earthquake or the Oakland hills fire from my Minnesota home. I also never have these visceral memories of California while driving around the streets of St Paul where I am more likely to remember the winter my second child was born and I barely left the house because it was so cold and icy outside.

All of these stream of consciousness memories flood my brain on this one 25 minute trip to the Oakland airport with my oldest and youngest child in the car with me. The oldest, who I carried in a front baby pack, bundled under my oversized vintage overcoat when she was colicky for her first 8 weeks of life. She and I walked up and down College Avenue in Oakland where her inconsolable wails were drowned out by the buses, cars and BART trains. We walked every night to spare the neighbors in our small apartment building the incessant crying.

I have lived in Minnesota for 20 years and in the same house for 14. That is the longest I have ever lived in one house or even in one state for my entire 51 years. Two of my three children were born in Minnesota and my youngest has only ever lived in one house, except for the two semesters we spent in California for my husband’s sabbatical in 2001 and now in 2015. I consider myself fortunate to have called so many places home because each time I visit one of those homes I see some street sign or shop or hillside that draws out a memory from my aging brain that I forgot was in there.

We are not Men

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.

 http://s131.photobucket.com/user/jwdoom/media/Satisfactionipod.mp4.html

Moms Who Rock

 

         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 5^th 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....”

In Which I Go to a Concert Alone for the First Time Since I was 20.

  

     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.

The Universe is Stupid and Other Immature Thoughts From a Mature Woman

 

         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.

        

What A Difference A Year Makes

 

What a difference a year makes.

     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.

    I'm looking forward to next July.

    

    

Father John Misty - "Hollywood Cemetery Sings"

(What's April doing here?)

Fleet Foxes "Helplessness Blues"

Now Appearing!: Dirty Dancing Girl and the Amazing Beanie Brothers

     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.

With a Little Help from my Friends

     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.

   

"Hope I Die Before I Get Old!"

      I imagine that strangers harass Roger Daltry on a daily basis with this line and it must take a bit of restraint on his part not to haul out and punch someone.  He was in town recently singing the rock opera "Tommy" and it got me to thinking about when rock musicians make that final decision to stop touring. I didn't have a driving desire to see Roger  this time although I remember a very fine Clash/Who concert in Philadelphia in the early 80's when I thought the Who were ready to retire and it was going to be my last chance to see these rock legends. I guess I was wrong about it being their last concert but after watching their Super Bowl performance a couple of years ago, I think I made the right decision to stop at the 80's. I did get a chance to see Wanda Jackson recently when she opened for Adele, though. Wanda is older than Roger and even though she admitted to having a "senior moment" when she couldn't remember what song she was about to sing, she was strutting around like  it was 1957 or something. Maybe recording a song with Jack White and touring with Adele has kept her feeling spry. Miss Wanda was inspirational.
     X was coming to town this month and I was really conflicted about going to see them. They are my absolute favorite punk band from the 80's and I couldn't decide whether to keep them in a time capsule in my mind or hear them again. The geezer 60's rocker image has been around awhile but I just wasn't sure how aging punk rockers held up. The list of aging musicians is long, but I hadn't revisited any that I had seen in the 80's yet. X was the first. I almost didn't go at all because none of my whack ol' lady friends liked X as much as I had. 2 hours before the doors opened my not so old but possibly slightly whack friend Michelle decided she could leave her 4 kids at home with her husband and venture out. 

   Instead of an opening band, they started the night with a documentary film about X. Now I am not sure that a music venue with a limited number of chairs is the best place to show a movie to a bunch of 40-ish year olds but the diehard fans stood the whole time. We needed to sit for a spell and watched half of the movie from the balcony (a favorite spot for WOL). The ratio of youngins' to WOL was the inverse of Soundset and except for the 40-ish year old couple wildly making out at the bar, I would say we all acted our age. 

     The band took to the stage with little fanfare, said hello, told us all they were going to play the whole "Los Angeles" album from start to finish and jumped right in. Billy Zoom used all the same moves he had 29 year ago. He stood perfectly still with a glazed look on his face and smiled. That was his schtick and he was sticking to it. When they launched into "Nausea" I wasn't sure how that song was going to hold up..."Today you're gonna be sick so sick. You'll prop your forehead on the sink. Say oh Christ oh Jesus  Christ. My head's gonna break like a bank." Instead of singing the "Christ oh Jesus Christ,"part Exene sang "Oh no, Oh no, Oh no" and it just didn't pack the same wallop. 
  We stayed until the last encore, Billy Zoom took some photos of the audience and we all went home. I don't know what I expected- more flailing less contentment?  There were a few people getting tossed around in a makeshift mosh pit and one angry, drunk dude who kept hitting on all the women in the front row and then flipping them off after they moved away from him. 
  "This must be the new world.."

Summer Music Festivals

    Summer is slipping away and the Whack ol Ladies will try to squeeze in one more show before all the music has to move indoors. Outdoor concerts can be a big, fun party especially if there is a solid line up of WOL favorites.   Now Woodstock is the gold standard of outdoor music festivals but even this Whack ol Lady is too young to have hung out at Yasgur's farm with Jimi Hendrix and a whole lot of mud.

   The Whack ol Ladies began the summer music festival season at  Soundset - the hip hop/rap extravaganza in late May. The ratio of youngsters to WOL was so much that we were simply invisible. Our invisibility may have been enhanced by their glassy eyed inebriation. However-if there had been a "name that tune" contest while the DJ's did their  music sampling we would have crushed our younger opponents since most of the music sampled was from before all them were born.

    Rock The Garden had a much better youngster to WOL ratio. It may have been influenced by the fact that the tickets sold out to public radio and Walker Museum members first. The rainy weather may have helped to keep the weak ones away. There was a little bit of mud but no one was ripping of their clothes and rolling around in it. Everyone was having a good time, getting a little wet, drinking a few beers and visiting.  In the past I plunked my blanket down and hung out with my friends. This year since the ground was so wet, I decided to take it all in from the stage area.It was like one big backyard party with thousands of your closet buddies. 

     Although most of the shows at the Minnesota Zoo seemed to target older and less whack musical tastes (The Monkees, Dave Mason), we did get out to see hometown favorites Jeremy Messersmith and Rogue Valley.  The snow monkeys were happy to have a few late night visitors and we all could have listened to the bands play on into the night. I have seen Jeremy Messersmith sing 3 times this year and by far the zoo concert was the most enjoyable by WOL standards: no drunken hecklers, lots of fans and a diversity of ages. Rupert the random dancing man helped to get even the stiffest grandpa to smile.

   I am not sure that the Whack ol Ladies want to venture out to Bonnaroo or Coachella in the near future but the line ups are always so tempting. We may have to think about packing a tent for next year.

Peace man.

The Drunk-O-Meter Rating System

Tonight after an annoying drunk almost ruined a perfectly lovely concert by Fleet Foxes, I've decided to start a "drunk-o-meter" rating system for the concerts attended by the Whack ol' Ladies.  The drunkenness of other concert goers has been a recurring theme for the Whack ol' Ladies. We don't go out very often and when we do, we would much rather listen to the musicians than some drunken smart ass shouting one liners at the band. I'm not really sure what makes someone feel that an entire concert hall wants to hear his insights, but an abundance of alcohol seems to always be a contributing factor. I have thought of suggesting to the music venues that there should be some sort of "fan test" before people are allowed in- "can you sing more than one song by the artist or are you only here only to drink the beer?"
     In the WOL drunk-o-meter rating system, a 1 is a concert that is enjoyable and not affected by the intoxication of others. A concert with a 5 rating is completely ruined by the drunks. 
Fleet Foxes is at 4, since the shouting drunks really bummed out the band and they didn't really feel like talking for awhile. I thought at one point they were just going to walk off stage. Whack ol' Ladies get very motherly at these moments and want to march right over to the offending jerks and give them a piece of their minds.

A brief drunk-o-meter rating for the last year:

Spoon-2 (annoying guy moved on)

Cloud Cult,Mason Jennings, Peter Wolf Crier-3 (barfing brothers)

Cloud Cult at First Avenue-1 (CD release party brought out the fans)

Andrew Bird-1 (maybe the violin kept the drunks away)

Dessa-1 (MPR was filming)

Kings Go Forth-2 (beer dropped on my feet)

Les Nubiens-1(everyone having fun)

Pert Near Sandstone-2 (harmless guys in baseball hats)

Raphael Saadiq-2 (dancing drunken guy waving arms and blocking view)

Soundset-5 (maybe I won't go next year-plethora of the impaired)

Rock the Garden-1 ( Tickets sold out to MPR and Walker Art Center members first- and it was raining)
Jeremey Messersmith at the Varsity -5 (drunken hecklers galore)
Jeremey Messersmith, Chan Polling etc at the Fitzgerald-1 (MPR event)

School of Rock

    The Whack ol Ladies have been busy being moms and trying to get out to shows whenever possible. Blogging about all that has fallen by the wayside of late but since I have a few minutes to myself with no one breathing down my neck begging to use the computer I'll take a little time to ruminate.
    It's no secret that I like to talk about music but I have absolutely no background in music theory or  even the history of music. It's just  a nerdy fascination akin to collecting stamps . I don't pretend to know anything about the technical aspects of music making, either - I just know what I like to listen to.
      My oldest daughter and I share a very similar taste in music and it has been fun to watch her musical interests evolve over time.  I didn't want to be didactic and only play classical music  because I thought it would increase her brain capacity.  When she was fussy,  we listened to Arlo Guthrie, Jonathan Richman, Bob Dylan, The Beatles or Simon and Garfunkel.  All of my old Jonathan Richman records made perfect kid music. All 3 of my kids think that every child knows the words to "Dodge Vegematic" and "Abominable Snowman in the Market." In the early days of musical child rearing I only refused to listen to or buy any of the "Wee Sing"  or "Barney" recordings. As a matter of fact we were a Barney -free household even though all the other moms kept telling me how their children were mesmerized by the purple fellow. I just couldn't go there. We danced around to David Bowie instead.
     As my oldest daughter grew, she began to have an opinion about what she wanted to hear. If there was a long car ride in our future, we could travel a long way with recordings from old Disney movies or Danny Kaye's "Hans Christian Anderson." After I got tired of Disney we moved into the recordings from kid friendly Broadway tunes.

 

      I would like to take this opportunity to thank Baz Luhrmann for his vision in the movie, Moulin Rouge. That movie helped introduce another generation to David Bowie and Elton John.  My girls were surprised to find out that most of the songs in the movie were actually "old!" I guess the Shrek movies and Gossip Girl have helped to educate another generation in the oldies from the 1980's too.
    Now my big girl and I go out to hear music together and talk all nerdy about it. 


    

The More Things Change....

I don't know what I expected. Somehow I thought that the music venue drinking scene would have changed more in the 10+ years  I had been away from it.  Public intoxication seems to have no shelf life. I freely admit my fondness for a good Surly or two, but still find sloppy drunks who shout at musicians really annoying- and don't get me started on the public barfing.
Last summer my oldest daughter and I went to hear a wonderful line up of musicians at an outdoor concert.  I will admit that I did take the opportunity to point out the hazards  of public drunkenness. Twin brothers "thing one and thing two" were having a great time until they had to make a run for it. Sloppy drunk man behind us asked whether we liked Cloud Cult and then wondered if the band on stage was Cloud Cult ( um yeah, it was dude)

This weekend I actually almost told someone to "shush" when he was talking loudly while Jeremy Messersmith was singing. Granted, Jeremy came on at 11 and the crowd was well on its way to that happy place but I really wanted to hear the music. The Whack ol' Ladies  found a nice spot on the upper balcony and enjoyed the rest of the show from there.

Puzzled Looks

I have to admit that I forget that I am getting older most days. My 15 year old does her best to remind me that--in fact I am no longer young and  moms of a certain age should not be singing along to the radio or dancing around the house.

However on more than one occasion when I have been engaged in a conversation about music with someone born in  the latter half of the last century, I get a confused look. I hear them saying to themselves--"who is this strange woman-child and why does she speak like one of my peers?" I am usually a bit demur and apologetic about my interest in new music- like I can't help myself. "Um yeah I do think Jack White is a crazy genius."

Last week I was getting my hair cut and highlighted by the most charming 20ish stylist with many fabulous tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. We talked the usual small talk about celebrities and current events until I heard a Mason Jennings on their music mix. When I proceeded to tell him about the fabulous concert I went to last summer with Mason Jennings and Cloud Cult he stopped and stared  at me with the "wait- aren't you too old for that?" look. Luckily I really am too old to care what he thinks.

It's been a while but the Whack ol Ladies are going out tomorrow. Jeremy Messersmith will be singing at the Varsity.

Playin' With the Queen of Hearts

My little brother tortured me with a cassette tape player when he was about 8 years old. He chased me around the house playing the song "Playin with the Queen of Hearts" over and over and over  again. It was brutal but somehow our relationship grew into the  supportive one it is today. I like to remind him of his awful taste in music back then- but I guess I was the one who listened to the Partridge Family when I was 8 .  I will admit that I tried to influence his musical choices after that period. I was worried that he was headed down the wrong  path.  The first tape I ever made for him had the Boomtown Rats on one side and The Jam on the other. He listened to it on our very modern Sony Walkman. The following year I got him Big Country's "The Crossing."  I am  pretty sure he was the only kid in his grade that had a Big Country album. He was that cool.
Happy Birthday, little brother. I think I'll make you a "mix tape" from the bottom of my heart.

Canary in A Coma

When my best friend Marilyn & I first heard The Police's "Canary in a Coal Mine" we misheard a critical word for the comprehension of the song.  We thought the canary was not in a “coal mine” but rather in a “coma.” This was 1981 and The Police was one of the few “new wave” bands sandwiched between Rush and Bob Seeger on the commercial radio stations of western Massachusetts.  The nonsensical image of a little canary in coma fit right in with our burgeoning appreciation for the new music we were slowly learning about via our friends’ older siblings or from reading Rolling Stone. That semester our art teacher was on sabbatical and we had a very laid back substitute who let us use all the art supplies. No more line drawings with charcoal pencils; we were allowed to break out the oil paints and canvas!   Marilyn, who went on to study art at RISD was inspired to paint a canary with little "x" over its eyes. Once we learned the real title of the song, it just didn't carry the same amount whimsy.

Marilyn continued to be a gifted visual artist until her death from cancer in 2009.

Music and Memory

     I can't hear Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life" or "Sweet Sixteen in Leather Boots" without being transported to my best friend  Marilyn's family room circa 1980- dark paneling, overstuffed couch and a big stereo. I think I even hear her mom giving us dating advice- but that's another story. February 22nd would have been her 47th birthday if she had not been snatched away by cancer  a year ago. 
Not all songs I hear from the past have such a visceral effect, but Iggy can really bring me back. We bought that album at a used record store without knowing anything about Mr. Pop. We listened to it at top volume flailing around the room any time her parents were gone. Marilyn was fearless and so much more confident than any other 16 year old I knew. She had these skin tight red corduroys that she called her "rock star jeans" and only she was brave enough to wear them to school. These 2 songs have that incredible power over my brain. It automatically switches into flashback mode. I wish I could  as easily remember all that philosophy I studied in college. But then again, David Hume wasn't my best friend.



 

A little background

Once upon a time I devoted a large portion of my thought process to thinking and talking about music with friends. The first record I consciously remember buying was a 45 of the Archie's singing "Sugar Sugar." My musical tastes followed along with the times and my age- Partridge Family, Donny Osmond, Jackson 5 until I was 10. John Denver and The Beatles til 13. 7th grade seemed to be the time when what you listened to defined who you were.  Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith and Jethro Tull meant you were cool. John Denver was out.

  Most people I talk to who love music seem to always remember these "wake up moments" in their own musical history.  Saturday Night Live is one of those cultural windows for many teenagers. First you have to stay up late and that automatically makes you older and cooler.  I saw Devo for the first time on SNL and they kind of freaked me out a bit until I realized that I actually liked how completely different they were from everything I had ever seen before.  When I saw the B52's I was convinced I wanted to put those Grateful Dead and Neil Young records aside for awhile and see what else was out there. They were kind of the gateway band for my upcoming obsession. I went out and got a used copy of the Sex Pistol's  "Never Mind the Bullocks" and began a new adventure.