The Best Show on Television

After years of living a deliberately television-free existence -- years during which I frequently (and somewhat sanctimoniously) worked the phrase, "I don't even OWN a television" into casual conversation -- I now not only own a television but actually rather like it.

As it turns out, there are some damn good programs on television. Now, perhaps my recent obsession with reruns of Friends, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Office does not quite qualify me as a TV critic, but as far as I'm concerned, there's not a better show on television than HBO's Flight of the Conchords. The dialogue is clever and witty and the humor is hilariously bone-dry.

Oh, and the songs are great. You can even download an EP from iTunes.

You Can't Make Me

Last summer I wrote a short-lived series entitled "Ten Songs I Will Play Over and Over Again if Nobody's Around to Stop Me." But this summer I live with my totally awesome boyfriend, so there's usually been somebody around to stop me. Only now he doesn't want to. Because listen:

Her album has been playing at our house almost non-stop for the past 24 hours and there's no end in sight. That's right, no no no end in sight.

That is all. Carry on.

It's That Little Souvenir Of A Colorful Year That Makes Me Smile Inside

I haven't talked to my best friend in AGES. Well, okay, it's been maybe a few weeks. But that's pretty much like ages. I miss her.

We've been playing phone tag for the past week and a half and have now gone for so long without talking that neither one of us really wants to call the other unless we have a significant chunk of time to devote to catching up. Sure I could call her right now, but I have papers to grade and she has kids to put to bed, and while we might be able to chat for a few minutes, we'd hang up the phone still feeling like we hadn't talked in ages.

After eighteen years of friendship -- only five of which have been lived in close proximity to each other -- we're used to this. So I'm okay. I'm sure we'll each pour ourselves a glass or five of wine and have a good long talk this weekend. Fortunately I have The Sundays to tide me over until then.

More than any other band -- save perhaps Voice of the Beehive -- The Sundays remind me of Nisha. It was Nisha who discovered The Sundays and Nisha who refused to remove them from the tape deck no matter how many times I insisted I needed to hear "There's a Barbarian in the Back of My Car" RIGHT NOW. I swear, we listened to Reading, Writing and Arithmetic until it fell apart.

And although I'm partial to "Hideous Towns" simply because it makes me laugh every time I hear Harriet Wheeler sing sweetly, "Ooh, hideous towns make me throw. . .UP," the much more common "Here's Where the Story Ends" was the only one I could find on YouTube:

I've Always Wondered What To Serve With Chicken Noodle Soup

At the beginning of every school year I have a conversation with my students about what kind of environment they learn best in and what they need from me in order to learn. Inevitably, the kids mention something about liking to listen to music while they work, which is good since I myself can barely function without music. So whenever the kids work on something in class -- like a map, for example -- we have music playing in the background. Sometimes we listen to my music (lately it's been last month's Paste CD sampler) and sometimes we listen to theirs. I reserve the right to veto anything I don't like.

Recently I vetoed one of their favorite songs: "Chicken Noodle Soup." If you work with teenagers or have a thing for horrible music, you've probably already heard the chicken noodle soup song. If not, you'll need to listen below before we continue.

Alrighty then. So you can see why I vetoed it.

"This is awful!" I said as I watched my kids dance in their seats. "It doesn't even make any sense." "Naw," one of my kids disagreed, "it's about when you're sick and you eat chicken noodle soup. With, like, a ginger ale. Makes you feel better." "Well, what's up with the crap about 'let it rain. . .and clear it out' then?" I asked, making rain motions with my hands. My kids just shrugged and kept on chicken noodle souping.

So now I guess I have to do a whole lesson about minstrel rap, which I guaran-damn-tee you will not be on the state exam at the end of the year. But still. It's my duty as an educator, right?

Right. So let it rain. And clear it out. And then maybe break out your old Tribe Called Quest records.

Discovery

I rarely listen to the radio. I have XM in my car and plenty of CDs at home, which makes tuning in to my local radio stations fairly unnecessary. And the fact that there's really nothing local about most local stations -- who today are owned and controlled by megacorporations -- makes listening to the radio downright undesirable.

Except when I'm at my parents' beach house, where there's a great little independent radio station on which I heard an amazing song today. I was happily singing along to the Judybats' "Being Simple" and was about to flip back to XM when it ended and the next song began with a piano. But then a woman with a great voice started singing and I thought "Hey, this is pretty good," so I left it on, and by the time she got to the chorus I thought, "Wow, this chick is amazing!"

I came home and googled her and am now completely head over heels for Vienna Teng. I ordered her CD and I've been sitting by the radio all day waiting for them to play the song again. You may have heard of her already or she may not be your musical cup of tea, but I'll share her with you anyway just in case. . .

Livin' In A Powderkeg And Givin' Off Sparks

Believe it or not, last night's short and simple post on happy music took me fuckin' forever to write. I blame it on Bonnie Tyler.

Some background: The other day my pal Meaghan and I did a little CD swap and I scored, among other things, a sweet 80s compilation that includes "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Now, I have loved "Total Eclipse of the Heart" since it first came out in 1983. I even had it on 45 -- my sister gave it to me for Christmas when I was 8 and she was 6. (I gave her "Eye of the Tiger," also a good song.) Anyway, last night I threw a few CDs in the CD player, pressed random, and sat down to do my internet thing. You see where this is going.

So I was just sitting here, typing away, when "Total Eclipse of the Heart" came on. I started to sing along absentmindedly, but then I realized "Hey! 'Total Eclipse of the Heart'!" so I turned the CD player up almost as loud as it would go -- which is pretty fuckin' loud, as it turns out -- and continued with my singing and typing. I also added a wee bit of swaying. It soon became rather difficult to type, as Bonnie's 11th "turn around" had prompted me to grab the CD player's remote for use as a microphone and I was concentrating on not dropping it while flinging my abundant hair around as I sang. By the time Bonnie got around to "and I need you now tonight," I was out of my chair with microphone in hand. "Together we can take it to the end of the line" found me clear on the other side of the house, right in front of the drape-less sliding glass doors, in fact. As Bonnie screamed, "I really need you tonight," I relinquished my remote/mic to free up both hands for the lifting of hair and the always necessary above-head hand motions. And if you think when the song ended I sat right back down and commenced typing, without pressing repeat even once, you obviously don't know me very well.

It's a good thing nobody was around. Except the cat, and she's no stranger to such performances.

A detective examining my recycling bin might conclude this was all the result of a now-empty bottle of Tanqueray, but truth be told, the gin had nothing to do with it. This is just how I was brought up.

And even though I was also brought up not being allowed to watch MTV, here's the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" video. Just don't tell my parents I let you watch it.

Ten Songs That Make Me Happy

Chris over at Some Guy's Blog wrote yesterday about how Louis Armstrong's music makes him happy and invited his readers to comment on the music that makes them happy. I like talking about music almost as much as I like talking about books, so I tried to think of a particular artist that consistently makes me happy. I couldn't come up with a thing.

Music is an integral part of my life, but the type of music likely to make me happy at any given moment very much depends on the mood I'm in at said moment. At one point I swore by Motown music as the cure for what ails ya, only to decide a year or two later that there's nothing quite as day-brightening as a bit of loud, angry punk rawk. These days I prefer a mixture of the two genres, with lots of stuff in between. So here, in keeping with my summer "ten songs" posts, are ten random songs that always make me happy no matter what my mood.

1. "Angel" by Bob Dylan
2. "Dyslexic Heart" by Paul Westerberg
3. "I Want You to Want Me" by Cheap Trick
4. "Man in the Mirror" by Michael Jackson
5. "Me and Julio Down by the School Yard" by Paul Simon
6. "Night Flight" (a Zeppelin tune) by Jeff Buckley
7. "Redwood Tree" by Van Morrison
8. "Rocket Man" by Elton John
9. "Sit Down" by James
10. "Uncle John's Band" by the Dead

If there's a common theme, I damn sure can't figure it out.

You Are The Lyrics Queen, Young And Sweet, Only Seventeen

I heard "Yellow Ledbetter" on my way home from the grocery this evening and, for the bajillionth time, wondered what the hell the gorgeous Eddie Vedder is saying in those five minutes of musical brilliance. When I got home I typed "yellow ledbetter lyrics" into my Google searchbar and had my answer in seconds. Some might laud this as progress, but I think we've lost something by making lyrics so accessible.

I have always been obsessed with lyrics. As a teenager, I fastidiously maintained a three-ring-binder with separate sections for songs and quotes. The quotations I mostly stumbled upon while reading, but the lyrics were tougher to come by. Back in the days before Google and lyrics.com, the only way to learn the lyrics of a song -- aside from liner notes -- was to figure them out for yourself.

For me, this involved sprawling out on the floor, chin resting in one hand and legs suspended in the air above me, a pen in the other hand and my binder turned to a clean page; placing my box (of the boom variety) on the floor next to me; popping a tape -- usually recorded hastily from the radio after a mad dash to the record button when I heard a beloved song begin -- in the tape deck; pressing play; listening carefully; frantically jotting down the words as they were sung; pressing pause between lines to record the lyrics; and rewinding and replaying when the words were fuzzy, pressing my ear up against the speaker to make sure I got it right. Play, pause, play, rewind, play, pause, play.

And somewhere along the way the song became a part of me; it went from being just a song to being my song. I think this is why I still play songs I love over and over again -- I'm internalizing them, getting to know them, making them mine.

A Google lyrics search can't do that for you. A Google lyrics search is like somebody else handing you their song -- it can't ever really be yours because you haven't engaged with it (teaching and learning are a lot like this, but that's a-whole-nother story).

So, even though I found the lyrics to "Yellow Ledbetter," I didn't actually read them. Instead I think I'll pop in the "Jeremy" single (on which "Yellow Ledbetter" is featured) my brother and I bought at an indie record shop in the Ocean Beach section of San Diego when I was in college and he was in middle school, curl up next to the CD player with a pad of paper and a pen, and try to figure it out for myself.

You can have it either way. Click here for instant gratification. Or. . .cozy on up to your computer with some paper and a pen, click 'play' below, and get ready to welcome another great song to your life.

Ten More Songs I Will Play Over And Over And Over Again If Nobody's Around To Stop Me

I have this really annoying (I'm told) habit of putting a song I love on repeat. For hours at a time. I once took a two hour road trip and listened to nothing but "Rocket Man" the whole way. If I can get away with it, I'll also turn the song up really really REALLY loud. Loud enough that I bet I wouldn't hear the smoke detector if it went off.

Here are ten songs I have never managed to listen to just once, each of which could easily see me through a two hour road trip on its own.

1. "American Music" by the Violent Femmes
2. "A Praise Chorus" by Jimmy Eat World
3. "Blue" by the Jayhawks
4. "Breakin' Me" by Jonny Lang
5. "Here Comes Your Man" by the Pixies
6. "Mr. Brightside" by the Killers
7. "Rescue Me" by the Alarm (I know, I know, the Alarm is SO not cool)
8. "Sit Down" by James
9. "The Warmth of the Sand" by Dashboard Confessional
10. "Wait" by Huffamoose

Note that none of them are by women. There's really no accounting for this, except that most of these are songs for the car. Women are heavily represented on my at-home repeat list.

My Family Is Fucking Weird, Vol. I

Main Idea: Lip-Sync Routines

Supporting Details: The other night, my dad and I sat around drinking gin (he with Tom Collins mix and I with tonic) while listening to Dwight Yoakam's cover of Elvis Presley's "Suspicious Minds" on repeat. We listened so long and drank so much that my dad finally -- and very happily-- suggested we work on a "routine" to perform at our upcoming family reunion. He even demonstrated what that routine might look like, leaping into the living room from behind the dining room wall and crooning into his alcoholic-beverage-microphone as the singing began. He then left my brother approximately five messages in the hopes of discussing the routine and the rehearsal thereof. My brother's only response when he finally called back: "I'm not sure that's an Elvis song. I think it's just a Dwight Yoakam song."

Because he, like the rest of us, is used to this shit. It's a given. Any gathering of more than two of my family members, given enough time and enough alcohol, will result in a lip-sync routine. Actually, it's probably not lip-syncing, it's probably just regular old singing. It's just that the music's so loud by that point that it's hard to tell.

Some members of the family have a standard routine to a specific song. My sister does "Tiny Dancer." She's not above being a backup singer in someone else's routine, but "Tiny Dancer" is hers and hers alone.



Other members of the family, namely my dad, will get down to just about any song they know.



The rest of us will only get in on the lip-sync action given enough alcohol and the right song.



Lip-syncing is fun. Just ask the neighbors.

I don't know what other families do on Christmas, but I distinctly remember one Christmas that my mom looked out the window and noticed our neighbors across the street laughing their asses off at my sister and I singing and dancing around to Madonna's "Like a Prayer." It was on repeat. And we were in college.

Sure, it's a little odd. But if you'd spent your childhood watching your dad twirl around the kitchen singing "Leader of the Pack" and "Poison Ivy" into utensils while clearing the table and washing the dishes, you might have developed a penchant for lip-sync routines too.

Ten Songs I Will Play Over And Over And Over Again If Nobody's Around To Stop Me

1. "Abandoned Love" by Bob Dylan
2. "Angel" by Bob Dylan
3. "Boots of Spanish Leather" by Nanci Griffith (a Dylan cover)
4. "Brokedown Palace" by the Grateful Dead
5. "If You Knew" by Jeff Buckley (a Nina Simone cover)
6. "Redwood Tree" by Van Morrison
7. "Sweet Lorraine" by Patty Griffin
8. "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show (a Dylan cover)
9. "Warmth of the Sand" by Dashboard Confessional
10. "Yellow Ledbetter" by Pearl Jam
    

For a girl who professes to be madly in love with Van Morrison, you'd think there'd be a bit more VanMo and a bit less Dylan on the list, wouldn't you?

A New Kind Of Radicalism

That the Dixie Chicks are still considered radical -- and by such a fluffy, mainstream publication as Time -- for saying three years ago that they were embarrased by the president, a sentiment now shared by the majority of Americans, is disheartening. That they've finally decided to embrace this label and thumb their noses at the country music establishment is pretty damn cool.

Although I'm not a fan of today's popular country music (which, for the most part, is complete musical crap), I've loved the Dixie Chicks since the first time I heard "Wide Open Spaces." I own all their albums, including their latest -- a gutsy and thorough declaration of independence from the vapidity and jingoisim that currently passes for music in Nashville.

I like the new album well enough, but what I really like is that these girls are not fucking around. They've made a conscious decision to create the kind of music they want to create and to speak their minds, regardless of the impact this has on their ability to sell records. Said one of the chicks, "I'd rather have a smaller following of really cool people who get it, who will grow with us as we grow and are fans for life, than people that have us in their five-disc changer with Reba McEntire and Toby Keith. We don't want those kinds of fans. They limit what you can do." In other words, "Fuck you if you don't like us. We'd be insulted if you did."

I guess that attitude is pretty radical, and I like the Dixie Chicks more for it. If record sales are any indication, so do a lot of other people. Apparently that following of really cool people isn't as small as they thought.

Sometimes It Pays To Listen To Your Kids

Unlike two of their three children, my parents are staunch conservatives who voted for Bush in both 2000 and 2004 and who resolutely maintain that this was not such a bad move given the alternatives (that loser Gore and that god-awful Kerry, respectively). They are also, like many in their generation, big fans of Bruce Springsteen, so I wasn't surprised when they told me they'd be forgoing this year's traditional Memorial Day weekend at the beach because they had tickets to his concert. And because I think it's good for them to broaden their horizons, I didn't mention that The Boss has grown decidedly more anti-war and anti-Bush of late.

I just talked to my mom, who called to chat before she left for the concert. As we were getting off the phone we had this little conversation:

Me: Well, have fun at the concert.

Mom: Hey, who's Pete Seeger? (this seemed like a non sequitur to me, but we're talking about a woman who once responded to my query of "are we out of beer?" with "we're in the kitchen. . .come on in," so I usually just roll with it.)

Me: He's a folk singer. Why?

Mom: The concert is a Pete Seeger tribute concert.

Me: (uncontrollable laughter)

Mom: What? Why are you laughing?

Me: He sings protest songs, Mom. Militant political protest songs. Remember that Christmas you bought Brian (my militant left-winger of a little brother) the entire Pete Seeger collection?

Mom: Uh-oh.

Me: (still lauging) I'm sure ya'll will have lots of fun. You know Bruce Springsteen hates the president, right?

Mom: (laughing a bit herself now) Stop laughing. Dad said he didn't know what the concert was about when he bought the tickets. He tried to pawn them off on Laura (my sister) and Brian, but they didn't want them. (Laura, no doubt, because she has other plans and Brian because he shares my view that John Mellencamp, not Bruce Springsteen, is the true musical spokesman for America's working class.)

Me: Okay, well have a great time, Mom.

Mom: (unconvincingly) I'm sure it will be fine.

Me: (more laughter)

Mom: I'll call you tomorrow to tell you just how not-fine it was.

So my parents have paid good money (lots of money, I bet) to see Bruce Springsteen sing the protest songs of a movement they actively avoided in their youth and to listen to him criticitize their president.

I think it actually probably will be fine. My brother and I once caught my Dad humming along to a Joan Baez (protest) song. "You like Joan Baez?," we demanded incredulously. "I like her music, but not her politics," my dad replied. My brother and I looked at each other quizzically and then launched into a joint lecture about how her music is her politics, how art is frequently political, and how you can't divorce art from politics. My dad listened politely and finally said, "I just think she has a pretty voice." We shook our heads in exasperation, but it's this attitude that will carry my parents through tonight's Bruce Springsteen concert. They may disagree with the lyrics (okay, they'll definitely disagree with the lyrics), but they'll enjoy the singing and the actual music. And they will certainly never admit it, but I bet they'll even agree with a thing or two The Boss has to say about the mess our current president is making of the world. After all, my parents are not retarded. They just sometimes vote that way.

Update 05.29.06: My mom's review of the concert: "It was totally awesome! I'm going to buy the CD today!" (at Wal-Mart, probably, which will cause poor Pete Seeger to roll over in his grave.)

A Song From The Darkest Hour

If there's a happier song than "Sit Down" by James, I damn sure haven't heard it.

Fun With Anagrams

Last night I went to O'Sullivan's to see everyone's favorite local cover band, Lovesick Cousin. When I arrived, the O'Sullivan's marquee (yes, it's the kind of dive with a marquee) was advertising its nightly specials -- porterhouse & tilapia -- on one side and Lovesick Cousin on the other side.

I'm not sure about the porterhouse or the tilapia, but I enjoyed Lovesick Cousin for a good hour and a half before Steve looked out the window and noticed that those specials had been replaced with

Now, personally I would have gone with "hot ass pooter," but, you know, that's just me. We all had a good laugh about the change, including our twenties-ish waitress who claimed she A) was soooooo embarrased and B) had never seen anything like that before.

About an hour later we noticed some furtive movement on the other side of the marquee and witnessed the sign-changers in the act. Guess who. . .yep, our soooooo embarrassed waitress (and two of her pals). When they came back inside we sent Jay out to see what the sign said. He laughed all the way back to our table and reported that he didn't think he could repeat it "in mixed company." Then Steve went to check it out and came back still laughing. "So what does it say?," I asked. Steve just shook his head and said, "You just gotta go see it." So I did:

I bet that's not bringing in a whole lot of business.

PS: Click here to download Lovesick Cousin tunes, including an original that's especially fun if you've recently been dumped by an idiot you never should have been with in the first place who hopes you can still be friends (which I have).

"Don't Think Twice, It's All Right"

How is it that Dylan always manages to have the exact song you need? Oh yeah, it's because he's a fucking genius.

I (Secretly) Heart Hair Metal

Attention Steve: Did you have to give lend me this "Monsters of Rock" CD? I mean, it seemed like a nice gesture at the time, but that was two weeks ago and the novelty just won't wear off. I could be listening to all kinds of good music, but no, here I sit with "Cum on Feel the Noise" on repeat.

For the love of god, I'm a feminist! With fairly good taste in music!

And attention Razor & Tie Records: Why doesn't this particular compilation include "Kiss Me Deadly"?! What, Lita Ford isn't a monster of rock? Just because she's a woman?

Is there a hair metal fans anonymous? Because I might need that.