Wordless Wednesday.

i've got friends that click on this link

I'm wasted on you.

Why can't I stop listening to this album called A Book Like This by Angus & Julia Stone? Don't answer that. Please. I'm not one who looks for concrete reasons when it comes to love and music, especially when the latter deals with my heart ... especially when it has the singular power to transform my thoughts and feelings and character. So I suppose I'm not really looking for an answer here. Maybe there isn't one. I'm just wondering why them? Why the Australians? Why now? What kind of understated power do they yield that Creed never did? (Okay, so I know the answer to that.) But I can't stop listening to this song (or "Wasted" or "Private Lawns" and alla the rest) and their voices and the simplicity of it all. Today, there's no push to move on to something else. I may have had a touch of insomnia last night, this is true. I may have been palling around with Brad Pitt and Jon Jensen in Missouri in my subconscious about 20 minutes before I woke up, showered, breakfasted, made a lunch and rushed off to work for a meeting that went and got itself canceled. I may be stopping and starting the writing of a speech where I have to envision myself as someone else. But this music? It continues. Forever. Or at least until 4:59 PM. It's the best fuel around.

In Praise of the Unfinished.

I don’t think I will win any awards as my family’s greatest grandson anytime soon. I’m fairly certain of that fact.

I have but one 88-year-old grandma still living and she isn’t doing so well of late. She’s in and out of the hospital on a very regular basis, is legally blind (though she doesn’t do too bad with her remaining 20%) and talks about her needing to read lips sometimes to hear the words of others. And, to get from point A to point B, she requires a rolling walker, as well as one or two steady, guiding hands.

(Sidenote: I don’t ever mind being those hands, either, not in the least.)

First off, I don’t visit enough. I don’t call her on a very regular basis. And, when my aunt from another state puts out the rallying cry to visit my grandma in the hospital to help lift her spirits some, I’ve had reason to be elsewhere every single time.

One thing I was able to do for her last Sunday, however, was drive her to my sister’s house for a joint birthday celebration (hers, along with a couple of her great-grandchildren). I get to do that sometimes. It’s a good 30 minutes or so in the car to get there. So, once we catch up on one another’s lives some, she takes to rambling.

Rambling is what she calls it, something she apologizes for when it’s all over with. For me, though, I love to hear her stories. It’s like reading a history book, honestly. Sometimes they’re about her brother or sister or her past life as an eager traveler. Now and again there is a moral, but there’s always a strong opinion attached (like the time she said then President-Elect Barrack Obama should receive an Oscar for Best Actor).

I think it’s in the midst of her storytelling when she feels most vibrant to me. The body is not what it once was but the mind? Sharp as a tack. Even when she speaks of wanting to die before she needs to move again, I end up thinking she’s being more practical than emotional. Because that time is drawing near, just a few months from now (moving, that is). In her own words, “Those who want me don’t have room and those who have room don’t want me!”

I guess that, once you reach a certain age, fear is stripped from death. You’ve experienced it all and now want to move on towards that next stage, the one where the pain stops. With my grandma, she wonders aloud with a certain level of curiosity as to why God has kept her around as long as He has. In her mind, she’s finished.

This is a poem from Polish poet Julia Hartwig’s book In Praise of the Unfinished, something that made me think of my own grandma almost immediately. I’m not sure how she’d take it, so I haven’t shared it with her specifically, but it speaks of a truth that is both sad and encouraging all at the same time.


I Will Perform This Miracle for You

dedicated to H.

They love her so much that they hate the old age growing in her. Tall and handsome they walk by her side, and look at her with the eyes of their childhood.
Until now, they hear her voice ringing in their ears like an Easter bell swinging in the friendly wind. It always accompanied her quick movements, carrying objects toward her.
So when she trips in the street, they hiss: Grandma, don’t pretend!
And when she hunches over, they call: Grandma, straighten up!
Hearing it, a stranger would consider them cruel.
But once more she makes the effort, straightens up, her face flooded by the light of love.

Instant love.

I find it impossible not to like this. Almost as impossible at it will be for me to miss their show at the tail end of next month. Seeing and hearing this goodness compels me to go walk around and chase the sun for a while outside. Here I go! I like when the first day of Spring doesn't mess my emotions. As it should be.

The Whispertown 2000 - "Old Times" Video from Whispertown 2000 on Vimeo.

A kiss to build a hate on.

I didn't go to SXSW down in Austin this year as it falls on the exact same week as our bi-annual pledge drive (aka Radiothon) for KRCL. In fact, that's where I will be tonight, provided you're feeling generous and would like to help keep me and the rest of the volunteer DJs on the air for another six months. Tune in at 8 and make me happy, yeah?

Anyway, while my friend H rubs shoulders with musicians and sweats in that desert sunshine and feeds on music instead of food, I sit in my cubicle, write all day long and break things up with a rousing game of ping pong now and again. I know where I'd rather be. What follows is a conversation so hot off the text message press, it's still a little warm.

H: "I just talked to St. Vincent Annie. Should I have proposed on your behalf?"
D: "For the love of all that is holy, YES."
H: "I kissed her on the mouth for ya."
D: "I hate you."
H: "She is soft."
D: "You're the type that enjoys kicking salt in other's wounds, aren't you?"
H: "Well, yes."

Sigh.

Here. Push play. Listen and love.

Wordless Wednesday.

Today's quote.

Saw this on a fridge in Massachusetts last weekend and had enough good sense to write it down. This could be the quote for today and every day that follows it.

"Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life."
- Omar Khayyam

Maybe I'll tattoo that sucker on my forearm, so that it never leaves me. Maybe.

In Thao I trust.

I just got back from a ridiculously fast trip to a wee farm town outside of Boston this weekend. It wasn't so bad there, either, but the plane ride back ... one that included sitting in the back of the bus each time (as in the back row, right near the passengers wee wee wee'ing all the way home) along with a layover in Minneapolis ... didn't exactly set well with me. My eyes are red and squinty and my tailbone is still confused as to where it's residing in my body exactly.

Still, inexplicably, there was a song that bounced around my head for most of the day. John (the photographer on assignment with me) and I took turns humming and singing this tune for pretty much the entire day. And, in honor of that giddy happenstance, I uploaded the video of the song I recorded at KRCL sometime last year. It's totally worth watching, too, if only for that ta-a-a-sty beat boxing happening in the beginning.



Thao will be back in May, too, so make sure you get your tix and get yourselves good and addicted to her songs along with me. It's only right.

Wordless Wednesday.

c/o Kim Guanzon photography

Love reign o'er me.

Ever feel like the Universe is attempting to get in touch with you for a reason you don’t quite understand? I can’t say it happens often to me, but when it’s getting laid on thick enough, I almost want to look directly skyward and say, right out loud, “Okay, okay … enough already.”

See, I don’t know that I speak the Universe’s language all that fluently, so it’s a little hard for me to decipher what it is trying to get at. But, for the last several days, the scenes I’m holding onto when out in public are the very open expressions of love that are running rampant. Granted, I don’t live in Europe. There are no star-crossed couples in the middle of cobblestone streets, so unaware of the taxis also using their space that they have to drive around them. But they’re there. There are a lot of them.

I mean, Spring isn’t even here yet.

I see a long, warm embrace between what appears to be a grandpa and his grandson, followed by twin kisses on his cheeks. I see people sharing a step on the escalator, choosing to pay more attention to one another’s mouths than the fact they’re moving upward. I see a father and daughter reuniting after a weekend away from one another and he can’t stop holding her, an act her mom graciously invites. These are nonverbal expressions that need no explanations. They’re just a very few, but they move me.

And, yes, I lack a wife, sure, and I don’t have any children to call my own and my grandpas have passed on, but I don’t think my witnessing these acts are directly tied to them being things I don’t have. Make sense? I have the eyes to see where and how love exists. I get to appreciate that it does. It both amazes me and causes an unexpected hopeful jolt. Maybe that’s all the Universe is saying. Then again, maybe that’s just part of it.

I was in the Phoenix airport last weekend, ready to go through Security Check, and the woman checking a man’s Driver’s License said, “Wow! Mark, you’ve lost some weight! Lookin’ go-o-o-d!” And he laughed and smiled and had his day made, all at the same time. She’d given some of what she had to give to him and, for what I’d venture was a good, long time afterward, he felt loved.

She didn't know it, either, but being within earshot of that happening, well, it sorta made my day, too. I love that.

I live the life I love and I love the life I live.

Next week is sure a good week to be a music lover. If I am as ambitious as I think I might very well be, I'll make it to at least four shows by Friday night. It's a good thing next week wasn't this week, either, cause I had one of those Mondays that I thought was the following Monday instead of the one it actually was. Confused? I was, too. The rest of this will be easy to understand. Follow along with your hearts to guide.

Monday: Blind Pilot out of Oregon will playing over yonder at Urban Lounge. Much has been made of the fact Laura Gibson is opening (who will also be doing an earlier show at Slowtrain for FREE), but she doesn't grab me like she probably should. That's okay, too, cause Blind Pilot is the band that really knocks me out. They're the ones who recorded demos in a warehouse. They're the ones who saved gas by doing a bike tour to pimp out their EPs. But that backstory doesn't much matter. What does is that their album just knocks me flat. It's the best brand of ear candy I've tasted in a long while. And it only gets better and better and better. I wonder if they're that great live. I have high, high hopes for this. I will not miss this show.

Tuesday: Eh, I got nothing.

Wednesday: Super secret Peter & The Wolf show. As in even I don't know where it'll be exactly! Lots of dancing involved on this one. Come prepared to shake it. Not your usual acoustic meanderings, no sirreebob! He's still working 14-hour days to finish this album before he clears out of California but, even if he doesn't get it done before Wednesday, he'll be unveiling an all new brand of music, something he likens to Flight of the Conchords. Yes, those Conchords. UPDATE: This show will go down at The Woodshed, 60 E. 800 South. 8:30 PM sharp. Be there, yeah?

Thursday: Peter & The Wolf once again! A rare second concert in town before he heads over to SXSW in Austin to play some more traveling folkie shows. Only this will be one of those old-fashioned acoustic house shows, like he's prone to doing. There may even be local talent and homemade cookies involved, in keeping with tradition. There's even a piano, which I know he can be coerced into playing. Come early to get a real seat. Come late and pull up a spot of floor. If you need an address, hit me up in the comments with an e-mail addy and I'll give you the goods. I put this thing together, so it's the least I can do. (He'll also be on the radio around 5 that night, so listen in for that, eh?)

Friday: More Portland love. Blitzen Trapper, along with Alela Diane. I love this band. Like a countrifed Shins they are. And can you go wrong with that sound? Not so much. It's comfortable enough to settle down into real nice like, too; after an entire week of music, this is a good smattering of notes to end on.

So, you know, come to these shows. Be my music-loving friends. We will bob our heads and tap our bare feet and sweat some and smile more and appreciate these songs like they're our food and we need them to stay alive in these crazy economic-poor times.

Kiss me like you love me.

Once upon a time, about a week ago now exactly, a new favorite musician of mine by the name of Jessica Lea Mayfield came to play at that radio station I have a show on. As soon as I heard she was coming, about two months back or more, I seized the opportunity to invite her around and, well, she agreed. Lucky us. She was brilliant and charming and made me feel like an old, old man when she told me she was just 19 years young. I guess that sort of thing isn't going to go away, is it? I digress.

She played a few songs and sipped on her tea and, just like that, was off for a sound check for her show later at Kilby. My favorite story was when she said that the guitar she was playing on—older than she was as it'd been around since 1963—was her father's version of an engagement ring. There was no ring, per se ... he'd simply given her mom a guitar, as they were (are?) both musicians. You want romantic? That's romantic.

Here's one of the songs I taped while she was there. Enjoy.

Wordless Wednesday.

Happy day, indeed.

I got the opportunity to wake up my soul a little bit the other night when I saw the Calvary Baptist Choir perform. I’d been to their church before, but hadn’t seen enough singing to satisfy my appetite for the music of the spiri’chal kind. I walked out of there more alive than I’ve felt in months. I'm still riding that high even.

Some highlights:

1. Being “blessed” with a free ticket. The line to buy was long, but I had a couple friends volunteering as ushers that night so's they could get in for free, one who sent a man my way when he had an extra ticket to give away. I offered to pay him, but he wouldn’t hear it. Eighth row, smack dab in the middle. Best seat in the house. I will repay the favor some day. Watch me.

2. Being encouraged by the pastor to feel the music with our hips, our hands and our feet. I sat a big portion of the concert by people I didn't know and I wouldn’t have been able to sit still in a concert like that. No way, no how. Giving me permission to clap and sing along and shake my head and tap my feet was all I really needed.

3. The conversation that took place behind me during the intermission.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but this is a spiritual experience for me.”
“It is for me, too. It’s just like when I used to go to church.”
“Well, in my church, they never talked during the performance.”
“Well, I guess you never sat on our row.”

4. Abandoning my seat during the last few songs and hightailing it for the balcony, where standing up and dancing along with one of my ushering friends was a whole lot easier. And, well, more fun. This was, after all, music meant to move you.

5. The finale, which I recorded most of, but couldn’t sit still for any of.

6. And, finally, running into the lady who had endured sitting by me for most of the concert, then discovering she wasn’t mad at me for wriggling in my seat. Not in the least. In fact, as I passed by her, she shouted out, “You’ve got rhythm!”