Piano Sonata in C# Minor, "Moonlight", Ludvig Van Beethoven

It must be night, else I must be dreaming.

So, it is night. So, it is that the moon illuminates our loneliness and propels them round and round, brushing our arms and touching our cheeks, one living being to another. Our plights take flight and descend, sighing, into our ears, sending ripples of sadness across all that we do, all that we hold in our empty hands--hovering above half-finished coffee cups, grazing past barely-buried regrets, lightly touching the jagged tear in an unread letter, crossing a lamplit room teeming with stasis, swooping into hearts that plunge the unfathomable depths of suffering, echoing the unasked questions, moving past the boundaries of what can be known, swirling gloriously, unheeding of conclusions, yet, shining a light upon them.

If only we had eyes to see.

Souls tremble in containment, reaching for edges of moonlight, never rising quite enough to touch.

The Story I Found: Foo Fighters and Sonic Highways

"There is a river I found---"

- from "Something From Nothing"

In Sonic Highways, there is a man, and the man--broken and a little lost, but looking for answers to his questions, looking for deliverance-- (unwittingly) takes a journey. Something inside him has died, but something in him, too, knows that there is life in the death that has taken place, that there is something hidden in the undergrounds of the world that just might bring him back to life. Along the way, he encounters darkness, more questions, people who are lost in similar and different ways, epiphanies in the most ill-lighted of corners, love both found and lost. He encounters himself along the way, meets himself at the end of every path. Finally, he comes to terms with himself and rekindles the fire that has kept him going, despite the odds, the same fire, stronger now, that will keep him going, henceforth, and his journey comes full circle, in the very fact that he knows and looks forward to the fact that the journey will keep on being.

It is a typical enough story, the story of everyman, after all, but the beauty and grandeur of Sonic Highways is in keeping true with the themes it has set for itself, in delineating a story with a beginning, a rising action, a climax, a denoument, and an ending. Each song is connected both to and with the next one, and each listen brings with it a discovery, so that one can spend entire hours on it, and not get tired of doing so. The words are in keeping with the music, which is brilliantly-written--thanks to the genius of Dave Grohl--and flawlessly-executed, thanks to the talent, skill, and passion of the entire Foo Fighters. The arrangements are dynamic, the riffs play up the narrative, the drumbeats provide both backdrop and heightened action. Sonic Highways is a phenomenal work of music, unabashedly different, and with enough richness as to leave the listener more than satisfied, even with only eight songs in the stash, because the music fleshes out the themes and this sort of thing necessitates a repeat listen, and another, and another.

The one flaw (and another good thing going for it, if you will) in Sonic Highways is that the songs would not be able to stand to their full height without the others. The album is unapologetically contextual, and something gets lost when one song is taken from the other, leaving the listener turning the song over for something more and very possibly not finding, and thereby making the songs un-radio-friendly. Or maybe it's just me talking. I take off from the mistake I made of listening to "Something From Nothing" the moment it came out, and subsequently giving it my full judgement, without giving it the very benefit of the whole. It was only when I got to listen to Sonic Highways in entirety that I saw its richness. From that point, I started raving (mostly to myself) about it, and about the fact that everything now made sense (and what beautiful sense it was!), the way that almost nothing of it did with my "Something From Nothing" one-bite experience.

There were undercurrents of a narrative in Wasting Light, but the Foo Fighters' use of the story-telling device comes full-blast in Sonic. The album excellently spells out the kind of evolution that Foo Fighters has proven itself capable of, time and again, the band's collective effort and incredible energy visible in the entire production. I would say that they have outdone themselves, this time, and have managed to put enough pressure on themselves as to spend the next few years bleeding their brains out in order to top this particular, border-defying work. But knowing Dave Grohl, I now counter my last statement by saying that it will never happen. There's no going dry with that madman. He is most definitely something else.

See if you find the story I did, and if you find something else, do share it with me.

"There is a secret

I found a secret--"

- from "I am a River"

Older and Better: My Kind of Mr. Big

euphoria. noun - a feeling of great (usually exaggerated) elation

Thank you, mobile phone dictionary, for being so succinct. Euphoria is the very word I would use to describe my Mr. Big experience last October 31st. The build-up of excitement--from the time I found out they were coming over to the very moment they appeared onstage--took a little over two months before culmination, so that meant I had had to suppress that little lump of giddiness for quite a while. Our tickets were purchased two weeks before the date and by that time, I had already consumed enough of their music to fill a medium-sized pool. I am a discography type of person, though I no longer have the luxury of time to "study" each and every album, so I end up singling out and retaining only my favorites from each. A handful was added to my cache of Mr. Bigs, but I still spent so much time listening to them because once a song becomes a favorite, I put it on loop and listen to it enough times for somebody else's ears and patience to burst.

Sadly, though, Mr. Big started out for me as Eric Martin and only Eric Martin, when I was in High School and still very much prone to crushing on celebrity vocalists, Eric Martin not the least of them, if only because he was so deliciously good-looking and had one of the best voices in town. Paul Gilbert and Billy Sheehan--I used to not see drummers back then, so Pat Torpey was virtually non-existent--were no more than fixtures for me, ignorant little girl that I was, whose idea of music consumption was confined to song and singer, and knowing next to nothing of the other (equally) important details that went with the finished product. All those changed when I got older, but that's another story.

So, anyway, there we were, two hours before the concert, loading up on a few beers, trying to contain the excitement that found (paltry) relief only in sudden exclamations of "I'm so excited I could barely contain it!" And alcohol, so it would seem, because we managed to make it to the arena in one piece. Thankfully, we had prepared ourselves for a delay, being used to waiting as we were, so it didn't appall us as much as the sight of the half-empty (or half-full, for the positive thinkers out there) venue did. I found myself getting more and more dismayed as the minutes ticked by and there didn't seem to be much hope of the arena getting filled. I grew anxious for the band because yes, I'm a little crazy that way. What will they think and how will they feel, poor creatures? What is wrong with people? I questioned the universe for a little while, biting the ends of my fingernails and sighing. The minutes stretched into longer ones and I turned into a huge blob slumped into my seat, watching a big, white guy in denim shorts and a black shirt making last minute check-ups on the set. His long hair was tied in a ponytail and I wondered what his life was like.

When the lights went out and loud, orchestral music filled the room, people started to clap and shout and whistle and I felt the hairs on my nape and arms rise. The band went onstage and took their places and everything else disappeared into a vacuum--I felt myself rising to an all-time high, and the rest is history. Or maybe not. They opened with "Daddy, Brother, Lover, Little Boy", played "Green-Tinted Sixties Mind" and "Just Take My Heart" to an audience that could hardly stop itself from singing along, "Alive and Kickin'", "I Forget To Breathe", "Addicted to That Rush", "Take Cover", and some tracks from their new album The Stories We Could Tell, "As Far as I Can See" being my favorite from that album, which I have yet to "study".

Eric Martin wasn't as cute as I remembered him to be (I'm stupid, I already know that), but he was still able to hit the notes, though sustaining them was an altogether different affair; still, he had ways of playing around with the vocals so that he still winged the more difficult songs with flair. Paul Gilbert was his usual brilliant self and the crowd went crazy when he did his solos, but Billy Sheehan ended up the one to take my breath away--so much stage presence, that giant of a man, and those guitar rifts, holy molly! Apparently, he is who Mr. Big took its name from, and this new tidbit delighted me to no end. Pat Torpey, who has been diagnosed with Parkinsons Disease, still appeared on stage and drummed to "Just Take My Heart" and "Addicted to that Rush". For the rest of the night, his place was filled in by a drummer who was known to me only as "that bald guy". I just recently found out his name was Mark Starr. "To Be With You" and "Wild World" were my two least favorite numbers.

Everything else was a roaring blast, as I had expected--and hoped--it would be. It was a relief that the band did not allow the sight of the empty seats to stop them from being in their element. They soared up to the high ceilings with their energy, more fired up and bigger than I have ever known them to be. There they were, a bunch of wonderfully talented musicians who've been playing for fans for 25 years; there they were, in their mid-fifties and having gone through as much of life's ups-and-downs as any other person could; there they were, older and better. I had a feeling that night was going to imprint itself on me for a while, and was I right. I'm writing this more than a week from that time, and I can still remember how they were, and how I was, watching them.

They didn't play "CDFF Lucky This Time", which is my favorite Mr. Big song, but I ended up not minding, at all. My pool was overflowing and it was one of the best feelings in the world. That night, I went home nostalgic, reminiscing how it was in the 90's, remembering my long, wavy, untreated hair and my afternoon trips to the diner with my friends, the little joys and heartbreaks, the weekends spent reading and waiting for my favorite songs to be played by faceless DJs, the light, airy evenings, wonderful little stuff that only fourteen-and-something-year-olds can know--and I felt young and stupid and happy, all over again. And so it goes that the things we loved and lost but keep loving, anyway, eventually find their way back to us, at some point or another, and music has just the power to bring it all back. And that unforgettable night, Mr. Big made it all happen for me.

Waiting for this to come out:

Macy Gray, Covered

2012

Ms. Gray's "Covered" is definitely a whole crew of well-diffused sound waves. The perfect soundtrack for a 5:00-in-the-afternoon coffee shop meet-up with your quirkiest friends, or an early evening jaunt to some little-known, kitschy bar (again, with your quirkiest friends).

My favorites are: "Nothing Else Matters" (Metallica); "Wake Up" (Arcade Fire); "Love lockdown" (Kanye West); "Smoke Two Joints" (The Toyes); and "Maps" (Yeah Yeah Yeahs).

I'm not too crazy about "Bubbly" (Colby Caillat), and Radiohead's "Creep" has been covered enough times (my fave is Damien Rice's), but Ms. Gray still pulls off the dark charm and is able to put her spin on 'em.

Two thumbs up. Plus a glass of tequila rose on the side, if you will.
=)

We ask that life be kind...

Without a doubt, my favorite version.

Found:

Take-home quote for the day:

"Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies. It wanders perturbedly through the halls and galleries of the memory, and is often heard again, distinct and living as when it first displaced the wavelets of the air. "
-Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton, 1803-1873
English politician, poet, playwright, and novelist

Rest Day

"And today is whatever I want it to mean."
- Beth Orton, "Central Reservation"


If my eyes are to be trusted, I'd say it was a full and orange moon I saw in the sky, early this evening. The wind was benign, not biting, at all, just all coltish and balmy, bringing memories of violins and vanilla. Beth Orton was in the background, and Miles Davis followed suit with his trumpet and his band. The lines of a just-read poem still floated in my head and I breathed it all in: the aftermaths of twilight, the cool scent of the evening, the loveliness of beat and song, the exquisiteness of words and spaces, the lucid state my mind was in.

I had my music and my sanity. Everything was in its right place.

So much loveliness here...

What are regrets?
They're just lessons we haven't learned yet
It's like catching snow on your tongue
You can't pin this butterfly down
Can't pin this butterfly down..


Another day draws away
And my heart sinks with the sun

See how he makes love to the guitar

Damien Rice - Volcano - Official Video

Found: Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew"

and am lovin' it to bits!!!

My Favorite Things - John Coltrane

Vantage Couch

Ted Neeley, "Gethsemane"

Slim, 40-something, Caucasian woman in a tie-dyed sleeveless top, sitting very straight and very tall. She is eating a muffin and sipping some iced, tea-like drink. She is reading something from her laptop. Or maybe she's just staring at the screen. Freckled arms. Shoulder-length, auburn, wavy hair. Very pretty bag, zebra print, red handles. It is lying carelessly on the floor.

Keri Hilson and Kanye west, "Knock You Down"
Skip.

Simply Red, "Fairground"
Good enough.

Man who looks like Santa Claus (hair, moustache and beard all white as snow) typing something on his flip-top phone. Message to Mrs. Claus, maybe? Hurry up, dear, I'm getting bored here..

Florence and the Machine, "Drumming Song"

Oh, turns out it wasn't Mrs. Claus sir claus was waiting for, after all. Some guy who looks like Ken Watanabe (from the back, at least) arrives and sits on the couch in front of Mr. Claus. His smile is warm (I could not see Ken, but I figure he's smiling, too). They talk. Mr. Claus's eyes are blue. He has very nice, very white teeth.

Fiona Apple, "Waltz"

Teen-aged girl reading Tuesdays With Morrie. Green shirt with white piping, denim shorts, sneakers. Hair tied carelessly in a ponytail. She seems so earnest, as if she were reading something really engrossing, something really... good. Hmm. I wouldn't wanna be in her shoes.

Oh, look, there's another guy with a white beard. I was gonna say "another Claus look-alike" but I figured he looked more like some character straight out of a Dickens novel.

Edie Brickell, "Good Times"

We chase art and don't know it--

the iPod we patiently save part of our paychecks for; the concert we brave the Friday rush hour to get to, on time; that painting in the cafe we always find ourselves staring at, because the taste of the coffee goes so well with the sight of the colors on the canvas; that tune we hum inside our heads the entire day; that novel, that book of poetry we forego lunch for; those few, short lines we hunt pen and paper to scribble down. That itch to see, that craving to hear.

We often feel the urge to burst into song and almost always find that there is no crowd, no one, to sing for.

Hence, we sing to ourselves.

And that would do, for now.

Weekend browse:

A walk across the rooftops 
by Luis Katigbak

Ted Neeley, 27 years after JCS

A friend shared this video on his facebook.



"Gethsemane" is my favorite song from "Jesus Christ, Superstar" (1973).

One word for dear ol' Ted: amazing.

from youtube

Found:

Rickie Lee Jones: Pirates, 1981
Thanks, Mr. K!

Found: