If I were to make a list of twenty or thirty songs that I have consistently loved over time, this would surely make the list. It was originally written and performed by Ryan Adams and the Cardinals on the album Cold Roses in 2005. I first heard the album in high school, after I bought a used copy for five bucks at It's A Beautiful Day in Kansas City. It's a nice little collection of songs, and the original version of "Magnolia Mountain" is incredible. But this version (perhaps more specifically Joan Osborne's vocals) is remarkable in a different way--it's more unabashed, whereas I guess the Cardinals' version is a bit more restrained in the beginning. Maybe I just think so because I heard this cover before I heard the original (hearing this was my compulsion to buy Cold Roses in the first place), but I do think that this cover has a wonderfully apparent authenticity in its performance.
I'm beginning to babble, but I think you might get the idea. I love this song.
It's undeniably becoming fall here. The air is getting colder and all the plants around campus are shriveling up. Of course, the leaves are changing as well and it all looks rather beautiful. It's so strange to think that another season has come and gone, though. I won't get all philosophical (mainly because I have a paper to write), but I suppose it's a nice reminder of the passage of time and other cliched things like that.
But now I'm going to try and write this paper, because I haven't written an academic paper in four months. Oh boy.
For various reasons that are beside the point, I was feeling rather angry this morning--an emotion that I'm coming to accept as healthy and normal and human. So I reacted by going to the echo-spot on campus and yelling words that I've been taught are not acceptable parts of speech, and basking in the minute rebellion that this brought. Now I feel oddly upbeat and satisfied and liberated and generally a million times better, simply because I embraced my anger and released it. It's funny how that works sometimes.
Now, for chucks, here is a song that feels appropriate for today. The sound quality in this recording is pretty bad, but the presentation and audience energy are amazing, so I'm sharing this version anyway. If you really care that much, the unobstructed (so to speak) studio recording is on YouTube as well:
I was shooting some film out by Lake Waban recently, and accidentally exposed the film almost immediately afterward. Most of it was ruined, but a few of the shots came out colorfully, which made me feel (if only slightly) better about my mistake.
This was some old expired Kodak Ultramax 400 film that I bought online, shot with a Mamiya ZE 35mm camera.
"Don't Deceive Me," from the album Portrait of a Man (1972). It was recorded by the inimitable Screamin' Jay Hawkins, who fathered at least fifty-seven children. Really.
These are from my first weekend back in Mass. There's some fairly spectacular light around the south waterfront in Boston on Sunday mornings, especially on bright blue days when the sky is clear.
Unrelatedly, I'm pretty sure CVS botched some of my film. At least they charged me practically nothing for it.
"One International Place;" Financial District
Some family on the Evelyn Moakley/Seaport
Boulevard Bridge
So it seems as though my body has been on minimal-sleep mode for the last month or so, in that I'm back in my old and mysteriously causeless routine of waking fairly early in the morning. Usually I'll wake up around seven, which is certainly bearable, and allows me a good head-start on the day. In fact, it's been a rather productive several weeks, full of reading and writing.
Here is something I made this morning, perhaps ten minutes ago. It's a first draft, and I'm sure I'll revise it a hundred times, but I'm trying to share my writing with others; thus this post.
* * * * *
Turkish Royals
In your filthy bedroom
Cluttered and filmy with dust
I saw an empty carton of Camels—
two hundred even-toed cigarettes
marching mutably
to the next best thing.
You sucked
them dry with copper lips—
wolfish fault
lines of smoke—
and snubbed them out in
a broken pinch pot ashtray,
dejected like the rest.
The title track from Anne Briggs's 1971 album, The Time Has Come, which is (in my simple view) a remarkable artifact from the British folk-revival movement.
This morning I spent some time walking near Lake Waban. Even though (or maybe because?) I see it every single day, I often forget how beautiful it is.
Walking around and looking at things through a 4x6 viewfinder offers a nicely refreshing perspective--taking photos reminds me to pay attention to things I wouldn't necessarily otherwise consider.
Here are some things I saw.
Lake Waban, looking Northwest-ish
Again
Wading in cutoffs at Tupelo Point and looking to the Hunnewell topiary garden, which has its own Wikipedia page
Water plants that made me think of the opening of the movie Solaris
"Mother of Pearl" by Roxy Music is about as close to a forever-favorite as I've come. I think I first heard it in the movie SLC Punk! when I was in late elementary school (my inimitable big sister Kay, who has always been cool, showed it to me).
But I won't prattle today. The song can speak for itself.
-"Mother of Pearl," Roxy Music, from Stranded (1973)
Like a lot of people, I like finding new music in movies. There are certain directors whose films I can always count on for a good soundtrack (Cameron Crowe, Wes Anderson, Jim Jarmusch, Sofia Coppola come most immediately to mind). And it just so happens that most of those filmmakers also happen to make my favorite movies.
Music, it goes without saying, has immense emotional power for a lot of people. It can have--again, this is rather obvious, but bear with me--tremendous impact on a visual film sequence. I mean, think of the shower scene in Psycho, and how incomplete that would have been without Bernard Hermann's startlingly creepy score. A director's choice of music creates an entire atmosphere, and it's disorienting to watch such musically-involved scenes on mute. In short, they're much different, and oftentimes much less affecting to a viewer.
I first heard this song, "Love Letters," at the end of Blue Velvet by David Lynch. It's one of my all-time favorite movies. The song itself was originally sung by Ketty Lester, who has unfortunately descended into the footnotes of pop history. As for the song's place in the movie, I can't talk much about that relationship without spoiling the plot of the film. Suffice it to say that, incredibly, David Lynch unites big themes in the movie, like the idea of violence as a means of possession and control, simply by placing this innocent song alongside footage of a shoot-out between two opposing forces. The idea, from an earlier scene, is that a love letter and a bullet from a gun are nearly the same thing, which has a whole slew of complicated and intriguing implications for the relationship between desire and violence, if you ask me.
Of course, if you're hearing the song out of the context of Blue Velvet, and instead listen to it simply as a standalone piece, the experience is much different. It's much simpler, and sweeter, and comes across as little more than a sappy love song. But a good one. And there's a place in the world for sappy, sweet, simplistic love songs.
And if this is all too verbose, as I tend to be, watch Blue Velvet (if you aren't terribly put-off by representations of violence) and listen to this song. I promise, it's worth the small chunk of time you will spend.
Another summer has come and gone, and as I prepare to resume classes tomorrow, I'm reflecting on what this summer has meant to me. It's been restorative and productive, and I feel like I am entering a new school year with an improved perspective on all manner of things. My attitude is brighter, and my mood lighter, and I'm going to ride this wave of optimism into the academic year for as long as I'm able.
As a proper goodbye to the season (which is really more of an idea than anything), here is a classic: "Summer Song," from the musical The Real Ambassadors. The music was written by Dave Brubeck, one of my favorite jazz pianists, and the lyrics by his wife Iola. Perhaps most importantly, Louis Armstrong performs vocals on the song, which collaboration just sounds meant-to-be.
Though the musical was only performed once, in a pared-down set at the 1962 Monterey Jazz Festival, recordings of its soundtrack are still available, and its examination of themes like international- and race-relations is still achingly relevant, even over fifty years later. I think in particular of Michael Brown being shot in Ferguson, and of the greater underlying tensions that long-preceded the shooting, as well as the Russian-Ukrainian conflict that further complicated this summer with the shoot-down of Malaysia Airlines Flight 17. These events probably come to mind simply because they were two of the biggest news stories of the summer, and it's easy for me to think about them in a cerebral and abstract manner--after all, I don't have to face systematic and societal discrimination because of my skin color, or live in a war zone where my safety is perpetually endangered.
But that's all a much bigger, longer, complex conversation, one much beyond a single, simple song. Returning to the music, there's even a Real Ambassadors website with a synopsis and background in case you'd like to read more about it.
