Friends Of The Devil.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Julia loves the Grateful Dead. We have been listening to the American Beauty album -- a milestone in American rock -- in the car, and she loves to coo along. When she hears Friend of the Devil in particular, she unleashes a volley of round vowel sounds and keeps them up until the song is over, singing along, as Sam makes faces at her from the back seat, to entertain her. Thus do we serenade my daughter as we drive down the road.

Perhaps the biggest blessing of being a middle-aged parent is the ability to recognize the good old days for what they are, even as you're right in the middle of them. Sharing music with my kids is a delight, hippie music pouring from our flower power minivan as we cruise the Pacific Coast Highway in the spring sunlight. Even the backseat squabbles -- Mommy, Matt said the F word. I HEARD him! -- are music to me.

Damn!
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
I am listening to an insanely exciting bit of music at the moment -- probably the most insanely exciting thing I have listened to since I heard Elvis Costello's Trust for the first time, which if you know me at all is really saying something.

I'm talking about Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out by the Damn Millionaires, who -- mark my words -- are the most awesome band to come out of the American South since, well, ever. My husband (who I think is developing a major love jones for Allison, the DMs' lead singer) characterizes their style as uptempo country, and compares Allison's vocals to those of Joan Baez. Probably most revealing of all is the fact that I am not especially a fan of that genre of music, yet I can't seem to stop listening to the album. Allison has the voice of a gritty Southern angel, the songwriting is witty, and the musicianship is skillful and heartfelt.

Buy their CD. I promise you won't be disappointed. And won't you feel cool someday when you can say Yeah, man. I was one of their very first fans. I listened to them before they were famous.

A Quarter-Century Later.
Mood:  blue
Topic: Music
Twenty-five years ago tonight, I heard the news of John Lennon's assassination. Asleep on a friend's dorm bed, I was meant to be studying, but you know how that goes when the room is warm and the literature unimaginitive. Zzzzzzzz, I opined, and a moment later was awakened by friends rushing into the room. I have trouble remembering things from one moment to the next these days, but I can see and hear that long-ago moment as clearly as that shot must have rung out in the Manhattan winter night.

I could write forever about John and what he and his music meant to me. I could write forever about that era of my life, and about the parts of it I took away with me and which are with me still. But I'm not a lazy English major anymore; I'm a working mom with a particularly prickly deadline, writing in stolen moments in what would be my lunchtime, had I time to take a lunch.

So I will say only this: Miss you, John. Loved you. Love you still. You left a big footprint, and a big empty space which we fill up with your music and your memory. Smile for us, up there where you live forever. We, and our children after us, will never forget you.

Snapshot.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Sam and Matt are playing guitar together. Sam has a ukelele from Hilo Hattie, and Matt is playing a battery-powered plastic guitar from Borders, which was purchased this afternoon on clearance and which Ben and I have already targeted for demolition with sledgehammers.

Ben and I are glowing with pride. Look at our boys, Ben said. It's like the young John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

But the lyrics to Sam's made-up song are a mixture of Dave the Barbarian offerings and Sam's self-improvised verses about poop and potties and butts.

Sounds more like South Park, I said.

Friday Playlist.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
I burned a CD of office background music, in no particular order and of no particular logic. The playlist, now I look at it, is . . . strange.

What Is Life - George Harrison
Runaround - Blues Traveler
Sukiyaki - Kyu Sakamoto
Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life - Monty Python (The Life of Brian soundtrack)
What Have I Done To Deserve This - Pet Shop Boys
Don't Let Go The Coat - Pete Townshend
One Week - Barenaked Ladies
Beyond The Sea - Bobby Darin
Oliver's Army - Elvis Costello
Sulu Dance - The Howard Stern Show
Closer To Fine - Indigo Girls
No Such Thing - John Mayer
Carey - Joni Mitchell
The Porpoise Song - The Monkees (Head soundtrack)
You Get What You Give - New Radicals
I Throw My Toys Around - No Doubt with Elvis Costello (The Rugrats Movie soundtrack)
Say You'll Be There - Spice Girls
I Got A Line On You - Spirit
Please Please Me - The Beatles
Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye - Steam
Walk Away Renee - The Left Banke
They Don't Know - Tracey Ullman

The transition of which I'm most proud is the one from the Howard Stern Show to the Indigo Girls -- I think it's safe to say Amy and Emily would be startled quite out of their wits to find themselves in such company.

Little Jenny And What Became Of Her.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Some people are going to keel over from shock at this news, but I've been listening to some music that doesn't date back 25 years; in fact, the album in question was released in 2004. I'm talking about Rilo Kiley.

Back when Erika was a kid, there was a little actress named Jenny Lewis. If you're female, you might remember her as Shelley Long's daughter in Troop Beverly Hills (1989); if a gen-X male, as the tweener female lead in The Wizard (1989) with Fred Savage; or if a male wanker, as the only chick in Foxfire (1996) who didn't show her tits. Back in her child actress days, there was something about Jenny that made you notice and remember her -- the red hair, maybe, but also a way she had of looking at someone and delivering a line that said You are completely full of bullshit, and don't think I don't know it. My kind of girl. I never forgot her.

So when she popped up years later as the lead singer in the L.A. indie band Rilo Kiley, I was taken by surprise. There is, of course, an Elvis Costello connection. I was listening at work to his Artist's Choice collection of songs put out by the insidious Starbucks (which includes offerings by artists as diverse as Louis Armstrong, Paul Simon, Diana Krall, and Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell), not really paying attention, when one of the cuts made me look up and think Interesting. Who IS that? It turned out to be Rilo Kiley, and the cut is Does He Love You? from the More Adventurous LP. Little Jenny has grown into an accomplished singer and, as I might have expected, a wry and witty songwriter.

People! This is probably the only time you will hear me rave about any "current" artist, especially a female singer -- I tend to refer to such people as Alanis Morrissette and Jewel and Fiona Apple and their ilk as a bunch of stupid boring twats whining about their stupid boring feelings -- but Jenny caught my attention, even before I realized it was the same Jenny. The girl's got a quirky angel's voice and a whole lot of chutzpah. Woman after my own heart. Buy her album.

Elvis Costello Homage.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
I can't keep up the Morning Commute Soundtrack forever. Monotony is a good part of the reason; last week things were, within my boundaries, eclectic, but if the truth be known I mostly listen to Elvis Costello, Elvis Costello and Elvis Costello. Have I got anything without Elvis Costello? Well, there's Squeeze. That only has a little Elvis Costello in it.

It is easy for me to listen to EC that much because his recording career has spanned nearly 30 years and every musical genre from rock to traditional country to chamber music. I like his vocal style, which I once characterized as perverse crooner; while it's true that he can be nasal and grating when the material calls for it, he can also be achingly melodic.

The guy has had virtually zero airplay for 25 years. Some say this is due to a long-ago drunken insult of Ray Charles delivered to Bonnie Bramlett of Delaney & Bonnie, the fallout of which involved EC being labelled a racist and ruined in the American record business. That may be true. It may also be true that contemporary American tastes in music are so abysmal that people like Jennifer Lopez and Eminem are popular, and if middle America is eating a steady diet of dog shit and enjoying it, well, need I say more?

I first started listening to Elvis Costello around 1990; in hindsight, that is the only justification for Anthony, my second husband, who introduced me to his work. I believe it was early 1993 when I attended an EC concert for the first time and decided then and there that he was probably God. It was the night before my Contracts final and I was admittedly a bit overwrought, but I went on to kick the ass of my exam the next day and love the hell out of EC for all these ensuing years. Apart from musical genius, the guy exhibits intellect, wit and humor. Those three characteristics, in combination in any male creature, have the power to knock me clean out of the ring every time.

Take, for example, the cover of his album Spike (1989), pictured. It depicts our intrepid hero decapitated and mounted upon blue satin on a wooden plaque with a tartan background, his face painted in startling harlequin pattern and wearing a truly alarming grin. Beneath the plaque is a brass plate reading The Beloved Entertainer. Even after all these years, this visual atrocity has the power to captivate me; looking at it recently, Ben stared for fully a minute before whispering reverently, That sick, sick fuck. Surely one of the reasons I'm crazy about Ben is that he understands and appreciates Elvis Costello.

In other news, I'm off to the ob/gyn today for my monthly exam and weight check, and also to explain why I blew off the gratuitous additional gestational diabetes test (no time and no point), and why I'm blowing off the repeat ultrasound (ditto). Doctors hate girls who don't follow orders, and I hate the fact that doctors have to spend so much time covering their bases, and their asses, for fear of malpractice. Yippee!

The Other Side Of Summer.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Music
Friday is here, and this week just gone by has been a special gift from Hell. Today's new pregnancy complication is sciatica; my initial impression is that I'd prefer roo-roo, although I'll have to get back to you on that. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything; and therefore we will move directly to the

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Elvis Costello's Mighty Like A Rose (1991). A strange offering, it's one of the Apocrypha, the lesser-known EC albums, or what some would call simply the bad albums. Bad isn't the word -- it includes some of the Paul McCartney collaborations, including an uncredited McCartney lead vocal on Playboy To A Man in full scream mode -- but it's wildly uneven, falling as it did in the wake of the acrimonious departure of bassist Bruce Thomas and the breakup of the Attractions.

I have a strong affection for this album, including as it does some tracks very close to my heart, but there is also plenty of stuff that leaves me scratching my head and wondering why he bothered -- in places it's ponderous, dissonant or trivial; at its worst, it's all three. Despite all that, well worth the listening.

Someone asked me if I know a lot about rock music. I don't. In specialized areas I am a wealth of useless knowledge; apart from that I'm indifferent and staggeringly clueless. It's true I did college radio for a few years, back in the days when DJs were still literally spinning records; sometimes, when we were short-staffed, I was on the air for 12 or more hours at a stretch, moving from genre to genre in four-hour increments.

It was a hell of a good time. If only I'd had the same tenacity for academics. But it didn't teach me anything about music, apart from the fact that if some drunk guy calls up at 3 a.m. and requests Cat Scratch Fever during the experimental music slot, it's perfectly legitimate to agree to play it, but do it by putting the turntable in neutral and propelling it with one's finger at varying speeds. (I wonder to this day whether he ever noticed the difference.)

Simple Twist Of Fate.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
The soundtrack for this morning's commute was Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks (1975). It's a great album, of course, but . . . maybe this is peevish of me, but it's a bit too see-you-next-Tuesday around the edges, you know, all that relationship examination and talk about feelings.

It's odd listening with a critical ear to the musicians I adored unconditionally 25 years ago. Unconditional adoration is not something I tend to go handing out these days, and even with those I love the most, at a certain point I will say Hey, you're the greatest, but this thing you're doing right now is, honestly, bullshit. You see? Peevish.

I prefer the Dylan of Blonde on Blonde, the rough edges and raw energy: I want you, so bad. I do understand that Dylan's marriage was falling apart at the time he wrote the songs for Blood on the Tracks, so I suppose he deserves some slack. I can't seem to tap into those emotions anymore.

I never really think about being apart from my husband. Ben and I have neither drama nor indifference between us, and if you think about it, it's usually one of those two things that will tear a couple apart. (Well, I suppose sex with other people is also a biggie, but my husband and I are pretty damn clear in our mutual understanding that it doesn't happen.) This looks to be a "till death do us part" situation, and from where we stand now I can't easily empathize with sturm und drang.

Someday, of course, death will do us part. Selfishly, I sometimes sort of hope that I will go first, because that would spare me having to go on without him. But it will be strange if I am the one left behind, because for the first time in my life I would truly lose my love -- he wouldn't just be off with someone else, he'd be gone. Gone where, I do not profess to know for sure, but lost to me in this life for certain. If someday I have to find out what that's like, I hope it's a very long time from now.

This started out to be an album critique and ended up as something completely different to that. Love and loss are not topics I usually tackle over morning tea. I guess maybe I was wrong about Blood on the Tracks -- I guess it does have the power to move me even today, only for different reasons.

Ahem. The office is coming to life around me, so I will shut up and write this here settlement agreement. But first, roo-roo! (If you know the joke that goes to that punch line, you get extra bonus points.)

Saint George.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Lately I've been listening to a lot of George Harrison's solo work. It's true that he tended to be a bit too Hindu around the edges and sometimes took the whole spirituality thing a bit too far, but you know, there was something about him. He uplifted like a good support bra.

In fact, the two songs Ben has been instructed to play at my funeral are George Harrison solo efforts. You'll have to show up to the funeral to find out which ones. Be sure to bring lots of Bombay Sapphire and a cute girl for Ben, since with three kids he is going to have to remarry by nightfall.

The thing that got me started on George Harrison was unearthing a couple of his albums in a box of crap in my office. These were The Traveling Wilburys, Vol. 1 (1988), from the supergroup he formed with Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison and Tom Petty, and the greatest hits collection Best of Dark Horse (1989). Brilliant stuff. By today's standards, it's fucking Mozart. People aren't making music like that anymore.

There is a George story that Ben likes to tell which may be apocryphal, but I like it anyway. The story goes that during the Beatle days, George was sitting in his hotel room playing the ukelele when a girl arrived at the door and announced to whoever answered that she wanted to give George, umm, oral pleasure. George agreed, but kept on playing his ukelele -- she did what she came to do and brought the act to fruition, and then she left, and George never said a word or stopped playing the ukelele. Talk about cool.

Of course, George died of lung cancer in November 2001. They're really dropping like flies these days, aren't they? One of the things about getting older that really freaks me out is the way the heavens start filling up with Famous Dead Guys, and it just gets worse as the years go by. Saint George, you had a good run and left some good music. I don't know where you are -- the normal Heaven or some Hindu place or maybe reincarnated as God only knows what -- but you were a good one.

Listen To This.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
It must be the day for listening to early '80s music; I went from Joe Jackson to Squeeze's Eastside Story (1981), which is another fucking brilliant album. (Trivia: If you listen carefully to the backup vocal on the second verse of Tempted, that's Elvis Costello affecting a basso, that sneaky little shit. He produced the album.)

I've also brought Elvis Costello's This Year's Model, which came out in 1979, and Crowded House's Woodface, which didn't come out until 1991 -- but it's all of a bunch, witty underrated British pop.

Perusing the Eastside Story album cover, I was struck again by lead singer Glenn Tilbrook, who had the market on the innocent child-man thing cornered back there in 1981. (That's him second from the right on the album cover, and in the middle in the publicity still. Want a piece of candy, little boy?) In fact, he was a little boy -- he was twenty-three. These days, he just looks like a nice middle-aged man. I suppose it's happened to most of us.

If you're not familiar with this tasty stuff, and if you get the chance, do check it out. I didn't discover it till the early '90s, so you needn't feel like you've been asleep at the switch. Production isn't everything, but you need to have some. Lyrics aren't important, unless they are truly witty -- Difford and Tilbrook are very deft, and Elvis Costello is the master of multilayered wordplay. Edge is overrated, but the cheek should contain a tongue. The tune's gotta bounce, but not too hard. Restraint is a virtue. This has got all that. Compare it to the jump-rope chants that pass for lyrics these days, and the banging on trash cans and recycled disco that passes for music, it's fucking Mozart.

I Filled Up My Shoe, And Brought It To You.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Today, on an impulse, I pulled out and listened to Bob Dylan's 1966 release Blonde On Blonde for the first time in years. Knocked me out all over again -- what a fucking brilliant piece of work. It's number nine in Rolling Stone's top 500 albums and has served as the soundtrack for bits of my life on many occasions.

Nice one, Saint Bob. Makes me remember why, way back when I was 17, I wanted to have your baby.