Things are just nuts here. It’s hard to write a novel and live a life! There’s so many dishes to do, so many people to not upset, etc. And once you start writing something where every word counts, its hard to imagine words not mattering. Its hard to write as if it were talk, cause it ain’t. Talk is glamour, and I need more glamour in all the shit I do.
For instance, “Love is a Stranger.” I don’t know if glamour is something we are supposed to feel is valuable - but simply because we can ask that question, simply because it seems vulnerable to a criticism of unseriousness, does it seem valuable. There’s a Philip Roth quote somewhere that says that we can’t always care about the important things - something something and that’s why there’s baseball. I don’t give a fig about baseball, so I’ll substitute it for glamour. Glamour is magic. It’s the feeling that something is out-of-this world beautiful but only for this exact-and-almost-gone moment. It’s a wisp of cigarette smoke, it’s the taste of lipstick, it’s the high of cocaine.
There are probably more glamourous songs, but this one seems close to ideal: it’s a drum machine that purrs like a car and synths that gurgle more atmosphere than melody. Annie Lennox sings from a winter alleyway, only accompanied with her own distant, and slightly regretful, echos. And love! That awful spoken-word bit in the middle does a better job of summarizing love because it hits bizarre, clunky notes (“totally cool” “like a zombieeeeeee”). Love has never not been clunky.
I have to go. I want to hear more about how you are doing when you get the chance. We haven’t heard from you in awhile. I hope everything is good!
Hey Hank. I hope you are okay. I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I think everyone tried their best. They sent ships, they threw money. They knew they couldn’t save everyone. It’s just terrible that you were one of the ones left adrift. And you shouldn’t lose hope. They’re going to try again, probably. They just have to get the funding through Congress. But there’s been so much bipartisan bullshit! It’s really, really terrible.
I miss you. I think everyone has. You should keep strong. I know it’s irritating, but at times like this, it’s probably best for us to focus on the positive things. You’re exploring space! I mean, who wouldn’t want to do that? And you have everything you need, what with the Banti tree and everything. You even have that new kitten! What are you going to call him?
Like I said, I’ll just try to be normal with you. I think that’s what you need. Well, tell me what you need. But until you do, I’m just going to be normal.
Have you heard this Adele song, “Someone Like You”? You might not have. But it’s been huge here. Everyone cries when they listen to it. (Please don’t cry!)
Personally, I hate it. But I hate it for dumb reasons, I realize. It’s just a ballad. I guess I hate it for the reasons that people like “just” ballads. It’s the whole story around Adele – the mythology. That she is some genius that is cutting through all of the artificiality and bullshit of the music industry. It’s the sort of story that people who don’t listen to pop music like to tell themselves. “The reason I don’t like pop music today is not because I have no time to listen to it, it is because it is not good.” (These are the same people who say that listening to Britney or Katy or Ke$ha is a “guilty pleasure” – the only person who values their guilt is them, I suppose.)
What’s further annoying is that Adele does have worth as an artist. It’s just that her fans are not the ones who can explain it. Her persona has this 60s vibe. She’s some emblem of “classic good music.” But her actual sound is much more contemporary. Sure, her voice is cracked and whiskey-soaked. It’s just that, if anything, Adele sounds most like Mariah Carey in “Without You,” with all of the warbly melisma. I like Carey, but I don’t think we’re supposed to think she’s authentic. (Dusty undersang when necessary. She also kept her notes bright and tidy.)
The piano is also odd for a sixties gal. The sixties had more swing and bounce. This piano sounds like some Philip Glass score. There’s melancholy in its mechanical repetition. And her lyrics are pure trash. Adorably bland teenage trash. It’s all very weird and new and not “classic” at all, really. Why do people ignore this?
Anyway, I thought I’d send it to you cause even though I hate hearing it, you will probably like it. Every gay boy here seems to like it. I keep hearing dance remixes in clubs. Which sometimes sounds like an attempt at desecration. But I guess that only applies if it is some sort of authentic, holy thing, or that dance music is somehow its opposite. So maybe the dance remixers are the only people who understand this song, and that’s why it can be worth a million gay teenage tears.
I’ll end there. I have to finish painting the living room! We’ve spent weeks doing it, but you know I’m terrible at finishing things on schedule. I hope you are doing well, all alone. We still think of you all the time, and I’m sure they’ll bring you back soon. Till we speak again, stay strong. Please don’t cry! I know you can make it.
On Monday, the partner of a good friend of mine, Gord, died. He had leukemia. He was pretty young. Forty-one is too young to die, isn’t it? Any age is too young, but fighting cancer for five years is a special form of shittiness.
I didn’t know Gord that well. He was quiet, and although I have been friends with his partner Nicole for close to a decade, I didn’t see Nicole much while they dated and lived together. I chatted with Nicole through email every day. We kept up with each other’s life through quick jokes and complaints. And we’d see each other off and on. But nothing like the drunken epic nights we’d wasted together in our early bookstore days.
I also suspected that Gord didn’t like me. He was quiet, and he was a music nerd and he took the things he liked very seriously. He even said it, over and over, “Seriously?” He worked in the audio department of the CBC, and I guessed he thought my dance-y, disco taste in music was terrible. He seemed to laugh dismissively at everything he thought was dumb or tired, and he liked punk and hardcore. I did the math.
But one day, when I was crossing the street outside the CBC, taking photos for a blog, he saw me crossing and this huge smile leapt across his face. His leukemia had recently gone into remission and he was back at work and he said, “Hey Matthew, how’s it going!” I was so shocked by this unexpected friendliness from someone I suspected quasi-disliked me that I nearly stepped into a car’s path. Safe on the sidewalk, we had a friendly conversation. It was sweeter for adding to the day’s sunshine. And maybe sweetened more because Gord was in the commuting rush of perfectly normal people heading home.
Nicole and Gord had a child. They named her Frances, or Frankie. Last summer, our friend Andrew decided to bring over East Indian roti to their house to visit the little family. I hadn’t seen her yet, so I took it as my chance. Just a fact: when other parents say their child is cute, they are wrong. Frankie is adorable. Frankie sat in my lap, her little blue eyes looking exactly like her father’s, staring up at me and with her grip, tested my finger.
Later, we went into the living room and Gord began playing us records. Nicole told me how happy she was with Frankie. Gord played Congotronics and the Dirtbombs “Good Life.” He had been quiet during the meal, but he was excited by the music, showing us his box sets, the vinyl covers. “The Dirtbombs did a cover of their favorite Detroit house and techno songs,” he said as I flipped through the album’s photos. He smiled as if the world had played him an expertly played joke. “I think this one is really good.”
We discussed the situation. Gord’s cancer had come back; he was planning on getting a bone marrow transplant in the fall. But everyone was optimistic, or maybe I was just hoping they were. “They’ve actually found two matches,” Nicole said. When I was leaving, Gord seemed so energized by the visit that he was up and pacing the floor. I was too.
Gord and Nicole waved from their second floor deck while their downstairs neighbour angrily cleaned his barbecue. I got on my bike, smiling to myself that I could be a small part of their life. It was reassuring to have places like this where I am welcome to hold a baby; welcome to hear some good music.
It’s terrible to compare songs. It’s like forcing children to fight. But although “Someone Like You” has become the go-to break-up song, I still prefer “Turn Into.” While Adele sings romantic boilerplate (“I couldn’t stay away/I couldn’t fight”), Karen O’s lyrics are piercing and idiosyncratic. The line “That girl you found keeps that window closed” strikes me on every playback. Who doesn’t feel that they can feel things the new boy or girl will never dream of? It’s a song of becoming: after a break-up, turning into someone as heartless as you; that new girl, turning into whatever you want; “turning all of this around behind us.” And the acoustic guitar turning into in electric guitar; a piano rising into an even higher pitched guitar. The sadness of those opening lines has imperceptibly become joy, without ever diluting or turning its back on that original feeling. Its euphoria still pricks, still draws blood.
Part Two: Every Time I Sing This Song I Think of Henry Kissinger (Part One here)
I AM MILDLY STONED FROM SHH STEVE’S STASH SHH BUT THIS SONG MAKES NO SENSE WHAT THE HELL IS A MUSKRAT I AM AWARE OF KISSINGER BUT A MUSKRAT IS SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY I AM FUCKING FUCKED IF I WOULD WANT TO HAVE A MUSKRAT TO LOVE I CAN’T EVEN GET A GIRL AND I’M ACTUALLY FOURTEEN BUT A MUSKRAT IS TAKING IT TOO WAY FAR.
YOU KIND OF HAVE TO WONDER ABOUT PEOPLE FROM LIKE THE SEVENTIES THE QUESTION OF THE DAY IS WERE THEY ALL CRAZY? I KNOW THEY WERE ALL DOING LSD TO FIX THEIR MARRIAGE PROBLEMS BUT DOES ACID MAKE YOU WANT TO FUCK BARN ANIMALS CAN ANYONE EXPLAIN THIS TO ME? I WILL PAY YOU EVERYTHING TO EXPLAIN IT TO ME EVEN THE PIZZA MONEY MY MOM LEFT ME BEFORE SHE WENT OUT WITH “DARREN LORD ASSWIPE” AS I ENJOY SHOUTING TO HIS FUCKING AWFUL TOYOTA AS THEY DRIVE TO THE KEG OR WHATEVER “ELEGANT” SHIT THEY ARE CHOWING ON.
OMG ARE THOSE THE SOUNDS OF A FUCKING MUSKRAT FARTING IN A SWAMP? WAS THIS SHIT NORMAL? ARE OLD PEOPLE AWARE OF THEIR LAMENESS OR IS IT LIKE A FUCKING LAME CLOUD THAT ONLY TEENS CAN SEE? LIKE MY FRIEND STEVE’S MOMS IS TOTALLY JAZZED ABOUT HER NEW HAIRCUT BUT IT IS COMPLETELY ONE THAT WAS FASHIONABLE ON JAMIE LEE CURTIS’S CUNT BEFORE I WAS BORN. NOT THAT I WOULDN’T MIND TAPPING THAT “ELEGANT” JL CUNT AT SOME POINT HEY STEVE HOPE YOU ARE READING THIS I’M GOING TO KISSINGER YOUR MOM’S ASS.
I HAVE A FEELING THAT MY FATHER WAS THE ONLY PERSON WHO WAS NOT LAME IN YE OLD TIMEZ WHEN THEY NAMED BANDS FUCKING CAPTAIN AND TENILLE LIKE THEY WERE A BRAND OF FISH STICKS OR SOMETHING. I FEEL SO DUMB FOR SELLING SOME OF HIS VINYL FOR POT A FEW WEEKS AGO IT WAS ALL QUALITY STUFF I CAN ALMOST HEAR THE LED ZEPPLIN NOW. YAH YAH I’M GOING TO REGRET THE VINYL LOSS WHATEVER I CAN DOWNLOAD EVERYTHING IN TEN SECONDS EVEN FLAC SO WHO CARES ABOUT A BUNCH OF RECORDS? (AT LEAST MY “HOW DO YOU WORK THE TV” MOTHER UNDERSTANDS THE *NEED* FOR HIGH SPEED CAUSE OF HER GROSS PLENTYOFFISH PROFILE) YOU’D THINK THIS WERE THE SEVENTIES WHEN PEOPLE GOT RATIONED LIKE FIVE RECORDS A YEAR. FUCK NO WONDER C&T WERE BIG BECAUSE IF YOU ACCIDENTALLY BOUGHT THIS SHIT AND IT WAS 20% OF THE MUSIC YOU HEARD THAT YEAR YOU’D WANT ALL YOUR FRIENDS TO SUFFER TOO.
SHIT MY MOTHER HAS CHANGED THE CHILDSAFE SETTINGS ON THE NETWORK AGAIN. FORTUNATELY SHE ALWAYS CHANGES THE PASSWORD TO SOMETHING RELATED TO HIS DEATH WHICH MAKES IT PRETTY EASY FOR ME TO GUESS. LIKE NOVEMBER OR ST MARYS. I KNOW I KNOW I DON’T EVEN WANT TO ASK WHY SHE’S TUNING INTO THAT FREQUENCY OF FUCKING EMO. SOMETIMES IT’S OFTEN JUST A SWEAR WORD LIKE MOTHERFUCKER WHICH IS IRONIC CONSIDERING WHAT SHE IS TRYING TO STOP ME FROM DOING. ONCE IT WAS LORAZEPAM AND I WAS LIKE LOL MOM TRY HARDER GUESS WHAT I STEAL TO GET THROUGH MY FUCKING MATH CLASS.
ON SECOND THOUGHT I WILL MOST DEFINITELY ORDER SOME PIZZA WITH THIS CASH. THIS POT HAS OPENED MY EYES TO THE SOUNDS OF MY STOMACH. IT KIND OF SOUNDS LIKE MUSKRAT FARTS ACTUALLY. THIS STRAIN OF POT DOES REALLY PLAY ON THOSE LED ZEPPLIN EMOTIONS THAT COME SWEEPING IN FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE. I TOTALLY REMEMBER HEARING THIS MUSKRAT SONG IN THE CAR WITH MY PARENTS AND I KEPT WANTING TO BE SICK BECAUSE I WAS READING X-MEN COMICS AS WE DROVE AND I GUESS I WAS A SHITTY LITTLE LAME BOY BACK THEN BECAUSE I REMEMBER WANTING THIS SONG REALLY BADLY AND MY DAD SAID WE HAD IT BACK AT THE HOUSE. BUT I GUESS I WANTED IT LIKE RIGHT THEN CAUSE I TOTALLY VOMITED. IT’S SO DUMB I JUST REALLY NEEDED THIS SONG. I BELIEVE THAT IS THE LAST TIME I HAVE VOMITED OVER MUSIC BUT I WOULD NOT LIKE TO BET ON IT BECAUSE WHO KNOWS I PLAN TO BE DRUNK ALL THE TIME AS SOON AS I CAN DRIVE.
OH SHIT GUESS WHAT THE PASSWORD IS MUSKRATLOVE. AND NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT I TOTALLY MIGHT HAVE ACCIDENTALLY TOTALLY SOLD MY DADS MUSKRAT LOVE ALBUM FOR SOME POT.
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOPS. SORRY MOMS I REALLY DIDN’T KNOW. I KNOW I GIVE YOU A HARD TIME BUT I’M NOT SUCH A TERRIBLE GUY AFTER ALL AND MAYBE WE CAN PRETEND THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN.
OH SHIT ME THIS IS OBVSLY THE WORST MUSIC I’VE EVER HEARD BUT THAT WASN’T A VERY KISSINGER MOVE.
Part One: I Never Found Anyone Who Fulfilled My Needs
Although it is clear to the greatest number of people that this is a song of Infinite Beauty and First-Class Showmanship, I have found myself over these many years been distressed by the emotions that are stashed in its heart of hearts. I am talking about of course the frightening words “I decided long ago NEVER to walk in ANYONES SHADOW” and “I live as I believe” and this is the number one reason this Great Country is crumbling to its knees. This selfishness and anger toward our elders is leading us away from the path of righteousness.
I have lived in this Great Country for over fifty-four years in four States and in each one I have only found a falling away of values, and a rapid inflation of iniquity. My neighbour, Henry Lewis, a man of great physical beauty to be sure has even taken licentious ideas about me. He looks at me when I ask him not to bang the garbage cans together, and I am bothered by his eyes’ verboseness. After that, it is guaranteed I will not settle my thoughts down enough to enjoy the Biggest Loser. It does arouse me to be sure but these are times for Manhood and Strength because our President needs our support against the liars.
I have also lost the ability to write letters, which to me are further signs of the End of Things. I once wrote long letters to my Aunt that were filled with the precisely elegant exact turns of phrase to delight her soul. But now my pen is stopped up like a toilet, and I find myself roaming the fields behind my house beheading the dandelions with my foot. Even the birds are dying in the river. It helps me to try to recreate the exact conditions of my Parents cupboards. They were filled row upon row with soup cans with red labels zipped tight. There were six cans on the bottom row and never more than three cans in the row above but this altered with our savings or my Mother’s Everchanging Moods.
Henry Lewis showed me his Penis as well. Or what I thought was his penis between the slats of the picket fence. He pulled it out of his shorts. This is the iniquity of which the world is growing coarser, and moving away from the eternal joy of my childhood ages. This “shadow” that Ms Houston believes you cannot walk in is the “shadow” I encounter every day in my brain’s eye. I think this “shadow” is the struggle we all have with our souls in order to follow the path my mother in her wisdom flicked into me with her Spatula. It is the one my Aunt tries daily to pull me from with her many and bothersome phone calls about my “recurring thoughts.”
You should not worry about me, I have scared Henry Lewis away from his iniquity and roared at him “You do not have love in your heart of hearts! Please do not step onto my half of our shared walkway!” Which distressed him a great deal as we enjoyed drinking our long way out of sorrows together in his very Well-Equipped basement bar. (Henry Lewis is a Bachelor and often wears shorts.) But I think he knows that he has the upper hand for his look still has power over my very soul, right to the tingling edges of my toes. He is a strong man, almost as Strong as our First Black President.
I of course watched the inauguration as a Proud American of our First Black President with Henry Lewis and I secretly cried in his washroom as it has a fan to cover the sounds of your tears. It was a thing of Beauty much like this song and the visuals, which also make one cry. It gives you HOPE that endless INJUSTICES will be righted and the people WHO HAVE SUFFERED will find peace and forgiveness.
So though I cannot support Ms Houston’s desire for freedom and ruination of all that is good and honourable about this Great Country, I am always delighted by this song whenever I can catch it on the radio, perhaps in the car or even at the barber shop. Which is why it is music and not I suppose God, who does not make you feel 2 different things at the same time. It is a good reminder of times gone by when everything was beautiful and there was not a cancer on this country’s breathing face. My Mother of course did not like this type of music but she had little patience for weakness.
And like all timeless classics this song can make your foot involuntarily bounce and want to join the happiness of yourself to others. This can include but is not limited to iniquitous next door neighbours who perhaps have waited long enough and deserve our forgiveness and maybe even after these frosty weeks a Friendly Embrace.
There are people who think Joy Division is better than New Order, and I am sorry for them, because they are so very very wrong. Every day, there are dozens of reasons to feel hopeless. And sometimes, there’s only one to make us hopeful. New Order’s songs are often on that knife edge between hopelessness and hopeful, when what seemed bleak reveals itself to be something miraculous. But they’re not naive, either. The hopeful is confused and wrong. The narrator of this song can’t even remember what colour eyes you have, but he’s still ecstatic about meeting you. And that’s the truth. Our happiness is based on ignorance and lies - on a completely transitory amnesia of everything that’s ugly - but that fact doesn’t make the happiness, the ecstasy of “Temptation” any less fucking amazing.
I hereby authorize you to put “I’ve never met anyone quite like you before” on my tombstone, along with all the “oooOOOoooOOOOooo”s.
My family is a family of pop music lovers. My mother’s family is from Liverpool, so I spent several spring months of my childhood visiting them. And while we were in Liverpool, we’d have lunch after visiting the Beatles museum and meet the punks hanging outside of the Cavern. At my aunt’s house, they’d throw dance parties to welcome my Mom and me. We’d dance to “She Loves You,” but also Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” and “Spirit in the Sky” (the Doctor and the Medics version). My aunt’s dog was named Rebel, so while we were dancing, the dog would run crazy around the living room, and we’d sing “Rebel, Rebel.”
Back at home, my brother was wearing one leather glove and curling his lip like Billy Idol. Later, he’d introduce me to dozens of bands from his room papered with posters for the Cure, the Cult, Siouxie and the Banshees, Sinead O’Connor. My sister first listened to Duran Duran - I remember her snatching the remote control and commandeering the television to watch the premiere of the “Reflex” video - and later, Run DMC, the Beastie Boys and Black Box. My female cousins were in a band called Brigadoon. They were - are - excellent musicians, and they’d play Kate Bush and the Pretenders for us. For years, I was in love with “Fire” without having any idea it was by Springsteen for the Pointer Sisters (or that it was about rape). It was just what my cousin would sing beside the campfire with her guitar, and it was beautiful and that was that.
So, for years, I was surrounded by pop music. So much so, that I resented it. Pop music is nothing without personal resonances, and all of these songs seemed to be enmeshed in other people’s ideas and interpretations. I was the youngest in a very loud, noisy family with strong opinions about everything, and it was difficult for me to create a vision of myself through these songs. And apart from a few like “Fire,” I can’t even say that I really liked or disliked these songs that my brother and sister and cousins and aunts liked. They were the background to my life with them. It would be like saying that I liked or disliked my aunt’s smell or the touch of her hands. Sure, I might feel either way about these things, but it’s immaterial to how I feel about her. And it would seem wrong to even talk about it.
I eventually found a way to music that I could call mine. First through the things that no one would claim: Paula Abdul and C+C Music Factory. Then, mainly through new stuff. Most of it built on the things my brother liked: Suede, REM, Elastica, Nirvana, Eric’s Trip. My friends and I would go on about some older things occasionally, but I generally avoided anything that hadn’t been released while I was a teenager. Those older bands, although theoretically “great” - I could agree to that - felt blown out, used up.
For instance, my sister and brother argued a lot, but they could agree on their preference for New Order. I remember the white cover of the LP of Substance sitting like a talisman in their record collections. Its crisp blankness seemed to suggest that there was wild magic inside. But when they played it, and I passed by their room and heard it, all I heard was oh great there’s Blue Monday again. It was hard to imagine how something so familiar could offer me anything of interest.
There’s this idea that when great works of art are silent to you for a long time, and then they finally speak, it’s because you suddenly “get them.” You were too immature before; now you are wise enough to understand them. I don’t think that’s true. I think that silent works speak when you finally have a place for them in your life. When they can be useful in explaining yourself to yourself.
I remember the first time I “got” “Blue Monday” - the first time I heard that song and it suddenly meant something to me. I was in my second year of University. I was sad and confused this year. I’ve written about it in more detail before, so I won’t explore it now. But in that year, I woke up every day with an alarm tuned to the local “alternative” music station. It happened that one morning they played “Blue Monday.” They probably played “Blue Monday” every four days. But on that day, while I slowly woke up with the winter sun struggling to light up my room, snuggling in the covers for just five minutes more, as that distinctive bass, drums and keyboard intro rolled itself out and then Bernard Sumner sang, “I see a ship in the harbour/I can and shall obey,” I saw something new. I saw a ship in a harbour - not literally of course - I just imagined a ship in a harbour. And I felt it ring up some part of the dull loneliness I felt that year and thought - indistinctly, but approximately - maybe I can fit this song into my life.
Maybe that’s why we call them “great songs.” Not because they have particularly insightful emotions behind them, or are crafted impeccably. But because they can easily shrug off whatever layers of accumulated thoughts and feelings others have overlaid on them, and can become something new and frightening for us. “Blue Monday” is frightening. It is complexly cold. It’s a song that makes you wonder how it fits together. And listening to it on that morning over a decade ago, it felt like no one else had heard it. Or actually, really heard it. It was just me and “Blue Monday” and that staccato drum beat and spooky choir. No one else but me. I don’t know what it told me about myself, but it was something hard and alien and it showed some sharp, flat colours - a room in myself I had never seen before. And I guess that’s why it spoke: without “Blue Monday,” I could never have even known that room existed. Or stranger, that I might have never created that room for it to exist in me. I might have never known that it could be possible to be so alien and complexly cold, and to find that valuable.
And it’s only been me and “Blue Monday” ever since.
Most songs about looking for love portray it as a lack. Elton’s “Are You Ready For Love?” - possibly my favorite of his songs - portrays it as an overflowing of potentiality. When we’re looking for love, it’s difficult to imagine ourselves as being able to offer anything. It feels like the other person is going to give us everything we need. But of course, exploding with possibilities is what makes us most attractive to someone else. “Are you ready for love?” The trick is that love is waiting for us, trying to get in. Can you hear it knocking?
Kylie Minogue - “Come Into My World (Fischerspooner Remix)” - “Live” on TOTP
Sure, she’s lip-syncing. But I never imagined that she’d get even this close to performing this remix live. So my discovery of this video is mildly exploding my brains right now.
