A little something musical that I am enjoying.
The band is "Dark, Dark, Dark."
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Go on, turn the news off for a few minutes. Turn this up, dance around, make a list of all the things you love. Then, I dunno, maybe consider giving up expressing your outrage for a whole day?
Perhaps take stock of the way the air is moving outside? Or think about a song that YOU cannot resist. (And by the way, I want to know what song that is...) Peace out. It surprises me when someone says, "Oh, I don't know the words. I just listen to the music."
PS: And on the other hand, we have songs like Louie Louie. The words are so indistinguishable that you can put whatever comes to mind into those slurred lines, and all you are left with as a listener is a passionate understanding for the need to leave. I know it's supposed to be a sea-shanty, but honestly it could just as easily be a call to take up needlepoint or remove potatoes from the stove. Wooah, baby, me gotta go.
The boss, Captain Alva, was perhaps the most mature and sensible adult male I'd known up till then. He offered positive, actionable advice when asked and took joy in the highlights of the day. Still does. Inevitably, after a sunset cruise, the friendly fishing folk hanging around Merry Pier would ask how the sunset had been. Because I love to get the laugh, I usually answered with something flip, deadpanned for shock value: "Aw, you know –– same old same old. It was a re-run. Saw it last week."
We often end the sunlit day at the beaver pond. We put a two-seater deer stand up a pine tree so we can get above some of the mosquitoes and see beyond the fringe of cattails that surrounds the pond. The beavers –– true to stereotype –– clock in at dusk and work their fannies off maintaining the mud dams. They are reliable as clockwork, chugging through the water like mammalian tugboats. With the right show, we can watch re-runs –– one most devoutly hopes –– for years.
I am only sorry that I didn't know about Lhasa de Sela when she was still alive. I don't believe her untimely death makes her music better, but it certainly makes listening to it all the sweeter. Sometimes a person just needs a silly song in a different language. !Hay Machete! He was not my favorite Bond, but he was a smooth Saint. And he was a pop culture icon; Amy Winehouse didn't have to explain anything past "like Roger Moore," because we got it. I'll skip the Nerf Herder song and also close my eyes against Roger Moore's own song stylings. Goodbye, Mr. Moore. Weird, cool, and oddly entertaining: How and why? Who would do such a thing? I can only answer for why I found and listened to this Craftsman music as I was in quest of power-tool Christmas music, which I remembered from a long-ago NPR story about the things people play at the holidays. The album (A Toolbox Christmas, natch) scores high in the category of odd, though not so well in the "listenability" department. Well, kudos* to anyone who makes music.
*Word nerd alert: "kudos" is a singular noun that translates from the Greek as "praise." So in a grammatically correct universe, when someone is highly praised, she gets much kudos rather than many kudos. It's unfortunate that Winston Churchill, in the midst of fighting for the survival of freedom and decency during World War II, did NOT actually respond to a call to cut funding for the arts by asking, simply, "Then what are we fighting for?" It would have been neat to have heritage for such a sharp rallying cry. Thank you, NPR's Tiny Desk Concerts. Even though with only about 20% of your budget coming from the feds, I am happy that some of my taxes go to support this, not that. And thank you, Lake Street Dives. Really enjoying this latest bit of what my mom would have called blue-eyed soul.
A river of words is usually in flood. And while I write about nearly everything, my blogging impulse is toward humor. This spot abounds with absurdities and piffle. This week has thwarted me.  Not on a personal level, but at the world-going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket level. I'm not ready to josh around with words today.
I have high hopes. The sun'll, as Annie would belt out, come out –– tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun... Mashed up, inevitably, with the melancholic fall "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge. Be as kind as you can be out there. |
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