Over the last three days, our family has lost a number of things. The first one was Tucker's Advent calendar. I have fond memories of my childhood Advent calendars, which had coloured pictures underneath each square and much finer chocolate than they seem to have now. Somehow or other, I've always managed to give my own children Advent calendars, even though we haven't been doing a very good job of defining Advent because we haven't been going to church.
But Tucker's Advent calendar got lost this year. I have no idea where it is. His sister's calendar is still here...and it seemed ridiculous to insist that she share hers with him, so she's just gone ahead and eaten up all the dates without fanfare. We told Tucker it'd turn up. But it didn't. It'll probably show up in time for Easter, in time to join the chocolate bunnies.
The next thing that went missing was the recipe for Molasses Crinkles. They're going to be part of the three-cookie homebaked spread I bring to Dave's Family's Christmas Dinner tomorrow because I'm in charge of dessert. I didn't realize until now that I must've unconsciously been trying to conjure up my own family Christmas by baking so much, and by baking traditional family recipes, but that's obviously what's going on. I was well-organized with all the ingredients ahead of time (molasses, ginger, cloves) and had carefully taken out the page from the ring-bindered Betty Crocker cookbook, the reissued one Exactly The Same As My Mom's that I recently bought at Restoration Hardware. I thought the Page would be hard to lose...being 8 1/2" x 11" and printed and everything, but it's gone. Missing.
Some of you may know that I have a hard time with losing things. In fact, that problem became the inspiration for a song called "Keys" ("these little losses bring me to my knees"). But today, because it's Christmas Eve, I was determined to not let these losses get to me. I looked for the things awhile, yes, but quickly enough became philosophical and comforting ("It's okay...have this chocolate bar instead"..."Mom? It's Lynn. I need you to dictate the recipe for Molasses Crinkles from your Betty Crocker cookbook.")
I even stayed cheerful when Calla (who just turned 9) told me that she'd lost the envelope that contained $100 in Christmas shopping money. It was a good idea at the time...I thought they'd both like to have a shopping budget (and they were thrilled) but unfortunately we all ran out of time to actually shop and I ended up running around at the last minute and buying appropriate stuff which they could reimburse me for later. But now, the $100 was lost. She felt awful and offered to pay me back. I tried to minimize it...while looking... looking...looking. Finally the envelope was found in a pile of papers waiting for recycling.
Then, as if I hadn't had enough losses already, I decided unwisely to look for something else: a Shared Purpose for our family concerning the meaning of Christmas. Although I was raised in a faith-ful home, my husband is not religious, and I confess that I've deferred to him somewhat over the years, opting to keep the peace (if not the faith) on holidays and Sundays. Most days it's a reasonable compromise...ordinary life is challenging enough without demanding some sort of higher calling for the whole group...and I've found it possible most of the time to find personal meaning through art and other forms of community.
Yet, at Christmas, I look for more. I hope to renew my own spirit and purpose...and I hope to do that in alignment with the people I'm connected to: the people I love. I hope, I guess, that we all define hope and love the same way, whether or not we find that definition in the Christian church or elsewhere. But can we? Does such a light--one that shines on all and can be commonly defined--really exist? (When compromise is so difficult in families, it makes me wonder.) Some would say it doesn't matter...stop looking. Shrug your shoulders and say, just having a week off from work is enough. That's what Christmas is all about. Why complicate a complicated season by talking about spirituality or life purpose? Those things are hard to find. We've almost forgotten what they look like.
As it turned out, we didn't go to church on Christmas Eve...nor did we go on a moonlight walk or take a drive to see the Christmas lights. I made a really nice dinner (how many other women default to this very basic soul-comforter at all times of stress?) and in a few minutes, we will all sit down together to watch "It's A Wonderful Life". Is that what I'm looking for? Is that Christmas...or close enough?
Tonight, that's all there is to find...a shared work of art, a story about one man's search for meaning ( a movie which is starting now, ironically, as I continue to write my personal message on this individualized medium so darkly called a "blog").
The light will return...we will find the Advent calendar in time for Easter. And tomorrow will be Christmas, imperfectly as always.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Saturday, December 17, 2005
The Karaoke Next Door
Tonight I went to a holiday party hosted by a friend of mine. He didn't have room in his place to invite all his musician friends, so he booked a little cafe space in the back of a stylish historical hotel. About a dozen musicians showed up, and all were invited to sing a few songs.
But in the bigger room on the other side of the wall, it was Karaoke Night.
It was clear from the start that we were in trouble, but we forged ahead anyway, playing our original songs as well as we could under the circumstances and earnestly strumming our acoustic guitars. A handsome young songwriter with a clear tenor voice doubled as the sound man and he kept fiddling with the monitor, to no avail.
In the pauses between songs, we heard the karaoke. "Brown Sugar" by the Rolling Stones. "Hurts So Good" by John Mellencamp. And a particularly enthusiastic rendition of "American Pie".
I thought of the songwriter, Don McLean, and realized that (had things gone somewhat differently for him) he'd fit in with our little group just fine, and he'd probably try to sing alongside the karaoke, too. He'd be just as earnest as we were up there, singing "I knew a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news".
But young Don with his guitar had morphed into something else entirely: a roomful of boisterous, out-of-tune voices, practically yelling "This'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die".
When it was my turn, I got up and sang my songs. They were okay. One of the maddening things about making original work is that you're never really sure how it's going to be received. The same song can be a huge hit in one room and a complete flop in the next. In this room, the response was enthusiastic, but not wildly so. Not so wild as the room next door.
The truth was, in the pauses between songs, I could tell the singers in the next room were having a whole lot more fun than we were.
Maybe I really wanted to go over there.
Meanwhile, the organizers of the party convinced the hotel management to erect a makeshift door, which succeeded in muffling the karaoke a bit. (The songs were a bit harder to make out. Wasn't that The Eagles?)
It would have seemed, well, heretical to go over to the next room and start singing "Desperado".
But why not, I wondered? After all, we all know the songs, they're what inspired us to start writing our own in the first place. We can sing them really, really well...almost as well as our own.
Leaving early, I went through an alternate exit to avoid the karaoke room. I didn't want to look sheepish, walking past the stage toting my guitar. But now, I kind of wish I'd tried it. Don't you get to pick the song?
I could sing something like..."I can't get nooo....sat-is-FAC-shun..."
And it'd be fun.
But in the bigger room on the other side of the wall, it was Karaoke Night.
It was clear from the start that we were in trouble, but we forged ahead anyway, playing our original songs as well as we could under the circumstances and earnestly strumming our acoustic guitars. A handsome young songwriter with a clear tenor voice doubled as the sound man and he kept fiddling with the monitor, to no avail.
In the pauses between songs, we heard the karaoke. "Brown Sugar" by the Rolling Stones. "Hurts So Good" by John Mellencamp. And a particularly enthusiastic rendition of "American Pie".
I thought of the songwriter, Don McLean, and realized that (had things gone somewhat differently for him) he'd fit in with our little group just fine, and he'd probably try to sing alongside the karaoke, too. He'd be just as earnest as we were up there, singing "I knew a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news".
But young Don with his guitar had morphed into something else entirely: a roomful of boisterous, out-of-tune voices, practically yelling "This'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die".
When it was my turn, I got up and sang my songs. They were okay. One of the maddening things about making original work is that you're never really sure how it's going to be received. The same song can be a huge hit in one room and a complete flop in the next. In this room, the response was enthusiastic, but not wildly so. Not so wild as the room next door.
The truth was, in the pauses between songs, I could tell the singers in the next room were having a whole lot more fun than we were.
Maybe I really wanted to go over there.
Meanwhile, the organizers of the party convinced the hotel management to erect a makeshift door, which succeeded in muffling the karaoke a bit. (The songs were a bit harder to make out. Wasn't that The Eagles?)
It would have seemed, well, heretical to go over to the next room and start singing "Desperado".
But why not, I wondered? After all, we all know the songs, they're what inspired us to start writing our own in the first place. We can sing them really, really well...almost as well as our own.
Leaving early, I went through an alternate exit to avoid the karaoke room. I didn't want to look sheepish, walking past the stage toting my guitar. But now, I kind of wish I'd tried it. Don't you get to pick the song?
I could sing something like..."I can't get nooo....sat-is-FAC-shun..."
And it'd be fun.
Friday, December 16, 2005
JCB 4EVR
Although I often say I know why I write songs, and claim to remember why I chose to be an artist, sometimes I get lost. I get thrown off into the ditch of fear and insecurity and question the value of the undertaking. Climbing out the ditch, I begin to create again, to follow the light up ahead that says "move forward".
In order to stay on the road, I need encouragement from others, as well as basic things like food and sleep. I also need great art made by other people. Today I am especially grateful for a song and video called JCB, which I invite you to enjoy.
Like many artists without mass audiences, I sometimes complain about "big money music" and the commercial-scale distribution that comes to some creators and not to others. I've said, at times, that everyone should just create in their own backyards so that everyone could be appreciated equally.
If that were the case, we wouldn't all get the chance to be united by art. The world's a big, divided place. If a few beautiful things can be seen and understood by many, we might be able to work together to heal the world. A big distribution machine can be a powerful vehicle for transformation.
Just like a giant yellow digger.
Okay, have you watched it yet? If not, watch it now. Now let me tell you why I think it's great, and why I hope the songwriter Luke Concannon and his partner John in the duo Nizlopi succeed beyond their wildest dreams.
The song is told from the perspective of a five year-old boy riding with his father who drives a big construction vehicle. As they drive, they "hold up the bypass", irritating other drivers who want to go faster on the highway. The boy is proud of his father, glad he's not in school, and all fired up in his imagination, inspired to tranform into huge dinosaurs and robot toys. The simple, acoustic song is illustrated with in childlike line-drawings by animator Laith Bahrani.
The poetry is full of British-isms that most North Americans wouldn't know: JCB, bypass, "having a top laugh", etc. Doesn't matter. Few listeners will have ridden in a digger. Doesn't matter. It's a "children's song" (nope, it isn't, and doesn't matter).
(It's also getting really really popular, and therefore seeming suddenly commercial, and even being offered as a--shudder--ringtone. Doesn't matter.)
The reason any of us write, and the reason we are drawn to great art, is because great art describes humanity accurately and therefore reflects its beauty. When someone, anyone, illuminates their own little corner of the world, we are all celebrated and affirmed. We watch it over and over, or listen to it, or come back to the painting, because it makes us feel well and whole. We look to the art as we look to a lover's eyes: eyes that see us and know us and love us as we are.
JCB captures the interplay of strength and vulnerability that makes up the human journey, which is joyfully evident (in a dreamlike way) in childhood. It's also, of course, about the love between parent and child, the power of the imagination, and the vehicles that move us. The biggest vehicle of them all--the one that moves young Luke the artist--is Love.
Love is slow and sure and will not be moved by irritated, small people in little cars.
Love moves in a straight line, to a good place.
The child in the story knows this. We all do.
And that is why JCB will be the Number 1 song in the UK this Christmas.
In order to stay on the road, I need encouragement from others, as well as basic things like food and sleep. I also need great art made by other people. Today I am especially grateful for a song and video called JCB, which I invite you to enjoy.
Like many artists without mass audiences, I sometimes complain about "big money music" and the commercial-scale distribution that comes to some creators and not to others. I've said, at times, that everyone should just create in their own backyards so that everyone could be appreciated equally.
If that were the case, we wouldn't all get the chance to be united by art. The world's a big, divided place. If a few beautiful things can be seen and understood by many, we might be able to work together to heal the world. A big distribution machine can be a powerful vehicle for transformation.
Just like a giant yellow digger.
Okay, have you watched it yet? If not, watch it now. Now let me tell you why I think it's great, and why I hope the songwriter Luke Concannon and his partner John in the duo Nizlopi succeed beyond their wildest dreams.
The song is told from the perspective of a five year-old boy riding with his father who drives a big construction vehicle. As they drive, they "hold up the bypass", irritating other drivers who want to go faster on the highway. The boy is proud of his father, glad he's not in school, and all fired up in his imagination, inspired to tranform into huge dinosaurs and robot toys. The simple, acoustic song is illustrated with in childlike line-drawings by animator Laith Bahrani.
The poetry is full of British-isms that most North Americans wouldn't know: JCB, bypass, "having a top laugh", etc. Doesn't matter. Few listeners will have ridden in a digger. Doesn't matter. It's a "children's song" (nope, it isn't, and doesn't matter).
(It's also getting really really popular, and therefore seeming suddenly commercial, and even being offered as a--shudder--ringtone. Doesn't matter.)
The reason any of us write, and the reason we are drawn to great art, is because great art describes humanity accurately and therefore reflects its beauty. When someone, anyone, illuminates their own little corner of the world, we are all celebrated and affirmed. We watch it over and over, or listen to it, or come back to the painting, because it makes us feel well and whole. We look to the art as we look to a lover's eyes: eyes that see us and know us and love us as we are.
JCB captures the interplay of strength and vulnerability that makes up the human journey, which is joyfully evident (in a dreamlike way) in childhood. It's also, of course, about the love between parent and child, the power of the imagination, and the vehicles that move us. The biggest vehicle of them all--the one that moves young Luke the artist--is Love.
Love is slow and sure and will not be moved by irritated, small people in little cars.
Love moves in a straight line, to a good place.
The child in the story knows this. We all do.
And that is why JCB will be the Number 1 song in the UK this Christmas.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Jill, Cyndi and a Person Who Rhymes With Itch
Last night I saw Jill Sobule and Cyndi Lauper in concert at Massey Hall in Toronto. Sandwiched in between them, like an unappetizing layer of devilled ham, was a well-known female comedian.
As a performer, I know it's bad form to do a few things. One is to complain, onstage, that one isn't getting paid enough, as this woman did early in her set. Another is to swear repeatedly while prancing about onstage during the headliner's signature song. (Cyndi Lauper's biggest hit, in case you missed the 80's, was "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". She-who-shall-not-be-named must've noticed that another word sounded just like "fun"...and so she just yelled it over and over. During the song. Bad form, as I said.)
The effervescent Jill Sobule was terrific, taking requests from the audience during her captivating and warmly-received set. Later on, she enthusiastically joined Cyndi for an encore, while Mean Individual (also called back to the stage) sulked about having to do more work.
Cyndi Lauper was bopping around in fine form, decked out in a black leather bustier (which she acknowledged was a bit uncomfortable) and belting out her tunes like it was '85. A class act, she impressed everyone when she (while singing) convinced a hunky guy in the audience to hoist her onto his back so she could ride up and down the aisle. She also spoke warmly about her young son (who has given up the drums for hockey) and pledged her support for the Erase Hate purple-wristband campaign undertaken by the mother of Matthew Shepard, a young gay man killled in a hate crime.
Both Cyndi Lauper and Jill Sobule were such positive, generous spirits throughout the evening--giving, enthusiastic and respectful of the audience--it's hard to understand why they were on tour with The Negative Celebrity at all.
And it's hard to understand why anyone in the audience was laughing and clapping.
Maybe some people see her as a daring, edgy, brave person. If so, I wonder if they'd support an unknown "comic" if he or she mouthed off onstage without bothering to write any real material and insulted the headliner? Was this just a case of celebrity-worship? (During Cyndi's set, a guy sitting next to me didn't bother to clap for any song...until "Time After Time", "True Colours" and "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". See what I mean? For him, the valuable part of the performance seemed to be whether or not he had heard it before.)
Maybe the performer is successful (to whatever extent she is) because she's venting all the pent-up rage many people are feeling these days. If she's a reflection of the public's current consciousness, I'd say we're in more trouble than we thought. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the skewering of deserving targets (such as George Bush) but I get nervous when the "performance" slips into inarticulate rage. Keep the guns away from the comics, folks!
I'm always rooting for the nice people, the eloquent ones, and the ones still smiling. Call me crazy.
Jill Sobule's latest CD is called "Underdog Victorious", and it further develops a theme she's been working with for years: may the little gal win. May good prevail. (She sang my favourite song of hers, called "Bitter", last night: "I don't want to get bitter/I don't want to turn cruel/I don't want to get old before I have to.") Cyndi Lauper has always struck me as a bit of an underdog too. When she emerged at the same time as Madonna, I might have predicted Cyndi would have become the bigger star (yeah, yeah, and I'm no good at stock tips either), but here she is, playing Massey Hall instead of the Air Canada Centre--and rockin' out anyway to her ace songs.
All three women performers, striving to keep their audience engaged and their artistic spirits aloft, have (no doubt) lots of things to complain about: declining audiences, rising costs, depressing world events...you name it. Two of them put on an entertaining show with class and maturity.
Just because you're an underdog doesn't mean you have to be a bitch.
As a performer, I know it's bad form to do a few things. One is to complain, onstage, that one isn't getting paid enough, as this woman did early in her set. Another is to swear repeatedly while prancing about onstage during the headliner's signature song. (Cyndi Lauper's biggest hit, in case you missed the 80's, was "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". She-who-shall-not-be-named must've noticed that another word sounded just like "fun"...and so she just yelled it over and over. During the song. Bad form, as I said.)
The effervescent Jill Sobule was terrific, taking requests from the audience during her captivating and warmly-received set. Later on, she enthusiastically joined Cyndi for an encore, while Mean Individual (also called back to the stage) sulked about having to do more work.
Cyndi Lauper was bopping around in fine form, decked out in a black leather bustier (which she acknowledged was a bit uncomfortable) and belting out her tunes like it was '85. A class act, she impressed everyone when she (while singing) convinced a hunky guy in the audience to hoist her onto his back so she could ride up and down the aisle. She also spoke warmly about her young son (who has given up the drums for hockey) and pledged her support for the Erase Hate purple-wristband campaign undertaken by the mother of Matthew Shepard, a young gay man killled in a hate crime.
Both Cyndi Lauper and Jill Sobule were such positive, generous spirits throughout the evening--giving, enthusiastic and respectful of the audience--it's hard to understand why they were on tour with The Negative Celebrity at all.
And it's hard to understand why anyone in the audience was laughing and clapping.
Maybe some people see her as a daring, edgy, brave person. If so, I wonder if they'd support an unknown "comic" if he or she mouthed off onstage without bothering to write any real material and insulted the headliner? Was this just a case of celebrity-worship? (During Cyndi's set, a guy sitting next to me didn't bother to clap for any song...until "Time After Time", "True Colours" and "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". See what I mean? For him, the valuable part of the performance seemed to be whether or not he had heard it before.)
Maybe the performer is successful (to whatever extent she is) because she's venting all the pent-up rage many people are feeling these days. If she's a reflection of the public's current consciousness, I'd say we're in more trouble than we thought. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the skewering of deserving targets (such as George Bush) but I get nervous when the "performance" slips into inarticulate rage. Keep the guns away from the comics, folks!
I'm always rooting for the nice people, the eloquent ones, and the ones still smiling. Call me crazy.
Jill Sobule's latest CD is called "Underdog Victorious", and it further develops a theme she's been working with for years: may the little gal win. May good prevail. (She sang my favourite song of hers, called "Bitter", last night: "I don't want to get bitter/I don't want to turn cruel/I don't want to get old before I have to.") Cyndi Lauper has always struck me as a bit of an underdog too. When she emerged at the same time as Madonna, I might have predicted Cyndi would have become the bigger star (yeah, yeah, and I'm no good at stock tips either), but here she is, playing Massey Hall instead of the Air Canada Centre--and rockin' out anyway to her ace songs.
All three women performers, striving to keep their audience engaged and their artistic spirits aloft, have (no doubt) lots of things to complain about: declining audiences, rising costs, depressing world events...you name it. Two of them put on an entertaining show with class and maturity.
Just because you're an underdog doesn't mean you have to be a bitch.
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