Hey everyone who lives anywhere close to me . . . one of my favorite bands of all time, Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band, is coming to both Spokane and Coeur d' Alene weekend after next. Advance tickets are $2 less, and the CDA venue is only about 400 seats, so we're not waiting until we get there to buy ours.
The details and ticket purchase info are linked above (click on the city name for each event page), and here's an intro to RS&RB, in case you haven't yet experienced their music. (Just too much fun . . . I love it!)
Here's another fun video that only has a link: http://www.shupe.net/ecard/
And if you want more Shupe, here's Facebook, their blog, and the official RS&RB Site.
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Night I Met Einstein, by Jerome Weidman
When I was a very young man, just beginning to make my way, I was invited to dine at the home of a distinguished New York philanthropist. After dinner our hostess led us to an enormous drawing room. Other guests were pouring in, and my eyes beheld two unnerving sights: servants were arranging small gilt chairs in long, neat rows; and up front, leaning against the wall, were musical instruments. Apparently I was in for an evening of Chamber music.
I use the phrase “in for” because music meant nothing to me. I am almost tone deaf. Only with great effort can I carry the simplest tune, and serious music was to me no more than an arrangement of noises. So I did what I always did when trapped: I sat down and when the music started I fixed my face in what I hoped was an expression of intelligent appreciation, closed my ears from the inside and submerged myself in my own completely irrelevant thoughts.
After a while, becoming aware that the people around me were applauding, I concluded it was safe to unplug my ears. At once I heard a gentle but surprisingly penetrating voice on my right.
“You are fond of Bach?” the voice said.
I knew as much about Bach as I know about nuclear fission. But I did know one of the most famous faces in the world, with the renowned shock of untidy white hair and the ever-present pipe between the teeth. I was sitting next to Albert Einstein.
“Well,” I said uncomfortably, and hesitated. I had been asked a casual question. All I had to do was be I equally casual in my reply. But I could see from the look in my neighbor’s extraordinary eyes that their owner was not merely going through the perfunctory duties of elementary politeness. Regardless of what value I placed on my part in the verbal exchange, to this man his part in it mattered very much. Above all, I could feel that this was a man to whom you did not tell a lie, however small.
“I don’t know anything about Bach,” I said awkwardly. “I’ve never heard any of his music.”
A look of perplexed astonishment washed across Einstein’s mobile face.
“You have never heard Bach?”
He made it sound as though I had said I’d never taken a bath.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to like Bach,” I replied hastily. “It’s just that I’m tone deaf, or almost tone deaf, and I’ve never really heard anybody’s music.”
A look of concern came into the old man’s face. “Please,” he said abruptly, “You will come with me?”
He stood up and took my arm. I stood up. As he led me across that crowded room I kept my embarrassed glance fixed on the carpet. A rising murmur of puzzled speculation followed us out into the hall. Einstein paid no attention to it.
Resolutely he led me upstairs. He obviously knew the house well. On the floor above he opened the door into a book-lined study, drew me in and shut the door.
“Now,” he said with a small, troubled smile. “You will tell me, please, how long you have felt this way about music?”
“All my life,” I said, feeling awful. “I wish you would go back downstairs and listen, Dr. Einstein. The fact that I don’t enjoy it doesn’t matter.”
He shook his head and scowled, as though I had introduced an irrelevance.
“Tell me, please,” he said. “Is there any kind of music that you do like?”
“Well,” I answered, “I like songs that have words, and the kind of music where I can follow the tune.”
He smiled and nodded, obviously pleased. “You can give me an example, perhaps?”
“Well,” I ventured, “almost anything by Bing Crosby.”
He nodded again, briskly. “Good!”
He went to a corner of the room, opened a phonograph and started pulling out records. I watched him uneasily. At last he beamed. “Ah!” he said.
He put the record on and in a moment the study was filled with the relaxed, lilting strains of Bing Crosby’s “When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day.” Einstein beamed at me and kept time with the stem of his pipe. After three or four phrases he stopped the phonograph.
“Now,” he said. “Will you tell me, please, what you have just heard?”
The simplest answer seemed to be to sing the lines. I did just that, trying desperately to stay on tune and keep my voice from cracking. The expression on Einstein’s face was like the sunrise.
“You see!” he cried with delight when I finished. “You do have an ear!”
I mumbled something about this being one of my favorite songs, something I had heard hundreds of times, so that it didn’t really prove anything.
“Nonsense!” said Einstein. “It proves everything! Do you remember your first arithmetic lesson in school? Suppose, at your very first contact with numbers, your teacher had ordered you to work out a problem in, say, long division or fractions. Could you have done so?”
“No, of course not.”
“Precisely!” Einstein made a triumphant wave with his pipestem. “It would have been impossible and you would have reacted in panic. you would have closed your mind to long division and fractions. As a result, because of that one small mistake by your teacher, it is possible your whole life you would be denied the beauty of long division and fractions.” The pipestem went up and out in another wave. “But on your first day no teacher would be so foolish. He would start you with elementary things--then, when you had acquired skill with the simplest problems, he would lead you up to long division and to fractions. So it is with music.” Einstein picked up the Bing Crosby record. “This simple, charming little song is like simple addition or subtraction. You have mastered it. Now we go on to something more complicated.”
He found another record and set it going. The golden voice of John McCormack singing “The Trumpeter” filled the room. After a few lines Einstein stopped the record.
“So!” he said. “You will sing that back to me, please?”
I did--with a good deal of selfconsciousness but with, for me, a surprising degree of accuracy. Einstein stared at me with a look on his face that I had seen only once before in my life: on the face of my father as he listened to me deliver the valedictory address at my high school graduation.
“Excellent!” Einstein remarked when I finished. “Wonderful! Now this!”
“This” proved to be Caruso in what was to me a completely unrecognizable fragment from “Cavalleria Rusticana.” Nevertheless, I managed to reproduce an approximation of the sounds the famous tenor had made. Einstein beamed his approval.
Caruso was followed by at least a dozen others. I could not shake my feeling of awe over the way this great man, into whose company I had been thrown by chance, was completely preoccupied by what we were doing, as though I were his sole concern.
We came at last to recordings of music without words, which I was instructed to reproduce by humming. When I reached for a high note, Einstein’s mouth opened and his head went back as if to help me attain what seemed unattainable. Evidently I came close enough, for he suddenly turned off the phonograph.
“Now, young man,” he said, putting his arm through mine. “We are ready for Bach!”
As we returned to our seats in the drawing room, the players were tuning up for a new selection. Einstein smiled and gave me a reassuring pat on the knee.
“Just allow yourself to listen,” he whispered. “That is all.”
It wasn’t really all, of course. Without the effort he had just poured out for a total stranger I would never have heard, as I did that night for the first time in my life, Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.” I have heard it many times since. I don’t think I shall ever tire of it. Because I never listen to it alone. I am sitting beside a small, round man with a shock of untidy white hair, a dead pipe clamped between his teeth, and eyes that contain in their extraordinary warmth all the wonder of the world.
When the concert was finished I added my genuine applause to that of the others. Suddenly our hostess confronted us. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Einstein,” she said with an icy glare at me, “that you missed so much of the performance.”
Einstein and I came hastily to our feet. “I am sorry, too,” he said. “My young friend here and I, however, were engaged in the greatest activity of which man is capable.”
She looked puzzled. “Really?” she said. “And what is that?”
Einstein smiled and put his arm across my shoulders. And he uttered ten words that--for at least one person who is in his endless debt--are his epitaph:
“Opening up yet another fragment of the frontier of beauty.”
--Jerome Weidman
I use the phrase “in for” because music meant nothing to me. I am almost tone deaf. Only with great effort can I carry the simplest tune, and serious music was to me no more than an arrangement of noises. So I did what I always did when trapped: I sat down and when the music started I fixed my face in what I hoped was an expression of intelligent appreciation, closed my ears from the inside and submerged myself in my own completely irrelevant thoughts.
After a while, becoming aware that the people around me were applauding, I concluded it was safe to unplug my ears. At once I heard a gentle but surprisingly penetrating voice on my right.
“You are fond of Bach?” the voice said.
I knew as much about Bach as I know about nuclear fission. But I did know one of the most famous faces in the world, with the renowned shock of untidy white hair and the ever-present pipe between the teeth. I was sitting next to Albert Einstein.
“Well,” I said uncomfortably, and hesitated. I had been asked a casual question. All I had to do was be I equally casual in my reply. But I could see from the look in my neighbor’s extraordinary eyes that their owner was not merely going through the perfunctory duties of elementary politeness. Regardless of what value I placed on my part in the verbal exchange, to this man his part in it mattered very much. Above all, I could feel that this was a man to whom you did not tell a lie, however small.
“I don’t know anything about Bach,” I said awkwardly. “I’ve never heard any of his music.”
A look of perplexed astonishment washed across Einstein’s mobile face.
“You have never heard Bach?”
He made it sound as though I had said I’d never taken a bath.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to like Bach,” I replied hastily. “It’s just that I’m tone deaf, or almost tone deaf, and I’ve never really heard anybody’s music.”
A look of concern came into the old man’s face. “Please,” he said abruptly, “You will come with me?”
He stood up and took my arm. I stood up. As he led me across that crowded room I kept my embarrassed glance fixed on the carpet. A rising murmur of puzzled speculation followed us out into the hall. Einstein paid no attention to it.
Resolutely he led me upstairs. He obviously knew the house well. On the floor above he opened the door into a book-lined study, drew me in and shut the door.
“Now,” he said with a small, troubled smile. “You will tell me, please, how long you have felt this way about music?”
“All my life,” I said, feeling awful. “I wish you would go back downstairs and listen, Dr. Einstein. The fact that I don’t enjoy it doesn’t matter.”
He shook his head and scowled, as though I had introduced an irrelevance.
“Tell me, please,” he said. “Is there any kind of music that you do like?”
“Well,” I answered, “I like songs that have words, and the kind of music where I can follow the tune.”
He smiled and nodded, obviously pleased. “You can give me an example, perhaps?”
“Well,” I ventured, “almost anything by Bing Crosby.”
He nodded again, briskly. “Good!”
He went to a corner of the room, opened a phonograph and started pulling out records. I watched him uneasily. At last he beamed. “Ah!” he said.
He put the record on and in a moment the study was filled with the relaxed, lilting strains of Bing Crosby’s “When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day.” Einstein beamed at me and kept time with the stem of his pipe. After three or four phrases he stopped the phonograph.
“Now,” he said. “Will you tell me, please, what you have just heard?”
The simplest answer seemed to be to sing the lines. I did just that, trying desperately to stay on tune and keep my voice from cracking. The expression on Einstein’s face was like the sunrise.
“You see!” he cried with delight when I finished. “You do have an ear!”
I mumbled something about this being one of my favorite songs, something I had heard hundreds of times, so that it didn’t really prove anything.
“Nonsense!” said Einstein. “It proves everything! Do you remember your first arithmetic lesson in school? Suppose, at your very first contact with numbers, your teacher had ordered you to work out a problem in, say, long division or fractions. Could you have done so?”
“No, of course not.”
“Precisely!” Einstein made a triumphant wave with his pipestem. “It would have been impossible and you would have reacted in panic. you would have closed your mind to long division and fractions. As a result, because of that one small mistake by your teacher, it is possible your whole life you would be denied the beauty of long division and fractions.” The pipestem went up and out in another wave. “But on your first day no teacher would be so foolish. He would start you with elementary things--then, when you had acquired skill with the simplest problems, he would lead you up to long division and to fractions. So it is with music.” Einstein picked up the Bing Crosby record. “This simple, charming little song is like simple addition or subtraction. You have mastered it. Now we go on to something more complicated.”
He found another record and set it going. The golden voice of John McCormack singing “The Trumpeter” filled the room. After a few lines Einstein stopped the record.
“So!” he said. “You will sing that back to me, please?”
I did--with a good deal of selfconsciousness but with, for me, a surprising degree of accuracy. Einstein stared at me with a look on his face that I had seen only once before in my life: on the face of my father as he listened to me deliver the valedictory address at my high school graduation.
“Excellent!” Einstein remarked when I finished. “Wonderful! Now this!”
“This” proved to be Caruso in what was to me a completely unrecognizable fragment from “Cavalleria Rusticana.” Nevertheless, I managed to reproduce an approximation of the sounds the famous tenor had made. Einstein beamed his approval.
Caruso was followed by at least a dozen others. I could not shake my feeling of awe over the way this great man, into whose company I had been thrown by chance, was completely preoccupied by what we were doing, as though I were his sole concern.
We came at last to recordings of music without words, which I was instructed to reproduce by humming. When I reached for a high note, Einstein’s mouth opened and his head went back as if to help me attain what seemed unattainable. Evidently I came close enough, for he suddenly turned off the phonograph.
“Now, young man,” he said, putting his arm through mine. “We are ready for Bach!”
As we returned to our seats in the drawing room, the players were tuning up for a new selection. Einstein smiled and gave me a reassuring pat on the knee.
“Just allow yourself to listen,” he whispered. “That is all.”
It wasn’t really all, of course. Without the effort he had just poured out for a total stranger I would never have heard, as I did that night for the first time in my life, Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.” I have heard it many times since. I don’t think I shall ever tire of it. Because I never listen to it alone. I am sitting beside a small, round man with a shock of untidy white hair, a dead pipe clamped between his teeth, and eyes that contain in their extraordinary warmth all the wonder of the world.
When the concert was finished I added my genuine applause to that of the others. Suddenly our hostess confronted us. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Einstein,” she said with an icy glare at me, “that you missed so much of the performance.”
Einstein and I came hastily to our feet. “I am sorry, too,” he said. “My young friend here and I, however, were engaged in the greatest activity of which man is capable.”
She looked puzzled. “Really?” she said. “And what is that?”
Einstein smiled and put his arm across my shoulders. And he uttered ten words that--for at least one person who is in his endless debt--are his epitaph:
“Opening up yet another fragment of the frontier of beauty.”
--Jerome Weidman
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I'd like to introduce you to Jace Vek
If you've never thought you liked orchestral music, you've never listened to Jace Vek's work.
Let me know what you think . . .
Let me know what you think . . .
Monday, April 14, 2008
Music Monday Artist: Stephanie Smith
Stephanie Smith is just good. Long story short, here's my absolute favorite from her so far:
Sidewalk Pictures
She presses her hand to the glass door
to see her chalk picture
drowning in a downpour.
The puddle of color blends
until it fades
to sidewalk gray.
And when it's dry she'll kneel outside and start again,
sketching butterflies and birds
for all the people who can't see the sky
because they keep their faces to the sidewalk gray.
And she tries to open their eyes
to what's been lost between the black and white.
She covers all the ugly things she can't erase . . .
She paints
sidewalk pictures.
On city streets she draws red trees & purple flowers,
sometime a family with their big pink smiles and their yellow house
and people stop and they stare
well 'cause they crave the change from the sidewalk gray
And she tries to open their eyes
to what's been lost between the black and white.
She covers all the ugly things she can't erase . . .
she paints
sidewalk pictures.
She presses her hand to the glass door
to see her chalk picture
drowning in a downpour.
The puddle of color blends
until it fades
to sidewalk gray.
But she'll paint again anyway.
Sidewalk Pictures is from her Change album.
Stephanie's website is under construction, but she does have a MySpace page linked from there where you can listen to her latest album Waves, as well as clips you can listed to at CDBaby.com. (CD Baby's clips are actually long enough to really experience the song, unlike the 30-second teasers everyone else does. Oh, and if you haven't ever bought anything from CD Baby, I highly recommend it. Great customer service, with an outrageous sense of humor.)
And that, my friends, is today's Music Monday. Have a great week!
Sidewalk Pictures
She presses her hand to the glass door
to see her chalk picture
drowning in a downpour.
The puddle of color blends
until it fades
to sidewalk gray.
And when it's dry she'll kneel outside and start again,
sketching butterflies and birds
for all the people who can't see the sky
because they keep their faces to the sidewalk gray.
And she tries to open their eyes
to what's been lost between the black and white.
She covers all the ugly things she can't erase . . .
She paints
sidewalk pictures.
On city streets she draws red trees & purple flowers,
sometime a family with their big pink smiles and their yellow house
and people stop and they stare
well 'cause they crave the change from the sidewalk gray
And she tries to open their eyes
to what's been lost between the black and white.
She covers all the ugly things she can't erase . . .
she paints
sidewalk pictures.
She presses her hand to the glass door
to see her chalk picture
drowning in a downpour.
The puddle of color blends
until it fades
to sidewalk gray.
But she'll paint again anyway.
Sidewalk Pictures is from her Change album.
Stephanie's website is under construction, but she does have a MySpace page linked from there where you can listen to her latest album Waves, as well as clips you can listed to at CDBaby.com. (CD Baby's clips are actually long enough to really experience the song, unlike the 30-second teasers everyone else does. Oh, and if you haven't ever bought anything from CD Baby, I highly recommend it. Great customer service, with an outrageous sense of humor.)
And that, my friends, is today's Music Monday. Have a great week!
Friday, July 13, 2007
Ouch.
I've been restless lately. Maybe that's what brought that serious case of Startitis on; I don't know. I do know that there are times when I feel like I'm going to seriously bust out somewhere . . . I just haven't yet found the outlet. Knitting is soothing and pretty, and knitting culture is a blast. (The MS3 experience has been great so far.) But it's not active enough for all of my needs. Inside this reserved personality is a musician, and nothing really can take the place of music, once it has become a part of you. My piano skills are so seriously degraded after more than 12 years of neglect that it's frustrating to try to play. I don't know anyone around here that would like to make music with me, so I'm left to my own devices.
Which brings me to today's title.
Ouch.
Typing is fairly painful right now.
Any guesses why? ;o)
Have you guessed yet?
C'mon . . . you know what that is, right?
Well, okay, if you must know . . .
I'm such a novice at this . . . but I'm improving fast, and it's highly portable. I'm still going to work on a couple pieces with Cadence, especially Pachelbel Meets U2. But this, hopefully, will be what I'm looking for. Short of borrowing someone else's guitarist, this is what I've got.
So why start something new, especially when I've spent so many years of my life playing and drilling at the piano? I've felt lately like I'm just coming to know who I've grown up into. I'm not the same girl that sat at the piano for thousands of hours, relying on the music to pull her through whatever came her way. I still dearly love the piano--but I feel as though I need a musical medium that's more readily available, and I'm ready to learn and stretch some more. And one that's not so serious for me.
Meet Scheherezade, Cadence's cousin.
She's glad to be out of her case again . . . it has been almost five years since she last saw the light of day. I just wish I still had my callouses from ten years ago . . . man, it's hard to believe it has been that long. I was getting somewhere back in college. The fingerings and string positions are coming back fast; my hand strength is pathetic, though, and my fingers awfully soft.
So, I'm back on Mom duty, and trying to figure out how I can smash several hours of guitar into an already full day . . .
Which brings me to today's title.
Ouch.
Typing is fairly painful right now.
Any guesses why? ;o)
Have you guessed yet?
C'mon . . . you know what that is, right?
Well, okay, if you must know . . .
I'm such a novice at this . . . but I'm improving fast, and it's highly portable. I'm still going to work on a couple pieces with Cadence, especially Pachelbel Meets U2. But this, hopefully, will be what I'm looking for. Short of borrowing someone else's guitarist, this is what I've got.
So why start something new, especially when I've spent so many years of my life playing and drilling at the piano? I've felt lately like I'm just coming to know who I've grown up into. I'm not the same girl that sat at the piano for thousands of hours, relying on the music to pull her through whatever came her way. I still dearly love the piano--but I feel as though I need a musical medium that's more readily available, and I'm ready to learn and stretch some more. And one that's not so serious for me.
Meet Scheherezade, Cadence's cousin.
She's glad to be out of her case again . . . it has been almost five years since she last saw the light of day. I just wish I still had my callouses from ten years ago . . . man, it's hard to believe it has been that long. I was getting somewhere back in college. The fingerings and string positions are coming back fast; my hand strength is pathetic, though, and my fingers awfully soft.
So, I'm back on Mom duty, and trying to figure out how I can smash several hours of guitar into an already full day . . .
Monday, July 9, 2007
Woo-hoo! The mail is here! The mail is here!
Well, if I didn't get a couple of surprises in my mailbox today!
First up, was a CD I ordered from CD Baby on Friday. It's Andy Shelton's Market Street. Very, very cool. CD Baby is for independent musicians, and based in Portland. And they're a riot. You should place an order with them just so you can read their order confirmation email. No, I'm not kidding. Seriously. Go buy a cd. It's so totally worth it just for the laughs!
Second, my swatching yarn for the Mystery Stole 3 arrived from Sarah's Yarns! (I ordered them on Friday, as well. Don't you love prompt shipping and Priority mail?) OhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodness! That means that my Zephyr ordered on Saturday should get here tomorrow! Hooray!
I can't say enough good things about Sarah. Her swatching program is stellar, and she sent me color cards for the yarn lines I requested. Woo-hoo! Don't you just love companies who actually want to sell you their products? Especially when they realize that the customer is the one bearing the risk of mail order transactions. I requested JaggerSpun Zephyr in laceweight and DK, and JaggerSpun's heathered wool 2/18. I'm definitely going with the Zephyr lace (love it love it love it), even though I haven't even been able to do more than pet the teeny tiny coils of yarn.
I'll post pics soon . . . right now I've got to go get some tidying up done, and then get my tail off to town to get some groceries for the crew this week. I just couldn't contain myself! :o)
Knit on . . .
First up, was a CD I ordered from CD Baby on Friday. It's Andy Shelton's Market Street. Very, very cool. CD Baby is for independent musicians, and based in Portland. And they're a riot. You should place an order with them just so you can read their order confirmation email. No, I'm not kidding. Seriously. Go buy a cd. It's so totally worth it just for the laughs!
Second, my swatching yarn for the Mystery Stole 3 arrived from Sarah's Yarns! (I ordered them on Friday, as well. Don't you love prompt shipping and Priority mail?) OhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodness! That means that my Zephyr ordered on Saturday should get here tomorrow! Hooray!
I can't say enough good things about Sarah. Her swatching program is stellar, and she sent me color cards for the yarn lines I requested. Woo-hoo! Don't you just love companies who actually want to sell you their products? Especially when they realize that the customer is the one bearing the risk of mail order transactions. I requested JaggerSpun Zephyr in laceweight and DK, and JaggerSpun's heathered wool 2/18. I'm definitely going with the Zephyr lace (love it love it love it), even though I haven't even been able to do more than pet the teeny tiny coils of yarn.
I'll post pics soon . . . right now I've got to go get some tidying up done, and then get my tail off to town to get some groceries for the crew this week. I just couldn't contain myself! :o)
Knit on . . .
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Just one of those days . . .
There's nothing like a little Weird Al to keep things in perspective . . .
Got to work late 'cause my alarm was busted
The boss chewed me out and everybody's disgusted
'Cause it's just one of those days
It's just one of those days
I lost one of my socks in the dryer
I can't find my wallet and my hair is on fire
Just one of those days
It's just one of those days
I just wrapped my Cadillac around a tree
A big swarm of locusts is following me
There's not even anything good on TV
It's just one of those days
It's just one of those days
Left all my Beatles records out in the sun
Got a Coke bottle stuck on the end of my tongue
It's just one of those days
Gonna be one of those days
The Nazis tied me up and covered me with ants
And I spilled toxic waste on my brand new pants
Just one of those days
Ever have one of those days?
The bank called me up and told me I'm overdrawn
Some freaks are burnin' crosses out on my front lawn
And I can't believe it, all the Cheetos are gone!
It just...just one of those, one of those days
Just one of those, one of those days
[Seriously good guitar riff here.]
The F.B.I. has got a tap on my phone
Those darn Russian spies won't leave me alone
Shouldn't have got up this morning, shoulda known
It's just one of those days
It's just one of those days
A 747 crashed into my den
And there's nothin' but tater tots for dinner again
It's just one of those days
Never mind, it's just one of those days
Big steamroller just ran over my mom
And I cut myself shaving and they're dropping the bomb
It's just one of those days
That's all, it's just one of those days
Then late at night, just before I go to bed
The world blows up and now everybody's dead
You just can't deny it, it's just like I said
Just...just one of those, one of those days
Just one of those days, one of those days
--Weird Al Yankovich
(If you want to hear it, click here. As with most of the musical YouTube links, spare your brain cells and minimize the window while it's playing.)
Got to work late 'cause my alarm was busted
The boss chewed me out and everybody's disgusted
'Cause it's just one of those days
It's just one of those days
I lost one of my socks in the dryer
I can't find my wallet and my hair is on fire
Just one of those days
It's just one of those days
I just wrapped my Cadillac around a tree
A big swarm of locusts is following me
There's not even anything good on TV
It's just one of those days
It's just one of those days
Left all my Beatles records out in the sun
Got a Coke bottle stuck on the end of my tongue
It's just one of those days
Gonna be one of those days
The Nazis tied me up and covered me with ants
And I spilled toxic waste on my brand new pants
Just one of those days
Ever have one of those days?
The bank called me up and told me I'm overdrawn
Some freaks are burnin' crosses out on my front lawn
And I can't believe it, all the Cheetos are gone!
It just...just one of those, one of those days
Just one of those, one of those days
[Seriously good guitar riff here.]
The F.B.I. has got a tap on my phone
Those darn Russian spies won't leave me alone
Shouldn't have got up this morning, shoulda known
It's just one of those days
It's just one of those days
A 747 crashed into my den
And there's nothin' but tater tots for dinner again
It's just one of those days
Never mind, it's just one of those days
Big steamroller just ran over my mom
And I cut myself shaving and they're dropping the bomb
It's just one of those days
That's all, it's just one of those days
Then late at night, just before I go to bed
The world blows up and now everybody's dead
You just can't deny it, it's just like I said
Just...just one of those, one of those days
Just one of those days, one of those days
--Weird Al Yankovich
(If you want to hear it, click here. As with most of the musical YouTube links, spare your brain cells and minimize the window while it's playing.)
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Incredibly cool -- Andy Shelton
So, I've been hearing some tracks from this album called "Shelton" on an internet radio station I listen to. There's one that really caught my ear, called 8th Avenue. You can listen to the whole thing here. (I love it when artists stream their entire songs, so you can actually know if you like them or not. The 30-second previews are only good if you're trying to identify a song you've already heard.)
He made his way down 8th Avenue
With all the same buildings and faces he knew
Stepped to the side where he always sits down
Opened up his case, the city goes out around
And there he plays
Throw him a dime, he will sing you the ryhmes
Of a song that he made
About his life on a street where...
It's all the same
La da dee day
It's all the same
Now he has visions that lift him off his feet
Of playing great big shows up on Market Street
But just as he dreams up the screaming crowd
He wakes up on 8th Avenue and sits back down
And there he plays
But there's no one around now to hear the sound
Of a song that he made
About his life on a street where...
It's all the same
La da dee day
But everything's about to change
He played his last song that afternoon
To a rock, a crack in the sidewalk, and a bird he knew
Then mentioned something about being late
He took bow and said: "Thanks, you've all been great."
"But I can't stay."
"I hope you don't mind but I have arranged that a cold wind take my place."
And now 8th Avenue has never been the same.
La da dee day
The lyrics are good, just taking them on their own. (And I studied this stuff in my University days, so I do have some idea of that of which I speak. ;o) But you've got to hear this one. It's good music, and makes you think. Stylistically, it reminds me a little of Harry Connick Jr., but easier to listen to. (I can only take so much Harry, he's so, um, improvisational.) You can even buy it by itself, if you don't fall in love with the other stuff he has done before you can click the "buy" link. ;o)
So, go listen to some Shelton. I'm going to to take the munchkins & DH, grab some Subway, and have a picnic somewhere in this summery weather.
He made his way down 8th Avenue
With all the same buildings and faces he knew
Stepped to the side where he always sits down
Opened up his case, the city goes out around
And there he plays
Throw him a dime, he will sing you the ryhmes
Of a song that he made
About his life on a street where...
It's all the same
La da dee day
It's all the same
Now he has visions that lift him off his feet
Of playing great big shows up on Market Street
But just as he dreams up the screaming crowd
He wakes up on 8th Avenue and sits back down
And there he plays
But there's no one around now to hear the sound
Of a song that he made
About his life on a street where...
It's all the same
La da dee day
But everything's about to change
He played his last song that afternoon
To a rock, a crack in the sidewalk, and a bird he knew
Then mentioned something about being late
He took bow and said: "Thanks, you've all been great."
"But I can't stay."
"I hope you don't mind but I have arranged that a cold wind take my place."
And now 8th Avenue has never been the same.
La da dee day
The lyrics are good, just taking them on their own. (And I studied this stuff in my University days, so I do have some idea of that of which I speak. ;o) But you've got to hear this one. It's good music, and makes you think. Stylistically, it reminds me a little of Harry Connick Jr., but easier to listen to. (I can only take so much Harry, he's so, um, improvisational.) You can even buy it by itself, if you don't fall in love with the other stuff he has done before you can click the "buy" link. ;o)
So, go listen to some Shelton. I'm going to to take the munchkins & DH, grab some Subway, and have a picnic somewhere in this summery weather.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
And the winner is . . .
Two people.
The person who submitted the winning name was Sarah. (Who I must admit is my SIL--and a good friend. Isn't it great when those two things coincide?). But, as Sarah doesn't knit (yet), and I'm not the sort to endorse nepotism (for a multitude of reasons), I opted to award the yarn to the first runner-up, which was Julia of Knitting History. She suggested Scheherezade, "after the legendary Persian queen who told the tales of the 'Thousand and One Nights'." The romanticism surrounding that name had a very strong pull. :o) So, Julia, if you'd let me know where you'd like your prize sent, I'll get it on it's way first thing when the mailman comes round again.
I really appreciate all of the suggestions, and it was fun to see what they all were. I'll post a full list soon . . . I'm just covered with dirt from yardwork outside, and I'm not nearly done yet. I just figured that I had better not leave you all in suspense for much longer. ;o) The name I chose is one that kept popping into my mind as I read all of the other suggestions. While it isn't quite as flowery as I had thought I wanted, it just fits so very well.
Oh, what's the name, you say?
Well, I'd like to introduce you to . . .
Cadence.
Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!
The person who submitted the winning name was Sarah. (Who I must admit is my SIL--and a good friend. Isn't it great when those two things coincide?). But, as Sarah doesn't knit (yet), and I'm not the sort to endorse nepotism (for a multitude of reasons), I opted to award the yarn to the first runner-up, which was Julia of Knitting History. She suggested Scheherezade, "after the legendary Persian queen who told the tales of the 'Thousand and One Nights'." The romanticism surrounding that name had a very strong pull. :o) So, Julia, if you'd let me know where you'd like your prize sent, I'll get it on it's way first thing when the mailman comes round again.
I really appreciate all of the suggestions, and it was fun to see what they all were. I'll post a full list soon . . . I'm just covered with dirt from yardwork outside, and I'm not nearly done yet. I just figured that I had better not leave you all in suspense for much longer. ;o) The name I chose is one that kept popping into my mind as I read all of the other suggestions. While it isn't quite as flowery as I had thought I wanted, it just fits so very well.
Oh, what's the name, you say?
Well, I'd like to introduce you to . . .
Cadence.
Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!
Monday, May 21, 2007
Nomenclatural Notions
So far I've gotten some fun suggestions for the black beauty's name. I thought I'd share a few parameters that I've decided on, as I've thought about it over the weekend.
1) My piano is definitely a "she".
2) I'm looking for a feminine, pretty name. It doesn't have to be a "standard", like Elizabeth or Caroline (both family members of mine, so those names aren't in the running). It just needs to connote refinement, detailed beauty, and a little mystique or fun.
3) Anyone who has already made a submission can resubmit if they have a rash of new ideas, sparked by this post.
Hope everyone had a great weekend, and a "real" post to come tomorrow. :o)
1) My piano is definitely a "she".
2) I'm looking for a feminine, pretty name. It doesn't have to be a "standard", like Elizabeth or Caroline (both family members of mine, so those names aren't in the running). It just needs to connote refinement, detailed beauty, and a little mystique or fun.
3) Anyone who has already made a submission can resubmit if they have a rash of new ideas, sparked by this post.
Hope everyone had a great weekend, and a "real" post to come tomorrow. :o)
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