Category Archives: Music

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

My own romantic history is a testament to giving in to love at all turns, from the earliest infatuations to the lifelong bonds, and where I’ve made a complete fool of myself and risked being completely desperate and uncool are precisely the points of which I am still most proud. When I felt something for someone, I said it, I proclaimed it, I shouted it from the highest mountaintop because it was genuine and honest and brutal and real. Of course it never worked out, because the rules of romance require all those silly games of coquettish pull-back and hysterical hesitancy to the point where we haven’t much evolved from the playground taunting that boys and girls used to pretend they weren’t at all interested in someone.

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

My favorite album of the moment is ‘Big Disgrace’ by Haute & Freddy. Lead-track ‘Symphony For A Queen’ just helped kick off our spring season, and the rest of the album is a glorious retro-romp through 80’s dance pop.

Highlights for my ears are ‘Anti-Superstar’, ‘Dance the Pain Away’, ‘Femme Hysteria’ and ‘Showgirl At Heart’ (hear below). The titles alone speak to my inner demon diva, and the 80’s synth pop trappings wrap it up in a nostalgic glow while remaining entirely of this very moment of now. It is slightly reminiscent of the magic surrounding Dua Lipa’s spring of ‘Future Nostalgia’, and I am here for it all.

With Melanie Martinez’s newest album ‘Hades’ on the way, this spring is already sounding like a sweetly diabolical season.

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.

A Saturday night seductress, a spell of a carnal flower, and an enchantment instilled in a young gay man watching and studying the ways to entice.

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.

In a world of ravaged ruin, just be beautiful.

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.

It’s a beautiful life.

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.

When all the guests have departed and the fancy cocktail glasses have been carefully washed by hand and put away, a musical moment of calm descends as a song plays us into the end of the evening. The bouquet of flowers is still as fresh as when the night began; the candles have diminished slightly in height, and their smoke will soon be all that lingers in the air. It is a moment of afterglow, only ever-so-slightly tinged with remorse that it had arrived at an end.

The scent of a blown-out candle will always be gloriously imbued with ambivalence for me – sacred incense of good company and bonhomie, coupled with the sad yet full regret of a lovely evening having come to an inevitable close.

We are not granted an infinite number of such nights, and I have learned not to take a single one of them for granted – each is a singular gift, never to be replicated or repeated, never to be had again, so I do my best to be present and mindful for all of them.

When the heart approaches fullness we come closest to brushing up against the sublime, and the sublime is often best experienced with good company. At the end of an evening, when all the guests have gone and the candles have been blown out, I sit in the dim living room, listening to Andy finish loading the dishwasher, watching the kitchen lights go out. He is still my favorite company, my treasured comfort, and the very best way to finish an evening.

Our Autumn of Oud feels like it just happened, but autumn also feels a world away. It was lost in all the snow and frigid temperatures, buried in layers of white and gray and dirt and fluff. Fall memories of a showgirl have already etched themselves into the past, recalling the seasonal turn to darkness – this song already a memory, already an indication of what has happened rather than what is happening. A scent carries from the not-too-distant past too – the rich contradiction of oud, resonating in a bubble of pop music perfection at odds with the underlying tension that comes with memories of the fall. 

I had a bad habit of missing lovers past
My brother used to call it ‘eating out of the trash’
It’s never gonna last
I thought my house was haunted – I used to live with ghosts
And all the perfect couples said, “When you know you know.”
And, “When you don’t you don’t.”
And all of the foes and all of the friends
Have seen it before, they’ll see it again
Life is a song, it ends when it ends… I was wrong…

And then this song comes on like another bad habit with the best of intentions, not unlike this blog has been for much of the winter. A little obscure, a little forlorn, a little lacking in patience and compassion. A lot like the world right now. What else is there to do but get lost in a pop song? What else can anyone who is not in Congress actually do to change this country right now? We can dance, we can shout, we can let it all out, but in the end all we have to do is protect ourselves and our loved ones. Do what you can – maybe try to do a little more than you usually would given the unprecedented downfall of our country – and fight the good fight. You know what is right and wrong. You know what feels fishy and false. You see photos and videos and facts before you, even when some Orwellian despot is spewing lies about it right to your face, and the party goes along with it, adding to their riches while we all grow poorer. On some level, you know. If you don’t wish to acknowledge the truth of what is happening, that’s on you. If you’re ok with racism, hatred, violence, and pedophilia, that’s on you. If you can turn a blind eye and say you don’t follow politics and you wish people didn’t post about it, that’s on you.

…But my Mama told me
It’s all right, you were dancing through the lightning strikes
Sleepless in the onyx night, but now the sky is opalite
Oh my Lord never made no one like you before
You had to make your own sunshine
But now the sky is opalite

Wrapping such an upsetting world in a gauzy song of escapism may be its own form of rebellion, albeit it a rather minor and inconsequential one. A four-minute pop song was never going to save the world. Relying on someone else to do it won’t save the world either. And remaining quiet about it because you don’t want to upset anyone, well that actively works to ruin the world at a time when voices matter. 

You couldn’t understand it – why you felt alone
You were in it for real, she was in her phone, and you were just a pose
And don’t we try to love love?
We give it all we got
You finally left the table, and what a simple thought
You’re starving ’til you’re not.
And all of the foes and all of the friends
Have messed up before, they’ll mess up again
Life is a song, it ends when it ends
You move on…

How dare I take a harmless Taylor Swift song and turn it into some click-bait diatribe about speaking out about the current state of affairs in this country? Maybe because Taylor isn’t saying much after robbing the world blind with a bazillion different versions of her latest album. Maybe because no one is taking this disastrous administration as seriously as they should because they seem too stupid to be so dangerous. Maybe because I’ve predicted all that’s happened these past few months way back when everyone didn’t feel comfortable enough voting for a woman the first time around. And the second time. Maybe because it’s all too late now and none of this will even matter.

…And that’s when I told you
It’s all right, you were dancing through the lightning strikes
Sleepless in the onyx night, but now the sky is opalite
Oh my Lord never made no one like you before
You had to make your own sunshine
But now the sky is opalite

Dancing through the lightning strikes like those musicians playing their final song as the Titanic sank beneath them. To die as one lived. Nobility is one fine line away from stupidity, and stupidity is mere moments from lucidity. I’m too tired to even look up ‘cupidity’ so make it all make sense. (Ok, I looked it up – it means greed for money and possessions. Guilty as hell.) 

Oh winter, release your stifling hold already. How much more are we expected to take? You have given us nothing this year – not even the briefest of thaws. While a thaw has always wreaked more havoc than peace, I’d gleefully take that over this ridiculous nonsense any time. And the song plays on as we cross the bridge…

This is just a storm inside a teacup
But shelter here with me, my love
Thunder like a drum – this life will beat you up, up, up, up
This is just a temporary speed bump
But failure brings you freedom
And I can bring you love, love, love, love…
Don’t you sweat it baby

There it is – sweet release in a saccharine chorus, if saccharine is even a thing anymore. This winter has me feeling all sorts of outdated and out of sorts – no more sorts to give, I guess. An experiment ending in dismal and total failure. Nothing to salvage, nothing to save, nothing to remotely begin the assembly of something to be learned. Only word games and plays on words – a rope of words if you will, Miss Desmond, and we all know she won’t because it strangled her business of being a star – silent, iconic, shrouded in mystery, the blank space of being whatever you wanted her to be. 

Let the music play us out. 

Dance and sing, get up and do your thing. 

Sky up above, rendering night into opalite…

It’s all right, you were dancing through the lightning strikes
Sleepless in the onyx night, but now the sky is opalite
Oh my Lord never made no one like you before
You had to make your own sunshine
But now the sky is opalite

Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ movement gets a so-called ‘epic’ treatment, lending an already-dramatic musical selection even more tension and wonder. In this dizzying winter season, where the obscure has failed to resolve itself into any sort of focus, and the haze grows even more fuzzy, I’m reconciling myself to the imperfect way life has of stumbling along, especially at those times when we most want things to run smoothly.

Like days filled with the fullness of the moon, or periods when Mercury is in retrograde motion, this winter has proven challenging, and fighting such challenges is futile. When you learn to let go and lean into where the world is taking you, no matter how strange and unfamiliar, surprising things might result. There is an important distinction between giving up and giving in – good and bad points to each. While the rest of the world seems to have lost sight of nuance and subtlety, those graces are integral to making a happier way through life.

Winter waits for no one; it hurries for even less.

Nearing Valentine’s Day has some of us reminiscing about this antiquated day of love, and while I’ve now spent more Valentine’s Days with Andy than without him, I still recall the holidays of my youth, long before I had any inkling of what real romance was – when the notion of love was accessed through pop songs, hinted at in lyrics, and felt only in an approximation of want and yearning.

The way I started to understand love was through the radio, in the music of the woman who would be with me on all my romantic journeys ~ Madonna. She sang early on from a swaying room, when the music started and strangers moved in shadows that seemed mysterious and filled with secrets – the stuff of romance, of desire, of love. I was around ten years old, and I knew nothing of any of that, but something in her voice resonated with me, speaking to the undeniable romantic I was torturously destined to become.

Back then, I just wanted to belong, to be part of something, to be accepted with open hearts and open arms. The feeling of being an outsider in so many ways – ways I couldn’t even put into words at such a young age, but that always kept me slightly apart, and forever different. As much as I wanted to open my heart to someone – anyone – my trepidations kept me quiet.

The secret to love, true love, was elusive and ever out of reach. Whenever I felt like I was approaching it, it shifted and changed and disappeared. Such secrets were cloaked in delicious darkness – I could only sense them, not solve them, and the closer I got, the more slippery they became.

Throughout the 90’s, Madonna grew and evolved, her music changing as much as her images, and love, in all its many facets and problematic notions, was a constant theme. She kept me company as various people entered and exited my romantic stages, reminding me that if Madonna found romance a rocky road, maybe none of us would find it easy.

For all the hellos and goodbyes, some part of my heart was holding tight to the idea that love waited somewhere for me, and when Madonna’s music brought the people together, I knew there was hope.

The lead single from the forthcoming Harry Styles album ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally’ has been released, and it’s a gently shuffling sort of beckoning to the disco dance floor that primes the beat for what might be to come. It’s called ‘Aperture’ and it’s a vibe. I don’t know if it’s a proper right primal banger that’s gonna make you sweat, but it’s a beginning. Perhaps that’s what this moment needs – escapism and fantasy from the floors of dance and good times. It feels far away, it feels necessary.

And still it doesn’t feel like enough. There is so much darkness, I’m not sure I can find solace on the dance floor right now, or ever again. A sense of defeatism pervades our world, shading the future, bleeding into all the days to come. Maybe this is just what getting older means. Maybe this is what getting older does.

“During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for. It didn’t look like we were going to win then and we did. It doesn’t feel like we’re going to win now but we could. Keep fighting, keep dancing.” – Dan Savage

I remember these words.

I remember the helplessness of before.

I remember the helplessness of this morning.

I remember…

And I begin the dance again, no matter how tired I feel.