What Florence + The Machine Gave Me

Frankly, I'm kind of hurt and really pissed off right now. And while the reasons for this seem kind of stupid, petty, and childish in the grand scheme of things, knowing that doesn't necessarily alleviate the anger and hurt feelings that I have in the moment. So I'm dealing with it the only way I know how--I write (what's your superpower?).

For the last month or so, I've been really looking forward to this past Friday's release of Florence + The Machine's new album, Dance Fever. Along with The Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen, Florence + the Machine is the only other artist whose new studio albums I feel compelled to buy the day of their release. I've been following her Twitter feed for updates, I've watched every new video posted to YouTube (some multiple times), I made a point of recording her appearances this past week on Jimmy Fallon and "CBS Mornings." And when I went to buy the album Friday morning, guess where I was able to find it? NOWHERE! Not one damn retailer in my area that sells music had it available in their stores to buy. I'm still trying to figure out what was more insulting--the fact that Barnes & Noble didn't have it, or the fact that their website had the unmitigated gall to list it as a bestseller. Here's a tip--if it's a bestseller, make sure I can buy it at my local store. What kind of crap is that? You can damn well better believe that this never happened when I ran your music department, I can tell you that right now.

Now I know what you're thinking--this isn't the end of the world, I can just order it and pick it up later. Trust me, I'm way ahead of you. It's not like I don't want the album just because places like B&N and Target didn't have enough foresight to stock it. You're also probably thinking that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill and that I'm being stupid, petty, and childish. And if you think that, I challenge you to re-read the first paragraph of this missive. Look, I know that overall, this is a pretty trivial thing and that I'm overreacting. All I can say is that it may not be that important, but it is important to me. It's been a long week and I knew it would be going into it. This was literally the only thing I was looking forward to this week and the whole thing's been ruined. Sure, I can wait, but it's not the same thing as buying the physical copy as soon as the store opens and knowing that you're one of the first to do so. This is why we go see movies on Thursdays that actually open on Fridays. I actually had to listen to the album on YouTube where I was subjected to at least one ad between every song. And I know YouTube has a premium service that I can pay for and not have to see the ads, but dammit, that was the whole point of buying the album in the first place!

Now I know what you're thinking--people still buy physical media? Can't you just download it from iTunes? Well, yes, I suppose I could, but, like waiting past the release date to buy it, it's not the same thing. I like having something to hold on to while I'm listening. I like to read liner notes and look at pictures of the artist, maybe even read the lyrics while listening to the songs if the artist included them. You know--all the ephemera that digital downloads can't provide... those little things that to my, admittedly overly romantic view of music appreciation, just make the whole listening experience better. I read somewhere once that a vinyl record is a handwritten love letter. A digital download is a text. Friday was one of those days where I deeply felt what I refer to as the ongoing struggle of an analogue soul searching for his place in an increasingly digital universe. And in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I was looking for it on CD, which sounds a bit blasphemous, but to me it's a happy medium between analogue and digital. I get all the ephemera of the vinyl and I can play it in the car. Not that it matters anyway since I'm sure I'll buy it on vinyl eventually. Again, I realize this is an overly romantic viewpoint that even a lot of self-professed music lovers don't understand. Honestly, I don't expect them to. However, I will go on record as saying that the followers of that cult leader Marie Kondo don't know what they're missing.

So that's why I'm pissed, but like I said, I'm also kind of hurt. I've been waiting in anticipation for this album for over a month. Yeah, okay, Florence Welch is one of my top three celebrity crushes (Tina Fey and Zooey Deschanel being the other two), I do have a severe weakness for redheaded women, especially those with musical talent, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc., etc. But it's much more than that. Her music actually speaks to me on an emotional level. I remember listening to her MTV Unplugged album one afternoon while sitting on a bench and drinking a cup of tea while snow fell around me. The whole thing was beautiful. That live performance of "Dog Days Are Over" combined with the snow literally had tears streaming down my face. I described it later as a religious experience. It makes me wonder if there was something in the tea other than lemon and honey. The albums she's released since have had similar effects on me, regardless of the weather. I even bought a book of her writings (Useless Magic: Lyrics, Poetry and Sermons, in case you want to check it out for yourself). There's something mystical, comforting, magical, even healing in her voice. And while she's been very open about how many of her songs get written as a way to help her deal with her own dramas and traumas, I think I speak for many of her listeners when I say they help us deal with ours too. Again, I realize I'm overreacting when I say this, but I feel like my life and the things that matter to me were casually brushed aside in the name of streaming convenience. I was essentially robbed of the opportunity to listen to her new album because I'm some romantic old fart who prefers physical media. Her music makes me feel like it's okay to be this hopeless romantic. Not being able to buy it on the day of its rather hyped release reminds me that I'm just... well, different.

The great irony, of course, is that I'm venting about this in a digital, social media format. That's okay. I've always been a fan of irony.

I Don't Know Why I Love You (But I Do)

When I was thirteen years old, I came home from school to discover that the Soviet Union had done something that they couldn't possibly do (I think they somehow repealed the Bill of Rights to the United States Constitution).  The U.S. considered this an act of war and responded with nuclear weapons.  Of course, the Soviets retaliated in kind.  From my kitchen window, I watched as a missile was about to explode just up the road.  The only thing I could do was pick up the phone and frantically try to call you to tell you I loved you.  I don't remember my call getting through.

Of course, this is the point where I woke up to discover the whole thing was just a bizarre dream/nightmare.  But I did get an uneasy feeling that if I didn't tell you how I felt about you that something globally catastrophic would happen.

Two weeks later, I finally worked up the courage to tell you I loved you.  Your reaction was pretty much what I predicted.  I walked away from it feeling the way I thought I'd feel--rejected, dejected, and thoroughly humiliated.  But, hey, the world didn't end, so I must have done something right.

When I was 27, those feelings were still there.  We'd been through a lot together since the end of the Cold War--good times, bad times, two weeks in England and Scotland.  You were my best friend.  I've never in my life been closer to anyone.  No matter how much I tried to convince myself that any youthful romantic feelings I had for you were in my more youthful romantic past, everyone around me seemed to know otherwise.  Clearly I was in denial.

I debated putting my heart on the line once again.  I didn't say anything because we'd just moved in together with my cousin a month earlier and I didn't want to make things awkward for any of us, especially him.  I also knew there was no way I could compete with a British accent that was fifteen years my senior.  So I said nothing.  I'd been through that humiliation before and it still stung.  I didn't see the point in subjecting myself to it again.

I think it's safe to say that the events of 11 September, 2001, constituted a global catastrophe.  Arguably the ramifications of it persist to this day.  When I was first informed as to what was going on in New York and Washington, DC, the first thing I thought of was that dream I had when I was thirteen and the virtually public humiliation I forced myself to endure in order to prevent a calamity such as what we were now experiencing.  Did I really save the world that autumn day in 1987?  Probably not.  I find it highly unlikely that I have that kind of influence over international politics.  But on the off, off, off chance that I did, what if I could have prevented 9/11 simply by telling you that I love you?  That would have also prevented a 20-year war in Afghanistan, a side boondoggle in Iraq... honestly, who knows how differently the world might have turned out?

I tend to look at the human race as God's failed third grade science project--put specimens in a jar and see which one(s) will eat the other(s) first.  In the intervening two decades, I've watched the human race, specifically America, decline drastically.  Wars, plague, climate change, mass shootings, road rage, partisan politics--we all know how to fix these things, but we refuse to do so because ultimately it negatively affects the bottom line.  There's no real money in it for the greedy, corrupt people who are running everything.  We can fix a lot of problems, but the real root cause of it--mass human stupidity--is incurable.  And I've lost so much faith in my own species, that I'm not sure it's worth saving.

As I write this, it would appear that all hell is on the verge of breaking loose in Eastern Europe.  I'm predicting that if (more likely when) it does, it will start World War III.  Honestly, I genuinely don't care anymore.  I figure it's been roughly 80 years since the last one, we're overdue for another.  And yet, in spite of my possibly apocalyptic apathy, I feel I have a moral obligation to try to prevent it if I can.

Yes... after all these years, I'm still in love with you.  I don't know why--I mean, after all, you're a lying cunt--but I am.

I know I'm not supposed to feel this way, but falling in love is the only thing in my life that I truly regret.  It cost me my heart, my soul, my best friend (a couple of times), arguably my immune system, and my left hip.  It turned me into a bitter, cynical old man before I was 30.  It brings out the absolute worst traits in me as a human being.  Frankly, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.  And I don't know if I regret falling in love or if I regret falling in love with you, but since you're the only person with whom I've ever truly been in love, I can't really make a proper distinction.

Many years ago, I gave up on ever finding anyone with whom to share my life.  I realize that's bleak, but I figure if you can't measure up to married men and suicidal drunks in the eyes of your own best friend, you probably won't find anyone.  Besides, you can only get called a "really nice guy" so many times before you start to believe your own bad press.  I get it--I'm no one's ideal man.  The good news is, I no longer feel like I have to impress anyone.  Besides, I've never found anyone who made me feel the way you did... and I mean that in a good way.

As cynical, bitter, resentful, and angry as I am toward you (and, believe me, I am), for some fucking ungodly reason, every time I see an old picture of you, something inside me melts and I begin to ache in ways that only missing someone you love can cause.  In those moments, all I want to do is hold you as tightly as I can for as long as you'll let me.  If I'm honest with myself, that's really all I've ever wanted since we were eleven years old.

I know you don't feel the same toward me (or at least that's what you claim).  Hell, you probably won't even read this, but at least it will be out there in all its humiliating glory.  I doubt that it will change the world, certainly not for the better.  As I said, I'm not sure humanity as a whole is worth saving, and I know I no longer care.  But, just in case it does make a difference, I suppose it would be immoral of me not to at least try to do the right thing.  And if World War III doesn't break out in the next few weeks, I guess it will have worked.

Some Thoughts on Charlie Watts

I should have written this back in August of 2021 when it first happened. I did write something for a Facebook post and quite a bit of this is lifted verbatim from that post. But, for some reason, I find myself still affected by the death of Rolling Stones' drummer Charlie Watts.

I don't usually get bent out of shape over celebrity deaths as--at least at this point in time--I've never actually known any celebrities. I've had the privilege of meeting a few and I've shaken a couple of hands, but it's never been possible for me to spend enough time to get to know them as people. However, the older I get, I find that the deaths of certain entertainers tend to bother me if their work has had a lasting impact on me. I won't lie. Charlie's death hurts... even four months after the fact.

I've never felt that I could fully describe or explain what the Rolling Stones' music has meant to me. I first heard them at the tender age of twelve and it was not like anything I had ever heard before. Initially, their music got me exploring not just their own extensive musical catalogue (which has gotten more extensive in the intervening years), but other artists that became known during the 1960s, particularly anything I could find worth listening to in my parents' vinyl collection. I started to read anything I could find regarding those artists. I sought out the artists who influenced them. The Stones had started out in the early-1960s idolizing American blues musicians. Knowing this, I got turned on to the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Little Walter, and my blues idol, the one and only John Lee Hooker. The Stones' appreciation for country and reggae music led me down even more interesting musical paths. I even began exploring artists who cited the Stones and their contemporaries as influences which then broadened my appreciation of rock music as well. Today, I still read liner notes religiously, a habit I picked up somewhere in high school. I like to know who played what instrument for what song on what album for a particular artist in a certain year. I think I would have always turned out to be a music lover, but the Stones turned that love into a geeky passion--at a time when being a geek wasn't exactly cool (come to think of it, neither was being a twelve-year-old Stones fan in the 1980s).

It was through their music that I started paying attention to the individual instruments used within a song, particularly the drums. I frequently will play out the drum parts to some of my favourite songs on any hard surface that happens to be near while I'm listening (much to the annoyance of anyone who happens to be with me at the time). Charlie taught me what a drummer was supposed to do--keep time. He didn't play a lot of lengthy intricate solos, he didn't have a huge setup with twenty different drums and a large gong behind him. He played a simple jazz drummer's kit (Gretsch drums, specifically) and he played with the sensibility of a jazz drummer. He wasn't flashy, he just kept the beat. Somehow, that made his drumming seem flashier to me.

When I think of the concept of what God might look like (something I believe to be subjective), I don't think of the guy with the long flowing white beard that we've seen in so many Renaissance paintings. I don't even think of film depictions like George Burns or Morgan Freeman (both good choices, by the way). I think of a photograph of Charlie Watts that I first saw in a coffee table book I have about the Stones. It was taken by photographer Jill Furmanovsky at her London studio in the early 1990s. It's a black and white picture of his profile. When combined with the colour picture on the opposite page (from the same photoshoot), something in my head said that, at least for me, this is what God looks like--an incredibly snazzy dresser with a very dry sense of humour who also happens to be one hell of a drummer. Today, I actually refer to God as "Charlie"--it takes the formality out of it for me... but that's another story, hopefully, for a later posting.

I suppose this continued sense of loss has a lot to do with my late father. I get much of my taste in popular culture from him. He was the one who introduced me to the Stones when I was twelve. Obviously, he had been a fan long before I was even born. I claim that my appreciation of music transcends genre because of Dad--he played not just rock records growing up, but also classical and country music. He liked everything from Wagner and Beethoven to Merle Haggard and Leon Redbone. He also had a deep love of jazz and blues which I'm sure would have been passed to me with or without the Stones' influence.

In 1989, the Stones announced that they would be releasing a new album (Steel Wheels) and embarking on a North American tour--their first major tour in seven years. It was Dad who suggested that we should try to get tickets if they were playing anyplace close. Lo and behold, along with some church friends, Dad managed to get tickets for their concert in Louisville, Kentucky, scheduled for 19 September. (I still find it amusing that essentially a church group went to a Stones concert. It sounds like the setup for a bad joke. We may as well have walked into a bar.)

I was fifteen years old and it was my first concert. Prior to this, the only "famous" person I had ever seen was Rip Taylor in a stage performance of Peter Pan when I was in the third grade. This was something considerably different. It was the first time I ever felt like I was part of something bigger than myself--particularly when they played "You Can't Always Get What You Want," which is still my favourite song all these years later.

Along with the Chicago Cubs game I wrote about in a previous post some years ago ("What the 2016 World Series Means To Me"), this was one of those father/son moments that I'll always treasure. I was out until 2:00 in the morning on a school night with my dad at a rock concert. How many of you can say you did that when you were fifteen? I got my shoelaces soaked in beer (which I still have), ate my first White Castle hamburgers, and found out what marijuana smells like. (At one point, before the opening act even took the stage, Dad looked at me and said, "Do you smell that?" I said, "Yeah, what is that?" He said, "That's grass. Don't inhale. Let me do that.")

As the Righteous Brothers once sang, "If there's a rock and roll heaven, well you know they've got a hell of a band." Sadly, that band is getting bigger and bigger with each passing year. Even Bobby Hatfield is a member. But I do take comfort in the belief that my parents have a front row seat and Dad's probably hanging out backstage with a lot of them... possibly even picking up a few musical tricks of his own.