Category Archives: Music

Yes, I am still obsessed by the song ‘Let It Go‘, finding in its message a way out, an escape, an empowerment that I thought I had given up years and years ago. It turns out I haven’t. I can recall a cold winter morning filled with snow almost a decade and a half ago, when I was supposed to go to Boston but didn’t. This weekend I’m going back, because sometimes you can go back, no matter what anyone says.

This instrumental mash-up of ‘Let It Go’ and Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ movement is pretty inspiring. I’m keeping it in my head when I need a little jolt, when I start to doubt myself. These days, that’s happening less and less. On the verge of spring…

Let it go, let it go… Can’t hold it back anymore…

The first time I heard this song I must have been in fourth or fifth grade, and I knew little to nothing about what a real ‘Manic Monday’ felt like. Still, no kid liked Mondays, so we had our own connections to this anti-work diatribe and weariness-of-life pop song. In the grand tradition of ‘9 to 5’, it listed the hardships of facing the start of another work week, the set-backs that seemed to compound one another, and the wish for a rewind to a more pleasant Sunday-fun-day state. Whenever I get down about Mondays, it helps to think that most of us are in the same boat, struggling in our own way to begin the day.

Back in grade school, my concerns were whether or not my math homework was done, or if my plastic pencils were running out of lead capsules, or whether Joey would make me laugh so hard I’d get in trouble with the teacher again. That’s the kind of Manic Monday I long for now. If I could do it all over again, I totally would.

Incidentally, the album from which ‘Manic Monday’ originated – ‘Different Light’ by the Bangles – was the first full record I ever got. (Not counting Muppet Movie soundtracks or ‘The Magic Garden’ LP or other kids’ stuff.) I wore the record out, listening to these four ladies harmonize and rock out. They came to me at about the time Madonna did, and for that reason I’ll always hold them close to my heart. They offered the escapism of a pop song, the shared longing for the weekend, and aural inspiration to get through it all until Friday arrived again. Like spring, it will always come.

I’ve long been a sucker for a cheesy pop tune, and sometimes the simplest ditties evoke things deeper and more powerful than anything ever produced by a Mahler symphony. (This in no way puts pop music above a composer like Mahler, but if I need a quick jolt of inspiration and energy to do what needs to be done, I’ll grab Madonna over Mozart any day.) In this instance, it’s an infectious song by Sara Bareilles ~ ‘Brave’. I’ve been hearing it on the radio for a while, and only a few days ago discovered its quirky video, and the meaning behind it (she wrote it for a gay friend who was coming out).

Most people who know me through this website, or my FaceBook or Twitter rantings, probably think I’m a pretty blunt guy – a guy who has no trouble saying what’s on his mind, a guy in complete control and utter command of where he is and what he’s doing. And in part, that’s true – it has to be, because there’s no other choice. But the truth is, I’m a pretty dependent creature – on friends and family and husband – and I never had to do it any other way. Until now. It’s a little late in the game (38 is kind of nearing the end of the time-to-grow-up curve) but it’s not yet too late, and so I’m beginning to do this.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do
When they settle ‘neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave.

There have been a lot of distractions – whimsical fluff thrown up into the air, like glitter on the wind, floating bits of ostrich feathers leaving a trail of enchantment, the lingering memory of something fabulous, and a lonely beauty, shimmering in the crimson night of broken blood vessels. It was all about crafting an image, leaving an impression, and being what I felt the world wanted me to be.

It wasn’t all bad, either – there was magic in what I was capable of conjuring, there was value and worth, hidden deeply within. There were moments of goodness too, and I know I wasn’t completely self-serving. But looking back I could have done things differently, and the only way to make it better is to start again from the beginning. On my own. It’s something that only I can do – not Andy, not Mom or Dad, not my best friends, and not the most well-meaning of acquaintances or online comrades.

It’s not easy to be brave like that. So much of me is disguised weakness, a vast expanse of all that is meek, coated in sparkles and pizzazz and a flamboyance that struts its stuff so brazenly no one would dare believe otherwise. Yet being brave now – and being brave alone – is the only way to carry on.

Everybody’s been there,
Everybody’s been stared down by the enemy
Fallen for the fear
And done some disappearing,
Bow down to the mighty
Don’t run, just stop holding your tongue

Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

We’ve all had moments when we’ve had to be brave. Somewhere inside of us we can access that courage, we can muster the strength to move forward. We have to, because there’s no other way through. You can’t run around Darth Vader. You can’t bypass the greed of Gollum. You can’t pretend all the bad things that happened to you – and all the bad things you did to others – never existed. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to do that, trying to escape from the past, trying to create a new future, and largely I’ve failed. It’s time to take ownership of those mistakes, and at the end of the journey I’ll have quite the tale to tell – and I won’t be afraid to tell it.

And since your history of silence
Won’t do you any good,
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why don’t you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave.

What are you going to do with the rest of your life? Where do you want to go, who do you want to be? What is standing in your way? These are difficult questions. They may never be completely answered, but in confronting them there may be some way of figuring things out. In the words of another cheesy pop song, we’ve only just begun…

This isn’t a typical Tuesday morning song. In fact, it’s not quite a morning song at all. Too moody, too unpredictable, too jazz-inflected to do for a mid-week start. Yet here it is, because for many of us today feels like a Monday, and most Mondays I spend in a bit of a daze, recalling the fun that was had over the weekend – and holding out a few more hours of living in the recent past. Let’s ease on into it this time.

Better yet, let’s go back a couple of days, to your Saturday night. A little bending of time before the snow and freezing temps return to New England. Just a few more hours of leisure. A few more moments of luxury. We’re already over Monday anyway. It’s Tuesday, and it’s going to be… grand.

PS - Cécile McLorin Salvant is pretty amazing. This is from her album ‘WomanChild.’

I didn’t know what time it was
Till I met you.
Oh, what a lovely time it was,
How sublime it was too!
I didn’t know what day it was
You hold my hand.
Warm like the month of May it was,
and I’ll say it was grand.
Grand to be alive, to be young,
to be mad, to be yours alone!
Grand to see your face, feel your touch,
hear your voice say I’m yours alone.

It would be one of those pivotal albums that informed everything thereafter. Like Shirley Horn’s ‘Here’s to Life’, Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’, ‘James’ ‘Laid’, REM’s ‘Automatic for the People’, and Marianne Faithfull’s ‘A Secret Life’, the first album I ever heard by Casey Stratton – ‘Standing at the Edge’ – instantly became a collection of songs that spoke to me deeper than any Top Forty pop song ever could. Produced by longtime Madonna cohort Patrick Leonard, ‘Standing at the Edge‘ was that rarest of animals – a cohesive cycle of music that took the listener on an emotional journey with the richest of melodies, and one of the most moving voices I’d ever heard in my long-short life.

I remember listening to the album and marveling at both the sonics and the lyrics, the majestic cascading piano, the moving bits of strings, and at the core that glorious voice – transcendent and vulnerable and powerful all at once. There are certain albums that come into your world when you expect it the least, but need it the most. This was one of those albums for me. They don’t preach, they don’t beg, they don’t wink or dance, but they seep inside your soul, because they share something only you thought you’d experienced. Maybe it was heartache, maybe it was a lost love, maybe it was betrayal, maybe it was pain. Maybe, if you’re lucky, it was happiness.

‘Standing at the Edge’ delivered all of that, and in Stratton’s voice I heard a kinship of spirit that the greatest artists are able to conjure for all of us willing to listen. It was the transformation of feeling into song, of emotion into music. From the most plaintive of coos to the most wailing of laments, his instrument may have carried the weight of the world sometimes, but it always soared.

Suzie introduced me to a great many things. Mary Poppins, grape taffy, fried clams, the soundtrack to ‘The Mighty Quinn’, and a number of movies, including ‘Auntie Mame.’ I was raised on a rather sheltered diet of pop culture, at least until I could find my own way. That meant we didn’t have cable, or a VCR, until the late 80’s, so Suzie was responsible for bringing me up to speed on all the things an adolescent needs to conquer the world, or at least to have a fighting chance. Enter ‘Harold and Maude.’

In our cellar, I dimmed the lights and popped the video into the VCR. It was probably a weekend night – I didn’t go out much until later in high school. The soundtrack by Cat Stevens lulled me into its folk-like trance, and then the story captured my attention, and my heart.

At the start of the movie we see Harold staging numerous suicide scenes in his morbid fascination with death, trying in vain to shock or surprise or simply get a reaction from his disinterested (if passive-aggressively antagonistic) mother. He forms an unlikely friendship with an older – much older – woman, Maude, who shares his joy in attending funerals. I’m not sure what Suzie thought I would relate to or love the most about the movie – Harold’s empty and desperate dramatic theatrics, or Maude’s eccentric joie de vivre. Maybe she just appreciated unlikely friendships and knew I would too.

Back then I related mostly to Harold.

Today, I relate a little better to Maude.

That is, I think, the best trajectory for a proper journey on this earth.

The strange thing was, that even with its focus on death, this movie sings with life. It may have been a risky gift for someone with a suicidal fascination, but in the end it only left me feeling glad to be alive. A little sadder for having gotten to know these characters only to say good-bye when the movie was over, but sadder in the best way – in the way that the heart bleeds so beautifully for however long we are here.

Though his public statements have been questionable in recent years, Morrissey’s voice will always embody the best moments of angst ~ those times when sadness becomes a thing of beauty, when melancholy is a state of glorious madness, one that rivals the most joyful gladness. For most of my adolescence I managed to avoid much of Morrissey’s music, even his work with The Smiths. It wasn’t until his 1994 album ‘Vauxhall and I’ that I fell under his spell – and what a wonderful spell it was.

Somewhere in the winter of 1994 I looked into the dreamy blue eyes of that simple album cover as ‘Now My Heart is Full’ came over the stereo speakers. Familial betrayals, ruined romances, obsessive and unrequited love, self-doubt and crippling insecurity – this was the soundtrack to my stumbling existence. There was such a resigned sense of sorrow in some of his wails, but at the same time an unfailing hope for something better. ‘Hold Onto Your Friends’ was a self-recrimination of sorts, while acknowledging a loyal support system. ‘The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get’ was easily the theme for almost all of my doomed infatuations. My burgeoning gay self read much into ‘Billy Budd,’ and ‘Used To Be A Sweet Boy’ was ambivalently disturbing in owning up to some of the blame for everything I became.

Throughout the album, questions ~ of longing and heartache, want and desire, anger and resolution ~ surface and subside. For a Freshman finishing up his first year at college, it was a defining musical companion. To this day, whenever I hear Morrissey I remember those tender days, when the whole world hinged on a sad song.

If it seems strange that I should post a song by One Direction here, how little you know me. Once upon a time I was a big Boy Band fan – I had a Backstreet Boys calendar before I had an ‘NSync calendar. Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. But none of their songs inspired me like Madonna did. They were fun sing-a-long trifles for car rides or the end of a fling. (‘Bye Bye Bye’.)

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve grown too old to be moved by the magic of a pop song. Would there ever be something that filled me with giddy excitement, pure adrenaline, or the possibility of romance in the thaw of a January night? I don’t know, but it seems to me a song like this is surely forming the backdrop soundtrack for young lovers, for anyone embarking on what is yet to come, and what might one day be. That gives me hope. That makes me want to get in the car and drive with the windows down, seeking the cusp of spring. I hope I never lose that.

As for One Direction, I was never a big fan, but I have to respect anyone who can annoy Taylor Swift like that.

Outside the grand Victorian home of my friend Suzie, perched midway up Locust Avenue in Amsterdam, NY, a snowstorm rages. The roads have become, for the next few hours, impassable. My mother, who dropped me off earlier in the day to play with Suzie, phones and says she can’t come to pick me up for a while. At the top of the winding staircase, I pause and look into the family room, feeling the first tears of fear and abandonment creep out of my eyes. I will them to stop, and Suzie’s Mom puts a comforting arm around me. I can’t be more than five years old, and it is one of the first memories that will stay with me for my entire life.

It’s a memory that melds with other memories of that stately house on Locust, where we spent our Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, where we spent most of Suzie’s younger birthdays, where I played in the garden and shared grape taffy beneath a grape arbor. The sweet spring scents of bearded iris and peonies still bring me back to those days. A love of flowers was nurtured there, my love of gardening too. And my familial friendship with Suzie. She came to mind as I sat watching ‘Saving Mr. Banks’ the other day. I loved the film, mostly because I had such a love of ‘Mary Poppins.’ And fried clams. But I’m getting ahead of myself, and making a shambles of this narrative. Let’s go back again ~ to the first time I saw ‘Mary Poppins,’ and fittingly it was with Suzie.

It can’t have been too long before or after the opening memory. If my parents trusted me with anyone it was their closest friends, Dr. and Mrs. Ko (Suzie’s parents). Since Suzie was born two months before me, we were destined to be friends, though in actuality we were more like brother and older sister. It was one of the first trips I can remember taking without my mother, and it must have been half an hour away in Colonie, because we were going to have lunch first at Friendly’s. As we neared the mall, my fingers resting on the slightly ajar backseat window, enjoying the rushing air, Suzie decided to close the window. I felt the quick pinch but pulled my finger out just in time. (She was always cruel like that:) To this day, I will bring up that incident whenever I feel I may have been too mean about something, and always in jest. It’s a running joke – like red lobsters, hambones, and Japanese lanterns. Inside jokes, all of them.

At Friendly’s, I think I ordered a hot dog – well, I know I ordered a hot dog, because that’s all I would have ordered then. Suzie, though, was more daring, opting for the fried clams. I scoffed, if a five-year-old can scoff (and I probably could), but she insisted I try one. One turned into five, and before I knew it I was hooked. (Clearly it didn’t take much to appeal to my virgin tongue, considering how fried clams at Friendly’s must compare to something like this.) That was the day I learned to love fried clams – another milestone for which I had Suzie to thank.

But the big event was yet to come ~ ‘Mary Poppins’ ~ and once the movie began I forgot all about crushed fingers and fried food, and entered a magical world where escapism and fantasy were the only ways to deal with unconcerned parents, frightening bank executives, and other scary adults.

I returned to that world as I watched ‘Saving Mr. Banks.’ Only now there were other concerns, greater concerns, that couldn’t be solved by a song or a spoonful of sugar or a simple night of safe slumber. ‘Feed the Birds’ took on new nuances, deeper and darker meanings, and it seemed that certain demons unleashed in childhood could not be conquered merely by growing up. The ever-elusive happy ending dangled its kite tail high in the sky, far out of reach, well beyond a little boy’s grasp.

Oddly enough, I realized then that no magical nanny was going to fly in on the East wind, that one day I would need to create my own magic, fill my own carpet bag, and jump into my own chalk-drawn fairy tale. I knew too that sooner or later, like Mary Poppins herself, my time to fly away would always be just around the corner. The wind would eventually change. I would eventually come to be unwanted.

What I didn’t comprehend then was why I would cry over ‘Let’s Go Fly A Kite’. I thought it could only be because Mary Poppins leaves at that point. Now I understand that it’s a little bit more.

“It’s what we storytellers do. We restore order with imagination, we instill hope again and again and again.”