from under a rock: episode one
I’ve always loved music. That’s not exactly a grand reveal, is it? I’ve blogged about everything from Canadian hard rock of the 80s to Barry Manilow. And now I’m doing it again.
Over the years, I’ve evolved from the teenager locked in his bedroom blaring Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Grim Reaper at top volume into someone who truly appreciates people who are good at their craft. It may be the Nashville effect. You can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a super-talented musician. Or a church. I imagine both, but I can’t confirm that. I “home-church.”
[A late, but humble thank you to Dean and Robbi DePeri for introducing me to that wonderful term. It’s perfect.]
Apologies to my cat-loving friends. I would never actually swing a dead cat, nor am I suggesting anyone else do such a thing. I just like the expression. I understand it may offend your sensibilities. Maybe just pretend it’s a stuffed cat. Not a real cat stuffed by a taxidermist. One you might find in an airport gift shop or a Hallmark store. Are there still Hallmark stores? No matter. Let’s get back to music. Because I love it.
I love it even more because my kids are so good at it. I don’t know why that is, since we don’t have a ton of musical talent in the family. My aunt could sing. My mom can sing and used to play a little piano. My father in-law can sing (but don’t tell him I said that). And my father used to play sax and clarinet. I’m not sure if he was any good—I’ve never heard him play either one. I just know he used to play.
Jenni will sing from time to time—at least until Emily asks her to stop. And aside from belting out Glass Tiger’s “My Town” when I have occasion to drive over the Burlington Bay bridge, and the compulsion to sing the theme from WKRP in Cincinnati whenever we cross the Kentucky-Ohio line, the times I’ve actually sung out loud are few and far between:
One night after over-serving myself at a high school party… By that, I mean a party that occurred while I was in high school. Not now. I do not go to high school parties in 2018. I’m closing in on 50—that would be super-special creepy. Anyway, at this particular party, I grabbed the mic and fronted my cousin’s band for about six words of “Rocky Mountain Way.” Why six words? Well, you know how some people think they sound good when they hear their own voices? I’m not one of those people. I think those six-words made three people throw-up instantly that night (I can trigger that gag reflex in two notes). They said it was the alcohol, but I’m pretty sure they were just being nice.
Freshman year in college, I found myself singing along to a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song in our dorm room. My roommate, Don, was a huge fan of “The Dirt.” In a totally unprovoked dick move, he suddenly turned the volume to zero, leaving me auditioning for Pitch Perfect about 30 years before its time. Thank goodness Elizabeth Banks and Anna Kendrick didn’t hear me. But at least Don got a good laugh. I miss Don.
And during Spring Break at one of the beaches (Myrtle or Virginia—I forget), all the beer in me decided it would be a terrific idea for my mouth to make a tape (yes, a tape) of me singing The Jeff Healey Band’s “Angel Eyes” for my then girlfriend. In classic beer-racketeering fashion, it also convinced my brain to let someone put a hole in my ear in the same night. Anyway, it’s possible my voice is what caused Jeff Healey to lose his sight (rest in peace, Jeff. Sorry I butchered your song).
That’s just about it. So, I guess they’re few and not so far between, since they all happened in a cluster of a year or two. And they were all aided by an unhealthy amount of alcohol. Coincidence?
Now the hole in my ear is closed and I don’t even sing “Happy Birthday” to people—alcohol or not. In fact, the best gift I can give people is to not assault their ears with my singing voice. Why? Because I have no musical talent. But Jake and Emily do. I’d link to a YouTube video of Emily singing as proof, but she’d be really angry with me. So maybe just Google it. Or email me privately and I’ll point you in the right direction. Just don’t tell her. Dads can’t take it when their daughters are mad at them.
So why the long preamble? And what’s with the title? Well, the preamble is just me telling stories about music and good times (less good for the people within earshot of my voice, of course). I like to tell stories. It’s fun for me. The title—from under a rock—is about a new series I’m kicking around. See, from time to time I set aside my 10-year old iPod Classic, complete with its 80s and hair metal playlists, and I find a new band crush. This usually happens long after the band has had its heyday. Good Charlotte is a prime example. I almost refused to listen to them because the person who introduced them to me said Conan O’Brien liked them. And I can’t stand Conan.
I’m not sure if I think he’s not funny because he’s not funny, or because really tall men with red hair are ventriloquist dummy-scary to me. I’m totally serious.
There’s a restaurant in the Gulch in Nashville that I won’t go to anymore because they have a red-haired giant as a host. He may be the nicest man on earth but he terrifies me. In full disclosure, I’m pretty sure my problem with Conan is that he really just isn’t funny. But I’m glad I didn’t hold Conan’s lack of humor against Good Charlotte. I love Good Charlotte. They are amazing and I am thrilled I got to see them in concert a couple years ago with my sister.
Another example—two, actually—are Save Ferris and Letters to Cleo. Yes, I know they are generally understood to be man-hating Indie bands, and if that’s true (a dubious claim, I think), they are free to hate me. I still think their music is fun. But I didn’t even know who they were until I saw 10 Things I Hate About You on some random TV station. I’m pretty sure Save Ferris, at least, had broken up by then. So, I missed their “15 minutes,” but I still love their stuff in hindsight. And 10 Things… is one of my go-to movies.
Which brings me to the most recent emergence from my musical rock. I was searching iTunes last week for Saving Abel—yet another band I missed out on when everyone else was into them. I’m listening to samples of songs when I look at Apple’s suggestions, based on my browsing habits. You know, just like when Amazon suggests things based on your prior purchases. As an aside, I think I broke Amazon’s algorithms a few weeks ago when—in the same purchase—I bought The Collected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Anna Kendrick’s, Scrappy Little Nobody. Because those two should always go together, right? Take that, Amazon!
That’s a lot of tangents—if my friend, Racheal, were here, she’d say I must be really engaged in this blog. Thanks for sticking around with me—I hope you’re having as much fun as I am.
Anyway, Apple suggested that I give a listen to band I had never heard of. Panic! At the Disco. A few clicks later, I’m hooked, so I do what I always do when I discover new-to-me music. I text Jake. He and I often have similar musical tastes—in fact I think I may have recommended Save Ferris to him. It may go back to when he was a baby and we used to rock him to sleep to 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up?” That, and car rides were the only things that would get him to settle in and fall asleep. Want to know what worked for Emily? Jake did. Just the sight of her big brother made her smile like nothing else could. Thinking about that makes me smile.
Anyway, here’s what I got back from Jake when I texted him with my excited musical discovery:
Despite being musically scooped by middle schoolers, I can’t stop listening to this band. To be sure, I don’t think their lyrics are classic literature or anything. But the music is fast, generally upbeat, and makes you smile in an 80s new wave meets punk meets Postmodern Jukebox sort of way. Except for “Impossible Year,” which could challenge Morrissey and Aimee Mann for their respective “Sucks for You Songs” title belts. And speaking of titles, some of theirs are just plain ridiculous (and also fun), such as “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage” and “London Beckoned Songs About Money Written by Machines.” See… fun.
So, I’m thinking that now and then, when I find these hidden-to-me gems, I’ll pass them along to all of you. How about if you do the same? I can’t commit to any regular frequency—I’m more of a writing-in-spurts kind of guy. And future episodes will likely be shorter. But no promises. Still, we can expand our musical horizons together. And, most importantly, I promise I won’t sing.
Cheers!
P.S. No, you may not listen to my stirring rendition of “Angel Eyes.” First, because it’s on cassette and no one makes cassette players anymore. Second, I made a blanket promise to all creatures with ears that those sounds would never have to be endured again. Ever. So, no. And no.
