Not long ago I was speaking with an old friend about our respective relationships to music, relationships that perhaps because of our similar age were more similar than not. Over the last several years he has taken to the ukulele, and I have become close to both an electric and an acoustic guitar. He will certainly be a better player of a ukulele than I will of a guitar, and I am sure that like most trysts mine playing days will end in deception and tears.
But along with our penchant for stringed instruments, my friend and I also see--or perhaps used to see--music as something beyond the auditory. We both grew up when record albums were popular, when going to a store and finding just the right album demanded physical effort: find an artist or two and evaluate any visible artwork, hold the cellophane-sealed cardboard container, and go with faith that the deep cuts were as good as the song or two we'd heard on the radio. Then, at home, we would slice the cellophane and slip the paper sleeve out, cradling the record itself as if it were a newborn baby that we'd helped deliver. on the sleeve we'd find the liner notes, bits of information about who played which instruments on which song, who the producer was where the music was recorded and mastered. We'd find the lyrics, too, and even commentary written by the musicians and songwriter. It was a way, perhaps, to keep track of the music industry itself.
Placing the record on the turntable took care and attention, and we would clean the record first before dropping the needled. If we were especially fastidious, we the first time we ran the turntable we recorded the music onto good cassette tape, saving the original source and playing only the copy.
When CDs and their clean, static-free sound came along, we lost a bit of information just as we lost the hiss and pop from even the most clean of albums. Liner notes got smaller and briefer; lyrics were often excluded; inventive artwork was reduced to underwhelming sizes and proportions. We certainly got to hold the product, but the experience was diminished even if the process had changed only a little. And now, with nearly all music available to be downloaded, we have only the music and not the experience. We seldom take risks with music because it's so easy to listen to and buy only what is presented to us by one gatekeeper or another. Deep tracks on an artist's "album" these days? Bah...the stories and themes that can be developed on an album-length production have been replaced by digitized meanings-of-the-moment. Recording artists for years have sought and been pressured to release a hit song, but today it is too easy for everyone--artists and consumers alike--to stop there.
Perhaps this is just a case of a couple of old people remembering how "things were so much better" when we were young. In fact, "perhaps" might even be too nice of a term. But over the last six months during which three of the best friends I've ever had have died, I've allowed myself to genuflect a bit to certain nostalgic tendencies in several areas of life. Because I had known each of these people for many decades, I know a lot about them just as they knew a lot about me. Some of the secrets we shared are better off now that they, too, are
dead, but I'd often prefer the deep cuts and the hiss and pop of a life
over one that is clean and static free.
I think about how tt different times but never together we shared much information and
many experiences--our producers, the musicians we played with, our
lyrics and personal commentary...liner notes that we could read at our leisure.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Home: Part 28
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
I was home. The taxi driver had made his way through the traffic north of the airport and dropped me in front of my apartment just after dark. He got out of the car and pulled my Samsonite from the taxi's trunk. He looked at me as I turned to pay him.
"You okay?"
"Tired," I said.
"You need a hand with this thing?"
I handed him the money. "No, thanks."
He pocketed the bills. Fog seemed to drift down from the streetlights above us. "You have a good night, then," he said. He buttoned his coat and stood with his hand on the car door. "Everything okay?"
"Tired," I repeated. "A long day."
"Get some rest, then. This fog's killing my hands, you know?" He settled into the seat and drove away.
I knew what he meant about the fog: Even inside my apartment my own hands felt chilled. San Francisco was always a shock after being in the Philippines. I poured a bit too much Scotch into a tumbler and sat in the kitchen nook from where I could see out to the street and, on a night clearer than this one, glimpse the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. I'd inherited at least part of my father's penchant for drinking alone in dark rooms, and even as I sipped from my glass I thought there were other, better things I should be doing. I'd not had a real conversation with anyone since leaving Narcie what seemed like weeks before; the stewardess on the plane were the only ones I remembered talking with.
Shannon, before she experienced what she said was her "life's epiphany," had once found me asleep with my head on the kitchen table, my fingers wrapped around the stem of a martini glass. "Wake up," she'd said.
"I'm awake," I said though I moved neither my head nor my hand."
"What are you doing out here?"
I sat up straight and took in my surroundings. "Drinking and sleeping."
She took the glass. "Yes," she said, brushing the hair from my forehead. "Are you really this lonely?"
"Just had one martini too many," I said.
"Yes," she said.
Afterward I became more careful about letting myself get like I was that night. It was something my father never learned to do--keep the dark away when things mattered. My sister and I had both tried to get him to quit drinking altogether, and he feigned his changed habits well enough--and often enough--that Cindy and I chose to believe his act enough to make us give up. We were both, I suppose, fools to not realize that our mother had tried just as often and had been just as unsuccessful.
But sitting there and watching the fog, I let myself drift into weariness. I would wake up late the next morning and be glad that the glass was still half-full of Scotch, something I counted as no small achievement.
July 1974
I was home. The taxi driver had made his way through the traffic north of the airport and dropped me in front of my apartment just after dark. He got out of the car and pulled my Samsonite from the taxi's trunk. He looked at me as I turned to pay him.
"You okay?"
"Tired," I said.
"You need a hand with this thing?"
I handed him the money. "No, thanks."
He pocketed the bills. Fog seemed to drift down from the streetlights above us. "You have a good night, then," he said. He buttoned his coat and stood with his hand on the car door. "Everything okay?"
"Tired," I repeated. "A long day."
"Get some rest, then. This fog's killing my hands, you know?" He settled into the seat and drove away.
I knew what he meant about the fog: Even inside my apartment my own hands felt chilled. San Francisco was always a shock after being in the Philippines. I poured a bit too much Scotch into a tumbler and sat in the kitchen nook from where I could see out to the street and, on a night clearer than this one, glimpse the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. I'd inherited at least part of my father's penchant for drinking alone in dark rooms, and even as I sipped from my glass I thought there were other, better things I should be doing. I'd not had a real conversation with anyone since leaving Narcie what seemed like weeks before; the stewardess on the plane were the only ones I remembered talking with.
Shannon, before she experienced what she said was her "life's epiphany," had once found me asleep with my head on the kitchen table, my fingers wrapped around the stem of a martini glass. "Wake up," she'd said.
"I'm awake," I said though I moved neither my head nor my hand."
"What are you doing out here?"
I sat up straight and took in my surroundings. "Drinking and sleeping."
She took the glass. "Yes," she said, brushing the hair from my forehead. "Are you really this lonely?"
"Just had one martini too many," I said.
"Yes," she said.
Afterward I became more careful about letting myself get like I was that night. It was something my father never learned to do--keep the dark away when things mattered. My sister and I had both tried to get him to quit drinking altogether, and he feigned his changed habits well enough--and often enough--that Cindy and I chose to believe his act enough to make us give up. We were both, I suppose, fools to not realize that our mother had tried just as often and had been just as unsuccessful.
But sitting there and watching the fog, I let myself drift into weariness. I would wake up late the next morning and be glad that the glass was still half-full of Scotch, something I counted as no small achievement.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Home: Part 27
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
During one or another of her bible study classes, Cindy met Terry Pipes, the boy who many years later would become her first husband. He was thin, wore one cheekbone higher than the other, and had a slight twitch in his eyebrows. He was older than Cindy by a couple of years, and his parents worked one of the farms outside of town. Half of their fields were soybeans, the other half corn, and they had acreage enough to pasture a good number of milk cows. Many of my classmates lived on working farms, and I knew how hard they worked before and after school. Terry didn't seem strong enough to be of much use on a farm, but I wasn't one to question him. His brothers, whom I'd met just once, seemed stronger; perhaps Terry took care of the fields and cows, I thought.
"Terry has thought about being a minister," Cindy said one night as she and I cleaned the kitchen after dinner. My parents were in the living room watching Wagon Train on black-and-white Silverstone television set that my father had brought home from Sears one day. "He is quite enthusiastic about spreading god's word."
"What about his farm?" I asked.
"It's not his farm," Cindy said. "Terry says that he wants to have a small church somewhere."
I thought about the farm, what would become of it and the cows if Terry left. "He could put his church on the farm," I said. "He could be a farmer and a minister."
Cindy looked at me. "You really have no idea what you're talking about, do you? Dry the plates and put them away. I'm going to go read."
A week or so later, a Saturday, Terry and Cindy sat at our kitchen table. They were typing up the church program, something that my sister had volunteered for and seemed to enjoy doing. "You want to help?" Cindy asked.
"There's not much he can do," Terry said.
"Maybe if we give him a task, he'll come to church with us tomorrow."
Terry looked at me. "Him? In church?"
Cindy looked at me, too, as if re-thinking what she'd said. "Sunday school, then. He could go to Sunday school."
Terry's eyebrows twitched. "No."
April 1958
During one or another of her bible study classes, Cindy met Terry Pipes, the boy who many years later would become her first husband. He was thin, wore one cheekbone higher than the other, and had a slight twitch in his eyebrows. He was older than Cindy by a couple of years, and his parents worked one of the farms outside of town. Half of their fields were soybeans, the other half corn, and they had acreage enough to pasture a good number of milk cows. Many of my classmates lived on working farms, and I knew how hard they worked before and after school. Terry didn't seem strong enough to be of much use on a farm, but I wasn't one to question him. His brothers, whom I'd met just once, seemed stronger; perhaps Terry took care of the fields and cows, I thought.
"Terry has thought about being a minister," Cindy said one night as she and I cleaned the kitchen after dinner. My parents were in the living room watching Wagon Train on black-and-white Silverstone television set that my father had brought home from Sears one day. "He is quite enthusiastic about spreading god's word."
"What about his farm?" I asked.
"It's not his farm," Cindy said. "Terry says that he wants to have a small church somewhere."
I thought about the farm, what would become of it and the cows if Terry left. "He could put his church on the farm," I said. "He could be a farmer and a minister."
Cindy looked at me. "You really have no idea what you're talking about, do you? Dry the plates and put them away. I'm going to go read."
A week or so later, a Saturday, Terry and Cindy sat at our kitchen table. They were typing up the church program, something that my sister had volunteered for and seemed to enjoy doing. "You want to help?" Cindy asked.
"There's not much he can do," Terry said.
"Maybe if we give him a task, he'll come to church with us tomorrow."
Terry looked at me. "Him? In church?"
Cindy looked at me, too, as if re-thinking what she'd said. "Sunday school, then. He could go to Sunday school."
Terry's eyebrows twitched. "No."
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