The empty hallway beyond the elevator doors...

1. Finest Worksong


2. Living Well Is the Best Revenge


3. Bad Day

4. What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

5. Drive

6. Ignoreland

7. Man-Sized Wreath

8. Little America

9. Hollow Man

10. Walk Unafraid.

11. Houston

This song was apparently written in response to the following 2005 remarks by former First Lady, Barbara Bush in response to the mass exodus of Katrina victims to Houston: 

What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them.

Wow.  This family has always been big on tact.

13. (Don’t Go Back To) Rockville

14. Pop Song 89

15. Horse to Water

16. The One I Love

17. Driver 8

Gosh, they're so young!

18. Until The Day Is Done

19. Let Me In

20. These Days

22. I'm Gonna DJ

Encore:

23. Supernatural Superserious

24. Losing My Religion

25. Mr. Richards

26. Fall On Me

I remember it being July 1, 2006.  And flying in on a plane.  A plane.  I showed up in Philadelphia, to this day the least friendly airport I’ve ever navigated.  Ever.  And the two of them picked me up—two slovenly dressed 20-somethings.  The two of them completely lost in their own drama; their own language; a language of a place they and been sent to bring me to.  And then we got in the van.  We got in the van and began the hour-long interstate journey away from Philadelphia and into the heart of nowhere.  As we set out, I heard the opening notes of a song I’d never heard before:

Oh, well imagine, as I'm pacing the pews in a church corridor,
and I can't help but to hear, no I can't help but to hear an exchanging of words:
"What a beautiful wedding! What a beautiful wedding!" says a bridesmaid to a waiter.
"And yes, but what a shame, what a shame, the poor groom's bride is a whore."

I thought it was a tad abrasive, and a bit unique.  But then she started to sing along, and her over-sized hoops intended to be worn by someone much less white than she swung back and forth from her ears as the obnoxious chorus began:

I'd chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!"
No, it's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality.
I'd chime in, "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!"
No, it's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of...

Well in fact, well I'll look at it this way, I mean technically our marriage is saved
Well this calls for a toast, so pour the champagne
Oh! Well in fact, well I'll look at it this way, I mean technically our marriage is saved
Well this calls for a toast, so pour the champagne, pour the champagne

I never knew the title of the song while I was there.  Never.  I didn’t need to know it.  I could refer to it by “Goddamn Door” and everyone knew exactly what I was talking about.  Indeed it was that ubiquitously known to the denizens of CampCrazy.  Upon my return to “civilization” I stopped listening to radio, and watched no television, so I remained in the dark about the song’s title for a little longer.  I don’t know when I figured out this Panic! at the Disco song was called I Write Sins not Tragedies but I did.  Christ, it was so pretentious!  .

So what brings this to mind, nearly two years later?  Well, the urging of someone with dubious taste in music to use my comp ticket privileges on a Panic at the Disco concert landed me front and center at one of their concerts.  My ears are still ringing.

Why?  Well, it turns out that the members of PATD (as their superfans commonly abbreviate their name) are young.  The lead singer just turned 21.  This means that their fanbase is very young.  I was saved from holding the distinction of being the oldest person there by virtue being the youngest member of the three people with whom I was seeing the concert—but I felt there was a definite possibility of the three of us being the oldest group there there.  (At least the oldest non-parents)  I watched car-fulls of “punked-out” 12-year-olds get out of limos.  And parents with puffy painted PATD shirts milling about Constitution Hall lobby, waiting for their children to emerge (it looked like a daycare waiting room), all combined with the ugly Honda Civic flags that flew in front of the Historic building in an attempt at self-promotion….I had never felt so old in all my life.  Well, at least not since my days as an RA.

I always associated PATD with immaturity before—mainly because that song was blasted out of the cabin of the least mature counselor at the camp (literally, this asshole’s incompetence led to one of his PICA camper’s drinking laundry detergent. The idiot left him unattended in the cabin with it.  This is to say nothing of the verbal fights I got into with this cracker and the passive-aggressive bitchy things he did to me.)  bought the album and would BLAST the song from his cabin—which was across the field from mine—on a daily basis.  God I hated him, and I hated PATD even more by association with him.  I tried not to think of him, and laundry detergent, and campers that eat their own diapers, and a million other things that came out of those seven weeks as the concert began, complete with the sounds of 12-yr-old girls who shrieked for “Brendan!” like he was Christ reincarnated, began to slowly chip away at my hearing…

Three hours later, after having seen them live, I don’t think I liked PATD any more than I did before.  But I wasn’t filled with the overwhelming sense of blind hatred that I used to experience whenever I thought of them.  So maybe I’m finally over that aspect of my CrazyCamp experience—the blind hatred part.  Maybe I’m over my blind hatred of PATD.  But that doesn’t mean that I find “Closing the Goddamn Door” any less obnoxious.  I still have my standards.

How the day finds me: Ready for Eddie Izzard!

Song of Myself: Save Me-Aimee Mann

 

Get a load of it, betches!

Holy S!  I finally filled my refrigerator!  Witness:

Now, in all fairness, much of this can be attributed to my having recently entertained Amy A, and can be written off as food she purchased for herself and simply left behind.  And there are some empty water jugs in there, too.  But most of it is mine!  Looking at the photo, you’d almost think I was a grown lady who knew how to cook or something….

I’m going back to cover letter hell now. 

Current Location: Inside my massively filled FRIDGE! Where else?

How the day finds me: Rained-out

Song of Myself: Chinatown-Bishop Allen

Your love alone is not enough not enough not enough
When times get tough they get tough they get tough they get tough

Whenever I think of Tampa, I think of feeling childish.  Seriously childish.  

The month I spent there last May really worked on that perception in a big way.  A very big way. 

I say this as Manic Street Preacher’s Your Love Alone is not Enough comes blaring on my ipod speaker.  The only association I have with that song is that month I spent in transit in Tampa.  Not quite knowing who I was, who I was supposed to be, glad to have what I thought was ‘direction’ in the form of immediately-impending grad school.  All this time I was sleeping on a couch, waking up in the morning, checking the net to talk to ANYone on the outside, going to the gym, occasionally hanging out with Eric, feeling heartsick for someone not returning my calls, driving away when the family returned for the day, and sleeping.  And then getting up to repeat the cycle again.  

I made a facebook album—entitled ‘In Between Days’ to mark that month.  I’ve been looking at it more frequently as of late with a sense of nostalgia I don’t quite understand. 

I’m not-so-secretly afraid of the very real prospect that I will graduate in July without having achieved the status of ‘gainful employment.’  And won’t that just suck?  And moreover, it’ll signal a return to Tampa as a likely conclusion. 

I don’t want to go back.  Not because I have an intense hatred of the place or the people or anything—but because there’s genuinely nothing there for me right now.  There aren’t any real career prospects and, moreover, I don’t even have a bed in Tampa—just a lot of family (the people who, quite literally, threw my bed away years ago).  I haven’t had a permanent bed in Florida since I was 19—I was a child.  Being in Tampa, while it will always hold the comfort of friends and familiarity harkens back to a time when I was a child.

None of this is to say that I have things any more figured out, now.  Far from it. As I figured out quite colorfully a few days ago, I don’t know what I want.  I do have a vague idea of what I don’t want:  Tampa.   I feel as though it would still signal a defeat.  Like this past year-and-a-half has been about proving that I can survive on my own.  The next few are about proving I can thrive, as well.  If not to others, than most definitely to myself. 

Sigh.  It’s insane how one shallow song can incite such a heady train of thoughts….

But your love alone won’t save the world
You knew the secret of the universe
Despite it all you made it worse
It left you lonely it left you cursed

How the day finds me: Still a ways away

Song of Myself: Your Love Alone is Not Enough-Manic Street Preachers

On Sunday, I went to Hillwood, the preserved estate of the heiress Marjorie Meriwether Post, for the Faberge Egg Festival.  My accomplice was none other than the D.U.G.   He was wearing a thickish-mod-shag-carpet lined jacket, which he removed and draped over his arm while we were touring the mansion.  It was then that a security guard approached him and told him that he could not carry his coat—that he’d have to either check it or tie it around his waist.  You see a coat that’s draped over one’s arm runs the risk of scraping a wall or knocking something valuable over—and there are lots of valuables at Hillwood.  So he tied the jacket around his waist, and we moved on.

That is, until we reached the second floor.  There was an elevator to the hallway, but Post’s bedroom, dressing room, and main bathroom were located five steps up in a higher level of the hallway.  Well, that was unnecessary.  Soooo, being the self-righteous cripple possessed of an able bodied friend that I am—I decided to scale the stairs and help him to bring the chair up after me.  It was far from graceful, in fact it may have even been dangerous to the estate’s carpet, or walls, or anything else that might not hold up to a 40lb blunt object running into it.  And yet, all the gaurds were conspicuously not around, so no one much cared.  I saw the bedroom and then we took it downstars much in the same way... 

 Good thing his coat was still secured around his waist—they might have appeared to stop us, otherwise

Gotta love historic architecture.
C.

How the day finds me: Waxed on, waxed off.

Song of Myself: How Can You Laugh?-Marjorie Fair

While I’m at it, I’ve got some hella-awesome music flowing through my life right now via Pandora, Limewire, and ILike.  So, in no particular order, the songs that comprise my mid-semester soundtrack are as follows:

1. Gone to Bed at 21—Miracle Legion
2. Out to Play-- Miracle Legion
3. Homer-- Miracle Legion
4. Black—Okkervil River
5. Our Life is not a Movie, or Maybe it is—Okkervil River
6. Song of Our So-Called Friend—Okkervil River
7. Songs We Sing—Matt Costa
8. Wash Away—Matt Costa
9. Mr. Pitiful—Matt Costa
10. Leaving the Hospital—The Dreamer and the Sleeper
11. Bastian Cooper--Cinderpop
12. Oncoming Cars—Nine Pound Shadow
13. Space—Slow Motion Reign
14. Shining Days—Slow Motion Reign
15. Isn’t it Time (Rats)—Slow Motion Reign
16. Broken Bottle—Pete Yorn
17. Maybe I’m Right—Pete Yorn
18. Honest Mistake—The Bravery
19. Out of Line—The Bravery
20. Madman—Charlotte Martin 
    
21. Razorblade—The Strokes
22. Die Alone—Ingrid Michaelson
23. I’ll Try for the Sun--Donovan
24. The Logical Song--Supertramp
25. These Dreams—Jim  Croce
26. Empty Chairs—Don McLean
27. Mr. Tanner—Harry Chapin
28. A Long Time Ago—Jim Croce
29. Way to Blue—Nick Drake
30. Sundown—Gordon Lightfoot   
31. Fire and Rain—James Taylor

Special thanks to Facebook/ILike/respective artists for these rockin’ free mp3’s

These will most likely make an appearance on my end of semester comprehensive list.  Wait for it...wait for it...

Current Location: We stood in the windy city, the gypsy boy and I.

How the day finds me: Going to try for the sun.

Song of Myself: Die Alone-Ingrid Michaelson

I then had a dream about eating a baby chick....raw, and from it's egg.  I woke up.  I turned off the lamp.

 The conditions in this building exert way too overt an influence over me.

Woah!  It occurs to me that I may miss driving.  May. 
 

Not in DC, ever.  I’ve never driven here and never really attempted to do so either.  .  (The closest I’ve come was steering Dug’s car from the passenger seat so he could remove his coat while on the highway; it was only for a minute, yet I felt daunted by the task.)  Aside from that very brief brush with the wheel, I haven’t driven anywhere since August—most days I don’t miss it.  Driving intimidates me, actually.  I don’t think it’s actually the driving that I miss so much as—and here comes the shallow part—the act of listening to music with vast amounts of scenery whizzing by.  I miss the unification of my ipod and my car into one very entertaining and productive machine. 
 

Walking with music definitely has its charms, to be sure, but it isn’t really the same.  Things don’t go by as fast and it serves as sort of a metronome for your steps…or progress…and, while it can allow everything around you a certain air of romanticism or undue importance, it can get tedious.
 

So what brings all of this to mind?  I just got a cd (Amazon marketplace: 1 cent, sweet!) by Slow Motion Reign, who I discovered on Pandora but was too elusive to find on limewire.  Anywho, I’m listening to them, and all their songs, while pleasantly-grungy enough, have a trend of same-ness to them; some of them are indecipherable from one another…and this is after 3 listens!  It occurs to me that this is the sort of mindless stuff that I’d use to listen to while driving long distances as it would keep me company without distracting me too much. (which is not difficult to do)

I take the bus to work, lately.
 

Artist who makes me feel insignificant:  Beth Cavener Stichter, sculptor.  Stichter specializes in representing human feelings, attributes, and general psychology using animals.  She beats her clay figures into representations of mankind’s  basic insecurities and shortcomings.  Oftentimes her figures are caught in some vise, either literally or figuratively, that prevents them from being truly unfettered.

Her bunnies speak to me.

"i am no one"-Beth Cavener Stichter
Renwick Gallery, SAAM

How the day finds me: Polished

Song of Myself: Isn't it time? (Rats)-Slow Motion Reign

“I stare my stare and try to remember when my body has ever had positive attention from nondisabled people….nondisabled people have sometimes complimented my clothes or hair or dangly earrings, but polite people generally ignore my body, regard it as something to look past on their way to appreciating my 'good qualities.'  What’s outside doesn’t matter, is the message I get from polite people, what matters is my brain, my character, my inner-self.”—Harriet McBryde Johnson, from Too Late to Die Young

How the day finds me: Staring my stare

Song of Myself: December-Regina Spektor

It’s been a while (exactly one whole year) since I got on a plane to go somewhere new; I’m excited.  Bullets, everyone, bullets!

!  I spent Christmas in Pikesville (Baltimore County) Maryland with an Orthodox Jewish Family.  I took part in the Jewish tradition of getting Kosher Chinese food and watching a movie on Christmas Day.  (Because, really, what else is there to do for them?)  Also, I hit up a pretty sunny playground to hang upside down….and later a very cloudy cemetery to feed the seagulls/geese/ducks that frequented the pond there.  It was a unique experience.

@  My favorite High Maintenance Freak came back to visit for a spell.  We had a mostly not-depressing time, when the weather cooperated.  We did the Baltimore Aquarium (and were mistaken for fiancés), soggy Monticello, (and the Charlottesville Golden Corral, a real treat for the Bradenton kids!) and a New Years Eve Party (Where we were mistaken for Gay/Lesbian life partners…well.)  I may have exhausted, hungry, cold, bruised, and burned by his visit’s end, but it was a trip.  He always is.

#  I’ve seen three films:  Juno, Walk Hard, and Atonement.  I recommend the first, loathe the last, and get down on my knees to praise the one in the middle.  Walk Hard is the best film of the season…for my money.

$  Last night, I had this surprisingly deep, abstract conversation with someone.--someone I thought incapable of such an act.  Nothing world changing came of the 90-minute exchange, but it really means a lot to me that he tried to understand.  It’s stayed with me all day, actually.  One thing I got from it:  I need to embrace the uncertainty of my future—and acknowledge that it really means I can go anywhere I want (and not limit myself to feeling trapped.)  I may have no net, but I’m not shackled to the high wire, either.

%  I closed a chapter of my life with the mailing of a package.  It was as simple as that.  Goodbye, grasping habits of 2007.  Maybe this year will be better than the last. 

Current Location: Here, at the edge, of the flat Earth ending.

How the day finds me: Getting off to get lost.

Song of Myself: New Frontier-Counting Crows

One year ago, almost to the day, I started a tradition of naming songs that held particular associations with my immediate past.  I have succeeded in compiling two such entries since then—and not much else.  But here are the new tunes that I discovered this past fall--late August through the present.

 
I found that my tunes generally came from two sources Pandora.com and the Arlington County Public Library.  I recommend both quite highly.  A few of the more off-the-wall ones came through more traditional, word-of-mouth-channels.  Without further ado, and in order of acquisition/heavy rotation, complete with excerpts of importance, and veiled references to their place in my life they are:

We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past

 First, Last, and Deposit was one of the most depressing films I’ve seen in recent memory.  I’d just like to share that.  I sobbed for a good three hours after watching it, actually.  I think this song had come into my life a few days prior—it did little to allay the deep depression brought on by my being stranded in Tampa for a week. 

 
2.  Worm Waltz-Gosling

You carry your flashlight attached to your head, 
making your own point of view
The tunnels seem long, but you said you were strong
You want love, you need love
Yes you do, you really do

Loving someone, among other things, can allow for opportunities of profound disappointment.  This was not a new lesson.  However, the titular worm is gonna keep crawling, despite the futility of it all.  Disappointment has become a moot point; the worm knows no other state of being.  So it continues to inch along life’s tunnels with stubborn resolve.

 
3.  Lotion-Greenskeeper 

And if I eat your heart, I'll also bite your soul
and when I'm done with that I'll use your skull as a bowl
It rubs the lotion on its skin
Or else it gets the hose again

I know I’m a sick little monkey, but wow.  This is a novelty song that manages to not only capture one of the most endearing aspects of the film Silence of the Lambs, but also represents one of the few times during which I was truly care-free.  It didn’t hurt that I was the drunkest I’d ever be—in multiple ways—at the time.  It’s a catchy tune—regardless of the appetizing nature of the subject matter.

 
4.   Me and My Sara Remaining-Lee Feldman
      Morning Train-Lee Feldman
So why don’t you go to the window,
and watch as the trees are bowing down?
 It looks like the leaves are praying.
Just me and my Sara Remaining.

I saw her standing on the morning train.
She touched my hand on the morning train.

5.  Wooden Nickels-The Eels

 Well something must represent my Pandora-spawned infatuation with the Eels.  It might as well be the song after which I named my facebook album.  That’s about it.  I got a job at the DAR, and the infatuation dissipated, ever-so-slightly.  Not sure if they’re related.  Anywho, I also updated this image of October using the text of the song’s hook for a project in exhibition design.

Boss, huh?

6.  On A Freezing Chicago Street- Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s
      Skeleton Key-Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s
      Quiet as a Mouse- Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s

 Oh Margot, how I relish thee!  So I’ve already written about the concert—and sounded like a total fangirl.  Margot is my absolute FAVORITE Pandora discovery thus far.  My interest was piqued when “Freezing” sounded reminiscent of early Counting Crows—with more instruments.  I was hooked when I read that they named themselves after the character in “The Royal Tenenbaums.”  Totally.

          
Seriously, though.  What’s kept me listening to this chamber-pop octet is the importance their arrangements lend to the mundane nature of everyday disappointments—and the fact that the lyrics make no excuses.  Seeing them live made my heart pound—I liked that feeling.

7.  Hospital Beds-Cold War Kids

 
Don’t judge a book by its cover, and don’t judge a band by their live sound in an acoustically crappy gymnasium.  That’s what Cold War Kids’ Hospital Beds taught me.  I heard them first at the Patriot Center when they opened for Muse—and I HATED them.  Fast forward two months and they are playing on my Pandora station and—presto—I really jived to Hospital Beds, when it has production values added.  While I can’t say that the rest of their material speaks to me, this was a pleasant surprise.  And, yet another testament to the power of Pandora.  I listened to this song a lot during my time in third grade—it’s probably my primary musical association for the internship.

 
8.  Deep as You Go-October Project
    Johnny-October Project

          
Sometimes I’m a little ashamed of my adult-contemporary streak.  Sometimes I’m unabashed about it.  The October Project was a random find at the library—one of the best ones I’ve ever had.  Their arrangements are exhausting.  Their lyrics range from complex to transparent.  The lead singer sounds like Ann Wilson of Heart.  I don’t know what to do with them—or myself when I hear them.  I associate them with, what else, October.  And the ever-so-gradual changing of the leaves—and the huge Stone Lions that watch over the Connecticut Ave Bridge that I crossed on foot twice a week.  And the deer I found emerging from Rock Creek Park once…and…

9.  Pull the Curtains-Grandaddy

 
Another bizarrely care-free period in mid-October.  Waiting for the leaves to change, waiting for the Indian summer to snap cold…riding in a car for the first time in weeks…a journey of awesomeness made even more-so by the exacting nature of a song with just the right amount of gratuitous profanity.  It’s still a pretty sassy song, though.  I like it just fine.

11.  Not David Bowie-Tori Amos

 
If any woman could be charged with representing their gender on a soundtrack for me, it would fittingly be Tori.  This was a B-Side on an album I checked out from the Arlington library—it was catchy enough.  What it really represents for me, though, is the library experience.  Finding new and intriguing things to read or watch on a whim—the re-vitalization of my inner bookworm; a phenomenon that became the key to my sanity this semester.  I see me in Bethesda Public Library, pouring over a biography of Stanley Milgram; I’m having a shocking good time.

 
12.  The Cripple and the Starfish—Antony and the Johnsons

 So including this one may be cheating a little bit, in terms of time of acquisition.  I’ve had it since March/April—but I never really took to listening to it in earnest (and on repeat) until my mini-funk of September/October.  I associate it with walking purposefully down the METRO platform whilst staring up at the pattern of the archway ceiling—the grayness, the smell of public transit, the violins—they all fit together.  The lyrics and music really resonated with me quite strongly then; I find it an unquestionably beautiful piece.  Yet, it has consistently freaked out everyone for whom I’ve played it; I’m not sure why.  What’s so painful about a little honesty—Antony style?

 Hehehe.  This is a song that goes along with a video clip—though I think the song could very well stand on its own.  This was a peace offering—one that I watched 15 times over the most ridiculously morbid weekend of my life.  I spent intensive hours designing a panel for the recently deceased Paul Tibbets.  Whatever.

It was all good, because when combined with the ever-so-informative Mt. Vernon experience, I can now safely say I know more about George Washington (farmer, general, sanitation pioneer, father of our country, inventor of cocaine, and possessor of “30 goddamn dicks”) than I ever thought possible.

14.  Homesick-Kings of Convenience

 Sigh…I fell back into a Kings of Convenience phase earlier this semester…and then I checked out the Riot on an Empty Street album from the library.  I didn’t really connect with any of the songs after the first one, Homesick.  I don’t even think I really understood why, until I read the lyrics.

 
15.  In the Sun-Joseph Arthur
        We Might Fall-Ryan Star
        The Death of Us-The New Amsterdams

 
I won’t even bother including excerpts from these ditties—cause they’re pretty shallow and ephemeral tunes.  However, as a whole they represent the true variety of what Pandora has brought into my life and onto my ipod…True, I’ll probably have my fill of them by Spring, but they’ve been pleasant company.  Not every song can be life-changing.  That being said these songs provided such company on long commutes through sun, snow, sleet and (most awesomely) ice.  But I’m okay.  And so are they.

How the day finds me: Pulling on Longjohns!

Today marks the first day I delivered a lesson to the entire class—a task that I was ambushed into spot—and I’ll say this second:  My kids walk all over me.

Yeah, I never really realized how difficult it would be to control all 21 of them at the same time.  How disruptive just two or three of them can seem from the vantage point of the person up front.  How excited they can get…and how distracted they can become. 

They like me, they always have.  They were visibly excited by the announcement that I would be instructing them today.  But I think they’re totally past the point of respecting me, or taking me seriously.  I’m totally the fun babysitter who helps them with math, and not much else.

Also, I’ve no idea how to relate to them appropriately as an instructor.  None at all.  I found myself not wanting to de-value someone’s incorrect answer, or ask them to be quiet, and I have to remind them to not call out and to sit on their “bums.”  This is grad school.

We’ll see how the American Art Museum visit goes…crazy crackers. 

I find myself trying to transport back in time—to when I was eight, and in third grade.  I had two teachers at the two schools I attended; one I adored, the other I feared.  What made me like my first teacher?  What made me fear my second teacher?  What was behind these emotions?  I don’t want to be remembered in a fearful way; I’m afraid of marring these children’s memories of third grade!  If I could only remember what it was that separated the two teachers in my eight-year-old mind it could prove useful.  Then again, if I can’t remember, perhaps I shouldn’t really think these kids will, either.

One thing is for certain:  I will never teach third grade as a career choice. 

How the day finds me: walked on, rolled over

So I went to the Tori Amos concert on Friday.  It was eh…perhaps I only feel free to admit that because my ticket was complimentary with my “job” at the Daughters of the American Revolution.  I didn’t pay, so I didn’t feel obligated to force enjoyment. 

She was great, don’t get me wrong.  Her voice is out-of-this-world insane, perhaps even more than when I saw her last 4 years ago.  However, her song-choice was less than satisfying to me…she stayed far too superficial for me.  Perhaps that was to be expected, as this show contained two costume changes and a few props—can’t get to deep with that kind of implicit theatricality, I’spose.  She put on a show, a damn fine one, to be sure.  I guess I just wanted something more akin to a counseling session.

I rarely turn to Tori when I want to dance, bop, or feel particularly saucy.  She has that segment of her output; it’s just not one I find myself jiving to very often.  I go to her for the other half of her work—the introspective stuff.  The stuff that justifies my feelings, makes me think I’m not alone, gives me new turns of phrase over which to ruminate…you know, heavy shite.  She’s an artist that gives voice to the rich intricacies of the female experience, and takes on the female psyche--all of it.  At least, she used to be—in the 90’s. 

I remember when I first heard the song “Cornflake Girl.”  And thinking it was a real jam for her.  It was so interesting, sonically.  And thinking the lyrics made not a damn bit of sense, but I went along with it, ‘cause it was so catchy.  I wasn’t really into music in ’94 when it came out, but I believe it made something of a stir on the public airwaves—definitely one of her more well-known tunes.  (I even heard it played over the PA system at the school gym last week.)  And then came my second month in college, when a much bigger fan then me clued me into the meaning behind the song:  Female Genital Mutilation in third-world countries.  Well.  I hadn’t been prepared for that; but I became indoctrinated into the cult of Tori shortly thereafter and, from then on, nothing I heard about her song meanings surprised me. 

Tori got married and had her first child somewhere around 2000.  (Incidentally, this was after a miscarriage, which spawned some of her best material.)

Her last few albums since then, from which she derived most of the material played at the concert, have become increasingly superficial in this respect.  Her musicianship is still strong, and her songs have become more tuneful; but the meanings have been left out in the open, oftentimes robbing the listener of the joy that comes from discovering them for oneself.  Even if the meanings aren’t out in the open, the complexity of the message has suffered.  Superficial sounds so cliché—but really it’s the best word I can think of to describe the change; “dumbed down” just sounds too harsh.

Now, the only thing surprising about her song meanings is how ordinary they’ve become.  my favorite song off the new album, Girl Disappearing, is clearly about an eating disorder, and the pressure women feel to conform to the point where they disappear and loose their identities.  It’s pallid companion piece to a song like, Marianne from ’96 that embarrassed the pressure and conveyed it through the tenor of the music.  Marianne did indeed kill herself, and the listener feels as though Marianne is a friend, actually all of their friends have been Marianne at some point—the song is so innately relatable.  Girl Disappearing, on the other hand, while very pretty and about a very relevant topic, keeps the listener at arm’s length chronicling a problem—not an individual.  I hear it, I admire it, but I don’t feel it.  I go to Tori so often when I want to feel music, and I feel shortchanged if this doesn’t happen.

I suppose it’s unfair of me to ask her to remain interminably miserable for the sake of her art’s consistency.  Oh well, the new album is eons better than the last, at least.  She still rocks; I’ll always be a fan.  Her body of work speaks for itself.  I just expected different from her at this point—more. 

Disclaimer:  While I have spent the past several paragraphs conveying my disappointment with the turn her work has taken in the past 4-5 years, I would like to make clear that I do emphatically think she is an asset to music, a versatile artist, and, even her new stuff with which I take so much issue, is better than 90% of the other stuff out there, at present. 

Current Location: of being

How the day finds me: My heart is sick

Song of Myself: in chains

So I have a new playlist on Nylorac, and for once it’s not grouped by period of acquisition.  (To be sure, I have a Fall 2007 list, as well.  It’s filled with awesomeness that I may go public with soon-ly) But no, I’ve actually discovered a useful way of incorporating older music into my now: by creating a theme-based playlist.  Dur! 

Anywho, its autumn, so that must mean it’s time for a new batch of neuroses!  And with that, I condensed my feelings into a list of around 20 songs, and named the list after my short story (penned whilst at a half-sized table, sitting on a half-sized chair in the back of a third grade classroom, I’ll have you know.) The Proven Breed.  In case you (JClappTuron) would like to create a mood-manipulating playlist, the songs on the list are “chestnuts” like:

1. Albatross-Judy Collins
2. Precious Illusions-Alanis Morissette
3. And So it Goes-Billy Joel
4. If I Were You-Lee Feldman
5. Both Sides Now-Judy Collins
6. The Cripple and the Starfish-Antony and the Johnsons
7. Big Day Coming-Yo La Tengo
8. Here in My Head-Tori Amos
9. The Engine Driver-The Decemberists
10. Lover’s Cross-Jim Croce
11. All is Fair-Nik Kershaw
12. Your Heart is an Empty Room-Death Cab for Cutie
13. Unsent-Alanis Morissette
14. Since You Asked-Judy Collins
15. The Road Not Taken-Bruce Hornsby
16. The Weight of My Words-The Kings of Convenience
17. Baker, Baker-Tori Amos
18. Dead Love-The Charlatans
19. Sad Stephen’s Song-Duncan Sheik
20. Honesty-Billy Joel (arguably the most cliché of the bunch, but it’s Billy!)

 Separately, they’re bitter, morose, sassy, and sage tunes—but together they’re good times. 

Yesterday, I had the grave misfortune of having to be out and about all day (11am-11pm)—during FLOOD 2007.  Fucking A, it was like living in London!.  My wheelchair seat was still damp this morning.  The music made it all right, providing a soundtrack to my rain-traversing-adventures.  So long as Sheik was intoning about “growing up, well un aware,”  I could take any amount of 7-9 blocks in the medium to high downpour.  Set to that tune, it almost seemed romantic, and then the wind collapsed half of my umbrella.  It was bad comedy, I tell you.  But Jim Croce was there, giving a big F-you to someone who wanted to make him a martyr in the name of love.  So I kept going.

 Did I mention that one of my appointments was an internship interview?  I looked like a wet rat, but the Decemberists’ Engine Driver knew my pain.  And while I was awaiting a trudge back out into the rain, having purchased a new umbrella, to walk to the Tori Amos concert, I thought about how Judy Collins makes everything depre