Now In Love and Armed with Carly Simon Hair

In his personal essay "The Crack Up" F. Scott Fitzgerald writes about events in life so significant that a person is never quite the same again afterward. So life altering are these events that one comes to the realization that you will never be as good a person ever again; now forever flawed just like a useless cracked vase.

Fitzgerald writes that these life altering moments aren't necessarily the big moments like the death or loss of a loved one, the loss of a job, or the easily identified tragedies that elicit sympathy from friends and loved ones. Nope there are moments in life that quietly come and go that forever change the person you are, and not for the better.

As I was sitting mesmerized by Lucinda Williams' sterling performance at O'Shaughnessy Auditorium Saturday night it occurred to me that my life has slowly undergone a completely stealth-like transformation since 1999 the year I first really fell in love with Lucinda's music. There have been the big obvious changes- the death of my Mom; the death of my little buddy cat Max; the loss and change of jobs; the inability to fall out of and into love again; physical ailments like a bout of Bells Palsy and worsening chronic insomnia; the end of my all time favorite TV show- Buffy the Vampire Slayer; a dwindling circle of friends; etc.

There have also been a variety of new additions to my life that would have been previously unimaginable just a few years before: I've become a scooterhead; I've joined the small but loyal legion of curlers; I've added three never boring cats to my house; I've changed jobs and I've upgraded my house. I've traveled overseas for the second time in my life and I've discovered the joys of a bobblehead collection.

There's little about me that is the same as it was just six years ago. And thankfully through all these changes I've been accompanied by a life comforting soundtrack that has included just about each and every Lucinda Williams' song.

Williams is of course the queen of the sad song. Her concert in the heart of the St. Kate's college campus in the cold air of a March night in the capital city of Minnesota was perhaps my favorite Lucinda Williams concert ever. Accompanied only by her own acoustic guitar and the electric guitar of a superlative musician, Doug Pettibone, Williams played a two hour set that was intimate, inspired , creative and ultimately uplifting.

She set the tone with the opener, a introspectively low key version of "Greenville" that poked me right between the eyes like the feeling I get whenever reading F.Scott's Fitzgerald's most personal prose. When Lucinda got to the lyrics, "Looking for someone to save you/Looking for someone to rave about you..." it finally dawned on me the toll of the changes these last half dozen years have had on me including losing the best day to day friend I've never had.

As Lucinda did the best ever version of "Blue" I've ever heard and a wistful run through of "Fruits of My Labor" (my current favorite Lucinda song about taking the glory over the fame) my mind flashed back to the days after 9/11/2001 when I stumbled upon the phone number of my estranged soul mate and given the solemnity of the nation's mood at the time I mustered up the courage to call her not knowing if I'd ever get the chance ever again.

We hadn't spoken to each other in nearly a dozen years (though it isn't an exaggeration to say that there hasn't been a day since the end that she hasn't been someplace in my heart and soul). Maybe it was just the mood of the moment but I needed to express how sad I felt that our friendship ended but also how much she had continued to mean to me ("There's some people that you can't forget/Even though you only seen them one time or two...") constantly a daily painful inspiration for me. Who can possibly forget the comfort of finding somebody who brings out the best in you whenever you're around her, and makes you smile because she is not only funny but inspires your own sense of humor during a time when nothing, nothing at all, seems funny to you for the first time of your life?

And so when Lucinda did this shuffling version of "Overtime" my own ailing and forever failing heart pounded in perfect time with another's for the first time in a long long time. "I guess out of the blue you won't cross my mind/I'll get over you/Over time..." Pettibone's charged accompaniment embellished the electricity I was squirming with in a subtle but oh so effective manner.

Lucinda mixed in four new songs from a hopefully soon completed CD with the rest of the night's more familiar songs Along with the six new songs she did at her Minnesota Zoo concert last summer I've now had the pleasure to hear eight still to be recorded unreleased Lucinda Williams' songs. I can't wait for the new CD. The new songs are an eclectic mix from a skilled songwriter with a lot to say. This is someone so adept in making this place make just a little bit more sense during the ticking time when we may be facing our midnight hour.

Cash Checked

Last year when I was sitting at the Minnesota Zoo waiting for Lucinda Williams' show to begin, the guy sitting next to me first tried to get me to take some chickens off his hands. Seems as if he and his wife had got the chickens thinking they'd like to have fresh eggs every morning only to discover that they had come home with all roosters- not only nixing the egg idea, but ensuring quite the racket come sunrise.

After I declined his offer of chickens we talked about recent shows that we had been to. His favorite was Rosanne Cash's show at the Zoo just a few weeks before. I knew she had played at the Zoo but I really didn't have any interest in seeing her even though a few years ago I would have paid top dollars to get a good seat.

I think my waning interest in Rosanne began shortly after the Iraq war began and I read the anti-war message she left on her web site. It wasn't that I disagreed with the sentiment. It was just the writing was so simplistic and hippie like that I lost some respect for one whose music to me was always full of so much depth. I didn't make a conscious decision to stop listening to Rosanne's music but still when I was busy filling my iPod with my CDs, only 1990's Interiors made the cut even though there were others that were surely better than so many I was uploading from other artists.

I had forgotten how much over the years I had loved Rosanne Cash's music. Songs like "Seven Year Ache" and "The Way We Make a Broken Heart" are sung with a combination of precision and passion that the first time I heard them they stopped me in my tracks. Her version of "Tennessee Flat Top Box" is head and shoulders above her father's version of the same song. Interiors is the best divorce CD I've heard this side of Dylan's Blood on the Tracks. Interiors would make my short list of desert island picks- the songs are full of such harrowing heartache and honesty that it almost makes me feel like I've gone through a divorce even though I've never been married.

Her absence on my iPod didn't even occur to me until I was sitting watching Walk the Line where the Rosanne character in the movie sole role is that of a crying child- crying when her daddy isn't at home, crying when her daddy and mommy are arguing, crying for God knows what reason at the dinner table. I quite enjoyed the film but I left wondering what in the world the real Rosanne Cash must have thought about this on screen portrayal.

Thankfully she both answers and ignores that obvious question with her new CD Black Cadillac. The CD is a full of sadness and intensity and insight over what it is like to suffer the loss of loved ones. Within a two year period Rosanne lost her father, mother, and step-mother. The poetry of the music from Black Cadillac is astounding in its ability to capture the resiliency of the human spirit. The singer isn't a survivor by choice, the title track's lyrics lamenting being left behind in hell on this earth leave no doubt about that, but when one suffers through a devastation like the loss of a parent, it the only choice that one must continue on in a world forever a little bit bleaker. In other words loss can make you stronger if only because you no longer have the nurturing spirit that was the important guide that nursed you through other losses since the crying days of your childhood.

My favorite song on the CD is "Burn Down this Town" a bluesy stomp that begs to rock out but never quite does. The tension created by being somewhat muted is the perfect example of how so much of Black Cadillac delivers the goods on such difficult material. "The sky is falling with the ash and blood/You've got to make a promise blood to blood/So shut the door and slowly turn around/And you know you can't make a sound/Burn down this town" the singer sings accompanied by a driving, soulful, swirling musical backdrop. The song then segues into "God is in the Roses" a bittersweet lament that reminds us that God may be responsible for all things beautiful (like rose petals) but God is also responsible for the thorns as well.

Johnny Cash has rightfully secured his place in the history of American music so that when a student is studying that history 100 years from now songs like "Ring of Fire" and "Folsom Prison Blues" will rightfully likely get a listen. Rosanne's contributions will probably warrant a footnote but hopefully that same student will dig a little bit deeper and listen to some of her songs as well. Her best work is timeless and constantly rewarding.

2005 Top Ten

Here are ten things that made it through the muck of 2005 (they are in particular order):

10) The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame/British Museum- Usually when I visit another city I don't care much if I see the obvious tourist attractions. I'm just as happy to find some out of the way place restaurant or CD store or something that is somehow uniquely that city. That said, I must say I loved visiting the RnR Hall of Fame in Cleveland. I was highly amused to see how tiny the Rolling Stones outfits were and it was a quite a kick reading Leadbelly's correspondence. Equally impressive was the British Museum in London that was almost too huge to comprehend. Pottery from ancient Persia? Cool. Kitty artifacts from various cultures? Neato.

9) Paul McCartney "Too Many People" "I'll Follow the Sun" at the Xcel Energy Center- I guess my Paul McCartney nostalgia differs from most people. I didn't care much for the umpteenth versions of "Get Back," "Back in the U.S.S.R.," or "Yesterday." What I was glad to hear, smile from ear to ear glad, was the snarling "Too Many People" from 1971's Ram where Paul chides John Lennon about preaching practices. Equally enjoyable was the version of 1965's "I'll Follow the Sun," one of those catchy McCartney tunes that seem to flow from him effortlessly. I was so inspired I went home and banged out my own piano version for my cats. Thompson scampered away either in fear or merely to get away from the annoying racket.

8) Arrested Development- This FOX show just keeps getting better and better. Who would have thought that Ron Howard, TV's Opie, director of so many insipid movies could produce something this biting? Scott Baio's attorney character, Bob Loblaw, and Charlize Theron's British siren, Rita, were inspired additions to the already stellar cast.

7) Lucinda Williams at the Minnesota Zoo- She treated us to six new and still unrecorded songs intermingled seamlessly with her older songs (meaning they were all insightful and heart stopping/starting ). I can't wait for the next CD.

6) Shelby Lynne at the Cleveland House of Blues- Lynne was brooding, tender, and by the end of the show she was somewhat drunk. But hearing live versions of songs like "Telephone" and "Where Am I Now?" truly was a treat. The show made me buy all her back catalog- the many CDs that she recorded before she was awarded her Grammy for "Best New Artist" in 2000.

5) Seeing my friend Alex in her hometown of San Diego- We hadn't seen each other in ten years. We had a nice sushi dinner and I marveled at how comfortable our friendship still feels and how much I still admire her drive, ambition, and inquisitive mind and soul.

4) CERA Graduation Beverly Hills- Over the past couple of years I've flown to various parts of the country to take election administration classes taught by the faculty of Auburn University. It's the only election administration certification program in the country and as I finished up my work this summer, I became one of the first 300 people to earn the accreditation. Graduating at the fancy Beverly Hills Hilton (where they hold the Golden Globe awards every year) in front of family and friends was an odd mixture of show biz and the electoral process.

3) Theo- The decision to add a third cat to the household mixture was greeted with skepticism by some of my friends and family. Still once I was introduced to young Thelonious, the decision was a forgone conclusion. He's sweet, spacey, and watching him try to find his place amongst his housemates has been pure joy.

2) Ike Reilly Junkie Faithful- When the blue-eyed editor introduced me to Ike's music a couple of years ago by giving me his first CD, Salesmen and Racists, I was immediately won over. When I got to the ultimate driving song "Angels and Whores" and Ike wails, "Hey motherf*%@er kiss the ground- I not only kept hitting the repeat button and turning the volume up louder and louder, I almost drove by my destination and just kept going. His new CD not only is full of clever and inspiring lyrics- it's got as much kick as it does spirit. My current favorite line? "The things I do in the daytime should only be done at night/Like when I watch my neighbor's wife bend down slow to pull out weeds…" Junkie Faithful is the best CD I've heard in quite a while.

1) Bob Dylan's five shows at London's Brixton Academy- On my way to the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport I was walking to my light rail stop when out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-workers running toward me waving a banner that read, "Dylan in London or Bust!" I was quite moved. I was also quite moved throughout the 50 different songs he did in five nights. We were treated to the live debut of "Million Dollar Bash." Along the way there were terrific performances of "Desolation Row," "Positively Fourth Street," "Sugar Baby," "Shelter from the Storm," and "Mississippi" just to name a few. To hear Bob do an abbreviated version of the Clash's "London Calling" during a couple of encores and have the natives go wild- made the expensive and somewhat crazy trip all worthwhile.

Ol School: All the Lilacs in Ohio

In the pantheon of my favorite singer/songwriters John Hiatt falls somewhere near the top of the second tier. He isn't as good as Bob or Lucinda but he's in the same league as Neil Young or Elvis Costello (who he's often been compared to). I've stopped going to see his live shows because every one I've gone to has been pretty much been the same thing. Not that that's a bad thing seeing he's got quite the impressive catalog of songs and he's a fun performer. But I really don't need to hear another live version of "Thing Called Love" (which he wrote but most people associate with Bonnie Raitt).

His last few CDs have really been hit or miss. Crossing Muddy Waters was brilliant, my all time favorite Hiatt CD, while his last release, Beneath This Gruff Exterior was uninspired to say the least. 2001's The Tiki Bar is Open still gets played more than any of my other Hiatt CDs.
So I didn't rush out and buy his latest effort, Master of Disaster when it first came out because quite frankly there were other discs out there that I wanted to hear a little more (The Eels and The Wallflowers to name two).

When I finally got around to listening to Master of Disaster I was pleasantly surprised. This is Hiatt at the top of his game and as they say there's not a bad song in the entire bunch. I put it on late one evening and as I lay in bed trying to catch some much needed but always elusive sleep, my ears perked up and by the end of the last song I was again high on Hiatt.

The title song (and opener) is a follow up anthem to "Perfectly Good Guitar" and like many of his best songs one has to wonder if the bastard Hiatt is singing about may be the songwriter himself. "Thunderbird" is the most Springsteenian song Hiatt has ever written right on down to the automobile motif and somewhat sinister and sinewy sounding melody. "Howlin Down the Cumberland" and "Cold River" are simple country blues and show a singer who alternates between pain and great joy. I guess one can't quite ever truly appreciate the beauty of this world if one doesn't at times wallow in its ugliness.

My favorite song on the CD, and perhaps my favorite John Hiatt song of all time is the old time jazz "Wintertime Blues" that after my first listen made me get out of bed and hit the repeat button a couple of times because it's so damn funny, and it captures the inertia of wintertime living so accurately I got a shiver even lying in the hot July air. It's the kind of song that seems to flow naturally from Hiatt and it's the type of song that sounds like it's been around forever at the same time one has to marvel at its pure originality.

"Three hours of daylight and all of them gray/The suicide prevention group has all run away/I'm running out of groceries/I ain't got no rubber shoes/Bring the bacon baby/I got the wintertime blues..."

When he repeats over and over that there hasn't been any spring, there's never been any spring, the mocking sincerity in his voice reveals a man who is finding great humor in his own misery. He's as "stiff as Al Gore" because things are cold as snot. And to top it off he admits all he wants is "gravy on everything." And for those of us who somehow put up with Minnesota winters every year, we know exactly what Hiatt is moaning about.

All the songs are sung with great confidence for great reason: this is a terrific songwriter who knows he has come up with a bunch of good songs and has the band to deliver on the goods. With Master of Disaster Hiatt once again demonstrates why he is one of the few artists whose work is consistently worth paying attention to even if he seemingly will forever stay on the cusp of popularity. His music can't be pigeonholed even if it's always easy to spot a John Hiatt song from a million miles away.

Halfway to London

So I was sitting in the twilight in Midway Stadium Tuesday night with a belly full of Vietnamese soup listening to Willie Nelson close down his down to earth set with a wistful "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain." I didn't know what time it was and the scoreboard clock had been stuck at 5 o'clock during Willie's entire time on stage. Sitting along the first base line where the Saints' play their home games, it suddenly occurred to me that the Major League All Star game was likely beginning and this was the first All Star game I had missed since I had become a baseball fan back in my youth (which means back to the late 50's or early 70's depending if you count in all the Chinese New Years).

The All Star game has always marked a highlight of summer for me no matter how many times the American League got beat or how few Twins make the team or make any difference in any of the games. I grew up watching Rod Carew struggle to get a hit and Bert Blyleven be uncharacteristically wild and the games were seldom close but I loved the whole thing from watching the players introduction and the fans reaction to various players to the usually awful rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner."

Sitting in this very minor league park on this particular night none of that mattered much. It was a beautiful night out, a little warm and sunny, but with a nice breeze to cool things down a bit. I was with one of my best friends, the blue-eyed editor, and we were waiting for Bob Dylan to hit the stage.

The blue-eyed editor asked me what song I wanted to hear and it took me a minute or two to answer. I've attended enough Dylan shows over the years where he doesn't surprise me much anymore. It's not like the late 1980's when he would do a great off the cuff cover of John Hiatt's "Across the Borderline," or the mid-90's when he would make my soul hurt with a scorching "In the Garden," or the late 90's when he pulled out "Blind Willie McTell" arguably one of the greatest songs from arguably our greatest song writer, or the early 2000's when he started doing the silly jazz sendup "If Dogs Run Free" or country romp of "Country Pie." Nope the setlists these days tend to rely on the same predictable songs night after night.

Ultimately my answer to the blue-eyed editor was I wanted to hear "Shooting Star." That's because in less than a month I'm going to see someone I haven't seen in ten years and that particular song has come to represent the arch of all my feelings for her from beginning to now. When Alex left town in 1992 "Shooting Star" had been around for three years. It was around then however when I got the sheet music for the song and started singing my own version. The last verse whether it be listening to Bob on CD or screeching at the top of my lungs banging on my keyboard almost always brought a tear to my eye. "Seen a shooting star tonight, slip away/Tomorrow's gonna be another day/Guess it's too late to say to you the things that you needed me to say/Seen a shooting star tonight, slip away..."

I didn't quite recognize the first chords, the first few strums of the guitars on the fourth song of this Midway Stadium show but when Bob started to croon "Shooting Star" my heart stopped.

See I was sorta in the second or third wave of Bob fanatics. My first Bob show was in the echo chamber of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome in 1986 and even though it was hard to decipher exactly what song was bouncing around I was hooked right there and then. I loved how Bob somehow was able to reinvent each and every song on the spot, how he was able to cast something he wrote years ago to fit into the current moment somehow managing the illusion of stopping time. By this time there were Bob fans from the early 60's already quite hooked on what I was only then discovering. And here I was nearly 20 years later listening to a song I had just told my friend I wanted to hear and I wanted to hear because I'm about to do some time traveling and I guess maybe you had to be there with me to feel the weight of the moment and the joy in Bob delivering a stellar version of the song.

The people around us were some of the other kind of Bob fans- the kind that have heard a particular song or a particular line and have adopted it as part of the soundtrack to their lives (can I mention here that the hippie generation hasn't exactly aged particularly well?). "How does it feel?" "You make love, just like a woman... but you break like a little girl..." "Even the president of the United States sometimes must stand naked..."

So when Bob sang "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Just Like a Woman" and "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" these people stood up and cheered what they recognized even if they spent most of the rest of show jabbering amongst themselves. They seemed to pay attention to killer versions of Bob's most anti-war song, "John Brown" and his most anti-war perpetrator song, "Masters of War" and probably made a connection between the drama of the performances of both songs with our current national situation and that probably was enough.

Which if true, is too bad. Because they missed a menacing version of "Lonesome Day Blues" that showed off the tightness of the current band, and lead guitarist Stu Kimble's subtle yet effective playing. I loved the performance even though Bob messed up my personal favorite, or personal "I relate to those" lines, "I'm forty miles from the mill/I'm droppin' it into overdrive/Settin' my dial on the radio/I wish my mother was still alive..." The omission can be forgiven however because Bob sang the lines, "Samantha Brown lived in my house for about four or five months/Don't know how it looked to other people/I never slept with her even once..." with if not passion, with such eccentricity that he seemed to truly enjoy the sentiment once again as if it was brand new.

The opening notes of "Under a Red Sky" were crisp and clear and I was delighted that I got to hear the song. I made sure I glanced over at the blue-eyed editor when Bob nailed the line, "Someday little girl, everything for you is gonna be new..."

There was also a nice little moment at the beginning of "Bye and Bye" where Bob's keyboard wasn't working so a technician was frantically trying to plug in a new one. Bob grabbed his harmonica as the band played the intro and he improvised a melodic little solo. The song ultimately fell apart as Bob sat down at his keyboard and seemed to stumble on some of the words but in many ways this is why he is such a charismatic performer. After all these years he isn't (most likely by choice) polished in his singing or his playing or his delivery (this band seems particularly adept at stretching the meter of the songs to accommodate Bob's somewhat erratic phrasing) and he seems to strive as a live performer on chaos and this keeps his remarkable songs living and breathing and makes each show somehow exist in the moment. I don't know of any other live performer so skilled in this ability.

So I walked with the blue-eyed editor, who was seemingly impressed by the show, back to her car parked in the lot of a strip mall that strangely houses a nice little authentic Vietnamese restaurant. It was a long walk back but it's not like we weren't used to that. We once walked from the State Capitol to a McDonalds down the road so I could get some mini bobble heads. We also once walked over to the Historical Center where we saw a Mariachi band playing. And on another nice summer evening we walked from her parent's house to the Minnesota Zoo to see Lucinda Williams.

I somewhat doubt that in asking her to see her first Bob Dylan show with me that I have started her down the same path I began all those years when I was about her age when I saw my first Bob Dylan show at a pseudo-baseball stadium, but I'm sure that over the next few years she will listen to Bob a little more closely. And I'm quite sure that in doing so her life will be enriched, just as mine has been, and she will discover a song or two that will change her life, her way of thinking, just a little bit. Bob's quite good at that. His music is like an element- water, air, blood- that once you hear it, and really listen to it, it just won't let go. It grabs you by the soul and by the heart, and fills you up just as it leaves you wanting more. And that's quite the idiosyncratic trick.

Keep Smilin'

This world can be a profoundly sad place. It is so sad because:

There are people out there who have never listened to a Lucinda Williams song.

There are people out there who think it is somehow righteous to explode a bomb in a crowd of people in the name of God.

There are people out there whose first reaction to the terrorist attack on London was that we had to kill thousands of people in retaliation/retribution.

There are people out there who when told they need to provide some proof of citizenship in order to get a job say, "I don't know why. It's not like I look Mexican or have slanted eyes."

There are people out there who when you introduce yourself as "David" will immediately call you "Dave."

There are a lot of people out there who view the media as a biased enemy not as its true purpose, a watchdog.

There is an increasing blurring of the line in the media between entertainment and political reporting.

There are a lot of people out there who in everyday interactions seem completely oblivious to the people around them.

There are people out there who have never seen Lindsay Whalen play basketball.

There are people in a coed "D" softball league who don't understand the concept of "just being out there for fun" and have to act in such a boorish manner that it is impossible for anyone playing to enjoy themselves.

There are people out there who will wait until the very last moment in a line of cars to get over in a lane that's closed just so they can get to their location a minute or two earlier than the rest of us.

There are people out there who will park their car in front of your house every day even though there is plenty of space to park in front of their own house.

There are people out there who have never seen an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and thus haven't been able to enjoy the poetry of television at its best.

There are people out there who will go along with their major party line on every political issue thus see the world in a very uncompromising black and white.

There are people out there who think that the fabric of our country is unraveling because of issues like gay marriage and flag burning somehow rather than holding our leaders accountable and expecting some honesty and the absolute necessity for being straightforward in their words and actions.

There are people out there who are intellectually lazy and who don't see any need to be spiritually curious.

There are people out there, with children mind you, who don't seem to care about using up this planet's limited resources or the implications of wasting what doesn't need to be wasted with just a little effort.

There are those people out there who don't think Bob Dylan can sing.

There are those people out there who let their gardens grow and go, who once started out with a noble goal of making this place, their designated place, just a little bit more beautiful but who somewhere along the line gave up and let the weeds prevail.

There are drivers out there who see the need to tailgate a guy on a scooter and not bother to signal their turns at the less than Herculean effort of hitting a switch.

There are those who may believe that piano playing kitties and playful once abused doggies are mere distractions from actual human interaction. But one look in these pet souls' eyes says something much different.

What If

This past week I spent a couple of days engaged in public speaking. First there were a couple of mandatory training sessions I conducted for some city and school district clerks. Then on Wednesday night I was invited to be on a panel at an event sponsored by the Minnesota Disability Law Center. Anyone that knows me knows that any moment that I can keep my trap shut is a moment I may have a better chance than normal of living with. Of course I didn't have much of a choice. I had to speak. It's all part of my job and I may be a rebel but I'm not one who turns his back on his assignments.

Thus I was glad when I came home one night and David Letterman shared some of the truisms he has learned in life. One of these said that if you know how to fold a shirt and you are a guy, chances are you are gay. Another that Dave shared was that whenever you pull a nose hair you will sneeze. Guaranteed.

If I could add one of my own life lessons to Dave's truisms it would be if you are hurtin from a relationship busting up there isn't a wiser thing you can do than listen to Lucinda Williams. Within the past year two of my female friends have broken up with their boyfriends and as I've gotten together with them I wish I could take away the hurt and offer some wisdom. But of course that would require speaking. Thankfully one of the two told me that after her breakup she couldn't stop listening to Lucinda. I knew she was a bright gal the first time I saw her...

The best thing about Lucinda Williams show at the Minnesota Zoo Saturday night was that she sang a great mixture of older and newer songs like scorching versions of "Pineola" and "Out of Touch" as well as sultry versions of "Right in Time" and "Righteously" and none of them were the highlights as good as they were. Nope the best thing about the show was that Lucinda shared six brand new songs with us and all six sparkled. Whenever a new CD comes out it's guaranteed to be one of her best and that means it will be one heckava CD.

All the new songs have simple titles and cover a spectrum of different musical styles but the transcendental thing about them is they leave behind the blues and depression of the last two studio CDs (Essence and World Without Tears) for a thankful return of humor and biting wit. The first of the new songs Lucinda unveiled was the contemporary countryish "Life is" that contemplates learning about life after a breakup. It contained the standard Lucinda line, "They say the best is yet to come/But I can still taste the taste of your tongue..." "What If?" my favorite of the new songs asks several nonsensical questions like what if buildings laughed and windows cried and cats could walk across water leading to the more searing questions about what if families didn't exist and we all lived alone. The song whimsically builds to the last question, an appropriate one about what if we all loved each other equally.

The burning metallic "C'mon" was in stark contrast to the Hank Williamseque "Jailhouse Tears" a good old foot stompin country tune where Lucinda was joined in a playful duet with her opening act, John Doe. The latter song may sound like a Hank song but it gets its point across with Lucinda's acerbic and at times, vulgar humor.

Another new poppy song called "Real Love" featured some playful lyrics about "squeezing my peaches" and "sending me your postcards from beaches." The last of the new songs "West" a prayer/lullabye closed the show in a quiet but hopeful manner.

Before Lucinda stepped out the guy next to me told me that he and his wife owned a bunch of chickens despite a Shoreview city code that prohibited such practice. During her second song "Fruits of My Labor" Lucinda's voice cracked as she sang about how it's better to take the glory over the fame. Work for work's sake may be a means to an end but there remains something to say for seeking and finding a voice that not only helps all of this makes some kind of sense but whose very unmistakable ache makes it all seem just a little bit more bearable as well.

Mary and Aimee

I'm sure I'm not the first to say this but I think I'm in love with Mary Lucia. It would probably be enough that everybody's favorite local radio personality is a sheepish owner of three cats but there was a moment on a recent show that made me laugh harder than I've laughed in many a year.

Ms. Lucia was interviewing the songwriter of a local band (I forget which band) and asked him a great, though somewhat Barbara Waltersesque question, "Are there any songs out there that you wish you had written?"

The local artist thought for a moment and then said, "Yes. I wish I had written Burt Bacharach's 'Trains and Boats and Planes.'" Ms. Lucia then replied, "Hmmm. Do you also wish you had married Dionne Warwick?" The chiding, lyrical, playful tone to her voice was pitch perfect and the band and the songwriter chuckled at the spontaneous question and I nearly had to pull my car over I was laughing so hard.

Yet the only complaint I have so far about Ms. Lucia's station 89.3 (THE CURRENT!) is there has been far too much Aimee Mann. Judging by the amount of air time Aimee has gotten, man the DJ's seem to adore her music.

Not that I dislike Aimee Mann's music. I always kind of thought Til Tuesday was head and shoulders above other like bands from the same time who got far more acclaim (Crowded House for one) and Mann's solo work has been consistently rewarding. Her contributions to the Magnolia soundtrack are equal parts soul searching, soul saving, and soulfully devastating.

Aimee will also always occupy a soft spot in my heart for her appearance on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In the episode her band was playing at the Bronze when a vampire fell from the rafters above and landed with a splat, disintegrating into dust. The band stops playing. and then picks up the song exactly where they left off. Later as they are leaving the bar Aimee deadpans, "That's why I hate playing vampire towns."

My complaint is more based on I haven't heard all that much Liz Phair or Lucinda Williams on 89.3, everyone's favorite public radio music station, and there are a slew of mostly overlooked artists who for me far outshine Aimee Mann.

No Aimee isn't one of those artists whose each and every new release I make an effort to rush out to hear. And when I read several lukewarm reviews to her new CD, The Forgotten Arm, I wasn't exactly inclined to go seek out the new music.

I read that Forgotten Arm was a "theme CD" that told a story of a down and out boxer. Seeing that my most favorite recent movie was Million Dollar Baby and my favorite TV show from the past season was The Contender one would almost think that I have somehow become a boxing fanatic and that Mann's CD would be something I'd automatically want to hear. But beat me up with a padded glove and add to my misery, I really didn't see any need to complete the obvious triangle that lay down before me.

I was wrong. I wish I hadn't waited so long in buying The Forgotten Arm. Mann's writing is its usually sharp self and her sad sardonic vocals add to the story but the overall impact of the blows struck surprised me. This isn't kid's stuff and it's probably my favorite story based CD since Frank Sinatra's Watertown. It surely kicks Lou Reed's similar attempts like Songs for Drella and Magic and Loss all over the musical mat.

The CD packs a subtly powerful punch. The thread of the story details the disintegration of a couple. The boxer is a boozer. He's taken one too many hits, lost one too many fights and there's substance abuse that leads to emotional abuse and the couple's love has long since ceased to mean much at all to either participant. The couple is trying to figure out where to go, what to do even if it's long past time, way too far down the road where things can possibly work out ever again.

Though the CD is more than a bit of a downer, line after line, song after song build a picture and one begins to understand why this is a story the artist wanted to tell. "Life just kind of empties out, less a deluge than a drought, less a giant mushroom cloud than an unexploded shell..." and "Tell you I'm sorry that I made you a witness to my moral decay..." and "We stayed in our Calvins, and we swore we'd be best friends. And I looked through the zoom lens, and thought you were beautiful. Sometimes it hurts me to feel so much tenderness..."

The packaging of the CD is great. It's laid out to look like a pulp fiction novel and the hand drawn pencil sketches that accompany each song's (chapter's) lyrics skillfully match the mood of Mann's voice. The songs might be able to stand on their own but repeated listening reveals that each piece adds to the whole like fine china stacked neatly in its nearly empty wooden cupboard.

Numb Skull

"And when the time comes round, we will be duty bound/To tell the truth of what we've seen and what we haven't found/Will not be going down, despite too easy ride to see/From a lover to a friend take your own advice/Let me love again. Now that you turned out to be, someone I can trust, someone I believe..."
-Paul McCartney

I'm not sure if numbness runs in my family but it sure seems to be running up and down various parts of my anatomy over the past few years.

Last year about this time I was diagnosed with Bell's Palsy, a disease that rendered the left side of my face droopy and numb. With a little acupuncture and adding a little herb to my diet, my face regained its perpetual frown in no time at all.

This year I have been diagnosed with cervical radiculopathy. The two friends who have expressed the most concern with my suffering happen to be two who are a long ways a way (one in Hawaii and one in Blue Earth County). Go figure. I figured my closest friends would at the very least organize some all night televised marathon for me. It's the least they could do after all. It sucks getting old.

It might be noted for the record that the diagnosis sounds worse than the actual suffering involved. Even my doctor admitted that. Cervical radiculopathy is the medical term for having a pinched nerve in the neck. For years I have had a tingling in my shoulder and recently that mostly annoying but sometimes pleasing sensation spread down my arm to my hand. My forefinger feels like it's always asleep now an affliction similar to the state of my brain for the past six years or so.

When I finally got around to calling my health care people once they heard the words "tingling" and "left side of my body" they told me I had to come in to urgent care. That evening it was determined I didn't have cancer, M.S. or carpal tunnel. I met with one doctor and then days later I met with another (the same one who diagnosed me with Bell's Palsy though she didn't recognize me. Must have been the non-droopy demeanor). With a prescription of an anti-inflammatory drug in hand and an appointment to see a physical therapist scheduled, I went on my merry way.

On my way home I popped in Lucinda Williams' new live CD. Looking at the packaging I must say I was a bit disappointed by the song list. Most of the songs are from her last two CDs and the inclusion of such dirge-like songs like "Joy" and "Atonement" didn't do much for me. Still when she got to "Reason to Cry" I just about did. It's my second favorite performance of the song- right up there with when I was riding with the Grad Student and she sang along with Lucinda. Man she hit the right notes on that ride.

Thankfully the slight discomfort was further alleviated when I finally found out who murdered Veronica Mars' best friend Lily and that Veronica wasn't actually raped nor did she have sex with her brother. Veronica Mars is the show getting all the buzz if you don't count Desperate Housewives. A lot of critics are saying that it is as good as Buffy in its writing and its depiction of the angst of growing up. I thus had to tune in to see what all the praise was all about.

I indeed saw that Veronica Mars is a smartly written show that deftly mixes black humor with insight. Most every character has a dark side including the dour blonde Veronica herself, and the standard operating procedure seems to be to do whatever best suits your individual needs and deal with the consequences later.

Later that night I had a long talk with a friend down in Florida. The purpose of the call was to talk about the shape of my soul, admittedly a little ragged, worn, and torn these days. She sent me a book about the story of life and suggested I read the book of Romans in the Bible. "I'll say a prayer for you," she said and I thanked her profusely. I was glad to hear she is doing well.

"Of everything in this world I guess I'll never know why/Something as good as this could flower up and die/When you lost your happiness when no one's standing by/When nothing makes any sense, you've got a reason to cry..."

What Ever Happened to the Girl in Me?

News last fall of the closing of First Ave didn't make me as sad as it maybe should have. It's not a venue I've ever terribly enjoyed seeing a show at, from being jostled and groped and surrounded by really bad dancers and people who think their conversations are more important than the music on the stage, to the dark and smoky atmosphere, it's a place that I'd always tolerated watching a show more than anything else. If it weren't for the intimacy of the place- and the quality of acts it attracts- and the historical significance of the club- I'm not sure I would have missed it all that much if it never opened again.

Sure I've seen plenty of memorable shows there- from L7 in 1993 to Freedy Johnston in 1998 to the Jayhawks, Liz Phair, Wilco, and Lucinda Williams in various appearances but I'd never seen a great show there until last Friday night.

Growing up we had a term for rock music that was sonically impressive. We said it blew the roof off the dump. Friday, the Ike Reilly Assassination blew the roof off the dump during a scorching set that had everybody boppin and singing along.

From the opening reflective "St. Joe's Band" to the chaotic closing cover of the Pogues "If I Should Fall From Grace with God" where Ike did a passing Shane MacGowan imitation (right on down to being in a rather lubricated state), the IRA never let up with penetrating rocking good guitar based music that held your soul hostage and proved if nothing else great rock and roll music is as good a reason to exist in this world as anything else.

Reilly is as charismatic a performer as he is a songwriter, a nearly impossible trick to pull off. In song after song he creates a world of chaos and disorder where drink, drugs, and attitude help make some sense of politics, women, and all the trouble lacking (and sometimes having) money can cause. His music makes one want to get into the car, crank up the tunes and live the life of whatever is to be, no matter where the road ahead leads. In recent years I've come to use Ike as my standard to judge how good a music store is. If they carry his CDs I can proceed to shop. If they actually have his CDs in stock, they clearly are paying attention to what they need to be paying attention to.

The first highlight of the show packed with so many was the second song that may have been new (or really old) which had a refrain about maybe how an assassination could be OK if you apologize afterward. Reilly poured his heart out in the bit about how the union girls didn't like paying their dues that were put towards buying uniforms especially since shortly after the factory closes down. With an unexplainable lack of business success the working class message in many of Ike's songs takes on added authenticity.

My favorite song of the evening however was a cover of Dylan's "From a Buick 6." Reilly has covered the song in every show I've seen of his and each time the song gathers more and more power. It's the only Dylan cover that for me is better than the original and the original is darn good.

I also particularly liked the version of "Holiday in New York" my favorite song from the latest CD, Sparkle in the Finish. The song takes us on a typical Reillyesque journey of lusting after a toll booth worker and some sexual difficulty to a cynical look at a particular Memorial Day experience to an ultimate drug based encounter with an old friend. The refrain of the song "It's starting to look like a con game to me now..." was sung with stinging sincerity.

Before launching into "Last Time" Ike explained the band was against two things- racism and sexual malfunction (or at least one of the two for the past four days). He said the song was about the importance of always speaking your mind and then the band managed to raucously live up to that revelatory introduction.

2004+10 = 40

10) Wilco at the Orpheum- The guy behind me kept saying in an overly loud voice, "This is the best f%^king show I've ever been to." He may have been exaggerating a bit but the band, so hopelessly obsessed by studio trickery proved that it could rock with the best of them. I didn't like Ghost is Born so much but after hearing the live version of "Spiders" I was reminded that Wilco is a band I'll always listen to no matter how much they may initially annoy me.

9) Brian Wilson Smile- Finally finishing and releasing the long awaited (over thirty five years after it's scheduled release) lost masterpiece we finally got to hear what all the fuss was about. It's a great piece of music- a song cycle that takes us all across America, through time and through the heart of a great songwriter. Seeing Brian perform the entire thing live at the Orpheum was a magical thing.

8) Lucinda Williams at the Minnesota Zoo- She had recently canceled a few shows on the tour due to the death of her mother but Lucinda seemed in terrific spirits as she joked about playing in such close proximity to the animals. When she sang one of my all time favorite songs, "Am I Too Blue?" I almost fell out of my seat. So simple, so beautiful, so true (and blue too).

7) Prince at the Xcel Energy Center- Good lord almighty the little fellow can put on a show. From his searing guitar playing to his fantastic singing to his eye opening dancing he ran through most of his hits in his catalog. At times stunning at all times terrifically entertaining, it's a show/night that I'll thankfully never ever get out of my system . I only wish I had bought tickets for the other two shows at the same venue. That I got to go to the show with the still most beautiful soul I've ever known was an appropriate linking to Prince's inspired performance.

6) Creative Nonfiction Class at the Loft- When the fairly recently graduated Blue-Eyed Editor mentioned that she was interested in taking a writing class at the Loft with me I jumped at the chance. For me it was an opportunity for some structure in a never relenting nagging hobby. When the instructor asked us why we were taking the class I said something about writing this newsletter for the past ten years and how that meant I was pretty much writing the same thing over and over. My classmates chuckled. I wasn't exactly joking and the class did afford me the opportunity to stretch some muscles that were in the need of working some kinks out.

5) Bob Dylan's Chronicles Vol. 1- I must admit I sorta cringed upon hearing that Bob was writing his memoir. Despite all the astounding music he has written and performed in over 40 years it remains doubtful how much we truly know about who he really is. Dylan seemingly knew from the start that the best way to avoid failing to meet expectations was to continually leaving those paying attention wondering what to expect from him next. This autobiography is perhaps the best auto biography I've ever read (even better than Miles Davis' or Charles Mingus'). Dylan takes memories of his past, that may or may not be entirely accurate and follows them wherever they lead. It's like dropping a big glass ball on to the floor and following each and every chard wherever it lands. His mind is so unique and his writing ability is truly something to behold no matter the medium.

4) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind- I loved this movie because it explored why we remember the things that we remember no matter how much they bother us. I loved this movie because it was also about how the things we forget can ultimately be the things that hurt us most. I loved this movie because behind its visual beauty it was ultimately about holding on to the things that may long be gone because they are what bind together the fabric of who we are and will forever be.

3) The Upper Wing- I finally got around to finishing the attic of my house into a master bedroom and bathroom. It's something I've wanted to do since buying my house eight years ago. My contractor did a great job and as I lie night after night under the stars that peep out from the skylights I can sometimes even allow myself to marvel at the wonder of it all.

2) Ike Reilly Sparkle in the Finish- I waited a long time for this CD to arrive. When Ike's website went online in early 2003 it said that the CD would come out in the fall. Two falls later it finally did and the wait was well worth it. Ten terrific songs from a terrific songwriter that rock and roll and are just as great to listen to as you wait in traffic as they are when you finally hit the long lost road.

1) Turning 40- It was in grade school when I began having a recurring dream/vision that I wasn't long for this world and I wouldn't make it past 40. So this was a rather big year for me. That I'm still chugging along surprises me and I'm even able to occasionally admit that where I'm at now is a good thing now and again.

How to Grow Old and Stay Hip OR How to Avoid Having Your Hip Replaced

Last summer my family helped my niece Megan turn 21 by giving her an iPod for her birthday. This past week, Megan made me chortle aloud when she sent me a thank you card. "Thank you for the iPod. I love it!" she wrote. "I can't believe that you can put 3,000 songs on it and it still weighs the same!" Megan clearly demonstrated that she got the sense of humor in our family.

Likewise for my 40th birthday my family helped me celebrate by buying me an iPod (and proving Megan is 19 years ahead of me). And like my niece I gotta say that I love the device. It has already changed my life.

I will say that having read all the glowing accounts of the iPod over the past few years I was skeptical. I remember when I was in high school and Sony came out with their first Walkman, my parents were kind enough to buy me one to keep me hip to my generation. It was the size of a Bible but it was so cool to be able to walk around outside the house and listen to MY music. Thanks to Sony the dreariness of my senior year of high school was punctuated by my own personal soundtrack playing in my ears.

The iPod is to the Walkman what the telephone was to the telegraph. First the thing looks damn cool. It's a little bit smaller than a baseball card and it's got such a sleek light look that even my over abundant dorkiness quotient is minimized by my carrying it around.

I've already downloaded (or is that uploaded?) over 100 of my CDs on to the iPod and to have that much of my personal music collection at my fingertips at all times is great. It even makes the 70 hour work weeks not so overwhelming to be able to dial up one of my favorite songs whenever I want to.

Of course Megan's joke doesn't quite work in my circumstances because how to best begin using the iPod weighed me down in moments of sheer panic. First, I had to decide what CD would get the honor of being the first on my new treasure. After much thought I chose Ike Reilly's new CD Sparkle in the Finish simply because prior to receiving my gift it was the CD that was getting my constant attention. Next, knowing that it would take me some time to fill up my iPod I had to figure out what order I was going to follow in transferring my CDs. This was where things really got tricky.

My listening habits over the years have developed thusly: there are about 50 CDs in my collection that get played all the time. There are another 10-15 that get played a lot but don't quite qualify as highly as the first group. There are then those new purchases that get a play or two a day for a week as I decide whether or not they mean anything to me. There are another couple hundred that get grabbed once in awhile just before work mainly because there is a song that I just need to hear that day.

Of course my music collection is skewed towards a few favorite artists: Bob Dylan, Frank Sinatra, Liz Phair, Lucinda Williams, etc. Their music eventually was the first batch I put on the iPod. The process itself became great fun as I somehow managed to rediscover my love of Sinatra's music in particular. Yes I'm an old man but I dare you to listen to Frank's version of "It Never Entered My Mind" and try to feel things quite the same ever again.

The other thing I re-discovered is what a great songwriter John Hiatt is. After downloading my collection of his CDs, I marveled at how even how when his lesser known songs come up when I hit the shuffle option on iPod how glad I am to hear that particular song again. The man simply has a marvelous way with words.

I did decide that as I enter the era of a looming AARP membership that I will continue to try and stay in tune with what the kids are listening to. And it doesn't hurt the matter any to listen to their music on the forum that is the latest technology. Yes the iPod may already have become my latest obsession but I'm not alone. Not this time anyway.

Idle Melancholy

Ike asks the musical question, if they are "angels or if they are whores?..." Yikes Ike!

The far from endless summer of 1986 was the last summer before the end of the academic sector of my career. I was feeling a bit adrift and it was the first time in my life not even music seemed to lessen the feeling of a fog like blues I couldn't quite shake. (And as regular readers of the newsletter can attest I'm usually such an upbeat chipper little bird. Some even have come to refer to me as Cap'n Happy.)

That summer three of the then artists who achieved the status of I buy everything new that they release, released new LP's within a month or two of each other. Yet the news of new releases from Paul McCartney and Paul Simon couldn't even get me off my rump and down to the neighborhood Cheapo. It took the release of the first new Bob Dylan LP since I had become a big time fan, Knocked Out Loaded, to convince me I needed some new music in my life.

Bringing my bag o' new music home I must admit my mood took a decidedly noticeable upswing. On my drive home I tried to decide which of the three new LPs I would listen to first. Since I had the highest anticipation for Dylan's I decided I would save his for last. Since I had the least anticipation for Simon's I decided that I would first listen to McCartney's Press to Play first.

I carefully placed the vinyl on my stereo (a Miida one piece component complete with radio, 8-track player, and turntable) and the first song, "Stranglehold" sounded promising enough. But as I made my way through the song cycle on side one it became quite apparent that the music in a word, sucked. Macca gets in trouble when he decides he has to be an artist with a capital "A" and produce what he considers avant garde art. Songs like "Pretty Little Head" and "Talk More Talk" are not only dreadful, but they drain the soul right out of you mighty quick. The whole thing was overproduced and overwrought with wannabe significance.

Strike one.

One look at him and she seemed to somehow see his soul was broken. They hadn't seen each other in a couple of years and she shows up looking elegant, tan, and rested. He shows up with a there to see for anyone who looked too closely, transparent spiritual state of being.

The night before he had come home and gotten drunk after having spent a hell of a lotta energy making love with the Brazilian beauty from the mountains with the perfect peaks. Their time together was electrically charged and yet he knew things seemed like they were just going through the motions.

Good lawd oll mayte!

Feeling even more sad than ever before I bumped up Dylan in the order of things. I gotta say the LP that made me a lifetime Dylan fan was his previous LP, 1985's Empire Burlesque, much maligned by just about everyone under the sun. Compared to that carefully produced effort, Knocked Out Loaded sounded like a complete throwaway- something that could have been made in a drunken stupor and in a day. The songs don't connect and the 11 minute epic "Brownsville Girl" sounds like a car wreck waiting to happen. At the time it sorta depressed me but since whenever I play that CD in my bluer moments it never fails to produce a smile. "Even the swap meets around here are getting pretty corrupt," Bob sez/sings seemingly without a smirk on his weathered face.

Strike two looking.

Simon's Graceland was a whole other story. The foreign sounding music caught me completely off guard. And the juxtaposition of the overly thoughtful (and ever thought provoking) lyrics with the joyful music was pure musical enchantment. As I sat laying on the furry heat absorbing lime green shag carpet of my bedroom, back up in a beam of sunlight, the music thankfully took me to a far away, cooler, and getaway place.

A tape measure home run that one.

Fast forward 18(!) years later to the summer of 2004. There's been far too little softball playing, and I'm far too busy to appreciate a Minnesota Twins season that will culminate in their fourth World Series appearance (you heard it here first) and music? Who has time to listen?

Thus the list of CDs on my must hear list has been growing rather rapidly. Last Sunday in a far too late return trip to my neighborhood Cheapo I finally added four discs that I knew would eventually make their place into my collection, but hadn't yet for one reason or another. Each of the discs come from an artist whose work I've come to respect and admire for somewhat different reasons.

Just like a decade and a half(!) before, I found myself driving home trying to figure out the listening order because I desperately needed something/anything to lift my soul and spirits if only for a fleeting moment. Upon racing my this is now cat Diego-san up the flight of stairs to the recently completed Upper Wing of my house I decided the first disc to be played was Brian Wilson's Gettin' In Over My Head simply because the day before I made the pricy decision that I would buy a ticket to Wilson's Orpheum show where he is giving a live performance of the phantom greatest LP of all time (the one that's never quite been finished) the Beach Boys' long lost, and much written about Smile.

As sunny and surfin' as most of the most famous Beach Boy catalog is, Wilson has always endeared himself personally to me due mostly to his sad songs. Brian Wilson's sad songs are the saddest songs ever written. They are heart and gut wrenching personified, and thankfully forever inspiring in demonstrating how a wounded soul still has a remarkable capacity of self healing.

And that is why upon first listen the new CD revealed the no need to peel back the absolute, undiluted drivel. If this was music written by a teenager it would still sound juvenile. Coming from a sixty-year-old mentally abused, drug zonked out, and psychologically damaged survivor (and who would have ever thought that was possible?) the more stupid than stupefying songs aren't the least bit intriguing like I expected them to be. Wilson's has pulled off the trick of sounding like a crazed "does this guy really have functioning brain- I gotta listen to find out" before with his contributions to the Beach Boys' great 1974 LP The Beach Boys Love You where the songs are full of such childlike and childish lyrics that one can't help but think it's all a wonderful little joke and his first solo effort, 1988's Brian Wilson where Brian was (it was later revealed) under the cult like influence of his psychiatrist, Eugene Landy, cutoff from family and friends.

But the new CD isn't merely an effort to sound childlike and stupid. It is stupid. And insipid. And the effort put in goes far beyond the end result. Ick.

After they were done they lie together in bed, naked and she told him of the house she bought in Brazil and how she wanted to sell it but that any potential buyer was likely too poor to afford it. She came to the United States to help her ailing grandmother who broke her arm and thus couldn't keep her job as a cleaning woman. Her grandmother believed in the ethic of hard work and getting to where you want to get by your own efforts so to be out of work was killing her and depressing her at the same time.

He looked deeply into the overwhelming beauty of the nude young woman's eyes. It was a moment of true connection though he somehow sensed they were never going to see each other ever again.

Going to the wedding as a couple on a "date" was all her idea but he was thrilled that she had asked. He told his co-workers of his weekend plans and asked if dancing was to be expected and how she might feel if he declined. (He wanted his hands nowhere near her). They told him he better dance even if she held a blue belt in kickboxing.

So I adjusted the order of the discs I was going to listen to. Originally I thought I would play Los Lobos' The Ride next because of how the band over the years has been so dependable, workmanlike, and how their music never fails to be worth listening to. Instead I decided I would play the CD I most wanted to hear from the stack I bought, Wilco's A Ghost is Born.

Now I must admit I've never been an adoring Wilco fan like others I know. Yes, my copy of Being There has been worn out and I'd put it on my short list of greatest double discs ever released. But the follow-up, way too arty for its own good Summerteeth hardly ever finds its way in my CD player and their last major label won't release it because it's not commercial enough, so we'll do the admirable thing and do it all ourselves and make a great story out of it all, it's so great it will make a movie, Yankee Foxtrot Hotel, took many listens before I finally warmed up to it. (What is with all the production tricks when the songs could have spoke for themselves?)

And my first listen to A Ghost is Born made me fall asleep in the long lost sunny light beaming in from the skylight of the new addition to the place I call home these days yet I haven't been home enough to truly enjoy it, in blissful sadness if such a thing exists (and doesn't exist every night, night after night). The third song, a ten minute opus called "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" lives up to its title with its sinewy web like and hypnotic if not way too precious we know we are artists groove. The eight song later fifteen minute opus "Less Than You Think" doesn't fare as well. Not even close (not a cigar for the lads here). The electronic drone that makes up for most of the time occupied by the "song" is beyond annoying. It's Tweedy and gang thumbing their upturned noses in an effort to let us know they are a step or two ahead of us (and quite willing to remind us of that). But noise made isn't art just because the noise producer tells us it is (just go ask Lou Reed if he still thinks Metal Machine Music is his shining misunderstood moment of if it is just someone under the influence of something thinking he/she knows something we others can't possibly know and thus must prove it by doing something far too easy but in its easiness it creates an inherent uneasiness that by being what it is, it is art).

There's a word for the music on A Ghost is Born and it isn't art, it's crap. Yes the title insinuates something haunting and the group tries hard to produce. But Wilco needs a serious shot of humor somewhere and sometime. Seriously. What, after all, is musically asked, would we be without wishful thinking?

He arrived at the fort's chapel way too early and feeling way too hungover from many a thing from the previous night. He saw her in the distance as he was talking to someone else he really wanted to talk to. Entering the chapel together, he strolled behind her, as she was escorted to an empty pew by an usher. They caught up. She'd been through a hurricane. He'd been through some troubling winds of his own (making).

The wedding ceremony was touching and brief. At the reception that followed the two truly caught up and she asked him where his faith now was at these days.

The not expected downward spiral continued with the new Los Lobos disc. The Ride features guest appearances by notable musicians like Tom Waits, Richard Thompson, Elvis Costello, and Bobby Womack but I don't need to hear collaborations with the group. They are good enough themselves. It's all very professional, it's all very well produced, but nothing changed nothing inside. As I tried my best to understand I simply couldn't stop asking why Cesar or David couldn't sing the songs contained on the pressed disc?

This wasn't exactly what I expected (or needed). Thus I moved to the disc I knew couldn't disappoint because despite his inherent quirkiness, he doesn't seem to be doing it to impress, it's just the way he is, Devandra Banhart.

Why does the nonsensical deliberate stream of consciousness work for Banhart but not Wilco? Self consciousness I suppose. One tries the other just does.

This is as close to polished as I suspect Banhart will ever get. It's all recorded in a studio (rather than at home like his other CDs) and there is even an orchestral backing on a couple of the tracks.

The lyrics seem impenetrable yet that's their charm. I love the Elvis references sprinkled throughout something called "Poughkeepsie." My favorite track, "The Body Breaks" describes the aging process (something I'm keenly aware of these days) with such surgical precision that it cuts to the bone. My second favorite track, "This Beard is for Siobhan" with it's refrain of having a "real good time" is sung with such strength and conviction that one absolutely believes it can be true even if one is lying in the stifling summer air not believing a word of it.

The false start and giggling stop of "Todo Los Dolores" is made up for the seemingly perfect Spanish annunciation that follows I don't know a word of it but I believe everything Banhart sings.

He tried to explain how lost he felt, how his religion had so weirdly (and probably inappropriately been summed up by season six of the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Buffy comes back from the dead, brought back by well meaning friends, but torn from a heavenly peace, only to feel completely dead inside). She asked if his lost of faith (just kinda like Buffy's) was related to the death of his mother.

Yes, he said, that might have been part of it. He just didn't know how to feel anymore and didn't know if he really wanted to. She told him to read the Bible and promised to email significant passages to him. He ate a shrimp or two (you are what you eat), tried to act like it could make a difference and then on his drive home paid particular attention to how he felt when he shifted into a new gear in his breaking down car.

Is it somehow wrong to want, no expect music to save my dying soul? When I'm sitting in a throng of people listening intently to one of my favorite artists (Lucinda Williams or Liz Phair say) is it too much to expect it to be a life defining moment? Did I not once have those at least a couple of times a year?

Buying CDs these days isn't on the list of top priorities yet every time I do I want to be changed at the very least, elevated to another place in a perfect world. I just have to keep reminding myself that has always been a lifelong expectation whether the carpet is green and shaggy, or looped and fully of cat hair.

Would You Rather Be Regular or Normal?

The most depressing thing of all is coming home after a ten hour work day during a 70 hour work week looking forward to watching the local first place baseball team take on the suddenly hot second place team only to find out that the local team is behind by six runs and it's only the third inning. That is of course unless you consider the ramifications of perpetually being in love with one who will never love you back.

Or maybe the most depressing thing is to hear the ache in Lucinda Williams' voice as she sings about longing during a great version of "Side of the Road" in front of the animals (some in cages, some closer in proximity) during a concert at the Minnesota Zoo.

Then again it's awfully depressing watching first hand your own softball game starting to show the creaks and ravages of growing old. You're a step older, and the drives you used to hit over outfielder heads now land safely in gloves and the grounders you used to beat out you now find yourself out by just a step. The glove is less steady and the arm less sure. And what's even more depressing is that you realize that you will one day (perhaps sooner than later) be unable to play the game anymore as much as you still love playing. There is a limit, hard as it is to accept, that playing a young person's game is not always going to be a place for a prematurely old man.

This year's softball season has been the most frustrating of all. Playing for a team that outscored its opposition during the season only to end up with more losses than wins can take its toll. Missing more games than you got to play was unfortunate to the extreme. Last weekend was the annual end of season double elimination tournament and for the first time ever your team lost its first two games making it a very quick day.

But just as sad was getting home and seeing a young cat familiarly watching the world from a bedroom window. His head is rested (oh so cutely) on his lone front paw as he takes it all in. When he sees you arrive home he calls out. He used to wander freely in the outdoors only to get caught in a trap and have the world that he knew and grew comfortable with, suddenly gone forever. As he hobbles around his house on his three remaining limbs he alternates between extremely affectionate and frustratingly untrusting.

But in the end (40 years later) it all is made a little less depressing when one comes home and plops on the best CD of the past couple of years, Shelby Lynne's heartwrenching Identity Crisis.

Lynne is at the age where it would be a twilight of a softball career but the beginning of an artistic career only her career hasn't exactly been of the overnight sensation variety. Just when you think you've had it rough try watching one parent murder another and then commit suicide right in front of your sister and you. That's bound to turn you into one hell of an artist or basket case or both.

After gaining Grammy notoriety for her "best new artist" (after years of trying) CD, This is Shelby Lynne, Lynne recorded a disappointing follow up, Love,Shelby that sounded like every other country performer ever born. But that's what made the ensuing Identity Crisis sound so fresh and inspiring. One gets the feeling it is the CD that Lynne has always wanted to make but was never able to because she either didn't sell enough to call her own shots or given some recognition she was made to do what she was told in order to really have some say in the matter.

Identity Crisis opens with the jazzy, soul soothing, and intuitive "Telephone" and never lets up from there. This isn't the blues, it's a color all its own. Go ahead and try listening to the cathartic climax on "Gotta Be Better" and then try and tell me that you don't understand things better in this unrelenting and unforgiving world. Depressing as it all can seem, nothing seems quite so bad after listening to someone like Shelby at her best.

It's All About the Capo

"Go find a jukebox and see what a quarter will do..."
-Lucinda Williams

Last winter I took a creative nonfiction writing class with the Blue-Eyed Editor at the Loft. As part of the class we were all allowed (or required depending on your point of view) to read two pieces aloud that the rest of the class would then comment on.

My week to read was fast approaching and I had no idea what I was going to write and share with my classmates. It wasn't as if I was afraid of what the others in class might think of my writing. That obstacle had long since out of self survival, become a non-issue. It also wasn't as if I thought any feedback offered would suddenly make me a better writer. If there is one thing I know I can do pretty well these days it is evaluating the things I do OK and the things I need to work on. Nope I was just having a difficult time coming up with something worth sharing.

So I found myself one day at my day job in an endless meeting with my thoughts everywhere but in that particular conference room. Lucinda Williams' song "Fruits of My Labor" bounced around inside my head just as it had for most of the week and I really wasn't sure why. In a moment of clarity I began furiously jotting down notes for my essay. It was going to be about how my work seems a little less than inspirational these days and a lot of that is a confessed self inflicted wound of wanting to keep my professional and private lives completely isolated from each other.

My classmates weren't quite sure what to make of my piece. I quoted lyrics from the Lucinda song throughout. And it took me weeks to figure out why that particular song was involuntarily permeating my soul. She's singing about how her hard work and her relative fame has allowed her to own things like velvet curtains yet that wasn't exactly what she had in mind when she began her career all those years ago.

The same feeling relentlessly washed over me as I sat watching Lucinda play at the Minnesota Zoo last Wednesday. It was a "glad I made the effort to go" show as she continues to grow as a performer. The same Blue-Eyed Editor/Classmate accompanied me to the show, her first time in seeing Lucinda, and at one point my friend astutely remarked how charismatic Lucinda was and how it was difficult to take one's eyes off of her.

As if it wasn't enough to be the creator of so many stellar songs, I must say Lucinda is about as an attractive woman as any in this hemisphere. She possesses in excess the two most appealing traits (as far as I'm concerned) of any woman- creativity and lots of soul. She is a writer who drives me crazy- both because her songs penetrate the deepest parts inside and help make some sense of this place, but also because I'm insanely jealous of her ability to express something I'm feeling far far better (and more simply) than I ever could.

The show's song list was dominated by songs from her last two CDs, Essence and World Without Tears. The lack of songs from her most popular CD Car Wheels Down a Gravel Road, clearly disappointed some of the people around us. (She did only one song from that CD- a ragged "Joy.") The guy behind us kept shouting for her to sing the title cut of that CD- only he and the woman he was with had a little joke about the song title-he kept yelling, "Hot Wheels Down a Gravel Road." That was kind of annoying and not even as funny as my best friend's misinterpretation of the song she calls, "Cartwheels Down a Gravel Road."

Yet I was somewhat satisfied by the song choices. In preparation for the show I had made my friend a Lucinda mix and the first nine songs of the show were included on that disc.

The early part of the show featured several piercing versions of slow sad songs like "Ventura," "Reason to Cry," and "Out of Touch," where Lucinda's slurred southern drawl was made even more heart pounding by the occasional crack of her voice. A few people began dancing during "Joy" but the oddest moment of the show came when the band followed up that guitar driven song with the bluesy dirge like "Atonement" perhaps the least danceable song of all time (though the dweeby devoted kept trying.)

The absolute highlight for me and the one I was with came during the encore. Lucinda returned to the stage to surprisingly play two older songs from her great 1988 CD, Lucinda Williams. The first, a heart stopping version of "Side of the Road" was performed accompanied only with her own strumming acoustic guitar and the subtle embellishments from her lead guitarist. The second was one of all time favorite songs, "Am I Too Blue?" that not in my wildest dreams was I expecting her to play. Cool beans.

By the time we got to the closing "Get Right By God" performed in an convincing religious revival style, one couldn't help but understand things just a little more clearly if only for a frustratingly fleeting moment. As we walked home under the stars the future once again seemed for the moment, full of possibilities.

The Ninth Greatest Song of All Time

So there I was late in the week standing in the middle of the street, rain appropriately pouring down from up above more drenching than cleansing, thinking to myself that demons can come in all shapes and sizes but the worst one I continue to know stands about five foot five and weighs approximately 140 pounds.

The next day, the one with a crooked pelvis who once upon a time promised me she'd help me fight this demon, told me she was tired of dealing with the aftermath, the moody shell that exists after the struggle. "You have so much to offer," she put forth in familiar frustration.

"But it was spent and used up a long time ago," I wanted to respond but lacked the energy to do so. She said that my body language and facial expressions turn people off. In a flash I found myself paralyzed again. It felt like gravity was cheating, pushing down just a little harder on me than anyone else. How could I explain sometimes it takes all the energy I can muster just to sit still in one place, afraid to move, afraid of that demon that simply has never lost its power in 18 years? But I offered no excuse, no hiding behind anything. When you live in this world you have to play by its social rules. The one with a comforting limp who used to make me smile so long ago freaked out the day she saw me just able to sway on a swing, thinking that by making that small movement the paralysis wasn't going to win this time.

I think I wrote my novel all those years ago so I wouldn't have to explain any of this in person. By oh so conveniently having it all down in writing I could never again be accused of being inscrutable, of having someone misread my look because if they wanted to take the time to know my story I could simply hand them a copy of my book.

Thankfully over time I've learned there are those out there that understand that feeling. Lucinda Williams is one, and her song "Am I Too Blue?" proves that hook, line, and sinker.

The 1988 song is so unadorned in both its melody and lyric that it is a great example of Williams' tremendous writing ability. She can be as complex and impenetrable and she can be simple and vulnerable- whatever it takes to express herself she is brave enough to do.

"Am I too blue for you?/Am I too blue?/When I cry like the sky/Like the sky sometimes/Am I too blue?"

The song is directed at someone who is apparently now missing from the singer's life. The sadness in the singer's voice explains that absence even at the same time as her words question it. It isn't easy being around someone who is depressed. Treat them as if they are the same as they once were and you risk offending them for not seeing the difference. Treat them differently and you risk making things worse because all they may want is for you to see them as they once were.

"Is the night too black?/Is the wind too rough?/Is it at your back?/Have you had enough?"

I think I've learned that being depressed doesn't always just mean being and "acting" sullen. It can be about being haunted by the unexplainable at the same time as being teased and tormented by the all too explainable.

What makes "Am I Too Blue" such a great song is it uniquely and with aching simplicity perceptively understands this paradox. The singer is at an inescapable place where someone else's absence is as depressing as their lingering presence remains. Who wants to be around someone who gets as sad at your being around as they are when you are gone? Imagine walking on those eggshells and you can begin to apprehend the perverse predicament in a being in a doomed friendship and how that association can keep one up at night and make things so hard especially in the driving rain.

"The sun beats down/It burns your skin/When you run into/My arms again"

I could listen to the song a hundred times and still feel a shiver run up and down my back. As the song suggests just being around to feel something next may make the ensuing day both an adventure and something worthwhile. And though it may seem hard to hear it may surely be worth being accessible to whatever is to follow- demons be damned.

Diego's Piano

"Maybe he had some problems/Maybe some things that he couldn't work out/But he sure was funny and he sure told the truth/And he knew what he was talking about..."
-Bob Dylan "Lenny Bruce"

I may or may not grow up... to be the next Gavin DeGraw (I just may not have the pipes) but I will go to my grave knowing deep in my heart one of the best things my Mom ever did for me was sign me up for them there suburban, all the rage, piano lessons.

My sisters preceded me in piano lesson takin' and though I always enjoyed listening to them and wanting to be able to emulate their ability to make some music, I certainly was more than a bit apprehensive when my Mom brought me to some music school on Lexington Avenue near Highway 36 to meet the appropriately named Mrs. Good, my soon to be piano teachin' instructor.

On this particular day Mrs. Good tried her best to determine what my existing (if any) musical aptitude was by having me go through some exercises on the piano keyboard ("make the sound of a train" "make the sound of a ghost"). I did my best although it was one of the first times (in a life since full of them) when I felt like a complete fool/idiot knowing that my pounding of the lower bass keys sounded nothing at all like a choo choo train or an just out of sight being.

I got placed in a lesson group with three others- the punkish looking (in a suburban way rather than a cool British fashion) Chip House, the intellectual looking Andy McCue, and the overly sensitive looking Eric Haugen (who would eventually become my closest ally of the trio). At our first lesson the three of them seemed to get along swimmingly like the proverbial now healthily looked upon soybeans in a pod, and as Mrs. Good ran us through some more impish exercises I began to feel like everyone else in the room was in on some kind of secret that was eluding me and I began to feel the tears falling down my chubby little cheeks. Mrs. Good noticed the wannabe unnoticed swollen eyes and try as hard as I could hidden sniffles and she stopped the lesson short.

When I went out to the warm Pinto outside with my Mom waiting to take me home, Mrs. Good shared some out of earshot words with my Mom. Mom kept nodding and the following ride home after the requisite "How did it go?" Mom and I rode mostly in silence, as we were to do for the following eight years that she drove me to and from my piano lessons. (On a memorably icy winter day Mom and I did a full 360 spin in the Pinto at the intersection of County Road C and Western Avenue- a moment Mom later said she didn't remember even though it was the first instance where my life flashed in front of my eyes and optical nerves.) Mom told me to hang in there, that once I learned the rudiments and got beyond just playing scales, that the songs would pour out of me and I would have great fun. And she was right.

Throughout junior high school and high school I frustrated Mrs. Good because I was much more devoted in learning how to play Barry Manilow and the Beatles' songs on the piano than I was my assigned Clementi and Bartok pieces. High school in particular was a period when I'd come home from my day and eagerly jump into my assigned lesson only to be pulled away temporarily (and forever) in pounding out "Hey Jude" or "Mandy" or something near and dear to my blood pumping organ that doesn't always exist in all those soulless ones. So less pretentiously, it was a necessary and needed catharsis from the overwhelming things pounding away in my heart. Yup, sometimes a Beethoven or Mozart piece might suffice but if "For No One" or "Even Now" didn't speak volumes to me about my current situation then the stars above may as well have been made out of the barfed up bag of Skittles of my close by youth and admittedly stilted vision.

When I went off to college and found myself so to speak and so on my own the thing that ended up rooting me more than anything else was going down to the dorm's piano (in a most public place- Enjoy the veal! Be sure to tip your waiters and waitresses! My next show will be the same time same place tomorrow when the sun will come out according to the little orphaned Annie!) or the more private pianos in the music department where I spent a couple of hours whittling away my work/study hours and playing the same old songs I was used to playing at home. It was a reaching out to no one in particular, and maybe it was a slight reaching back to someone quite and quietly in particular.

Post-graduation and living with roommates in thin walled apartments the only time I got to relive and relieve my piano playing days/urges was when I went to my parents' house and between fits of Nintendo frustration of failed electronic journeys going over to the simply standard black and white (no gray!) keys I grew up tinkling and pounding out whatever it was that was in my heart. "Let it Be"? "The Long and Winding Road"? "Abandoned Love"? "Don't Think Twice"? One of the best things about moving into MY house seven years ago was having the ability and the privacy to buy my own piano (who would have thought that day was ever forthcoming or possible in the least?). My immediate and immediately more tolerant than I could ever ask feline roommate Max was never quite sure what to make of, nor quite appreciative of my late night spontaneous piano playing performances but I sensed he knew it was one of those things I did, not because of a need to be my most annoying self but rather because of a need to exorcise and exercise the all too closing in demons within.

More than a number of months back I was sitting in a San Francisco restaurant enjoying a Dim Sum meal with my most talented piano playing sister when we cooked up the idea of my taking her baby grand piano in because having moved from a rented house to a rented apartment she no longer had the room to house the instrument. This plan took a long time to ultimately come to fruition but after much delay this was the week the piano was to arrive in my humble little house all the way from Stockton California where the last person to house it was a friendly chap named Andrew who told me he had just written a symphony on it (I didn't have the heart when I chatted with him to tell him that I have a piano playin' kitty who most likely will be the most frequent user). On Wednesday I got a call from the piano moving company I chose after some Internet research (is there really any other type these days?). I was told to call the driver. I did so and was told I had missed his appearance in St. Paul and he was now somewhere in North Dakota. The anxiously awaited piano and made it's appearance in these parts and had continued on far far away (the story of my life).

I was angry. I needed to pound a few keys and sing out John Lennon's "God" (a song that once upon a long ago I actually did a passable if not forever cloying coy version of). I got a hold of the poor not quite his fault, out of the loop truck driver and the only thing that kept my seething teeth and other body parts from boiling over into undiluted rage was my mind's picture of the certain sauntering schooled in grace Carol Vescey of my life, herself forced to take a few piano lessons in another lifetime- a thing we've shared in words, thoughts and feelings thank God. I heard her telling me to calm down, not that she has ever uttered those specific words to me, but these days, though she doesn't always know it (and far be it for me to tell her) she does have an equally calming as she does agitating affect on me. A deliverer of a cyclamen plant to my ailing Mom at a most difficult time (a picture that just wouldn't leave me alone as I struggled through last week's Lucinda Williams' concert at First Ave) I continue to merely wish that we one day take the time to exchange a time of dueling piano songs (or perhaps we can even make it a separate but shared duet) because if there is but one thing I'm sure of, I'm sure that we have earned that right after all the other things being equal and distinct.

So tonight as I write this my sister's piano is on the way from Chicago to Green Bay. I have been lacking the time, energy, strength and funds to do much traveling these days so I'm a bit envious of all the places the piano has been recently. I'm told it will arrive at my house sometime tomorrow. Visions of grand performances stick inside me and my best friend told me awhile back that she can see me sitting in my living room wearing a tuxedo and top hat and entertaining two captive cats (seven legs between them). It may not exactly be another chapter to my life but I'm sure it'll be worth a footnote when all is said and done (and sung).

Little Digger

"I go out with a friend/Maybe a little music might help/But I can't pretend/I wish I was somewhere else/I wanna watch the ocean end/The edges of the sun then/I wanna get swallowed up in an ocean of love"
-Lucinda Williams

"What does it mean when something changes how it's always been?"
-Liz Phair

Dear Thompson,

I think I get it now. I think I understand why anything out of the routine startles you, how things new to you cause you apprehension; and how some things you don't understand simply frighten you. For example, I understand now why when I turned on the furnace for the first time the other week you couldn't handle it. You couldn't handle the strange noise, the blowing air, the new smells, the heat, and just somehow how the air around us was forever different.

I really wonder what you were like before that fateful day and the accident where you got your paw caught in some type of trap and ended up losing your entire leg. There are times you can be the sweetest little cat, so energetic, so well behaved, and even once in awhile a little cuddly. What convinced me to adopt you and your pal Diego-san was the way the two of you played together so well. I loved how when I visited the two of you in your foster home how you clearly looked at Diego to make sure things, that I, was okay. Once you saw Diego check me out then you were right behind albeit a tad apprehensive.

But Thompson we're going to have to continue to work on trusting each other. I know you have your ghosts and demons and I know that there will forever be issues related to your handicap. Believe me if there is something we truly do share (and ultimately can understand about each other) is that I too have more than few obvious ghosts and demons. I don't think it is an accident that we somehow managed to find each other.

I remember the first night we were together I rolled you a ball that your foster mom had given me as your favorite toy. Unfortunately I rolled it to the side of your missing leg and as you leaned down to grab it with your mouth you toppled over. A friend warned me that in adopting you I had to prepare myself for some psychological issues that might exist and while I listened to her (as I am always inclined to do), I don't think I truly was realistic in how I forever have to try to remember that you do, and probably always will have some trust and fear issues. There are times I just wish it was all easier for you.

As you know it has not been a easily understood few weeks for me Thompson. Going to the funeral services of my uncle and my neighbor and hearing a lost friend's death was ruled a suicide has truly been hard. She after all was in a way the one that talked me into adopting you in the first place. I remember how she told me of her love of her kitties, Jazzy and Pumpkin, and how they related to her and each other that when I met you that I knew what I would someday soon do. I wish I could tell her that.

Thus I appreciate how you and Diego-san continue to entertain me with your youthful curiosity, how everything still seems so new with you guys. I think more than anything watching you two has kept me from falling completely into the all too familiar abyss. Yet with you I have to keep remembering that the trust you have in me comes along with a unhurried learning process. I felt bad the other night when the Cubs fell apart and my chosen team this playoff season (the Florida Marlin{s}) came back from what appeared to be certain elimination to move on to the World Series and as they went ahead I let out a loud whoop with a clap and you fled in fear from seeing this new side of me. One step forward, two steps back (perhaps your distrust of me was deserved since I was rooting against the team my Mom rooted for when she was growing up despite having brothers who were Cardinal fans. Mom had her rebel side after all.)

So here is a lesson I will pass on to you Thompson. Having a broken heart doesn't always involve losing some type of love. Having a broken heart can also mean not being able to feel much at all except a feeling of isolation and a lack of connection with anything or anyone around. I was reminded of this lesson (which I learned a long long time ago) while attending Lucinda Williams' Saturday concert at First Avenue. As you know I prepared myself in seeing one of my pantheon of favorite performers and favorite writers the night before by listening to the sixth greatest song of all time, Williams' "Am I Too Blue?" I'm sure I drove you and Diego nuts by hitting the repeat button on my CD player but the song is great like a little lullaby and it probably is the one I'll sing to my first child someday somewhere. "Am I too blue for you? Am I too blue?/When I cry like the sky like the sky sometimes/Am I too blue?" Maybe my preparation was a bit too good because as I watched Lucinda I only grew bluer and bluer.

She opened with her pop hit (for Mary Chapin Carpenter), a terrific version of "Passionate Kisses." The show featured a lot of songs from her last CD World Without Tears the first being a slow and reflective "Ventura." The song is a tearjerker and indeed there was a jerk in the audience who spent most of the rest of the show inexplicably (and inscrutably? And I don't mean that as an insult) crying. I think I was thinking about how the night before as I was messing up meeting up with the blue eyed editor how I stopped into the local neighborhood Cheapo to try and make a phone call and CONNECT and I ran into Ms. Rose, a big Mr. Max fan, who showed me the picture of Max prominently displayed at the register. I was deeply moved if not a bit sad. I miss Max more than ever as I'm sure you know.

And as I got home that night I particpated in an online conversation with the newest member of the feline sympathizers, Ms. Lisa Anne Marie and that modern day typed conversation was well timed I must say. A connection if not just the most modern type. I must one day meet Lisa's kitty Sidda because she is the cute kitty who chases the cursor from a computerized mouse.

The two highlights of the Lucinda show for me were "Joy" which gathered steam like a runaway train, puncturing any defense that might stand in the way, and "Sweet Side" which is such a bitter tribute to a dysfunctional relationship that it reminds me of a thing or two about the one whose diamond earring I was proudly wearing at the show. Get Puzzy indeed.

During the show I drifted back to fifteen years ago this month when I worked a midnight shift at Cheapo and I had taped the first game of the World Series between the A's and the Dodgers. Not much meant much then so when I came home and numbly fast forwarded my way through the game to try and see as much as I could to taste the flavor of what was going on while at the same time trying to expedite things to get to bed ASAP, I just assumed that the heavily favored A's had won since they dominated most of the game. But that's when I was reminded why baseball remains the one truly great game, as the gimpy Kirk Gibson pinch hit in the end of the ninth against the A's unbelievable closer Dennis Eckersley, and somehow lived up to the Roy Hobbs myth and jacked one out of the park to win the game (and ultimately the Series for the Dodgers). I remember being stunned and happy and wanting to call everyone and someone at the same time. So coming home this night to a taped Marlin(s)/Yankees game was made all the more comforting after a stressful heartbreaking night out greeted by the familiar gait and grunt of your handsomely spotted face.

I'm quite sure none of the people in First Ave shared my now lifelong devotion to the Marlin(s) least of all the people I was with but Lucinda was great. Her voice crackled effectively; she interacted with her band in a mesmerizing way and man she looked great in that black Stephaniesque t-shirt. I bolted in a fashion reminiscent of you when you are unsure of things, when the show was over. I had to get back to the place that is all about trust.

So in the end I must say, I love you Thompson. And I'm trying to make the feeling familiar if not somewhat mutual.

Yours truly,
-d