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April 2011

The Madonna Timeline: Song #40 – ‘You Must Love Me’ ~ Fall 1996

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Where do we go from here?
This isn’t where we intended to be.
We had it all – you believed in me.
I believed in you.

I don’t remember the first time I saw him. Is that strange? For someone who supposedly meant so much to me, I don’t recall the first time we were in the same room together. It must have been in the Literary Criticism class that we were both taking – my final requirement for an English degree from Brandeis University. I had tumbled off the commuter rail a bit later than anticipated, and had to rush up all the hills and steps before making it to the humanities building. In a sleeveless gray shirt and tattered jeans, I didn’t care how I looked when the weather still clung to August. I was decidedly not dressed to impress, not that first day. (It was a bit of an anomaly, as every day thereafter I would wear a different outfit, as impressive as I could muster, for the remainder of the semester.)

Sitting here racking my brain for our first moment of interaction, I still cannot come up with anything. In a way it makes sense, I never shit where I eat – so when on campus I was never looking for love, or even open to any bit of flirtation. It was probably what got me through college. I saved my obsessions for city folk, for unattainable real estate agents, would-be actor-waiters or gone-in-a-flash T-riders. At school, I was all business, and that Literary Criticism course was the last one I would have to take seriously.

The summer lingered on a bit. I always forgot how hot the start of the Fall semester could be. Above, the sun hovered, slowly traversing the sky over the duration of those September days. There were blue skies then – the gray of November was a distant impossibility.

The first bit of interaction with him that I can recall was a simple exchanging of glances in a second floor hallway. I was sitting on a couch waiting for my next class to begin, and he was headed in the other direction. My eyes followed and caught him turning around as he went down the stairs. From that moment onward I noticed him. He was usually smiling or laughing, entertaining a giggling gaggle of girls, and across the room in our literature class he occasionally smiled at me, raising his eyebrows in question or acknowledgment or invitation.

Certainties disappear,
What do we do for our dream to survive?
How do we keep all our passions alive,
As we used to do?

Dappled sunlight beneath a fiery grove of maple trees. A Nathaniel Hawthorne day in New England. The smell of warm leaves, the whisper of copper-colored pine needles. He sat on a rock, thumbing through a notebook. I stopped and said hello. I mentioned his Structure sweater, explaining that I worked there and could spot them a mile away. He told me he liked them, but all his sweaters ended up unraveling at the end of the sleeve – “something I must be doing with my hand” – and I let the entendre go by without a wink or a saucy word. My nervousness rendered me quiet and submissive around him – an incongruity to what made me fun to be around, and perhaps the fatal flaw in my ultimately winning over those who most impressed me. I left him there, beneath the trees, amused at my own ‘discombobulation’ as Suzie would call it, and wondering at what was going through his head.

A few days later, we got our first set of papers back. After a stern lecture on how this first batch had disappointed him, and how they weren’t at the level we should be at, the professor gave a lovely build-up to what I assumed was a disastrous grade. He went on to say, in one of those dastardly frightening professor moments, that he would leave them on the table and then leave the room, as he didn’t want to see the looks on our faces when we saw the grades. (Still a bit lighter than the sign next to one professor’s office hours that read, ‘Professional Slaughtering’.)

There was a mad rush for the papers, but I didn’t bother. No sense is hastening the arrival of bad news. I slowly got up and saw my name, but couldn’t quite get to it. He then reached over the other students to grab my paper along with his, and handed it to me. I think I fell in love with him at that moment. That he knew my name, that he struggled against the others to find mine, or that I got a B+ – I don’t know what made me feel happier. Who can say why we fall when we do?

We continued to see each other around campus – he would always seem to be where and whenever I least expected him, and I was continually caught off guard -“ the way my whole experience with him threw me off guard. And I couldn’t entirely be fabricating that there was something on his end too, could I? Certainly, I had lived out further-fetched fantasies of love and affection before him (wait until ‘You’ll See’ hits the timeline), was this just another etching solely in my mind?

At work, I confided to my manager who said I should just ask him out. I balked at the idea. I couldn’t, and that would never be my style. Even if I could, what would I say? “Do you want to go out sometime?” I would feel ridiculous. I was too shy for that. I liked to play it off as aloof and nonchalant, but it was simply me being shy, and an acutely killing form of shyness that I was nowhere near ready to combat at that moment.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing
Things that I’m longing to say
Scared to confess what I’m feeling
Frightened you’ll slip away,
You must love me,
You must love me.

A few days later, I thought I might be ready. In the cafeteria of Usdan Center, I saw him arrive at his lunch table. He was alone. My heart was pounding. I picked up the nearby pay phone (yes, there were such things back then) and dialed my store manager and friend John for one last bit of encouragement. He told me to just do it. Thanks, Nike. But it was enough. I marched quickly over to his table, and in what can only be the quickest blurting out of a pathetic pick-up line, said, “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime.” He smiled and said sure, he’d like to, and he gave me his phone number. It would be one of the only times in my entire life that I asked a guy out.

That was it. I smiled, said hello to the friend who had just joined him, and then said goodbye. If only we could have left it there – when there was nothing but possibility ahead. If only I could have kept it all in my head, living on the remote chance of all the what-ifs my racing brain could giddily conjure. If only… I hadn’t been so lonely. But I couldn’t see that then. All I knew was that he said yes.

I almost danced out of the student center, taking steps two at a time, bouncing off the walls in gleeful celebration. The boy I liked said yes! He said yes! And I was off – literally, figuratively, mentally, you name it – off on a thrilling one-man race that had but one inevitably sad destination. I did not know that yet, and for all the happiness and hope I felt, there was the one nagging worry – what if he didn’t like me the way I liked him? I put my faith in Madonna, and her latest ‘Vanity Fair’ cover story, where she quoted from ‘The Alchemist’:

If you want something bad enough, the whole world conspires to help you get it.

How I wished and prayed that was the case. How my heart yearned for it to be true. There was another quote that haunted me from that Madonna article though, and they were her words directly. It stayed in the back of my mind no matter how hard I tried to dislodge it:

Power is being told you are not loved, and not being destroyed by it.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

We shared a few late-night phone talks. I was in my bedroom in Boston – lying in bed looking up at the ceiling, then sitting on the cool hardwood floor, staring out the window, then back beneath the covers – warmed by his words, enthralled by his high school stories, and touched by the recitation of some of his writing. Maybe that was the moment I fell in love with him. This once-overweight kid, out of place, hurt by his family – my heart ached for him and his childhood, and for the fact that I could easily have been one of his torturers. (That’s just the kind of mean kid I was.) I wanted to hold him and make it all better. A surprise to myself, this fierce shard of protective instinct, this desire to shield him from the worries of the world, when so often I assumed it was me who needed to be protected.

We talked of silly and frivolous matters too, Broadway musicals and Madonna, and I ended up giving him a copy of Madonna’s latest single, ‘You Must Love Me’, hoping he would read into it all that I intended. There was shared laughter over the phone, and once there was a crash and he admitted he had fallen off the chair. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – all college kids are prone to romantic delusions during late-night phone conversations. The deciding moments would be determined during the day.

He sat next to me when we had class again. It was jarring, and strange, since most of us didn’t shift our seats much – not from one side of the room to the other – yet it was intoxicating to be so singled-out. As uncomfortable as I felt, as much as I was sure that all eyes were on us (and as sure as I am today that they were not), it was another little gesture that stirred the dormant heart.

Being close to him left me dizzy with nerves, erasing my wit and replacing it with a silence that could only be read as disinterest, or, worse, haughty superiority. Yet I couldn’t be myself around him, not with so much at stake. I couldn’t believe that I was someone to be loved, even if it was all I wanted him to see.

Why are you at my side?
How can I be any use to you now?
Give me a chance and I’ll let you see how
Nothing has changed.

I think we shared a book in our next class together, and it was easier being near him. Maybe we wrote a few quick words to one another, as if we were two silly kids in high school, sharing a secret moment of fun amid the criticism of Kant. On one of our phone talks I asked him if he wanted to attend ‘Master Class’ with me – I had just gotten two tickets. Suzie and Anu were coming into town for the weekend, and if he couldn’t make it, I reasoned, I could go with one of them. He accepted, and we agreed to meet up at Copley, have dinner with the girls, then go to the show. It would be, unsaid and unacknowledged, our first official date.

I wore a red velvet vest, and I greeted him as he rode up on the escalator. We walked quickly over the glossy stone floor of Copley Place – me pushing us faster so we wouldn’t be late. I was too nervous to talk much, and the rest of the evening those nerves wreaked uncomfortable havoc with any of us having a particularly good time. After the show, I walked him to his car. We paused in front of 500 Boylston, and he said it was one of his favorite buildings in Boston.

I looked back at the Courtyard in front of the building. It suddenly felt cold. And then it was over. We either hugged or shook hands as we said goodbye, but we did not kiss, and somehow, as I walked home alone, I knew. We would never kiss.

I left a series of phone messages the next few days, and he didn’t call back. Yet I didn’t give up. Oh boy, did I not give up.

You must love me…

There I was, trying desperately to turn this treacly little love song from a command to a realization, and failing at every turn. Who knows why we fall in love? Maybe it’s the turn of someone’s step, or the little smile that seeing you elicits, or maybe the simple act of grabbing the paper you couldn’t reach – of seeking out your name, or just knowing it. A midnight phone conversation that you don’t want to end, and when it finally is over the inability to sleep for all that hope and happiness. What do you do with that? And what if it meant more to you than it ever would to him?

Like most of the major mistakes I made in life, my honesty was to blame for setting me up for the most embarrassing form of getting rejected I could have ever crafted. I couldn’t be left in the dark, not knowing whether he felt the same, or if he wanted to go out again, and I just had to know. I did what I would do time and time again, with equally disastrous results: I wrote him a letter. (God only knows what that says about my writing ability.) Laying it all on the line, my feelings about what I thought we could have together, how much I liked him already, and all the things you are never, ever supposed to tell another person until the day after your wedding, I wrote down everything. I did everything ‘The Rules’ said not to do. I even gave him an easy out (well, easy for him). I said that if he didn’t feel the same way about me, to simply not sit next to me in class the next day. [Pause for reasonable absorption of The Worst Idea in the World, culled from the annals of teenage nonsense.] So certain was I that he liked me too, it never occurred to me what I might feel or do if he declined. That wasn’t a possibility in my mind, that wasn’t an option.

I gave him the letter the next time we met, along with a mix tape (it was still the 90’s, and I was apparently still trying to live the teenage dream), and then it was up to him. When our next class rolled around I was a nervous mess, and rightfully so. No matter how it ended up, it would be awkward – whether sweetly or disastrously so, it would be awkward. A tinge of regret already loomed over the overcast morning.

I still remember the shirt I wore that day – a loose black Nehru-collared number with grommets that laced up the top half. Part peasant, part pirate, part tragic historical figure – I loved that shirt. And I would never wear it again.

Sitting down in class, I took a deep breath and waited. Students started coming in, taking their seats, and I took out a book to appear busy and uninterested in whatever the outcome might be. On a blank page, I started writing – well, drawing – fake lines of non-existent words, intended to look like writing – anything to distract. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him walk into the room with one or two other classmates. He crossed to the other side of the room to his old seat. The one beside me remained empty.

I looked up, pretending to notice him for the first time. He gave a faint smile and a conciliatory shrug. Smiling my own ‘that’s that’ type of smile, I looked down and pretended to be engrossed in my notebook. I began writing so I wouldn’t have to see him again, and this time words came out. Simple words of simple instruction that I implored, willed, forced my physical being to focus on and accomplish.

He did not sit next to me. He did not sit next to me and I will have to get up and walk out of this room when the class is over.”

It was a tiny act of survival, and the written words made it both real and palpable, designing a way of dealing with the situation I created, starting with the simple act of standing up and walking. When the interminable hour was up, I hurried out of class, not looking back. I made it down the steps of the building before he caught up to me.

He was kind. Most of the men I’ve liked have, in their way, been kind. He explained that he felt like I was running, going too fast, and he just wasn’t ready. It was as good an excuse as any, surely better than, ‘I just don’t like you that way’, even if the latter may have been more honest, and heartbreaking. Blame the intensity, blame my neuroses – just don’t let it be something intrinsic to my being, don’t let it be… me. Even if it was.

Before we separated, he said he liked my shirt, and that it was his favorite so far. I thanked him for that. If I had nothing else to offer the world, I would always have style. It was a sad recompense.

I did not cry. I would never cry in front of him. I would save it until I made it to the very edge of campus, ducking into a small building and finding an empty bathroom, then letting it all out in heaves and gasps. No one noticed my red and swollen eyes on the commuter rail. I slumped into the window, watching but not seeing the barren landscape rushing by. This was the fall. We were well into November, and in a few days I would board the ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ plane bound for San Diego and a family wedding, at which I would come out to my brother as a gay man and tell the sad tale of this recent heartbreak to little if any consolation.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing
Things that I’m longing to say
Scared to confess what I’m feeling
Frightened you’ll slip away,
You must love me,
You must love me.

Back from California, there were just a few more class days left of my last semester at Brandeis. Having spurred my coming out to my brother, my grief then prompted me to tell the story to my friend Danielle. We walked along toward the bottom of campus on a cold December day – and I simply said I loved someone and he didn’t love me back. I still remember our hug at the end of that walk, and how soft her hair felt. I wondered if those hugs could be enough to sustain someone throughout life, or if they were only there to catch us when we fell out of love.

Near the end of the month, with the semester finished, and my final papers completed and submitted, I was standing near the ATM when he came around the corner. Though the afternoon was young, the light had gone, and in the dim shadows of an early dusk we said a quick hello, and then it was done. My time at Brandeis was over. My memories of him, once emblazoned upon my heart and head, would only fade, lacking nourishment, first from him and then, months, maybe a year later, from me.

But at the end of 1996 I only had Madonna to snap me out of it. She triumphantly returned with her star-turn in ‘Evita’, attending the premiere in this gorgeous Galliano ensemble (he was okay then), and for me it was a welcome distraction to the tumultuous turbulence of an insatiable heart.

In the darkness of that December, I made the determination to never be ignored. No matter what it took, no matter how outlandish I ended up, I would make myself into the brightest ball on the fucking Christmas tree. If he couldn’t see that, if he couldn’t realize how wonderful it could be, how wonderful I could be, then I would make the rest of the world see it and know, and when they were all pointing at me, when they were all whispering, and his was the last head that turned to look, I wouldn’t even care.

There was rage, there was want, there was hurt and pain and tears like I’d never shed before. All for a boy – a silly boy who didn’t sit next to me in class.

If anything, I learned a lot from that last semester. I learned that those games were played for a reason. I learned the unattractiveness of wanting something so badly. And I learned to hold back, to hesitate, to hold my heart in check. I learned to not feel, to harden myself off to people. It was a reluctant lesson, one that I fought against until I could not fight anymore. And it was, I am foolishly happy to report, something I would forget when the next cute boy showed me the least bit of interest. My heart would not be tamed so easily, even if my head knew better.

Years later, I would wonder at the craziness of my behavior at the time, at the strange fixation I had on someone I hardly knew. I would wonder whatever came of all the intense, seemingly-insurmountable feelings I harbored for this man. On the few surreal moments where we randomly encountered one another in later years (the first being a Madonna concert) the magic and enchantment that once held sway over me in regards to him had dissipated, not even the merest wisp of longing or desire remained. In its place was a strange sort of war-torn affection, a feeling that we had been through something important together, and a realization that it was mostly one-sided. I would always wonder what, if any, effect I had on him, if he remembered me fondly, if he remembered me at all. And after all the time that had passed, and the way our lives had gone, all I seemed able to muster was a befuddled amusement at the whole thing, a sheepish bit of foolish pride in how ridiculous I once acted, and the reluctant admission that I would do it all again if given the chance.

Post Script: Both the-boy-that-got-away and I ended up getting married- to different, and wonderful, men. I remained in sporadic touch with him, at strange and fortuitously key moments in our lives, but that’s another story for a ‘Celebration’. (And rest assured it has a much happier ending.)

You must love me.

Song #40: ‘You Must Love Me’ ~ Fall 1996

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California Dreaming: Lavender Palm by Tom Ford

All of my California dreams are coming true, at least according to what I can smell. The fabulous Natasha at Tom Ford, Beverly Hills – was good enough to send me a sample of Ford’s latest Private Blends fragrance, ‘Lavender Palm’, the elusive new scent currently only available at the Beverly Hills flagship store. It’s like a little bit of California came eastward on a spring-time zephyr, bestowing the promise of sun and sultry nights, of lavender fields and swaying palm fronds. A kiss of the ocean is there too, along with a few bright citrus accents.

Certain things have the power to transport one to another time and place – music and fragrance first among them – and ‘Lavender Palm’ is the perfect encapsulation of everything that California might be. Since I’ve never been to Los Angeles, I can’t speak for that fine area, but San Francisco and San Diego have never failed to enchant with their gloriously laid-back West Coast glamour. A day’s journey along the Pacific Coast – the salty sea spray, the groves of eucalyptus, the surfers and the sharks – and all the while the lilting gilt of lavender, lulling us along on our peaceful journey.

Like those little bottles with a few grains of sand and a couple of tiny sea shells inside them, a small bit of remembrance, such as this bit of bottled fragrance, will have to suffice until I can scrounge up the funds for airfare. It is, when one can live in the expansive realm of imagination and possibility, almost enough, and for now it will have to do.

As for the fragrance itself, it carries the customary complexity of Ford’s Private Blend collection, revealing its notes to varying degrees throughout the duration of wear – starting with a heavenly wave of its namesake, and running through what can only be comparable to the passing of the sun overhead.

The official description reads as such: “The fragrance opens with the interplay of two types of lavender: the bright, tonic flash of Lavandin and the concentrated herbal undertones of Lavender Absolute. Lemon and bergamot merge with clary sage for a lemony coastal blend reminiscent of Malibu while pink and white oleander and lime blossom lend an ethereal facet that is very Los Feliz. Olibanum and rich green moss texture the bottom note with addictive warmth that reveals itself slowly for a lasting experience.”

Ford has a knack for taking the tried and true and crafting them into something new, relevant, vital and classic – this one is even more enduring than his fantastical forays into oud, noir, patchouli and neroli. It conjures a great many correlations – the California coast, a night breeze, the heat of the sun, a hint of decadence and old Hollywood glamour. That’s the beauty of a great scent. And that’s the glory of Tom Ford. Inspiration at its finest. I think I may have to throw a Lavender Party for this one.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #39 ~ Erotica~ October 1992

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Erotica,
Romance…
My name is Dita,
I’ll be your mistress tonight.

This was almost the beginning of the end, and to anyone other than Madonna, the one-two punch of the ‘Sex’ book and the ‘Erotica’ album would probably have proved an insurmountable career finisher. Madonna herself has said she divides her career pre and post ‘Sex’ book, so when the iPod chose ‘Erotica’ as the next selection, I took a deep breath and went back to October 1992.

If I take you from behind,
Push myself into your mind,
When you least expect it,
Will you try to reject it?
If I’m in charge,
And I treat you like a child,
Will you let yourself go wild?
Let my mouth go where it wants to?

My fandom was probably at its first orgasmic crescendo, and Madonna was wielding her whip as Dita Parlo. It was all about sex, even if I wasn’t having any – at the start of my senior year of school, all that was yet to come, literally. The scratchy grooves of an old-school record signal the raw, gritty edge of the ‘Erotica’ single, then that devious and delicious bass-line kicks in, and before you know it the ‘Aural Sex’ catch-phrase of the promotional ads has delivered its promise in the five minutes of the song.

Give it up, Do as I say,
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck,
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to… uhhhh…

To be honest, I think ‘Erotica’ is one of the weaker songs on the album, I don’t like speak-singing as a rule, and this follows on the same whispered tendencies of ‘Justify My Love’ – I didn’t like it then either. But at least there’s a better beat, and more of a melody, even if it is a dark one.

I’d like to put you in a trance – all over…

The ‘Erotica’ single, as well as the album, will always be remembered as the soundtrack to Madonna’s ‘Sex’ book, and rightfully so. Taken together, they formed a multi-media project ~ a prototype for selling wares with an artistic slant ~ this time an album and a book ~ and the singular, sensational theme only served to wet tongues, nether regions and wallets.

Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
All over me…

There was something comical to sex too – both the first furtive fumblings with my own, as well as the humorous tone of much of the book (and the way I procured my copy). My friend Ann’s mother, Gin-Gin, bought the Sex book for me at the bookstore in Rotterdam Square Mall. I think it was 20% off the $49.95 selling price, and I told her to keep the change from a fifty for her troubles. The idea of the three of us executing this ‘Sex’ book mission in the middle of Rotterdam Mall always tickles me – and if you’ve ever met Ann you’re probably smiling at the notion too. She is one of the funniest people I know, and was my best friend at that tumultuous time. I picked up the album at the same time, in the music store next door – CD and cassette tape versions – and we listened to it on the ride home.

Once you put your hand in the flame, it can never be the same.
There’s a certain satisfaction in a little bit of pain.
I can see you understand me, tell me you’re the same,
If you’re afraid we’ll rise above, I only hurt the ones I love.

Once home, I brought the book into the basement, opened it up, and slowly began to turn the pages. With photographs by Steven Meisel, and Madonna in all sorts of nakedness, it was a feast for an adolescent’s eyes, even if mine were more drawn to the men than the Mistress of Ceremonies. It touched a deeper chord in me as well – one that resonated with my artistic yearnings, and inspired a creative drive to do my own thing no matter what anyone else thought. It may be the single most important lesson Madonna has taught me over the years. If nothing else, ‘Sex’ served as artistic inspiration. From its industrial (if slightly faulty) aluminum binding to its mirror-like Mylar sleeve, it was an exercise in how to execute a project, and the promotional hoopla that surrounded it taught me the importance of making a scene and marketing oneself.

Collectively, the whole experience made the music and the book just that: an Experience. It was more than just a record and a few pictures, it was a form of art, a positing of scandalous behavior by a woman taking her clothes off and forcing us to examine our own feelings on sex and nudity. In the most damning reviews (and there were many) was the essence of artistic controversy. Coupled with the sell-out success of the book’s first printing, it was a smash, albeit a detrimental exercise in go-for-broke shock de-value.

To launch the book and the album, Madonna had a Sex Party, to which she arrived dolled up as a Swiss Miss Milking Maiden, breasts pushed up to high heaven, blonde hair pulled into a double bun, and a stuffed lamb in her arms. God knows I love a party costume.

Give it up, Do as I say,
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck,
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to… uhhhh…
I’d like to put you in a trance… all over…
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
All over me…

Oh, there was a video too. It was only shown after midnight on MTV, a quaint sign of the changing times, and was a grainy compilation of Super-8 footage taken on the ‘Sex’ photo shoots. It is, like the book and the album, a little piece of pop art, Warholian in aim and intent, as stylized and sleek as it is raw and nervy. A masked Madonna in a severe white collar and sheer, bosom-enhancing blouse, bends a whip and flashes Dita’s gold tooth. A bit spooky, a bit sexy, and, thanks to a cheeky smile or two, a bit silly.

The humor of the video, and the project as a whole, was largely lost on the public, who finally seemed to turn on her, and if ‘Sex’ and ‘Erotica’ were technically commercially successful efforts, the damage it inflicted on her career – and where she went from here – was almost irreparable. But that fall-out would come slightly later. For now she was still the Queen of the World, riding high on her fame and power, and taking the ultimate artistic risk by taking her clothes off for all the world to see. And see we did, watching with rapt eyes and dropped-jaws, still transfixed by this cheeky vixen, and waiting to see what she would do next.

I don’t think you know what pain is,
I don’t think you’ve gone that way,
I could bring you so much pleasure,
I’ll come to you when you say.
I know you want me
I’m not gonna hurt you,
Just close your eyes…
Erotic, erotic, erotic, erotic
Just close your eyes…

As for me, the whole ‘Erotica’ time period was fraught with suicidal adolescent angst. The darker tones of the album bled seamlessly into the dangerous undercurrents raging beneath my straight-A existence. Madonna’s rebellion was a pre-cursor to mine, a grand fuck-you to the establishment, and an almost transparent plea from a hurt little girl, that only a hurt little boy could ever understand.

Only the one that hurts you can make you feel better.
Only the one that inflicts the pain can take it away…
Erotic… A.

Song #39: ‘Erotica’ ~ October 1992

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #38 ~ ‘La Isla Bonita ~ 1987 – and about every year since

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Oh Madonna, I know you must love this song from 1986’s ‘True Blue’ opus, but I have to tell you, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it over the years, and it’s partly because you favor it so.

Last night I dreamt of San Pedro,
Just like I’d never gone,
I knew the song,
Young girl with eyes like the desert,
It all seems like yesterday not far away…

When it first came out, yes, I adored it – a beautiful bit of escapist pop perfection – and a throw-away from Michael Jackson’s reject pile – yet you absolutely made it your own, and dedicated it as a ‘tribute to the beauty of the Latin people’. Sure, what the fuck ever – it had a decent tune, and was a twinge of Latin-pop long before Ricky Martin was a twink in anyone’s eye. But really, isn’t that where it should have ended? I thought you felt the same, particularly when you omitted it from your Blonde Ambition tour set list. All the other hits were there, except for this, and you were right to excise it to ‘Angel’ territory.

Tropical the island breeze,
All of nature wild and free,
This is where I long to be,
La isla bonita.
And when the samba played,
The sun would set so high
Ring through my ears and sting my eyes
Your Spanish lullaby…

In ’86 it was breezy and wonderful – if a bit hazy for my own memory – I vaguely remember the video – the perfect precursor for her next proper studio album ‘Like A Prayer’ flirting with religious imagery, albeit safer and far more palatable for the mainstream than that incendiary bit of brilliance to come. Yet did I think the song would stick? Absolutely not.

When it was included on her 1993 Girlie Show Tour, I considered it a blip, but it was a triumph, and this is the key to Madonna’s genius as far as her fan base goes. As much as I may be bored by ‘La Isla Bonita’, as much as it may be a lackluster song for some, whenever she performs it live she transforms it into something else – in 1993 it was a full-out Busby Berkeley by way of Carmen Miranda extravaganza, and a highlight of that show. But I honestly felt it would be the last we would see of the song. Not so… she would return to the beautiful island on her very next (if eight years later) outing, 2001’s Drowned World Tour.

I fell in love with San Pedro,
Warm wind carried on the sea called to me
Te dijo, te amo,
I prayed that the days would last,
They went so fast…

Out of all the old songs to perform for that tour (and there were a scant, casual-fan-criticized few), to select ‘La Isla Bonita’ was an incomprehensible move. A die-hard fan like myself loved the Drowned World Tour (and as my first live Madonna experience, it will always be my favorite), as it incorporated the bulk of the ‘Ray of Light’ album, and much of the album-of-the-moment, ‘Music’. Yet most of us yearned for some classics, and to be appeased with ‘La Isla’ was, on paper, a let-down. But once again, Madonna astounded and surpassed expectations.

Turning it into a rollicking acoustic moment, with her own hands strumming guitar for the song, she made ‘La Isla Bonita’ a genuine jewel of musical artistry, reducing the song to its basic melody and a sing-along moment of transcendence. What a perfect way to end her performances of this song, right? Wrong.

Tropical the island breeze,
All of nature wild and free,
This is where I long to be,
La isla bonita.
And when the samba played,
The sun would set so high
Ring through my ears and sting my eyes
Your Spanish lullaby…

Just a few years later, there it was again, on the Confessions Tour, tacked on in some Abba-inspired dance version with cheesy island graphics backing the whole mad scene. A lackluster song in a lackluster performance, surely this was the final nail in the ‘Bonita’ coffin. And once again, no.

When I heard she was performing this on the 2007 Live Earth special -“ one of only a few songs she was doing that day – I just did not understand. Enough woman! We had been beaten down by this song for four of her first six tours – I think only ‘Holiday’ had been performed more at that point. So it was with wary eyes and not-so-baited breath that I watched as she brought Gogol Bordello onto the stage with her and donned a fedora to the opening beat of ‘Bonita’. This, again, was something new, and as she segued seamlessly into the gypsy tune ‘Lela Pale Tute’ a broad smile formed on my face – in the way that only Madonna can conjure. The mash-up was brilliant, and her joy at joining the Bordello was apparent in her exuberance and happiness. 

Somehow she once again brought the world to its feet, in one of her finest, fiercest performances of the song, over twenty years after its debut. For all those who dismissed her music, it’s remarkable that most of her songs still resonate to this day, even one I’ve repeatedly felt was less-than-her-best.

If I was bowled over by that one, and I was, it was just the run-through for the full-on gypsy treatment given ‘La Isla’ in the 2008/2009 Sticky Sweet Tour. There it found its pinnacle, and for once the song was the one I looked forward to the most. Vibrant, escapist, an amalgamation of past, present, and future, marrying Romany gypsy culture with Latin America, and resulting in one of the richest theatrical productions she has ever crafted.

It was transporting and mesmerizing, returning to the elemental message of the song. It took us away to another land, and another time, subtly tinged with longing and touching lightly on the romantic. In the way of any decent pop song, it could be read and re-read countless ways, and despite my occasional grumbling, Madonna has almost always managed to pull off a killer live performance of it. And so, at last, I find myself giving in to the idea of the beautiful island, and the pleasant idea of a tropical paradise, all found in the delightful few minutes of a Madonna song.

Song #38: ‘La Isla Bonita’ ~ 1987 and about every year since
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A ‘Cabaret’ in Cohoes

 

Last night Andy and I got to attend the opening night of Cabaret at the Cohoes Music Hall. I think we’ve only been to one other show at that beautiful theater, back when they were putting on a spectacular performance of La Cage Aux Folles, well before its current incarnation on Broadway. The guys at C-R Productions always produce a fine show, on a par with anything treading the boards in the city, and the talent they manage to bring upstate is consistently stellar.

For Cabaret, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Having been a big fan of its last Broadway revival (and the incomparable Alan Cumming), I wondered if they would use that as a prototype, or take out some of the grittier stuff that it favored. Fortunately, most of that grit is intact, and the darker integrity of the show remains. Forget Liza Minnelli and the comparatively glossy movie production – this is the real deal, and the way it was originally intended.

Keeping a comical, sexy, and ultimately defeated tone to the evening’s proceedings, Chris Chiles lends the Emcee his necessary menace and seduction, drawing the audience into the decadent and depraved world of the Cabaret, as well as Nazi Germany. It’s a showstopping, if tricky, role at times, and Mr. Chiles plots the emotional arc of the night, beginning with the rollicking ‘Wilkommen’ and finishing with the full-blown pathos of ‘I Don’t Care Much’.

Grounding the nightclub and injecting the American viewpoint is John Grieco as Cliff Bradshaw, who pulls off the thankless role of stalwart stoicism in the face of all that flash. And the flashiest, as far as what we’ve been accustomed to seeing, is Sally Bowles. Portrayed by Ruthie Stephens (showing glimmers of Julie Andrews), she is a fragile, flighty singer, ever-needy and ever-ready for the next party. The character of Sally Bowles was never meant to be a great singer – a fact not lost upon critics of Ms. Minnelli’s turn in the film. Here Ms. Stephens is more than adequate, even if her vocals occasionally get lost amid the orchestrations. She is at her most powerful and moving at the acapella start of ‘Maybe This Time’, a neat intro to the torch song, and she more than holds her own throughout it. By the time her final number comes, her character has been through the ringer, and she offers a disturbing but captivating reading of the title song. If you haven’t seen the Broadway revival and are coming here for the happy-go-lucky spirit of Ms. Minnelli, you’ve come to the wrong party.

Giving the show its heart are Gwendolyn Jones and Jerry Christakos as Fraulein Schneider and Herr Schultz. Ms. Jones and Mr. Christakos provide the emotional fulcrum for the political turmoil, giving a face and a pulse to the sort of bonds and breaks of the world at the time. Their story is poignant and arresting, heartrending but never trite, and their resolution is a bittersweet bow to everything beyond their control.

The rest of the cast sings, dances, and plays instruments as part of the orchestra – which does a fantastic job, never breaking pace or missing a note. This is a gorgeously dark production, emboldened by its decadent, rotting heart, and rooted in the devastation of a Nazi-occupied Berlin. Cabaret runs at the Cohoes Music Hall until April 17, 2011. Their next show, the last of the season, is Crazy For You, and we intend to be there for that in May. You should be too.

 

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #37 ~ ‘Hanky Panky’ – Summer 1990

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Come over here…
Some girls they like candy,
Others they like to grind,
I’ll settle for the back of your hand
Somewhere on my behind
Treat me like I’m a bad girl
Even when I’m being good to you,
I don’t want you to thank me,
You can just… spank me! Ooh…

And oww! Here we are, back in the summer of 1990 – arguably the peak of Madonna’s power and fame, and many fans’ favorite era – for the next song in the Madonna Timeline. ‘Hanky Panky’, off ‘I’m Breathless: Music from and Inspired by the Film Dick Tracy’, couples racy lyrics with the quasi-period music from the movie. As such, some of the edge gets lost from the words, which are actually a bit saucier than the delivery – a rarity for many of Madonna’s songs.

Some guys like to sweet talk
Others they like to tease
Tie my hands behind my back
And, ooh, I’m in ecstasy.
Don’t stuff me with kisses,
I can get that from my sisters
Before I get too cranky,
You better like hanky panky…
Nothing like a good spanky,
Don’t take out your handkerchief,
I don’t want a cry, I just want a hanky panky guy.

Without a video, or much airplay, the song doesn’t bring a specific moment in time to life for me. The hazy, hot, and humid spells of summer, when the hollyhocks were high, come vaguely to mind, as do a few night-time drives when this was on the stereo, but that’s about it. My days of getting spanked were far in the future, so lyrically it was all a silly bunch of untried peccadilloes. Even today, it feels less dirty than flirty – a harmless bit of fun, and a nostalgic nod to a lost era of by-gone innocence.

Please don’t call the doctor,
Cause there’s nothing wrong with me
I just like things a little rough
And you better not disagree.
I don’t like a big softie, no!
I like someone mean and bossy,
Let me speak to you frankly,
You better like hanky panky…
Nothing like a good spanky,
Don’t take out your handkerchief,
I don’t want a cry, I just want a hanky panky
Like hanky panky,
Nothing like a good spanky,
Don’t take out your handkerchief,
I don’t want a cry, I just want a hanky panky guy…
Oooh, yeah!

(For the record, Madonna performed this song on two tours (Blonde Ambition and Reinvention) – which was one too many in my opinion. If anything, it would have fit in much better on The Girlie Show, but I have yet to be consulted on a set-list, so we’re left with what we’ve had.)

Dick, that’s an interesting name…
My bottom hurts just thinking about it…
Song #37: ‘Hanky Panky’ ~ Summer 1990
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Sniffing Around Tom Ford

If you know me in the least, you realize that I have a bit of a cologne obsession. Fragrance is the best way to evoke memories. There is no stronger memory trigger than scent, or so I read somewhere. (Probably a cologne ad.) To this day, certain lime essences bring me right back to 6th grade and my Uncle’s first visit. The citrus-strong cologne he wore at the time was certainly nothing special – more than likely a gift he received and tossed on without giving it much thought – but to me it was the sweetest scent in the world. When he left after that first Christmas, I would sit at the desk in the room he stayed in, running my nose over the wood where the cologne bottle once sat, breathing in every last molecule of lingering lime, and madly missing his magical presence.

When in Boston last week, I spent a day sampling the Tom Ford Private Blend line at Neiman Marcus. Since that time, I’ve been obsessed with getting a whiff of Mr. Ford’s latest fragrance – ‘Lavender Palm’ – currently available solely at his store on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, CA. I’ve been trying valiantly to locate anyone in the vicinity who might be able to score a sample and send it Eastward. Of course, for the price of the large version (about $950) I could fly myself there, spend a night at a decent hotel, sample the fragrance myself, and fly back. Is that a little extreme for a scent? Perhaps, but for some things the trouble and the cost will always be worth it.

In this case, ‘Lavender Palm’ sounds like it was tailor-mixed for my taste. “A unisex fragrance inspired by Los Angeles featuring notes of lavender, bergamot, lime blossom, moss and vetiver.” While I have no idea what Los Angeles smells like, this is an exact description of all the things I love most in a fragrance. It would also go well with my anniversary outfit – which consists of lavender-hued pants and shoes. (We’ve segued from pink to lavender this year…)

To tide me over until LP becomes more widely available (which it hopefully will after six months or so), I may succumb to one of Mr. Ford’s other Private Blend potions – particularly Neroli Portofino or Champaca Absolute – both of which tickled my olfactory fancy. In an anniversary pinch, one of these may have to do. Andy, can you hear me?

 

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