Happy Birthday, Dairy

Most of the old pages are hidden now, dealing as they do not with music. But I just happened to be tweaking the pages, since I still sink money into vanity URLs and occasionally get freelance work from this site, and I decided to have a bit of a nostalgia walk.

Lo and behold, the very first post from this blog (that I didn’t delete, at least — who know if there were any of those?) is from March 1, 2002. So, whee — happy meaningless anniversary to this here online diary.

Blog still sounds like the noise I make the day after a tequila bender.

For those who are looking for music stuff by me: hit www.weldbham.com/icanseeyourhousefromhere. I actually write on a schedule there. It’s weird, unsettling and yet somehow satisfying.

Ghosts in the wires

There’s a negative connotation that goes with the word “ghosts”. It conjures images of frightful things, trapped or angry spirits who can’t move on.

There are all kinds of ghosts, though. Some are happy, some are sad, some are angry. Most are not ready to let go, or if they are, they just don’t know how.

My head — all of our heads — are full of ghosts.  They span the emotional spectrum, from those we happily visit from time to time, to those that come at us out of the blue, bringing a sudden and unexpected shower of tears.  Ghosts of yesterday, of long ago, and even of tomorrows that are no more. They’re wispy and ethereal, impossible to grab when you want.  They’re there and gone, and you’re left with a shadow of a ghost, nothing more until it comes back to visit again.

Every one of my ghosts has a soundtrack.  Sometimes, when I am visited, the appropriate song pops into my head; more often, the song triggers a visit from the spirits in my memory.

I try to remind myself that it’s all about perspective: if you can change the way you look at something, the definition shifts. Good becomes ugly becomes inspiring becomes wrong becomes the way forward. But sometimes, these damn songs force a point of view on me, the emotional memory that goes with each one.

And some ghosts, fresh as they are, have a lifetime of music to play for me.

And for a rare moment,I find myself praying, wishing, begging, for just a little silence. At least until I can find the perspective that makes this look not so painful.

The death of the wait

In January of 1984, I got to go see Van Halen at the Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center, with Autograph opening up. I was (and still am) a big fan of both bands, and was thrilled to be going to my first ever concert. It was a huge experience, made even more so by having no idea what to expect going in to the show.

Back then, there was no Internet from which to download setlists or even reviews of previous night’s concerts. There were fanzines and newsletters, but those travelled by US post, and were put together with Xerox machines and typewriters. Bootleg cassettes and LPs existed, but were only available at small specialty shops and record collector conventions. Video cameras were bulky and expensive, and so pirated live shows were few and far between.

Last week, I went to see My Morning Jacket at the Alabama Theater. I’m not that familiar with the band, but I was able to listen to random selections from their discography throughout the day of the concert by searching for their material on iTunes and YouTube. Since this was their tour opener, there was no way to know what songs they would be playing — though I reviewed the show, and the next day I had emails and comments asking for setlists and clarifications. My girlfriend (a huge MMJ fan and the reason I went to the concert) had said a few times that she wanted to go back and do it all again, that the show was in her top three MMJ concert experiences (she’s a repeat attender) — and by 10 AM the next morning, I had managed to find a quality recording of the show (bootlegged by an audience member) online, downloaded it, and burned it to a couple of CDs for her listening pleasure.

It’s fascinating to me, the differences of twenty-five years, brought by technology. I remember not a decade ago waiting anxiously for CDs to hit the store shelves on Tuesdays, ready to hear the latest discs that I had been reading about and imagining for months. Fifteen years ago, I would record videos on MTV and tape radio shows because they would get songs from albums that were two or three weeks away. We would read guitar magazines and Rolling Stone and Spin and Revolver to get what scraps of news we could about albums or tours that were in the works. Even five years ago, the bandwidth wasn’t necessarily there to grab songs at a whim or find pre-releases without a little bit of luck.

Now today, release dates are a guide as to when you might start checking the BitTorrent sites for review leaks. If you’re wanting to see a band live, you can read a billion reviews from pros and fans alike the day after their first show (if not sooner), find out if they’ll be playing your favorite songs, watch videos from the current tour on YouTube and maybe download the audio (or video) from a few shows, and then purchase your tickets online before you head out the door.

Part of me is a huge fan of all of this. I’m a data junkie and patience is not my strong suit, so being able to find out anything and everything about the upcoming Pain of Salvation or Devin Townsend albums and listen to song samples is exciting and important to me. I can check out audio and video from shows I could never attend, across the country or across the world, and record those alternate versions of songs that I love to my iPod for listening anytime, any place.

But I remember those days, those days of old when we would run to the record store uphill, both ways, in 2 feet of snow and hundred degree temperatures in our shoes made of wood. The excitement that would build all day on Tuesday, as we sat through school or work, thinking about the new CDs hitting the stores, and how awesome all those songs might (or might not!) be — that would eat at us, but in the best possible way. Going to concerts having no idea what surprises might be in store, what songs might get played. Finding that bootleg recording of rare b-sides or amazing shows that you had heard whispers of but never imagined hearing was a once in a year occurrence.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m just as anxious to hear Road Salt One in a month, to see Devin Townsend when he tours later this year, as I was as a teenager.  But it feels like maybe something’s lacking, like I know too much too soon now to appreciate it the way I used to.  It’s not age — my passion for music has only grown as I’ve gotten older.

This isn’t meant to be a luddite rant at all — I love technology, that I can fit my entire (and rather large) music collection in a wallet-sized piece of metal that can be played at home, in the car, on the computer, or through tiny ear-bud  headphones.  I love that music can be recorded, bit-by-bit, as perfectly or as loosely as the musician chooses. I love the sound effects and DTS 5.1 surround.

I do feel for those that will never know the anticipation of a new release, and for those that feel that if it’s out there, they somehow deserve or are owed this music.

And I wonder what the music fan who is twelve or thirteen today will bemoan in another generation.

Dried up roses scattered on the mound / Honouring the one engraved

There’s a magic quality about music, that it possesses the ability to carry one to another time or place or state of mind, completely and without warning.  It reminds me of the connection between the sense of smell and memory, only perhaps more powerful for some.

I sat today bemoaning (quietly, of course, because this sort of thought gets you branded as a heretic in the southeastern US) the imminent arrival of spring, the eventual farewell to the cool temperatures that I spend 60% of my year craving and dreaming about. It was a gorgeous day — the occasional lazy, fluffy white cloud punctuated the bright blue March sky, a light breeze breaking up the monotonous air here and there — but already it’s too hot for me.  And immediately I was missing the winter that we never really got (I think I wore my “heavy” coat for a total of ten days this season), and readying myself for the next one, like a cubicle ant on Monday morning praying for the weekend.

It must have been this line of thinking that pushed me to line up Opeth’s BLACKWATER PARK into my iTunes. It’s a disc that I haven’t listened to in a few years (although their last album, WATERSHED, has an inordinate amount of playtime, according to my iPod), and I’m wondering why. The entire album — both the quiet, acoustic sections and the heavier epic-sounding riffs — is permeated with autumn, or perhaps winter, evoking visions of snow and barren plains, misty breath, coats and that stillness that comes only in the depth of January.  It’s evident on their albums since, but none moreso than BLACKWATER PARK.

And I wonder how much of that is a memory association of my own, based on my listening patterns; how much is my knowledge of Opeth (i.e., their Swedish origins); and how much is based in the music itself. There is some music that I will forever associate with winter, some with summer and the beach, some with autumn; some day, some night.  And I’m certain that there’s some level of my own personality or experience in there, but I’m also convinced that some of that quality resides in the music itself.

On some level, too, I’m not concerned with the why, because for now and for the next six months, I can count on Opeth and others to help get me through the god-awful oppressive summer heat.

Untitled 4477

It’s winter he says of his dream.  It’s winter, and there’s a light snow falling.  Not that that matters, since everything’s already buried under a thick blanket of blinding white.  Isn’t it funny, how even though there’s clouds in the sky still dropping the little crystals on the world, it’s blinding white?

He pauses, then, and I can’t help but think he’s a little sad.  Or not sad, perhaps, but wistful, wishing that it were a memory of tomorrow instead of a dream of yesterday.

There’s a field filled with people he continues, the smile returning to his face like a Woodstock, or one of those outdoor festivals?  And I mean filled with people — it’s weird, how the world flows seamlessly from snow to people and back to snow, and I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.  Except…  he trails off for a moment, and I swear that I can see his heart skip a beat in his eyes … except for her.

And I don’t know why this is important, or how, but the air is music.  I mean, I know that music is just vibrations in the air, right?  But that’s not it.  We’re not breathing oxygen in and carbon dioxide out, but notes, and harmonies, and polyrhythms. Do you get it?  The air, every molecule surrounding us, me and her, this woman who is the only thing that isn’t snow or faceless people, is living and evolving and shifting.  And there’s no band, at least not that I can see maybe they’re buried under the snow, I think but there’s music everywhere. And it’s the most glorious, intense, powerful, soul-shaking thing I’ve ever heard or felt.

He stops. The smile is still on his face, but his eyes are glistening.  As I watch him, waiting patiently for whatever’s coming next — because he’s surely not going to leave me hanging on this — a lone tear swells on his lid and escapes down his right cheek. He doesn’t even twitch a finger to stop it, and I can barely resist the urge to catch the drop on my finger, like a butterfly that should be touched before it flies away forever.

I think that music that was in the air was unique for everyone that heard it, that it became whatever you needed to hear, whatever would touch your soul at that moment.  And maybe some of those people heard Mozart, and others heard speed metal symphonies, and probably some of them heard silence.  But it was different for everyone, because that musical air was alive and intelligent and just wanted to make everyone happy.

And while I was losing myself in that space, that tick between inhaling and letting it go, feeling the snow gathering on my hands, she turned, and I saw every feature, every detail. And her eyes – my god, her eyes, like stars being born – met mine.

His voice cracks, and I suddenly realize that the one tear has become a genuine river of tears, but all the while, his smile just gets bigger and bigger, and I can’t help but feel some of his happiness myself, so contagious is it.

And I know — KNOW he says with such emphasis that it shakes me – that she and I, in all the world — we two are hearing the same song.

And it’s the only song either of us ever needed.

We sit in silence, then. And I envy him, and his dream, and his memory of the music that connects.

Send in the Clowns

or, Fun With Facebook and Twitter!

3:29 PM If I had kids, I would buy them lots of dolls to play with.

3:30 PM They would have so many dolls, they would be the envy of the neighborhood children.

3:33 PM One day, their dolls would rise up and kill us all (probably to the strains of Dokken in the background, to be all ironical and stuff).

* we’re talking Rottin’ With Dokken, y’all.

3:34 PM And then they would have to go live in an Orphanage in Spain. Because that’s what my will would say. The end. Thank you for quietly enjoying my storytime for damaged souls.

3:57 PM For all those who have withdrawn previous unspoken offers of babysitting employment, I can only say one thing.


4:48 PM Now available for long term childcare and kid’s birthday parties.

This is the last time I’m doing this (for now)

Jesus, here lies my brother
Tortured and blown
Stretch for the heavens and go
…I watch him go
Here it comes

Jesus was a poor boy
Jesus was a poor boy
“It’s justa spring clean for the May queen”
I’m coming home

And this one’s for the life
This one’s for the funeral in the rain
And if only for tonight
This one’s for the funeral in the rain

We decided last night that it’s not just the industry in which we work that leads to us leaving so many behind so young.  I’m sure, honestly, that that has something to do with it — we deal in alcohol, we all drink (most of us too much), we smoke, we’ve got histories of drug use and fighting and possibly even a little real criminal activity under our belts.  We’ve lived too much too soon, saved too little, seen more and planned less than most people ever will.

So, yeah, there’s all that, but as was pointed out to me, when you work in a bar for as long as I have, you come in contact with more people than in other worlds.  And a lot of them are one-and-done, sure, but a lot more are at least acquaintances, some become regulars, and a few become friends. Plus the steady stream of people coming and going from jobs in the bars, and then the fact that a lot of the bars form a big, loose, dysfunctional family.

The day’s gone and the year’s gone
And I don’t know when I’m coming home
I can’t hold on to what I’ve had
When what I’ve had
There’s nothing left at all…

So this one’s for the life
This one’s for the funeral in the rain
And if only for tonight
Close your eyes and try to sleep again…

You try to take moments like this to shift your perspective, to realign your priorities. When you realize and accept that this day, any day, any moment, could be your last, you try hard to weed out the unnecessary worries and stresses in your life.  You try to figure out what really means something, what you hope to accomplish, what is important to you and what’s a straight waste of time.

It’s too easy to get caught up in grief and the cessation of any momentum you’ve built up. There’s a comfort in wrapping yourself in that blanket of tears and pity, just stopping and letting come what may, but it’s important to use these moments as stimulus to keep moving forward, to reset your sights, to separate the signal from the noise and focus on the sounds that mean something to you.

Because death is best left to the dead, and those of us still here have the responsibility and gift of living.

A world away, you turn away
I’m wide awake, and I don’t need your home
Tell me why he went, it seems to be
An element to this mystery
It’s so cold today, so I get away
And I’m left behind with nothing but words…

And I went to the funeral in the rain
And I went to the funeral in the rain

Some find this as a firmament to faith; some find cracks in the foundation.  For those of us without dreams of another world after this one, an afterlife or reincarnation or acceptance into the Great Hivemind of the Universe, it’s a simpler time, and simultaneously more complicated.  There is no strength to be found from a higher power, but the questions still remain without easy answers.

But at the same time, I don’t have to evaluate whether or not I’ll be going to Heaven or Hell or Nirvana or Valhalla based on my actions of today or tomorrow.  Nor do I really worry, personally, about whether I’ll be remembered fondly or even at all after I’m gone.  I’ll be gone.  What does it matter?

I hope that I can leave behind a sense of closure — no big works left unfinished, no farewells left unsaid.  I hope that I can avoid anyone that I care about feeling any sort of guilt, whether responsibility for what happened to me or a lack of chance to end our time together on a better note.  But that’s all I do – hope – because that’s all I can do. There are no guarantees, no promises; I might have 60 more years ahead of me, or 60 seconds, and the same goes for everyone in my life.

And that’s okay.  If for no other reason than, in the words of Vonnegut: “So it goes.”

But until it goes, I’ll try my best to appreciate what and who I have, to keep moving forward, and not to sweat the small stuff.  And I’ll try to teach others to do the same.

lyrics from FUNERAL by Devin Townsend, from the Ocean Machine album, ©1997 HevyDevy Records

abandon.error

So there’s this thing you dream about, yeah?  It can be whatever you want it to be: a woman, riches, power.  In my case, let’s just say it’s a Tribble, and if you don’t know what Tribbles are, I envy you for not having Star Trek fans in your inner circle.

And in this dream — that was both figurative and literal, by the by — you yearn and yearn until you finally get this thing, and for a very short time, you’re very happy.  But then, before your eyes, with the speed at which such things can only happen in dreams, that thing you always wanted begins to smother you.  If it’s power, maybe it’s the accompanying responsibility; if it was a woman, maybe she’s far less than you had idealized.  In my dream, it’s a Tribble.  And if you don’t know what Tribbles are, then my dream would be even scarier to you than to me.

Pretty soon, you’re literally drowning beneath that thing you always wanted; it’s killing you, crushing you.  That’s the trouble with Tribbles, I hear.

But then, just before your last breath runs out, you wake up, still clutching at the beauty of the thing you always wanted, and you return to sleep, hoping to try that dream one more time.

This is only bothersome because the remix is titled abandon.error, for a song called abandoner.  And because I sometimes take my psychology degree too seriously.

10.16.2007

“We will miss her dearly but she is in a much happier place now.“

Lilium Cruentus (Deus Nova)
On the Loss of Innocence
Music, lyric and arrangements by Daniel Gildenlöw

A Scene in Brown and Yellow:
At first I don’t know why your presence fills me with unease
Though I’ve missed you more than Life itself
I freeze
It’s like you’ve been lost and now you’re glad to see my face
But as you sit down my confusion turns to distress
Not knowing how to let you know that you are
Dead
(I wake up sweating)

They tell me you are better off
Where you are now
Well, I don’t care
They tell me that your pain is gone
Where you are now
Well, you left it here
See, I need to be strong
Need to be brave
I need to put faith in something
How could I live on
Not hoping we will meet
Again?

A Scene in White and Grey:
Under the icon’s weight the old thoughts lay
Under the cross so still and pale
The flowers usher the stale breath of Death away
And someone tries to sing
But the bird of song has lost its wings
Now it twitches
Rips the stitches of a chest where tears are torn
And where all loss begins

Life seems too small when Death takes its toll
I need something to blame for this pain

A Scene in Amber – Flawed:
And have you ever had that dream
Where one you love passes away?
And you wake up crying to a world
Where she’s long since gone
But you feel the pain
So close
As if she’d died today

But I need to be strong
I need to be brave
I need to put faith in something
How could I live on
Not hoping we will meet
Again
Some day?

Earth to Earth, Dust to Dust
A verse we know too well
Like a nursery rhyme
Just in reverse
‘Cause we are all the little tin man
With hearts like little tin cans
And as we line them down with tears
Over the years
They inevitably turn
To rust

Life seems too small when Death takes its toll
I need something to blame for this pain
I try, I fail, I fall, like anyone you know
I break, I bleed, like anyone you know

A Scene in Blood on White:
Where the linen’s changed just for tonight
And somehow we beat her to this sight
This ghostly room of Exit
That she enters by the flicker of candle light
And in her breast
A desert storm is taking form
An old thirst that can never be quenched or killed
Sweeps over the cold
Broken but thousandfold

I think that if I ever should go deaf, it might be the one thing that I would be incapable of recovering from. I’m realizing consciously how much I rely on music to express myself — not just other people’s words, but the music itself.  It can serve as a catalyst for physical release, a pillow when I’ve pushed myself too hard, a gateway into waking dreams.

Today, music is my blanket against the cold of the world and the best way I know to shine a light on memories of a departed friend.

Perhaps inside you
You were messed up like me
But to them you were whole and strong
A friend in their need
And what you left behind you
And what swept over me
Says that your life’s work
Rolls on and on
A piece of eternity
-Brian May, Just One Life

RIP Richard Wright