A lesson learned the hard way this morning: I’m no longer the Master of the iPod in my own kitchen.
The morning was crisp and sunny, it’s “Smoothie Friday” in our house, and Seattle is all abuzz about the warm weather coming our way this weekend. Alas, I had the Mellow Mix going, not a peppy summertime mix. Without my realizing it, my daughter snatched the remote control, and abruptly changed the song.
Her explanation? “That song was too sad for a Friday”.
Man, I love that kid.
It always amuses me when my kids voice an opinion on a song from the back of the minivan, or the other side of the kitchen island. Sometimes I’m surprised at what they like, and sometimes I’m disappointed that my favorites aren’t theirs too. Either way, I’m glad they are listening, and 20 years from now, hopefully they will have songs that will bring back vivid memories for them, the way music does for me.
My son is quite possibly the funniest kid I know, which is not surprising, considering that his dad is the funniest grown-up I know. He comes out with zingers that make me laugh, scratch my head, and wonder how he comes up with this stuff. And then I forget to write it all down.
This morning. Breakfast table in an otherwise not-empty room (yes, PJ reference)…….As his sister thumbed through a catalog, he queried, deadpan-serious: “Do they make American Girl Doll weaponry?”
His sister and I laughed, but — is this the untapped marketing angle that would make American Girl Dolls appeal to boys? Before we had much time to discuss the details of combat gear for Kit, however, we were heading out the door. My daughter, not to be outdone in the clever comment category: “I’m wearing this hoodie today, it makes me feel like I live in Hollywood”. Apparently that makes for a good day when one is in second grade.
Yesterday in the van, my son had taken aim at the Pixies, declaring, “this song is creepy” when “Where Is My Mind?” happened to come on. (He attributed it to the “woo hoo’s” at the beginning. Fair enough.) He and I go out for coffee together twice a week, just the two of us. It’s a tradition that started two years ago, when we were trying to figure out what to do with the extra half hour in the morning while his sister is at choir. We drop her off at school, then hit a coffee house — latte for me, hot cocoa and a baked good for him. Topics of conversation include baseball, dogs, vacations, and, most recently, lessons (for me) in the game of Magic: The Gathering. We once sat and played a game, which earned me a ‘Way to Go, Mom’ thumbs-up from the bearded 20-something barista.
This morning we walked in to the coffee house – a different one than usual – and you can guess what song was playing….. “Where Is My Mind?”. Now that is creepy. “Hey, Sweetie — it’s your song!” I said, and he pretended to grimace.
You know how, as a parent, you experience fleeting moments that make you feel like you are doing something right? (The ones that balance out all of the times when you are sure you are screwing your kids up for life?) This morning was one of those moments. My sweet fourth grade boy was stressing out over a school project. We talked through it and came up with a plan. Then he took a sip of cocoa, cocked his head to one side, looked at me and said, “Mom, I always feel better when I talk to you about stuff.” True to form, I welled up with tears, but managed to tell him – hey, that’s what Moms are for. I’ve often joked with him that he and I share the same brain, and it’s true. We are wired the same. I like to think that this will give me an edge in helping him navigate the teenage years…..we’ve agreed to keep our morning coffee dates going, and I really hope we do.
He wanted to stay home with me today. The real reason is that he is in the middle of a big baseball card sorting project, and he is, in his words — “making great progress”. He wanted to hunker down in his room and keep going, with a Harry Potter book on tape in the background. I know this because we share the same brain, and days like that appeal to me too. He tried to tell me, however, that if I let him stay home, he would help me with stuff around the house:
“Mom! If you let me stay home today, I’ll be your house elf”.
I kissed him and ushered him out of the van. But if I really thought that he would do chores for me all day, I’d probably let him stay home.
I’m still wearing flip flops most days, my son wears shorts to school and my daughter refuses to wear a coat, but it’s undeniable that it is now fall. (I never realized that my children’s penchant for inappropriate seasonal attire came from me until I typed that sentence. Hmm.) The rain is here and focus has shifted indoors, not that I really mind. But it does feel like time to put away summertime music and concert memories.
Time, also, to put away the Pearl Jam cloud that I’ve been living under for the past few months. (“Alive…Encore Break“, “Twenty“). But not, of course, without reflection. Indulge me one last PJ post as I recount, in no particular order, my Top Ten favorite Pearl Jam concert memories (so far):
1. Lollapalooza, July 1992, Kitsap County Fair Grounds. My first time seeing them live, and I am totally hooked – no looking back. Enough said. (“Drop the Gyro and Run“).
2. Magnuson Park, “Drop in the Park”, September 1992. I’ve just started law school. I probably should be in the library, but the allure of a free show in Magnuson Park is infinitely more appealing than Crim Law. Eddie climbs the trusses like a monkey and swings from a microphone cord. The hook of PJ fandom and concert mania is set even further.
3. RKCNDY, Seattle, 1994. The secret show that never was. Again, I should be home studying. Instead, my friends and I go to see a side project of Mike McCready, certain that PJ will then play a secret show. After his set, McCready grabs an electric guitar and says “we’ll be right back”. This is it! The secret show is going to happen!! But then it doesn’t.
4. The Gorge, 1993. Pearl Jam opens for Neil Young. Blind Melon opens for Pearl Jam, and their lead singer cusses out the crowd, saying he knows we are only there to see PJ. Obviously he has issues, but my issue is that it’s a long-ass drive from the Gorge back home to Tacoma.
5. Seattle Center Arena, 1993. I finally notice that there are other band members besides Eddie Vedder. (Dang, Stone is fun to watch! And still is.)
6. Key Arena, November 2000. Shit, I have just turned 30 years old. The band plays “Elderly Woman” (?!?) Eddie, together with the crowd: “I just want to scream — Helloooooo….” PJ had been snatched from me a year earlier when a friendship ended (“Alive, Encore Break“), but in that instant, I reclaim the band as mine. Two people in front of us make out during the entire show. I understand the sentiment, but not enough to avoid labelling them as idiots. My sister and I throw things at them. So much for being more mature at 30.
7. Ben Harper show, Seattle, 2005. A rare night out with my sisters after having two babies in two years. An already amazing show from Ben, when Eddie shows up for the encore and joins him for a few songs. My sleep-deprived mind is blown.
8. The Gorge, September 2005. We have amazing dead-center seats. The debate over “fist to the JAW” vs. “fist to the DOOR” intensifies, this round going to my husband. Eddie tries to lure Tom Petty down from the hotel next door – “Hello Tom…….come down Tom….” (he doesn’t). A damn near perfect setlist start to finish, including one of my favorite versions (ever) of “Yellow Ledbetter”, which segues into a cover of “Baba O’Reilly”. I have a recording of this show, and I run to it all the time. You can’t help but pick up your pace when “Porch” comes on.
9. The Gorge, July 2006. It is, no lie, 109 degrees. Proving my theory that fans love it when musicians say the F word, the crowd goes wild when Eddie observes, “it’s fucking HOT!” Eddie sneaks out to the roof above the sound board to sing “Given to Fly”. Amazing. Perfect. And yes, fucking hot.
And, finally…….the most recent show, destined to be one of my favorites, for a million reasons:
10. Vancouver BC, September 2011. Long Canadian-cash-only beer lines, and even longer cab lines. We (kind of, almost) see our friend get in a fight over a cab, but he emerges victorious. I get my Concert Moment, and then some, when it seems that 95% of the setlist has been channeled directly from my brain to the band. (I got a spot at Lukin’s!) It’s my husband’s birthday, and PJ sings Happy Birthday to him (well, actually they are singing to one of their crew, but really, what are the odds?). I punch him — “sweetie, Eddie is singing to YOU!!!” He is appreciative, but not as excited about it as I am.
A pretty darn perfect weekend all around, topped with international intrigue as we see two people arrested at the border on the way home. Were they smuggling plans for a secret Seattle PJ show back into the U.S.? Because I am still waiting for one…
Twenty years, holy cow. Pearl Jam’s “Alive” was released as a single on August 2, 1991. In honor, it feels like maybe it’s time to release this one from the vault.
Originally written in 2003, it was, in a lot of ways, the precursor to what would later become Corduroy Notes (figured out the origin of the name yet? Let me know if you have a guess).
And, by way of update, I still can’t believe that I almost broke up with Pearl Jam. The career drama is a now a mere footnote, and I am thankful to be back in contact with my friend — we still talk PJ, and scratch our heads at the fact that 20 years have passed since our first show.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about music. It’s funny how, while a recording preserves a musical performance, a song also serves to record the events that occur in our lives.
“Dust in the Wind” will forever be a darkened Stevens Junior High cafeteria, and a dance with an older 9th grade boy whom I had a major crush on. Bobby Brown’s “My Prerogative” = a McMahon Hall lounge, new friends, and the first time I ever saw a beer bong. Likewise, though, other artists have been entirely ruined for me just by their association with bad memories: The Steve Miller Band, Jimmy Buffet, and Hootie & the Blowfish all have found their way into this category (no great losses there).
Which brings up an interesting part of the ending of a relationship: the question of who gets custody of the music. Not the physical CD’s and albums, but the memories associated with them, the ownership of those times. For awhile, I thought that Pearl Jam would find its way into the Steve Miller-Jimmy Buffet-Hootie camp. When a long-term friendship ended a few years ago, I didn’t listen to Eddie and the boys for a long, long time. It was too painful; nearly every song represented some memory of the “us” that was no longer – all the Pearl Jam shows we had attended together, and the Seattle music mania that had gripped us both so many years earlier.
Ultimately, I realized that I could take ownership of those memories and experiences for myself, with or without him in my life. Of course, maybe it was the music that made me do it — giving up The Steve Miller Band is one thing. Giving up Pearl Jam is quite another.
Like many others, I own the entire Pearl Jam catalog, and I love it all. But one song still endures as my favorite. “Alive” was their first song to hit the airwaves, and I was a senior in college at UW — that time in the early 90’s when, as Seattle-centric twenty-somethings, we believed that Seattle had become the center of the music universe (and maybe it was, for awhile).
I remember the first few times that I heard “Alive” – this song, this band – I was hooked right away. I talked to my L.A.-based boyfriend, and asked him if he had heard this new song – from some band named Pearl Jam, and they were from…. Seattle! Where I lived! I tried to sing the song to him to see if he recognized it. He didn’t. At least not yet.
Since then, I have always had a special relationship with “Alive”. It seems to show up when I need it most — little blips on the radar screen of my life. I vividly remember getting off the bus, opening my mailbox and finding my law school acceptance letter – while listening to it on my Walkman. Three years later, driving home on the day my Bar Exam results were to arrive, there it was again. And again, after a particularly bad job interview, while lost in downtown Seattle in my half-broken-down car in the rain, there was Eddie on the radio, singing my song.
These days, the Seattle music craze has long passed, and you really don’t hear old Pearl Jam on the radio very much anymore, even here in Seattle.
Recently, my husband and I were having lunch and discussing my latest career drama: whether I should leave my law firm, do something else, or quit working entirely and stay home with our 8 month-old son. I was stressed out, and questioning whether I wanted to practice law anymore. I realized that I was at a crossroads — with not just my needs to consider, but that of my son and our little family.
On my way back from lunch, my husband called me. “Turn on 107.7”, he said.
There it was: Eddie Vedder, belting out the anthem of my youth, all at once giving me a glimpse of the girl I was ten years ago, how far I had come, and reminding me that, as always, things will work out as they should.
I turned up the stereo, rolled down my window, and sang along.
Sometimes you have to to do things just to prove to yourself that you can do it. No, I am not talking about the half marathon that I ran recently. I knew I could run the 13.1 miles. What I didn’t know is that I could run them without listening to music. I’m usually plugged in, and I take my playlist seriously (“The Sweatiest Music”).
I boarded the race shuttle early that morning with all necessary gear — bib number, timing chip, iPod….but no headphones. If you had supersonic hearing, you would have heard a thunderous “F**K!!!” emanating from my head when I discovered it. I’ve done short runs without music, and it’s fine, but a two hour run? When the momentary sense of panic wore off, I resigned myself to a quiet run and figured that it could be worse.
This being the “Rock n Roll” marathon, bands were stationed along the route, and that was nice, but not the same. It got me thinking though — if I were the event organizer, I would station a big-name band somewhere along the route. How funny would it be to see people really surprised? Maybe the serious runners would not notice, and run on by. Me, though — I love running, but not enough to avoid stopping and watching one of my favorite bands.
The upside of the quiet run was that I got to hear the conversations of the people running near me. There were a lot of exchanges that I started calling “No Man Left Behind”, all going something like this:
“You go on without me; this is ridiculous, I can’t keep up”
“No. No!! We agreed to do this together, I’m not leaving you!”
The other common theme – spousal bickering: “Well! If you don’t want to listen to me talk, then don’t run by me! Whatever!!” (I could relate to that poor guy. I didn’t want to run by his wife, either.)
After the finish, there was a little post-race concert with NW mid-90’s darling, Everclear. Bar Exam memories aside, (“Heroin Girl, or Heroine Girl?”), it was fun to reflect on how much had changed since the last time I saw them, that summer so long ago (especially the fact that this time, I had two kids with me). They didn’t sound great, and lead singer Art Alexakis is the only original member, but it was entertaining all the same.
I swear to you on Eddie Vedder that I am not exaggerating this next part. It is hilarious yet troubling, and if it’s any indication of what’s to come during her teenage years, her dad and I are in for quite a ride.
My daughter decided that she wanted the lead singer to see her rocking out. My husband held her up and she fist-pumped during the songs, waving at Art Alexakis and trying to get him to point to her. “Closer!” she said, so she and I crept closer to the stage, leaving the men behind (familiar territory…. although normally my partners in crime are my sisters). When the show ended, Art knelt down at the edge of the stage and shook hands with those who could reach him.
We were a few rows back, so he waved to my daughter and said “Hi sweetie, how are you?” She waved back, answered “Good!”, and announced to me that she was ready to leave. The lead singer had now been informed that she was there, and her work was done.
If you want to know how long your post-vacation vibe will last, take the length of your vacation and divide by three. Coming home from my recent 10-day vacation, it took me exactly 3 days to lose my Aloha spirit. 3 days to admit it was over, and turn my attention to chores. And exactly 3 days to switch from listening to reggae island music, and trade it in for moody Northwest music.
I tried to keep it going. Really, I did. I found a reggae station on XM Radio and played it in the car. Even the kids noticed: “hey, it’s like Island Radio!”
But there’s a reason why sunny locales generate happy, carefree music like reggae. Likewise, there’s a reason why the Northwest produces moody, brooding music. The weather sets the mood, and the mood inspires the music. Or you could say that the weather sets the clothes, which then set the mood, which then inspires the music. (which was a funny by-product of the Grunge era…..no one was trying to make a fashion statement by wearing flannel…..it’s just that flannel shirts are comfy, and you could get them for $4.00 at Chubby & Tubby.)
Or maybe it’s all the other way around. Anyway, you see where I am going with this.
Sometimes during a grey Seattle winter, I’ll try to mix it up and listen to one of my summertime mixes. But it never lasts for long. It just doesn’t match. Summertime music goes best with summer weather. And besides, the cloudy, unpredictable nature of Seattle weather suits my personality better. I am not sunny enough to live anywhere else. But I will gladly vacation in a spot where the weather is constantly nice.
Vacations are vital in getting us out of a rut, both personally and musically. Hanging out on an island in the middle of the ocean with some of my favorite people….for ten days, life became as simple as the decision of beach vs. pool, and what to grill for dinner.
And, of course, there was the music of Island Radio 98.9, where you could hear old songs re-fashioned to a reggae beat (love Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”? You are in luck.). Destined to be a classic (at least in my memory), a ridiculous but catchy song dominated the airwaves while we were there: set to a reggae beat, “Let’s Drink Beer” by Ikena Dupont (best line: “beer is not an obstacle, it’s an avenue”).
It’s available on iTunes! The best $1.29 vacation souvenir I’ve ever purchased. Aloha.
Remember Pete Yorn? He had a catchy hit back in 2001, and a great album, musicforthemorningafter. Pete weighs heavily in my musical past for two reasons. First, in the days before iPods, his CD was in heavy rotation on a fabulous road trip my husband and I took that summer, and, second, he was the last show I saw before finding out we were pregnant with our first child.
We saw him at The Showbox in the late fall of 2001. I love that venue, and it was a fun show – pretty mellow, good people-watching. What was unique was that it was just the two of us. Usually we attended shows with other people, but that night was just us. I wore jeans and sassy boots, and we had a great time.
On Christmas Day, we found out we were expecting our first child. (The best Christmas present ever, yes?) That show became etched in my brain as the last time that we were out on the town just as “us”….not us plus “Lil’ B”, our in utero nickname for our oldest.
I had a vaguely defined goal that I would be a hip pregnant woman, and an even hipper mom. Nothing would slow me down. I went to a few mellow concerts while I was pregnant, and I even went to Las Vegas (which really sucks when all you want to do is sleep). The line was drawn, however, at The Gorge. I bought tickets for the Sasquatch Festival but ultimately, while six months pregnant, sitting out in the desert heat (in the midst of neighboring herbal fumes) just didn’t seem like a great idea. Also influencing that decision was the fact that my mother had threatened an intervention – something along the lines of, “over my dead body are you taking my yet-to-be-born grandchild to that concert in the middle of nowhere”. My sisters went without me, sold my tickets alongside the road, and I spent the weekend at home, nesting. It was all OK.
Everyone who is a parent knows how hard it is to remember what it was like before the little ones came into your lives. In the years since then, we’ve talked about that Pete Yorn show and always say, “wait…..who babysat?”, before realizing that no babysitter was yet needed.
If you know me, then you understand that I am overly sentimental. Commercials make me cry, and my kids give me sideways glances at sad parts of movies, knowing that I will be crying. So I am a sucker for this: TONIGHT – two kids, many shows, and a Big Birthday later – Pete Yorn is playing at the Showbox (SoDo location, but still!!). I am looking forward to a date night out with my husband, and I know that the evening will be filled with nostalgia for me. I still have the same jeans and sassy boots – although I probably won’t wear them – but I am so happy that, after all these years and through so many changes, my sweetie will still be at my side.
I have a new favorite misinterpretation of a song lyric. This time, it’s from my own family:
At her request, I made my daughter a mix CD. I picked a bunch of songs and let her listen to them, then she picked which ones should make the final cut. It’s an eclectic mix that isn’t entirely grade-school appropriate, from Dispatch to The Beastie Boys, John Denver (!!!), and Kid-n-Play. I even indulged her and downloaded a Katy Perry song from iTunes, which I have lived to regret.
One of her favorites on the CD is a Michael Franti song, “Hello Bonjour”. She likes the catchy rhythm, and I think the song has a lovely message.
The opening line is: “I don’t need a passport/to walk on this earth/anywhere I go ’cause I was made of this earth”.
The other day, she was singing along in her room, organizing little treasures on top of her desk, in the way that only little girls do. Suddenly the door opened and she stuck her head into the hallway: “Mom, is he saying ‘I am made of DESSERT’?”
So sweet and funny, that little girl of mine. She just might be made of dessert.
I did it again this morning. Given that this is the third time, I must sit up and take notice of the fact that it’s a pattern. Not a pattern that I am proud of, but one that, as a music lover and a mother, I must acknowledge.
I could blame it on a frantic off-to-school morning of looking for socks and lost yoga mats, or rationalize by saying that it’s the end of a long week.
But nothing can change the fact that, (not for the first time), I yelled these words at my daughter: “Turn that music DOWN! It is TOO LOUD!”
It’s official: January 2011, the month that I became old.
I would not really call myself a country music enthusiast, but I’ve experimented. I’ve tried it. One might say I’ve dabbled. I do appreciate country music; in particular, the way that most country songs can make me cry at the drop of a (cowboy) hat.
I pulled out a bunch of old country CD’s the other day and uploaded them to iTunes, intending to give some tired playlists a shot in the arm. Now I’m thinking that maybe certain songs should have a weepy mix all their own. (Seriously, email me and I will send you a playlist that is guaranteed to make you cry.)
I did cry a bit at these old tunes, but what I also found is that I smiled when, unexpectedly, my thoughts turned to my Grandma.
As kids, my sisters and I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house. My grandma has endured as one of the biggest influences on my life, and a true icon of unconditional love. Of course my grandparents’ house had the requisite 70’s enormous console TV……broadcasting shows like The Brady Bunch, The Lawrence Welk Show and Hee Haw. I seem to recall that my grandpa didn’t like Lawrence Welk, but Hee Haw was fair game.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are of going to the county fair with my grandparents. We’d see the exhibits and ride a few rides, then we’d see the music show. I wish now that I had paid attention to who we saw. It was always country music, but the only one I can really recall is Buck Owens. Or maybe it was Roy. At any rate, it was one of the Hee Haw guys.
Later, after Grandpa was gone, my sisters and I would go to the fair with Grandma and, in usual teenage fashion, be embarrassed to be be seen at the very ‘square’ country music show. My mom assured me that cooler acts were coming to the fair soon. In fact, she was right. Rick Springfield just played my hometown fair this summer. Apparently by “soon”, Mom meant “in 25 years”.
It breaks my heart that my grandma didn’t live long enough to meet my kids. I talk about her a lot, and tell them funny little stories about her. I’ve got to remember to tell them these tidbits:
1. When I first started dating my husband, Grandma thought he looked like Randy Travis. He doesn’t, but maybe that’s one reason she loved him right away.
2. In the midst of the 80’s, she decided that she liked Billy Idol. I think that my older cousin bought her a Billy Idol tee shirt, but in all fairness, I could be confusing it with her “Fonz” shirt. (Either way, how cool of a grandma is that?)
3. She saw Hank Williams Jr. in concert and hated it. She said that he was too dirty, and he was drunk, and he was a disgrace to his father. Harsh words, but Gram had opinions.
4. The song “Proud to be an American” always made her cry. Now it makes me cry, because it reminds me of her. Good tears though; I feel lucky to have had her in my life for as long as I did. And maybe, for my Grandma, it’s time for me to give country music another try.
Corduroy Notes 