Andy mentioned the angel’s trumpet in passing a little while ago, and maybe this is the year we bring them back – the first year is really just the planning – their show usually happens after overwintering for a year or two, when they can develop roots and trunks and soar like small trees, dangling their sweetly-lemon-scented blooms in the nights of summer.
Two other arms around you now,
Some other love has found you now!
But when love forgets to smile,
My darling, once in a while,
Remember April and lilacs in the rain!
For now, the lilacs will have to do, and they stand on their own perfume-wise. I’ve been afraid to examine our lilac trees to see how many buds might be present – there’s nothing other to be done whether they are full or scant, and lately I’ve been focusing on what is real, what is present, what is at hand – a method of mindfulness that fills the head-space when overthinking runs the risk of overtaking.
The previous sentence dangles there without a proper ending. It began in such busy fashion and then just petered out. Playing with words is merely an excuse for disguising something deeper, something more vulnerable and telling. Lilacs evoke such sentiments – they have me spilling secrets of the heart’s desires, and the heart’s hurts. That’s why this post would have never stood up to the unforgiving light of day; there wouldn’t be enough shadow to shield…
A record of a lesser-known musical titled ‘The Most Happy Fella’ by Frank Loesser peeked out at me from a bin at a downtown Albany thrift store. A lovely-enough introduction to an operatic excursion, the few song excerpts I found online illuminated why it never made much of a lasting splash, but there is beauty in this song, and the atmosphere provided by the Percy Faith treatment fits in well with this beautiful lilac spring we’ve conjured to gain some traction out of this recent hazy winter.
Without words, the music creates atmosphere over distinctive scenes or plot points – evoking a feeling, a sense of something, a hint of emotion – and the rest you can fill in from your own earned experience. What does it sound like? Where does it place you? It is possible to believe you’ve had an experience just by hearing certain songs, even if you’ve never quite had it. Music does that, even in the most trifling song, if you let it, if you give it the space to live.
{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.}
He’s a pretender, he knows just what to say He’s a pretender, you meet him every day He’s a pretender, that fish that got away he’s a pretender, why’d I fall in love?
Pure 80’s synth pop prettiness, ‘Pretender’ is a relic that doesn’t completely stand the test of time, but we all seem to be in an 80’s celebration, and it’s good to have a reminder that not every Madonna song is going to be everlasting. This one still has its charms, and it brings me indelibly back to the days of 1985, when we rose around in a station wagon and the ‘Like A Virgin‘ album sang of things we’d never known at the ripe age of ten.
It was so strange, the way he held my hand I wanted more than just a one night stand He had a way of making me believe that he was mine and that he’d never leave. I know that I should take my friend’s advice Cause if it happens once, you know it happens twice If there’s chance then I know I’ve got to try I’ll make him dance with me, I’ll make him tell me why.
The betrayal of the protagonist of ‘Pretender’ was very much one of those things, but Madonna sang with such forlorn bitterness and convincing hurt that I felt I already knew that brutal sting. Maybe it was a presentiment of rocky romances to come? Maybe just a shared love of the dramatic? Or maybe just a hooky pop tune of the 80’s, with a bombastic bridge crafted as deftly as anything Taylor Swift has ever erected.
I’m not afraid to fall a hundred times And I’ll believe in all your silly lies I’d like to think that I could change your mind Don’t say that I am blind, I know all about your kind.
When I was all of ten years old, I thankfully had no idea what a song like ‘Pretender’ might be about – my romantic trials and tribulations wouldn’t start wrecking me for another decade. And maybe it does stand up to the test of time – betrayal still being very much a part of the mess we call humanity.
Protest songs have played a vital part in times of history that feel dreadfully wrong – and we happen to be in such a time right now. Hailing from Ozark, Arkansas, Jesse Welles earns his first Dazzler of the Day crowning thanks to his multi-talented work as singer, songwriter and performance artist. Speaking out against the ills of the world, especially the terrors of our country at this moment in history, is dazzling enough – doing it with melodic brilliance and musical prowess is the stuff of power and grace. Check out his website here for upcoming tour dates and more.
At the time of this writing I am felled by a sinus/cold thing that has my head stuffed and throbbing. I’ve had to miss a day of work and the No Kings rally. The world feels separate, removed, muted – more like winter than spring. And I don’t want to rush, but I don’t want to remain…
Dreaming of lilac trees, and the way their gnarled trunks last from year to year and the beauty that only age can create. Their perfume and flowers are the showiest and shortest part of their annual cycle. The most seemingly wonderful things don’t usually last, but when you learn to find beauty in the venerable gnarled trunk as much as the fleeting flower, you can find beauty everywhere and always, in sickness and in health.
When The Body Shop announced it was bringing back their ‘Dewberry’ line from the 90’s, my heart took a nostalgic leap as I hurried to the nearby mall to pick up a fragrance that I felt certain would bring back some questionable memories from my youth. As I approached the area where I remembered the store was located, it was nowhere to be found. It’s been a while since I was in a mall, or at least since I was paying attention to the stores rather than just walking through to the movies. Apparently all of The Body Shop stores had closed long ago. Alas, we live in an online world, and within days I had a bottle of ‘Dewberry’ body wash and body butter in my possession, where I kept them for a bit, saving them for one of the early moments of spring.
On a recent evening, when the hope of this new season tickled the senses in a warm night wind, I rubbed the Dewberry between my hands and inhaled the sweet aroma as it surrounded me in the shower. Suddenly, I was transported to the days of ‘Always Be My Baby‘ and ‘Waiting in Vain‘ and ‘Be My Lover‘ and the freaking choo-choo train… the music was cheesy and awful and I still remember every song like it was yesterday…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9McVO9hpUE
Back in the 90’s, I didn’t place much importance on colognes, at least judging from the small arsenal of scents I had at the time – Curve, Cool Water, Eternity, Safari. Of greater relevance was the fragrance of my skin and haircare products – I was keen on specific shampoos and body washes, and one of my favorites was the ‘Dewberry’ line at The Body Shop. (I also loved their tea tree oil products.) ‘Dewberry’ was vibrant, fruity, and sparkling in a way that said spring and summer to me. By the spring of 1996, I was living alone in Boston, and focusing on what made me happy rather than trying to impress anyone else.
Beginning with just a brief bit of paradisiacal birdsong, Melanie Martinez’s fourth album ‘HADES’ jumps right into its gorgeous hell-storm of musical majesty with opening track ‘Garbage’. Plucked strings, gun shots and church bells swirl to usher in this theatrical feat of wonderment – a grandly beautiful entrance for the ‘HADES’ era.
No stranger to dramatic and visually-arresting images, literal and sonic, Martinez paints a conflicting soundscape of America at this most perilous moment as ‘Garbage’ winds its introductory way down a dark and mesmerizing path:
Militant freaks hovering over the sky So you better run for the forest And we’re all under their cold watchful eye So you better hide what you’re growin’ Lookin’ out for yourself won’t get you far Better make peace with your people There can be beauty among trying times We can push through all the evil
A beautiful Jesus-looking figure named Hades is the treacherous temptation on display in ‘Is This A Cult?’ before Martinez lets loose with some of the most deviously diabolical lyrics, backed by equally-demoniacal music:
All of my girls wear whatever they wanna No men allowed ’cause they wanna control us We grow our own food and don’t need no money Everything’s free, and we have our autonomy Is this a cult? Or is it home? We see the future and get what we want We killed the leader, and now we’re on top Is this a cult? Can I come home? We make the rules, and we love on the land We fuck ourselves better than they can.
A dystopian vision is being built – insidiously, viciously, gloriously – and with a certain element of undeniable delicate beauty thanks to Martinez’s voice – ethereal, soothing, tender, and heartbreakingly human, even amid the ruinous machinations at work here. Fairy tales get turned on their fairy heads, the string-tastic one-two-punch bombast of ‘Disney Princess’ and ‘Grudges’ promising a world that wants to defang our prettiest monsters – and the pretty monsters refusing to blunt their incisors.
I just wanna burn bridges and kill bitches And pour their medicine in their mouth and give them a taste
In a musical time where the two-and-a-half minute song is a standard bearer for all that anyone under twenty can digest, ‘HADES’ is a magnificently fully-fleshed out world – the very illustration of album as art form – with songs that take their time to develop, and an overall arc that leaves one gratifyingly gasping for more. By the time the album reaches its apex and midpoint with ‘Avoidant’ and ‘Monolith’, love in its ambivalent and most heartrending ways arrives to temper the tempest at hand, and it’s almost enough to make one believe in an almost-happy ending.
If the fall of our memory comes to be true, then I’ll know I did everything I could do To show you the depth of what love can pursue When you’re out there talking to someone new Think of everything that I have given you Maybe she can get some of that, too, that’s what my love can do
Alas, love would never prove such a savior, not when it could cause such hurt, not when it could inflict such pain – and never in a world where things like ‘Weight Watchers’ and ‘The Plague’ exist. One of Martinez’s greatest strengths is balancing the tension of how to push through and make sense of such a mad world – how to be human when we are hellbent on being superhuman or inherently evil. As disturbing as the imagery and lyrics are in a song like ‘The Plague’, the music carries us along, a cough or two working perfectly in each of the dance breaks. It shifts seamlessly into ‘Batshit Intelligence’ where things get even more dystopian, and the sonic wind is so enthralling you almost don’t mind where we’re headed, or perhaps where we’ve already landed. Around us the discarded inhabitants of the ‘Gutter’ are paraded to jail, or worse, as Martinez begs that we “don’t get immune to this” over a vaguely circus-like musical meandering.
A haunting choir opens ‘The Vatican’, defiantly setting up the last section of ‘Hades’ – and this banger is a majestic fuck-off highlight of religious indictment:
Money power got its chokehold on humanity Nothing gives these motherfuckers quite a boner Like religion, Catholic, Christian, kissing Jesus, licking AR-15s
It’s so homoerotic, the way you pray to men And treat your women like the Leviathan Come out the closet/ Sip my holy water/ Pray to this pussy/ Confess your sins
Oh Melanie, now you are speaking my language and I’m down on my knees and waiting for you to take me there. Weaving in the patriarchal hypocrisy and evils inherent in all the evangelical bullshit, ‘The Vatican’ is this generation’s ‘Like A Prayer‘ taken to an incendiary extreme – precisely what this space in time needs. Finally descending to ‘Hell’s Front Porch’, Martinez gives in to the awfulness around us – because there’s no more denying that we’re fucked and there may not be a way out of it anymore – and the music swells to the point where we’re just “Fuckin’, sweatin’, dancin’ on hell’s front porch, baby…“
‘Chatroom’ may be the most perfect encapsulation of how people connect (or more pointedly don’t quite) in today’s online world, and as grim as some of the observations are and how deeply they pierce the heart, the music retains some small bit of hope among the disappointment and anger at constant work.
When I stare out the window, crying It’s ’cause you’ve made me hate my reflection In another reality, I could’ve loved myself, I could’ve been myself But here I am cramming all of your words deep into my veins till it kills me
Burning boldly right up until the very end, ‘The Last Two People on Earth’ brings us to the final days, and the only thing left to do is carnally express ourselves, blowing up “like a volcano/ Catastrophic orgasm that can wipe out a whole nation.” The one act that is creation and destruction at once – the one act that is love and hate and desire and annihilation – the one act that brings us heaven and hell, fire and ice, rendering words and music into mere echoes: the act of the fuck.
Attachment and detachment are life and death these days. Sometimes you have to pretend some things are not happening or you run the risk of sinking so low into the actual reality of the moment that there would be no rising from the muck again. At the same time, how much can we actually detach without losing sight of the real hurt and pain that is necessary to make this life worth living, that illuminates how sweet the happier moments can be?
I’m glued to the thoughts in my mind (mind) They pester like a hawk in the sky I am glued to the love in you (in you) It swallows me whole, you’re hard to let go
That conundrum is at the heart of Melanie Martinez‘s brilliant ‘Glued’, which posits the idea of a love that is kept at a distance, a chemistry that is kept at bay, and the question of whether or not to recklessly give in to it entirely or keep safely away. A heart that is hidden cannot as easily be hurt.
Oh, that’s not what I wanna do (oh, no) Perfectly attached like a noodle in the soup (huh?) You’re good with the X-Y-Z (Y-Z) I’m good with the A-B-C
And D-E-F-G, H-I-J-K, baby We all have our strong suits, built differently Different experience, different needs I know we can’t die at the same time (oh, so sad), but please?
I don’t wanna think about the morbid parts of life no more? I’m tryin’ just to focus on the things that hold me so damn close I’m sticky, sticky, stuck and solidly sealed up to this reality I’m seein’ not what I wish to be achieving, the old idea of me is
Glued up, sometimes it’s too much I’m fucked up and clueless (clueless) I’m stuck in the vortex, stuck in the vortex Glue-less, life would be borin’ Empty but no hurting (hurting) Is it necessary? Detachment is scary
When my petty feet start to sway (sway) You better turn around the other way (walk away) When the doubt starts creepin’ in (oh, no) It’s hard to let go of old instinctual
Patterns that I picked up from my environment since a baby Cut the negative self-talk and cut out my procrastination Being sticky stuck, glue those old habits shut Paste me to a new way of being, somethin’ to breathe new life in me again
There is something scary and brave and soul-rending about giving yourself up so easily and so soon in a relationship. I’ve always done it, and rarely has it worked to my advantage, but I never stopped doing it, because being real is the only thing I want to be. When I met Andy, I even attempted to play by the rules, our first night ending with my laughably-elusive non-promise of, “I’ll probably never see you again but here’s my number” only to discover later that Andy didn’t like games either.
Glued up, sometimes it’s too much I’m fucked up and clueless (clueless) Stuck in the vortex, stuck in the vortex Glue-less, and life would be boring Empty but no hurtin’ (hurtin’, no hurtin’) Is it necessary? Detachment is scary
It’s been a while since I’ve been inspired by a musical artist, but Melanie Martinez has reinvigorated and recharged my inspiration battery. With a gorgeously dramatic visual representation of musical visions, Martinez is as much about evoking an atmosphere and feeling as about writing and singing some stunning music.
Deceptively doll-like, her images drip with exquisite irony, while not detracting from their dark gorgeousness. A tricky balance, that, and Martinez manages it with deft and sure confidence. From the days of ‘Dollhouse’ through this week’s release of her fourth album ‘Hades’ (out Friday), Martinez seems hellbent on staking a substantial career propped up by jaw-dropping visuals and backed by aural audacity – and in honor of this exciting next chapter, she earns her first Dazzler of the Day crowning.
{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.}
The Queen of Pop’s very first official duet was fittingly with a man named Prince. At the time of the ‘Like A Prayer’ album’s release, Prince and Michael Jackson were probably the only two musical icons who could match Madonna’s own pop-culture stardom. Prince was a more avant-garde choice, and in the end more fitting. Michael was fine for arm candy at the Oscars, but for musical legacy and credibility, Prince was far more prolific. His quirky and unmistakable musical style was all over his duet with Madonna, entitled ‘Love Song’ in questionably stultifying fashion. As unimaginative as the title was, the song itself also fell a little short of expectations from two pop superstars arguably at their apex in 1989.
It begins with Madonna speaking coquettishly in French: “Je suis prête? Vous êtes prêt aussi?“
Are you wasting my time? Are you just being kind? Oh no baby My love isn’t blind Are you wasting my time? Are you just being kind? Don’t give me one of your lines
If it sounds slightly disjointed, as if the two aren’t quite connecting, that’s reportedly because they recorded their parts separately, somewhat diminishing the duet aspect of the whole affair, and wasn’t that the whole point? Still, it grows on you if you let it, and Madonna steps up to the Prince-like musical environment, almost making it her own.
Say what you mean, mean what you say Don’t go and throw our love away God strike me down if I did you wrong This is not a love song
Are you just being kind? No Am I losing my mind? Losing your mind Oh no baby… Yeah
Strangely enough, given their pop-culture status at the time, ‘Love Song’ didn’t make much of an impact or impression. That said, it actually fits in the kaleidoscopic/psychedelic 60’s undertone of the tapestry that was the ‘Like A Prayer’ album – Madonna and Prince melding their personae like patchouli and lavender – and it works well as an album-cut.
Are you wasting my time? Wasting my time Are you just being kind? Oh no baby, my love isn’t blind Are you wasting my time? Time, time, time Are you just being kind? Don’t go give me one of your lines
Say what you mean, mean what you say Don’t go and throw our love away God strike me down if I did you wrong This is not a love song
Ooh, are you just being kind? What? Am I losing my mind? Don’t… Wait
There was muted genius here, and a brilliant foreshadowing of a classic line that would come into great prominence many years later:
Time goes by so slow for those who wait And those who run seem to have all the fun But am I wasting my time? She’s so fine Are you just being kind? No
My high school life had settled into a bit of a funk by the time I came to the whole ‘Like A Prayer’ album, and the darkness that was part of that journey was a welcome companion. The push-and-pull ambivalence of this track did nothing to allay my concerns of romance at the time, or the mixed emotions that handsome men elicited in my hidden heart.
Don’t try to tell me what your enemies taught you Show them now how I didn’t do you wrong
This is not a love song
Despite its spring 1989 release, the Like A Prayer’ album was speaking to me most pointedly in the desolate fall of 1991. In the way that music has of meaning and mattering the most during adolescence, ‘Love Song’ was part of my romantic formation, for better or worse. I wasn’t even infatuated with anyone at the moment, but I knew those days would come, and if Madonna and Prince were finding love to be so maddening, I wondered how the rest of us mere mortals would navigate it. I could easily wait to fall in love if that was the case.
Are you wasting my time? Wasting my time Are you just being kind? Oh no baby, my love isn’t blind Are you wasting my time? Time, time, time Are you just being kind? Don’t go give me one of your lines
‘Love Song’ is the final song from ‘Like A Prayer’ to get the Madonna Timeline treatment (you’ll see its missing link here). It’s a reminder that time ticks on, and this timeline is in the winter of its seasonal lifespan. Enjoy each entry as we approach the end – and be reassured that with a new album on the way that end will be extended like only Madonna could.
Nowhere to run, Nowhere to hide That’s how I feel, Don’t fog my mind Mean what you say or baby I am gone This is not a love song
Don’t try to tell me what your enemies taught you I’m gone but I just want you to know That this is not a love song that I want to sing.
Sex in the plant kingdom is sometimes flagrant, sometimes furtive, and always fascinating. It happens through scent, through timing, through touch and feel – an instinct and an impulse and an intoxicating allure – and all signs point to propagating survival.
Will spring sail in on a night wind? The lilacs, in spite of recent photos here, have yet to even swell their buds. We exist only in a lilac dream – the stuff of lilac fairies – the stuff of lilac fantasy.
Somewhere in Hollywood’s glamorous past a starlet strikes a pose of seduction, bedecked in lilac chiffon and not much else, while squeezing the fringed bubble of a perfume atomizer. Scented mist disperses like a sweet cloud of floral essence, invisibly traveling around the room, and she wears it like an ethereal robe.
Singing through the sadness, dancing through the madness – maybe a musical number is all we can muster right now, and maybe it’s an exercise in fatal futility, but let’s go out dancing, let’s go out living, let’s go out loving…
Let’s go out in lilac glory – on a Saturday night, and every night.
Be beautiful in the face of awfulness. Be beautiful in the face of ugliness. Be beautiful in the face of flying fucks.
Could beauty ever render hate into something meaningless and petty? Or will hate do that eventually on its own?
Isn’t the enchanting power of a lilac’s perfume more potent and convincing than any bigot’s vitriol? One way may be louder and more noticeable, but the other can more charmingly engage and disarm. You can catch more flies by sucking them off than a swift knee to the same nether region. Which holds more sway? Which affects more lives, more memories?
I choose to remember the lilacs.
I remember the hate too, but I remember the lilacs more.
You always have a choice in which memories you cultivate and which you let die.
A choker of lilac, a choke of lavender, a choker of amethyst deep and sobering – a rope of purple and prettiness intact, and it feels so good and looks so right you don’t even realize that it’s strangling you from the inside out – as if all those luscious pearls had slid down your throat and re-assembled themselves into some strand of beautiful asphyxiation.
Some men accidentally kill themselves while masturbating, trying to come close to choking themselves, literally, just to get an extra sort of high when they approach climax. I’ve had hands around my neck at such moments, so I get it, and to die at the height of ecstasy seems in some respects a perfectly marvelous way to go.
If you’re not quite ready to permanently depart, leave the choking to the pearls – purple and pink and pretty enough to do their work with the pleasure that comes purely from being beautiful, damn it.
