This one's dedicated to my stepfather, John McCallum.
This song damn near makes me cry every time I hear it. In some alternate universe the second verse would hold true. This video...Jesus, the man in it even looks just a bit like John at 21, the age he was when he first met me, and if you put Coke-bottle glasses on the kid...
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I Have No Taste
My wife likes cheesy '80s movies, the cheesier the better. We're not talking the box office smashes like Ghostbusters and Footloose (though she likes those, too); we're talking about things like My Chauffeur. If you haven't seen it...keep it that way.
Me? I like bad music, or what's often described as bad music. While floating around Wikipedia today I discovered that Blender magazine (an offshoot of Maxim) compiled a list of "the 50 worst songs ever".
I can't say my favourite songs of all time are on that list, but I like most of them and really like a few. And let's just say I disagree with Blender's take on almost every one of them. In some cases ("My Heart Will Go On", "Follow Me", and "Your Body Is A Wonderland spring to mind), the song is bad through no fault of its own (or at least not much) but because it's been played several gajillion times on the radio. Actually, most of the songs listed here have been overplayed...none as outrageously as "Ebony and Ivory", mind you. I swear to God that one was played every third song for about a month in 1982. The only music I ever heard more often--and to this day I want to hurl a brick every time I hear it--was Berlin's "Take My Breath Away". God, I cringe just writing the title.
But some of these tunes don't belong on this list. #12, "We Didn't Start The Fire"...that was Billy Joel's third and last #1 single; it won him praise from educators for its 4'49" history lesson; and I happen to think it's a marvel of songwriting.
Actually, several of these songs hit #1...probably for a reason. You get the feeling, paging through here, that there are whole genres of music Blender would like to forget exist. Take #18, for instance, Chicago's "You're The Inspiration". Cheesy? Yeah. Schmaltzy? Of course. But lovelorn teenagers in their millions lapped that song up in 1984. I was one of 'em.
Or #34, Dan Fogelberg's "Longer", going back five years further. It's a sweet, sweet love song. That's all it is; that's all it tries to be. As far as I'm concerned, it succeeds.
Some of these songs are on this list because they're earworms. #33, "Barbie Girl"by Aqua, once in your head, never gets out. Same with "Kokomo" by the Beach Boys, clocking in at #10. Hanson's "MMMBop", a particularly potent earworm, inexplicably escaped notice. I hate that song. But I have to respect it, and other earworms like it: the goal of every singer/songwriter is to craft something that sticks in every listener's head.
The top (bottom) three songs deserve particular attention.
3 WANG CHUNG“Everybody Have Fun Tonight” 1986
If this song was a party, you’d lock yourself in the bathroom and cry. Initially called Huang Chung, but in no way Chinese, London-based funk tools Wang Chung changed their name to make it easier for whitey to pronounce, thus patronizing Asia and Europe in one stroke. Musically one of history’s least convivial party songs, “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” was both lyrically preposterous (“On the edge of oblivion/All the world is Babylon”) and sung by Jack Hues as though he would turn to sulphur at the very thought of “fun.”
Worst Moment: That chorus: “Everybody have fun tonight/Everybody Wang Chung tonight.”
...which explains why this song is on practically every '80s compilation ever made. Okay, the lyrics are a tad bizarre. Like that's the only song with odd lyrics. Ever listened to earlier Roxette? (They were another group that frequently inserted their own name into their songs--clever marketing gimmick, that. Or how about that marvel of incomprehensibility, "Rock the Casbah"? Reaching back into my parents' generation, what about "Louie, Louie"? And I won't even mention the entire catalogue of latter-day hip-hop.
2 BILLY RAY CYRUS “Achy Breaky Heart” 1992
At least the haircut never caught on. Oh, wait…Country, but not as we know it. Written by Vietnam vet Don “Pickle Puss” Von Tress in the style of a brain-dead “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Achy Breaky Heart” represented every prejudice non-believers have about country: It was trite, it was inane, it was big in trailer parks and it was thoroughly enjoyed by the obese. Strangely, it was covered by Bruce Springsteen, with slightly less irony than you might imagine; still, this does not make it good.
Worst Moment: An instrumental break that single-handedly rejuvenated the line-dancing fad.
You won't get an argument from me on this one. The chorus might sound better if it was 'sung' by howling dogs. I think the best thing that ever came out of this melody was Weird Al's parody:
Don't play that song
That "Achy Breaky" song
I think it's driving me insane
Oh, please don't play that song
That irritating song
I'd rather have a pitchfork in my brain...
And finally, the #1 worst song ever, according to Blender:
#1 STARSHIP "We Built This City" 1985
Say what?! I can think of songs a whole lot worse than this one. The Blender writeup goes on and on about selling out: "sexless and corporate, it sounds like something that was built in a lab by a team of record company executives." Ah, yes, kind of like the way the Monkees came about. Or NKOTB. Or the Spice Girls. I'm not saying any of those three represent the zenith of popular music--but they've sold a hell of a lot of records. Which, last I looked, was kind of the point.
"We Built This City" is a neat song in many ways, from the subtle syncopation, the sampled D.J.'s voice (first time I ever heard that done), the layered "re-member-member-member"... Maybe not the greatest song ever written, but a long ways from the worst.
...There are other songs I enjoy that make many peoples' worst lists. One example: "Escape", by Rupert Holmes, perhaps better known by the first line of its chorus: "If You Like Pina Coladas..." The ending is predictable, but kind of satisfying anyway. Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" is about the only thing she's done that I can stomach. The Captain and Tennille's "Muskrat Love"--okay, even I know this one's horrible. So why do I like it so much?
Me? I like bad music, or what's often described as bad music. While floating around Wikipedia today I discovered that Blender magazine (an offshoot of Maxim) compiled a list of "the 50 worst songs ever".
I can't say my favourite songs of all time are on that list, but I like most of them and really like a few. And let's just say I disagree with Blender's take on almost every one of them. In some cases ("My Heart Will Go On", "Follow Me", and "Your Body Is A Wonderland spring to mind), the song is bad through no fault of its own (or at least not much) but because it's been played several gajillion times on the radio. Actually, most of the songs listed here have been overplayed...none as outrageously as "Ebony and Ivory", mind you. I swear to God that one was played every third song for about a month in 1982. The only music I ever heard more often--and to this day I want to hurl a brick every time I hear it--was Berlin's "Take My Breath Away". God, I cringe just writing the title.
But some of these tunes don't belong on this list. #12, "We Didn't Start The Fire"...that was Billy Joel's third and last #1 single; it won him praise from educators for its 4'49" history lesson; and I happen to think it's a marvel of songwriting.
Actually, several of these songs hit #1...probably for a reason. You get the feeling, paging through here, that there are whole genres of music Blender would like to forget exist. Take #18, for instance, Chicago's "You're The Inspiration". Cheesy? Yeah. Schmaltzy? Of course. But lovelorn teenagers in their millions lapped that song up in 1984. I was one of 'em.
Or #34, Dan Fogelberg's "Longer", going back five years further. It's a sweet, sweet love song. That's all it is; that's all it tries to be. As far as I'm concerned, it succeeds.
Some of these songs are on this list because they're earworms. #33, "Barbie Girl"by Aqua, once in your head, never gets out. Same with "Kokomo" by the Beach Boys, clocking in at #10. Hanson's "MMMBop", a particularly potent earworm, inexplicably escaped notice. I hate that song. But I have to respect it, and other earworms like it: the goal of every singer/songwriter is to craft something that sticks in every listener's head.
The top (bottom) three songs deserve particular attention.
3 WANG CHUNG“Everybody Have Fun Tonight” 1986
If this song was a party, you’d lock yourself in the bathroom and cry. Initially called Huang Chung, but in no way Chinese, London-based funk tools Wang Chung changed their name to make it easier for whitey to pronounce, thus patronizing Asia and Europe in one stroke. Musically one of history’s least convivial party songs, “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” was both lyrically preposterous (“On the edge of oblivion/All the world is Babylon”) and sung by Jack Hues as though he would turn to sulphur at the very thought of “fun.”
Worst Moment: That chorus: “Everybody have fun tonight/Everybody Wang Chung tonight.”
...which explains why this song is on practically every '80s compilation ever made. Okay, the lyrics are a tad bizarre. Like that's the only song with odd lyrics. Ever listened to earlier Roxette? (They were another group that frequently inserted their own name into their songs--clever marketing gimmick, that. Or how about that marvel of incomprehensibility, "Rock the Casbah"? Reaching back into my parents' generation, what about "Louie, Louie"? And I won't even mention the entire catalogue of latter-day hip-hop.
2 BILLY RAY CYRUS “Achy Breaky Heart” 1992
At least the haircut never caught on. Oh, wait…Country, but not as we know it. Written by Vietnam vet Don “Pickle Puss” Von Tress in the style of a brain-dead “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Achy Breaky Heart” represented every prejudice non-believers have about country: It was trite, it was inane, it was big in trailer parks and it was thoroughly enjoyed by the obese. Strangely, it was covered by Bruce Springsteen, with slightly less irony than you might imagine; still, this does not make it good.
Worst Moment: An instrumental break that single-handedly rejuvenated the line-dancing fad.
You won't get an argument from me on this one. The chorus might sound better if it was 'sung' by howling dogs. I think the best thing that ever came out of this melody was Weird Al's parody:
Don't play that song
That "Achy Breaky" song
I think it's driving me insane
Oh, please don't play that song
That irritating song
I'd rather have a pitchfork in my brain...
And finally, the #1 worst song ever, according to Blender:
#1 STARSHIP "We Built This City" 1985
Say what?! I can think of songs a whole lot worse than this one. The Blender writeup goes on and on about selling out: "sexless and corporate, it sounds like something that was built in a lab by a team of record company executives." Ah, yes, kind of like the way the Monkees came about. Or NKOTB. Or the Spice Girls. I'm not saying any of those three represent the zenith of popular music--but they've sold a hell of a lot of records. Which, last I looked, was kind of the point.
"We Built This City" is a neat song in many ways, from the subtle syncopation, the sampled D.J.'s voice (first time I ever heard that done), the layered "re-member-member-member"... Maybe not the greatest song ever written, but a long ways from the worst.
...There are other songs I enjoy that make many peoples' worst lists. One example: "Escape", by Rupert Holmes, perhaps better known by the first line of its chorus: "If You Like Pina Coladas..." The ending is predictable, but kind of satisfying anyway. Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" is about the only thing she's done that I can stomach. The Captain and Tennille's "Muskrat Love"--okay, even I know this one's horrible. So why do I like it so much?
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Songs About Me?
I used to want to live in Toronto. What was I, nuts?
I spent the first nine years of my life in Bramalea, a suburb of Brampton, which used to be a city in its own right and is now pretty much glommed on to the whole Greater Toronto Area. We moved to London when I entered Grade IV, and after living in what seemed like every neighbourhood on that city's west side, we eventually relocated to Ingersoll for my final year of high school.
Ingersoll was my first exposure to small town life and I vowed within a week of moving there it would be my last.
I still remember touring the pitiful downtown area on one of my first days there. Cool, there's a music store!...wait a second..."Open 10:00-4:00, closed Mondays." It was the kind of town where the sidewalks rolled themselves up shortly after dinner. Nothing made a point of happening pretty much daily, so by way of counterpoint, the local teenagers would populate the weekly police docket in alarming numbers. Nothing serious, so long as it wasn't your car that got bashed or your house that was robbed. Surveying that docket over the first month or so, looking for patterns, I quickly counted myself lucky to live where I did: the petty crime never got within four blocks of me.
Once I started in at the local high school, I found another thing about small-town life to detest. There being nothing ever going on (see above), those not disposed to illegality instead concentrated their efforts on finding out every last detail about everyone around them. What they couldn't find out, they'd make up. The grapevine was relatively fast...relativistically fast, I'm trying to say: news had a way of spreading across town before it happened, by some process still unknown to science. It was unsettling, especially since I'd just come from the kind of high school that let everyone pretty much be themselves...no nosy questions, very little psychodrama, next to nobody ostracized.
It took me months to fit in at all, and secretly, I always wanted out. Back to the big city, where all the action was.
I harboured that dream right up until just before I met the woman I would marry. By that time (1999), the crime rate in Toronto was starting to get worrisome...the "action" tended to be the pump action of a shotgun. Also by that time, I had seen several lifetimes' worth of university students majoring in drunkoholism with a minor concentration in rude, obnoxious barfery. It slowly began to dawn on me that most of these "people" (and I'm using that word in its loosest sense) were bound for the Big City themselves. Whatever way they were headed, I told myself, I would go in precisely the opposite direction.
Settling down into married life, I slowly realized: not only am I not the urbanite I always thought I was...the thought of subjecting myself to the tension of big city life actually frightens me a little.
My friend Jay worked, at one point, in one of the highest skyscrapers in Toronto. I'll never forget the day I bussed into town and met him for lunch. Noon. Entire regiments of officepeople were letting out, cascading down the escalators in a flood tide. The very air hummed with stress: it was palpable and deeply disturbing, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. It was the first time I understood the truth behind the cliche: sometimes you can cut the air with a knife.
Five whole minutes of that left me slightly nauseous. Imagine a lifetime.
When we drove down to my Dad's winter home in Destin, Florida this past February, we went equipped with about twenty hours of comedy routines I'd burned, as well as a CD by Trace Adkins, given to us by our friend Sue. Trace has the deepest voice this side of Crash Test Dummy Brad Roberts, and he sings a mix of boozy ("Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" being his biggest hit) and soft, introspective ballad "Metropolis", "My Way Back"): the music resonated with me the way nothing had for years. The very first track ("Songs About Me") is a justification of country music, and seemed to be tailor-made for a skeptic like me. Long story short, I found myself enjoying pretty much every track on the album. In the days of the downloadable single, you have to admit that's pretty much unheard of.
Halfway through Alabama, tired of talking (we saved the comedy routines for the trip back), I asked if I could turn on the radio. Spinning the dial, I was faced with a choice: get SAVED! BY! JEEEEEE-ZUSSSSSSSSSSS! on a dozen stations, or listen to country music on the other dozen.
I've been saved before: eventually you go moldy. So: country. The very first song I heard in its entirety was Me and My Gang by Rascal Flatts (first line: "Way on down to Southern Alabama with the guitars jammin', that's where we're headed")
Well, yup, that's where we were headed. About ten bars in, Eva said "turn that up, I like this song." No problem: I didn't just like this song--the last time a song had turned me into an instant goofy pant-drumming fool was "Joyride", by Roxette, way the hell back in first year university.
Once we were home again, I threw myself into this unexplored genre of music with a will. I've since found several more artists I love, most notably Brad Paisley. Here's a guy who does it all: hilarious songs like "Online", uplifting songs like "The World""...and instrumentals like "Throttleneck" that show this guy can flat out play guitar.
It took me a while to figure out why I've fallen in love with this music. After all, the standard country lyrics don't describe me well at all: I don't drive a car, let alone a pickup truck; I've spent next to no time on farms; I'm anything but a cowboy. I'm definitely not "Rough and Ready" (Trace Adkins again):
Mudgrips - white-tip
Cigar stickin' out of my face
Earnhardt racing sticker on the window
Banged up fender
4x4 - straight pipe roar
Primer and rust all over the door
Scarred up knuckles, Mack belt buckle
White t-shirt - Ain't afraid to work
Got a "what-are-you-looking-at-asshole" smirk
Cold beer, hot wings
Wranglers, Skoal ring
Get just what you see
Gun rack, ball cap
Don't take no crap
Ain't a pretty boy-toy
I'll rock you steady
Rough and ready
But even though I don't fit the country-boy mold to the letter, I am one in spirit. I do have a very strong streak of independence, of not caring what the world thinks, of going my way. I also have a great deal of respect for people and things that came before me, a trait I see mentioned over and over again in country music. Many songs make a point of referencing other artists: I like that sense of camaradarie.
And I like a story well told...which is what a lot of country ballads are. (I defy you to listen to this one without tearing up a little).
Don't be surprised to see me out in the country by the time I retire. I'm countrifying by the day, and I'm glad.
I spent the first nine years of my life in Bramalea, a suburb of Brampton, which used to be a city in its own right and is now pretty much glommed on to the whole Greater Toronto Area. We moved to London when I entered Grade IV, and after living in what seemed like every neighbourhood on that city's west side, we eventually relocated to Ingersoll for my final year of high school.
Ingersoll was my first exposure to small town life and I vowed within a week of moving there it would be my last.
I still remember touring the pitiful downtown area on one of my first days there. Cool, there's a music store!...wait a second..."Open 10:00-4:00, closed Mondays." It was the kind of town where the sidewalks rolled themselves up shortly after dinner. Nothing made a point of happening pretty much daily, so by way of counterpoint, the local teenagers would populate the weekly police docket in alarming numbers. Nothing serious, so long as it wasn't your car that got bashed or your house that was robbed. Surveying that docket over the first month or so, looking for patterns, I quickly counted myself lucky to live where I did: the petty crime never got within four blocks of me.
Once I started in at the local high school, I found another thing about small-town life to detest. There being nothing ever going on (see above), those not disposed to illegality instead concentrated their efforts on finding out every last detail about everyone around them. What they couldn't find out, they'd make up. The grapevine was relatively fast...relativistically fast, I'm trying to say: news had a way of spreading across town before it happened, by some process still unknown to science. It was unsettling, especially since I'd just come from the kind of high school that let everyone pretty much be themselves...no nosy questions, very little psychodrama, next to nobody ostracized.
It took me months to fit in at all, and secretly, I always wanted out. Back to the big city, where all the action was.
I harboured that dream right up until just before I met the woman I would marry. By that time (1999), the crime rate in Toronto was starting to get worrisome...the "action" tended to be the pump action of a shotgun. Also by that time, I had seen several lifetimes' worth of university students majoring in drunkoholism with a minor concentration in rude, obnoxious barfery. It slowly began to dawn on me that most of these "people" (and I'm using that word in its loosest sense) were bound for the Big City themselves. Whatever way they were headed, I told myself, I would go in precisely the opposite direction.
Settling down into married life, I slowly realized: not only am I not the urbanite I always thought I was...the thought of subjecting myself to the tension of big city life actually frightens me a little.
My friend Jay worked, at one point, in one of the highest skyscrapers in Toronto. I'll never forget the day I bussed into town and met him for lunch. Noon. Entire regiments of officepeople were letting out, cascading down the escalators in a flood tide. The very air hummed with stress: it was palpable and deeply disturbing, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. It was the first time I understood the truth behind the cliche: sometimes you can cut the air with a knife.
Five whole minutes of that left me slightly nauseous. Imagine a lifetime.
When we drove down to my Dad's winter home in Destin, Florida this past February, we went equipped with about twenty hours of comedy routines I'd burned, as well as a CD by Trace Adkins, given to us by our friend Sue. Trace has the deepest voice this side of Crash Test Dummy Brad Roberts, and he sings a mix of boozy ("Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" being his biggest hit) and soft, introspective ballad "Metropolis", "My Way Back"): the music resonated with me the way nothing had for years. The very first track ("Songs About Me") is a justification of country music, and seemed to be tailor-made for a skeptic like me. Long story short, I found myself enjoying pretty much every track on the album. In the days of the downloadable single, you have to admit that's pretty much unheard of.
Halfway through Alabama, tired of talking (we saved the comedy routines for the trip back), I asked if I could turn on the radio. Spinning the dial, I was faced with a choice: get SAVED! BY! JEEEEEE-ZUSSSSSSSSSSS! on a dozen stations, or listen to country music on the other dozen.
I've been saved before: eventually you go moldy. So: country. The very first song I heard in its entirety was Me and My Gang by Rascal Flatts (first line: "Way on down to Southern Alabama with the guitars jammin', that's where we're headed")
Well, yup, that's where we were headed. About ten bars in, Eva said "turn that up, I like this song." No problem: I didn't just like this song--the last time a song had turned me into an instant goofy pant-drumming fool was "Joyride", by Roxette, way the hell back in first year university.
Once we were home again, I threw myself into this unexplored genre of music with a will. I've since found several more artists I love, most notably Brad Paisley. Here's a guy who does it all: hilarious songs like "Online", uplifting songs like "The World""...and instrumentals like "Throttleneck" that show this guy can flat out play guitar.
It took me a while to figure out why I've fallen in love with this music. After all, the standard country lyrics don't describe me well at all: I don't drive a car, let alone a pickup truck; I've spent next to no time on farms; I'm anything but a cowboy. I'm definitely not "Rough and Ready" (Trace Adkins again):
Mudgrips - white-tip
Cigar stickin' out of my face
Earnhardt racing sticker on the window
Banged up fender
4x4 - straight pipe roar
Primer and rust all over the door
Scarred up knuckles, Mack belt buckle
White t-shirt - Ain't afraid to work
Got a "what-are-you-looking-at-asshole" smirk
Cold beer, hot wings
Wranglers, Skoal ring
Get just what you see
Gun rack, ball cap
Don't take no crap
Ain't a pretty boy-toy
I'll rock you steady
Rough and ready
But even though I don't fit the country-boy mold to the letter, I am one in spirit. I do have a very strong streak of independence, of not caring what the world thinks, of going my way. I also have a great deal of respect for people and things that came before me, a trait I see mentioned over and over again in country music. Many songs make a point of referencing other artists: I like that sense of camaradarie.
And I like a story well told...which is what a lot of country ballads are. (I defy you to listen to this one without tearing up a little).
Don't be surprised to see me out in the country by the time I retire. I'm countrifying by the day, and I'm glad.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Well, that's a tad depressing.
My friend Jen tipped me off to something called "Pandora" last year, and I've been a subscriber ever since. It's Internet radio with a difference...it "learns" your tastes as it goes, with input from you the listener. Pandora has exposed me to all sorts of artists I never would have heard of any other way. Its library ranges from number-one hits all the way down to songs there's a good chance you'll never hear anywhere (although you should!)
Among the discoveries I've made:
Johnathan Coulton...quirky folk artist, gently funny songs
Hayley Westenra...beautiful clear soprano with the best rendition of "Both Sides Now" I've heard, maybe including Joni Mitchell's original. Mom, you'd love her.
Sixwire...rollicking alt-country, tight, slick harmonies.
Laura Powers...a pagan singer strongly reminiscent of Loreena McKennitt.
Of course, I had to cheat to gain access to Pandora, as did the many thousands of other Canadians who have signed up to have this endless stream of music piped into their computers. You need a U.S. address to sign up. Well, that's a trivial obstacle. I do believe I made mine up, and just made sure the zip code and town matched.
I felt no guilt doing this. The way I looked at it, a desirable service was being offered to one group of people, while my group was excluded purely because we lived on the wrong side of a wholly imaginary line. Doutless I broke at least one law somewhere. In the case of silly laws like that, I try to hold myself to the higher moral code embodied in Heinlein's Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not get caught.
Caught I was. Caught were we all. After more than a year's enjoyment, I got a message in my inbox today from the founder of Pandora.
The message was headed "Change to Availability In Canada", which gave me hope that they'd found a way to make it legal. After all, while I won't quibble over disobeying laws when no harm to persons or property is involved, I would much rather be on the side of the angels, given a choice.
No such luck. The letter, which is quite lengthy, is full of words like "saddened" and "regretfully" and it says that due to their inability to secure international licenses, they will start blocking access in a couple of days.
I don't pretend to understand this. It should be a simple matter to determine how many times each song by each artist is being played, and distribute royalties based on that information. If it was announced that Pandora would henceforth be a pay-only service, I would accept it...and probably find some money to pay my share. Indeed, it amazes me just how much free content there is on the Internet. You can read any number of newspapers without paying a cent. You can play flash games that are admittedly quaint by the gory standards of the industry, but you can do it gratis, and similar games once cost $50 or more to play. I'm always amazed by the few people I still hear saying "I can't afford the Internet". It's the best deal in human history.
So, Americans, if you haven't used Pandora and you like music, do yourselves a favour and click here. And spare a thought for us deprived Canucks.
(Jen, if you know of any alternatives, I'd be glad to hear them.)
Among the discoveries I've made:
Johnathan Coulton...quirky folk artist, gently funny songs
Hayley Westenra...beautiful clear soprano with the best rendition of "Both Sides Now" I've heard, maybe including Joni Mitchell's original. Mom, you'd love her.
Sixwire...rollicking alt-country, tight, slick harmonies.
Laura Powers...a pagan singer strongly reminiscent of Loreena McKennitt.
Of course, I had to cheat to gain access to Pandora, as did the many thousands of other Canadians who have signed up to have this endless stream of music piped into their computers. You need a U.S. address to sign up. Well, that's a trivial obstacle. I do believe I made mine up, and just made sure the zip code and town matched.
I felt no guilt doing this. The way I looked at it, a desirable service was being offered to one group of people, while my group was excluded purely because we lived on the wrong side of a wholly imaginary line. Doutless I broke at least one law somewhere. In the case of silly laws like that, I try to hold myself to the higher moral code embodied in Heinlein's Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not get caught.
Caught I was. Caught were we all. After more than a year's enjoyment, I got a message in my inbox today from the founder of Pandora.
The message was headed "Change to Availability In Canada", which gave me hope that they'd found a way to make it legal. After all, while I won't quibble over disobeying laws when no harm to persons or property is involved, I would much rather be on the side of the angels, given a choice.
No such luck. The letter, which is quite lengthy, is full of words like "saddened" and "regretfully" and it says that due to their inability to secure international licenses, they will start blocking access in a couple of days.
I don't pretend to understand this. It should be a simple matter to determine how many times each song by each artist is being played, and distribute royalties based on that information. If it was announced that Pandora would henceforth be a pay-only service, I would accept it...and probably find some money to pay my share. Indeed, it amazes me just how much free content there is on the Internet. You can read any number of newspapers without paying a cent. You can play flash games that are admittedly quaint by the gory standards of the industry, but you can do it gratis, and similar games once cost $50 or more to play. I'm always amazed by the few people I still hear saying "I can't afford the Internet". It's the best deal in human history.
So, Americans, if you haven't used Pandora and you like music, do yourselves a favour and click here. And spare a thought for us deprived Canucks.
(Jen, if you know of any alternatives, I'd be glad to hear them.)
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Music Man
I'm a musical person. Always have been, always will be. Music was my first love; I was playing piano before I could read anything much beyond my own name, or even write that name properly. I wrote my first piece at five, a little ditty I called "A Trip Down Main Street" after, of all things, one of the common showcases on The Price Is Right.
As with pretty much everything else in my life, I approached the discipline of music with next-to-no discipline of my own. I probably could have been a prodigal pianist if being one hadn't entailed so much gosh-darned work. Practicing anything that wasn't mine own rapidly robbed the melody of any charm it had. Being forced to play music as it was written (the horror!) just peeved me off.
Enrolled in lessons as soon as my mom could afford it, I detested them right from the get-go. By then, the teacher had to try and undo about four years of bad habits. I had no concept of correct fingering: if the note came out, that was good enough for me. Heck, I had trouble even remembering how to hold my hands above the keys. Anyone who's taken piano lessons knows the first thing you do--before you ever get to find middle C--is learn how to hold your hands, like you're cradling an egg. My egg had long since broken.
The only reason I stuck with lessons as long as I did (up to grade six, Western Conservatory) was a concession I forced out of my teacher from very early on. I got five minutes at the end of each session to showcase whatever I was working on myself. More often than not, I'd use that time to noodle around, free-thinking, grabbing snippets of melody and grafting them on to not-quite-random chords. More than a few compositions were birthed this way.
Improvise--it might as well be my middle name. In 1988, I got to supply music for a school production of Charlotte's Web. There were two showings, a morning and an afternoon, and the music that came later bore only the slightest resemblance to what I'd done before. I wasn't above stealing other people's stuff--there was a girl in the audience, no mean composer herself, and I'd had designs on her for, oh, months at that point; she was a little surprised to hear her own latest tune referenced and expanded upon...then melded to one I'd written for her. (Incurable romanticism doesn't mesh well with incurable show-offism.)
Don't ask me how I do it, how I write stuff, or how my pieces fall together out of the sky. I'm convinced just about everybody has some talent they can't explain. How do you do it? You just do. I've written about twenty full songs, and there are dozens of fragments out there, and I haven't written a damn thing since my threnody for the victims of 9/11.
I haven't played much since about then, actually. I can't explain why, other than to say words have largely replaced musical notes as my stress release of choice.
I fire up my keyboard every so often, just to make sure I can still play it. What would get me back to it in short order, what would chain me to it, in fact, is even the slightest clue of what to do with the music I have written or could still write. They don't teach you how to market yourself in school, and I think it's a lesson everyone should learn, because, again, everybody's got something. Joeli paints--how can she be noticed by People Who Matter? Jim writes--can he get tips on how and where to publish? Jen taught herself how to do professional quality cross-stitching--where can she show her stuff?
Do I bother writing out the notation? (Hope not: it takes many hours just to transcribe a three minute song). I've got software that will notate for me, as long as my pieces aren't too complicated (and I fear they are); alas, I don't have the requisite sound card for the computer, or the MIDI interface, or any number of other things, and don't know if I need any of it anyway. Because even with a pile of perfectly polished sheet music in my hands, I wouldn't have the first idea where to send it. Thanks a buttload, education system.
Seems easier to edit up my short stories and send them out into the storm. Which is what I'm intending to do...as soon as I have some free time that doesn't insist on being filled up with all the stuff I fill free time with. Call my undisciplined, lazy, and a procrastinator and I'll call you thrice right.
Meanwhile, there's music to listen to. You know, I used to think I'd like to die before I got bored. As I age, I realize I'll never get bored...there are always more books to read and songs to hear.
My musical tastes have broadened and diverged widely over the years...though not as widely as my wife's: Eva thinks nothing of following up Vivaldi with Metallica. I'll grant you I can appreciate both, but hearing them in quick succession is a bit jarring. I go through phases, and tend to get a bit obsessed when I'm in the middle of one. Right now I'm digging New Country (which I hasten to admit I've never outright hated, but neither have I sought it out). I especially enjoy upbeat stuff, kind of country-rock, or alt-country, or something like that. My favourite song this month is called "Ticks", by Brad Paisley.
It's funny: name an artist I hate and chances are I can find at least one song of theirs I like. Name a genre I can't stand--rap, for instance--and right away I can tell you I really enjoy early Eminem. Just another complexity, I guess.
Right now the bed is beckoning with its own sweet music. See you later, dear readers.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
I really must apologize for my snarkery lately. I must be off my meds or something...little things are annoying me beyond all reason. The slightest poke sends me off into a rant: at least most of the time I'm able to keep it silent.
I sat down tonight to watch the Toronto Maple Leafs play Nashville. The Leafs have been playing above their heads lately, and they came to earth with a thud tonight against the best team in the league. I should have known this was going to happen: the anthem singers in Nashville performed O Canada as if it was some kind of funeral dirge, out of tune, and with little grace notes that grated on the ear. Ugh.
Of course, over on the Leaf forum, the whole reason we lost the game was because of the refs. Now, I'll admit the officiating in the NHL is wildly uneven, and tonight's game wasn't the best-reffed game I've seen by any stretch, but the fact is the Leafs were outclassed, penalties or not, and they deserved to lose. But try telling the people on tmlfans.com that and you'll be flamed out of your pants. Nice fans.
Turned 35 a couple of days ago. I figure I'm halfway through my life, or at least close to it. Unless I die next week. Anyway, this is the first birthday I've had since my teens that gave me a real sense of having aged. Odd feeling, hard to classify. It's definitely not unease of any kind: I'm not one of those people who dreads the approaching birthday and dissolves into tears at the mere thought of getting older. Those people are almost invaribly female, I've noticed. It's funny, the difference in the genders when it comes to aging. Women, stereotypically at least, freak out whenever the very concept of "age" is mentioned, but they internalize getting older and seem to cope better the older they get. Men, by contrast, rarely even mention birthdays, seem to have no problem with the whole aging thing, and then BANG! suddenly they've divorced the wife and bought a Porsche.
Little chance of any of that happening here. I'm reasonably comfortable as I reach this milestone of life, all things considered. Whenever I am having a bad time of it, I take a deep breath and think of some nice, positive music. Something like Great Big Sea:
Way-hey-hey, it's just an Ordinary Day
And it's all your state of mind
At the end of the day you've just got to say it's all right.
I've got a smile on my face and I've got four walls around me...
Or David Meece:
No matter where we've been
No matter what we've done
Today can be our Once In A Lifetime
For yesterday is gone
Tomorrow may not come
Today can be our Once In A Lifetime
(David Meece is a remnant of my Christian past, one I'm not willing to give up. Most of his songs aren't overly preachy and they're loaded with pop hooks that snag me every time I hear them. Another remnant, just as welcome, is early Amy Grant.)
Whenever I'm really down, I invariably find myself turning to John McDermott. Which is kind of funny, at least if you ask my wife, since she finds his music almost unbearably depressing. While it's true many of his songs deal with the pains of war, loss, and--yes--growing old, there are many I find uplifting. Here's one:
Steal Away
Steal away, let's steal away
No reason left to stay
For me and you
Let's start anew
And darling, steal away
Steal away and chase some dreams
And hope they never find us
The dreary days
The empty nights
We'll leave them all behind us
We'll leave behind the city streets
The gloom and desolation
The rain, the cold
The growing old
God knows, it's a hard old station
We'll leave with just a memory
And make a new beginning
We have to choose
To win or lose
And it's time we started winning...
And if that hasn't done it, I have one last-ditch failsafe song that works every time. It's performed by Secret Garden; the tune is loosely based on Danny Boy; and I think of Eva as I sing:
When I am down and, oh, my soul, so weary;
When troubles come, and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still, and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit a while with me.
You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains.
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas.
I am strong when I am on your shoulders.
You raise me up...to more than I can be.
There is no life--no life without its hunger.
Each restless heart beats so imperfectly;
But when you come and I am filled with wonder
Sometimes I think I glimpse eternity...
I don't know where my world would be without music in it.
I sat down tonight to watch the Toronto Maple Leafs play Nashville. The Leafs have been playing above their heads lately, and they came to earth with a thud tonight against the best team in the league. I should have known this was going to happen: the anthem singers in Nashville performed O Canada as if it was some kind of funeral dirge, out of tune, and with little grace notes that grated on the ear. Ugh.
Of course, over on the Leaf forum, the whole reason we lost the game was because of the refs. Now, I'll admit the officiating in the NHL is wildly uneven, and tonight's game wasn't the best-reffed game I've seen by any stretch, but the fact is the Leafs were outclassed, penalties or not, and they deserved to lose. But try telling the people on tmlfans.com that and you'll be flamed out of your pants. Nice fans.
Turned 35 a couple of days ago. I figure I'm halfway through my life, or at least close to it. Unless I die next week. Anyway, this is the first birthday I've had since my teens that gave me a real sense of having aged. Odd feeling, hard to classify. It's definitely not unease of any kind: I'm not one of those people who dreads the approaching birthday and dissolves into tears at the mere thought of getting older. Those people are almost invaribly female, I've noticed. It's funny, the difference in the genders when it comes to aging. Women, stereotypically at least, freak out whenever the very concept of "age" is mentioned, but they internalize getting older and seem to cope better the older they get. Men, by contrast, rarely even mention birthdays, seem to have no problem with the whole aging thing, and then BANG! suddenly they've divorced the wife and bought a Porsche.
Little chance of any of that happening here. I'm reasonably comfortable as I reach this milestone of life, all things considered. Whenever I am having a bad time of it, I take a deep breath and think of some nice, positive music. Something like Great Big Sea:
Way-hey-hey, it's just an Ordinary Day
And it's all your state of mind
At the end of the day you've just got to say it's all right.
I've got a smile on my face and I've got four walls around me...
Or David Meece:
No matter where we've been
No matter what we've done
Today can be our Once In A Lifetime
For yesterday is gone
Tomorrow may not come
Today can be our Once In A Lifetime
(David Meece is a remnant of my Christian past, one I'm not willing to give up. Most of his songs aren't overly preachy and they're loaded with pop hooks that snag me every time I hear them. Another remnant, just as welcome, is early Amy Grant.)
Whenever I'm really down, I invariably find myself turning to John McDermott. Which is kind of funny, at least if you ask my wife, since she finds his music almost unbearably depressing. While it's true many of his songs deal with the pains of war, loss, and--yes--growing old, there are many I find uplifting. Here's one:
Steal Away
Steal away, let's steal away
No reason left to stay
For me and you
Let's start anew
And darling, steal away
Steal away and chase some dreams
And hope they never find us
The dreary days
The empty nights
We'll leave them all behind us
We'll leave behind the city streets
The gloom and desolation
The rain, the cold
The growing old
God knows, it's a hard old station
We'll leave with just a memory
And make a new beginning
We have to choose
To win or lose
And it's time we started winning...
And if that hasn't done it, I have one last-ditch failsafe song that works every time. It's performed by Secret Garden; the tune is loosely based on Danny Boy; and I think of Eva as I sing:
When I am down and, oh, my soul, so weary;
When troubles come, and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still, and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit a while with me.
You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains.
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas.
I am strong when I am on your shoulders.
You raise me up...to more than I can be.
There is no life--no life without its hunger.
Each restless heart beats so imperfectly;
But when you come and I am filled with wonder
Sometimes I think I glimpse eternity...
I don't know where my world would be without music in it.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Winter Rambles, Set To Music...
They closed all the schools in Waterloo Region today.
Including the two universities.
I'm not sure why.
Of course, this first taste of winter was hyped to the high heavens last night, complete with 'Snowfall Warning'...that still cracks me up. 'Warning! Snow will fall! Danger, Will Robinson!"
When I awoke shortly after five this morning, I discovered all the snow they had forecast had materialized in the form of freezing rain. But I'm making that sound a lot worse than it really was. Ice pellets and very fine-grained snow was mixed in, giving a sugary, confectionery texture to everything. The roads were slick, but not skating-rink slick.
Sargeant Cam Woolley was on 680 News this morning cautioning drivers. Sgt. Cam is the same guy who's on the radio every holiday weekend, detailing highway hijinks that boggle the brain. Like the woman driving along the road, knitting. "Pull over!" says the cop, several times, with no effect. Finally she unrolls her window and shouts, "No! Afghan!"
Okay, I made that up. Actually, it's an ancient joke. But seriously, the good sargeant was cautioning everyone this morning and one of the things he said really got my attention. "You know," he said, "one of the things we police officers hear most often at the scene of a winter crash is 'but officer, I was only doing the speed limit.' "
Probably not the smartest thing to say to a cop on a day like this. Because, as Woolley noted, "that might be two or three times" the speed you should be travelling. And, of course, you can be charged: driving too fast for the conditions.
All that aside, the roads weren't that bad this morning. A light freezing drizzle persisted, off and on, all day. I could maybe see the country schools being closed, but in the city? Hey, the city busses were running. Seems odd that the school busses wouldn't be.
----------------------------
One of my Christmas presents was an MP3 player. Just a little one, only one gigabyte--and if you ever told previous incarnations of Ken Breadner that one day, 1 GB would be considered a picayune amount of memory, every last one of them would have been--a gig?--agog. "A gag!" they'd say, aghast.
I never imagined myself getting one of these things, much less using one. And like the fabled idiot that can't get his VCR to stop flashing 12:00, I haven't quite figured out all the controls. The manual requires a microscope to read, and is riddled with Engrish to boot.
But hey, this is cool. I know these earphones are going to start snapping, crackling, and eventually go pop! because that's what earphones do around me...the same way pens blow up or run dry, the same way objects various and sundry mysteriously teleport themselves directly into my path. But for now...cool.
I bet I'm the only person for hundreds of klicks around that's loaded their MP3 player with Andreas Vollenwieder and Adiemus, though.
Both these musical finds come courtesy of my friend Jason. They're both, very loosely, "New Age" music, although Adiemus has a lot of classical underpinings and Vollenwieder has more Eastern influences. I find both artists paradoxically soothing and invigorating--the kind of thing I'd happily fall asleep--or wake up--to.
As the non-storm doesn't rage all around the house, I think I'll just let the tide of music carry me away.
'Bye, now.
Including the two universities.
I'm not sure why.
Of course, this first taste of winter was hyped to the high heavens last night, complete with 'Snowfall Warning'...that still cracks me up. 'Warning! Snow will fall! Danger, Will Robinson!"
When I awoke shortly after five this morning, I discovered all the snow they had forecast had materialized in the form of freezing rain. But I'm making that sound a lot worse than it really was. Ice pellets and very fine-grained snow was mixed in, giving a sugary, confectionery texture to everything. The roads were slick, but not skating-rink slick.
Sargeant Cam Woolley was on 680 News this morning cautioning drivers. Sgt. Cam is the same guy who's on the radio every holiday weekend, detailing highway hijinks that boggle the brain. Like the woman driving along the road, knitting. "Pull over!" says the cop, several times, with no effect. Finally she unrolls her window and shouts, "No! Afghan!"
Okay, I made that up. Actually, it's an ancient joke. But seriously, the good sargeant was cautioning everyone this morning and one of the things he said really got my attention. "You know," he said, "one of the things we police officers hear most often at the scene of a winter crash is 'but officer, I was only doing the speed limit.' "
Probably not the smartest thing to say to a cop on a day like this. Because, as Woolley noted, "that might be two or three times" the speed you should be travelling. And, of course, you can be charged: driving too fast for the conditions.
All that aside, the roads weren't that bad this morning. A light freezing drizzle persisted, off and on, all day. I could maybe see the country schools being closed, but in the city? Hey, the city busses were running. Seems odd that the school busses wouldn't be.
----------------------------
One of my Christmas presents was an MP3 player. Just a little one, only one gigabyte--and if you ever told previous incarnations of Ken Breadner that one day, 1 GB would be considered a picayune amount of memory, every last one of them would have been--a gig?--agog. "A gag!" they'd say, aghast.
I never imagined myself getting one of these things, much less using one. And like the fabled idiot that can't get his VCR to stop flashing 12:00, I haven't quite figured out all the controls. The manual requires a microscope to read, and is riddled with Engrish to boot.
But hey, this is cool. I know these earphones are going to start snapping, crackling, and eventually go pop! because that's what earphones do around me...the same way pens blow up or run dry, the same way objects various and sundry mysteriously teleport themselves directly into my path. But for now...cool.
I bet I'm the only person for hundreds of klicks around that's loaded their MP3 player with Andreas Vollenwieder and Adiemus, though.
Both these musical finds come courtesy of my friend Jason. They're both, very loosely, "New Age" music, although Adiemus has a lot of classical underpinings and Vollenwieder has more Eastern influences. I find both artists paradoxically soothing and invigorating--the kind of thing I'd happily fall asleep--or wake up--to.
As the non-storm doesn't rage all around the house, I think I'll just let the tide of music carry me away.
'Bye, now.
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