Asa

I haven't declared a summer soundtrack for a few years. But now I've got one for 2009. Everybody needs a favorite album to listen to with the windows down, cruising around in the heat of the summer sun. And the memories of each summer are inextricably linked to a group of songs, so that when you hear them again, the summer's warmth and meaningful events come wafting back to you.

This is my album for 2009: Asa (pronounced "ah-sha") by the artist of the same name. She's got just the right combination of jazz, soul, folk, and world flavor to get you dancing, yet there's a rich depth to her voice; an effortless musical gift that will keep delivering new subtleties with every repeat hearing.

Her radio hit, "Jailer," is a fun, reggae-influenced, sassy tune that gets better and better the louder you play it. (I think I've shared it with most of East Liberty and Highland Park now. Heh heh.)

The album doesn't gloss over life's inequities or pain -- if you know me, you're probably painfully aware that I seem to gravitate toward angsty, heartbroken artists -- but Asa has an optimism that shines through the blues. Just the fresh album I needed for 2009 summer adventures. Hope you enjoy it, too.

So we never got to Paris

There were a lot of things I thought I'd do before I had kids. Well, either that or I thought I'd have kids right away after getting married. As it is I'm learning to live with an entirely different reality -- one that fills me with joy and expectation but also reminds me of all the stuff we won't be able to do when our little one comes. (Stuff I probably don't need to do anyway.) All that thinking reminds me of an old song by Out of the Grey:

So we never got to Paris

Young lovers, without much
Save each other, isn't that enough
Paint the future, a little day by day
Making plans with no regard for what might come our way

This cup fills up so quickly
There's so much on our plate
Between the living and the learning
Some things must wait

So we never got to Paris
And found the café of our dreams
But our table holds a whole world of memories
No, we never went to Venice
And strolled the streets alone
But we built our worlds together and we got the best of both

There's still wonder in our eyes
But we see each other in a different light
Yet the future isn't always clear
Now the question is where do we go from here

This cup fills up so quickly
There's too much on our plate
Between the living and the dying
Some things must wait

So we never got to Paris
And found the café of our dreams
But our table holds a whole world of memories
No, we never went to Venice
And strolled the streets alone
But we built our worlds together and we got the best of both

This cup fills up so quickly
There's too much on our plate
Between the living and the dying
Some things must wait

So we never got to Paris
And found the café of our dreams
But our table holds a whole wide world of memories
No, we never went to Venice
And strolled the streets alone
But we built our worlds together and we got the best

We may never get to Paris
And find the café of our dreams
But our table still will hold a world of memories
If we never get to Venice
And roam the streets alone
We'll hold our worlds together and we'll keep the best of both

And before you think I've given up on Paris (or, in my case, Scotland, Ireland, and Scandinavia), I'm well aware that there is such a thing as grandparents who will watch the kids for a week, and there's also a wonderful time in most people's lives when they are neither old nor terribly involved with their kids: their late 40s and their 50s. So don't think I'm giving up all together; we may not have lots of stamps in our passports, but we are a loving family and we've got many more years to spend together.

Where God's chillin'

There are lots of Christmas lyrics that make me wince, but this one (taken from "Santa Claus is Coming to Town") actually manages to find me with my mouth wide open in disbelief almost every time I hear it. I'm not actually sure who wrote this disturbing addition to an already sub-par song, but Bing Crosby sings it with such cool confidence that I can scarcely believe my ears.

Santa knows that where God's chillin'
That makes everything right

My challenge this week: to post Christmas lyrics each day. That should give you poor readers something new to ponder . . . several of you say you've been "reading my blog," and I can only assume that means you're reading and rereading old posts. Unsure of whether or not my writing can actually sustain that many readings, I think it would just be best if I write something new.

Jump in bed, cover up your head
'Cause Santa Claus comes tonight, tonight
Santa Claus is coming tonight

September hope

There is something about these early autumn days that just invites dreams and wandering thoughts that have very few practical elements. Autumn is the season of renewed hope -- of gathering up all the pieces of your life and actually believing that something good could come of them.

It's not spring, by any means -- there is nothing poking up through the soil for the first time, and the pace of life is not quite so frantic or harsh as the rapid growth of spring. In early fall, the time for growth has come and gone, and some things haven't quite turned out like you thought they would. If spring is hopelessly, naively optimistic, then autumn is the season of mature hope, when you've seen hard times and know they will come again but you have renewed energy to press on in spite of the past. Failure and a general sense of doom may be looming in the distance, but autumn is the time for squinting at it from afar and saying to yourself, "I think I just might be able to beat this" -- whatever it is, it seems there's always something like that in my life come September.

This September, of course, there are a number of things -- among them, just surviving in this new environment. And so, on this sunny, cool afternoon that's driven me to sip steaming coffee and pull on a waffle-knit henley . . . I am staring down the loneliness, the financial discomfort, the frustration with the state of our house, the fear that I might keep worrying and hating myself for the rest of my life, the thought that this whole Pittsburgh experiment might just fail miserably . . . I am staring it all down from afar with that against-the-odds optimism, and thanking God for His renewing strength this September.

A random thought about music
I was listening to the radio today, and was again annoyed by the trend that music artists are taking to calling themselves by singularly band-like names. If you heard a song by Feist or Iron & Wine for the first time, would it be instantly obvious that these are individuals, rather than bands? And if you heard a song by Rilo Kiley, would you guess that Rilo Kiley is a band? Of course not! So why do they do it? I have a theory: they are setting us all up to be mocked and ridiculed by their nerdiest, most dedicated fans who laugh and say to each other, "ha ha, she doesn't even know that Rilo Kiley isn't a person; Rilo Kiley is a band!" Music artists like this are drawing boundary lines between "true" fans and casual listeners who aren't absolutely obsessed with them yet.

Now, I know what you're saying: "But Dulci, you like Sting." And for those of you who didn't know I like Sting, please don't feel like this has to come between us. I know most people don't like Sting, and that's O.K. -- I won't try to push old Police albums on you or anything. Anyway, I realize Sting is somewhat of an ambiguous title for an individual music artist. But there's a bit of a difference here; most people have no idea that Sting's real name is Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner (I can see why he changed it -- Gord Sumner doesn't quite have the 80s rock appeal that Sting does). Whereas people like Leslie Feist have a sort of dual public identity; they have no qualms about telling people their real, full names, but on their albums, they go by their enigmatic stage name. See? There is a difference.

If you asked me to suggest an underlying social change that is contributing to this shift in the way that musicians refer to themselves, I could probably come up with some kind of B.S. about how today's artists are much more willing to openly admit that they lead a double life; that the person on stage and the person on the street are not the same by any means. But I'm afraid I'd have to do a great deal more research in order to really confirm that hypothesis, and like I said, it's B.S. anyway.

When do I get a break?

Probably when I allow myself to take one, which I'm not good at, so oh well.

I feel depressed today--very down--and I know I'll bounce back, but for now I just feel sad. And tired. And terribly alone.

I've been getting things done at work (mostly putting out fires, it seems) but work feels pointless and I'm not quite sure what I'm looking forward to. This whole anticipation thing seems to be the key to my well-being most of the time, and I'm pretty sure that's not a good thing. It seems that I always have to have something I'm looking forward to--a vacation, a date with Mr. Incredible, a day off, whatever. And while I think it's healthy to live in joyful anticipation, it's probably not good that I sink into depression when I can't think of something to look forward to.

Well, that's enough blogtherapy for today. If I keep going I'll have to pay you by the hour to read my thoughts. And I just don't have that kind of capital.

I'll just leave you with the lyrics from one of my new favorite songs:

On the radio | Regina Spektor

this is how it works
it feels a little worse
and when we drove our hearse
right through that screaming crowd
while laughing up a storm
until we were just bone
until it got so warm
that none of us could sleep

then all the styrofoam
began to melt away
we tried to find some worms
to aid in the decay
but none of them were home
inside their catacomb
a million ancient bees
began to sting our knees

while we were on our knees
praying that disease
would leave the ones we love
and never come again
and on the radio
we heard november rain
the solo's really long
but it's a pretty song
we listened to it twice
cause the dj was asleep

this is how it works
you're young until you're not
you love until you don't
you try until you can't
you laugh until you cry
you cry until you laugh
and everyone must breathe
until their dying breath

this is how it works
you peer inside yourself
you take the things you like
and try to love the things you took
and then you take that love you made
and stick it into some--
someone else's heart
pumping someone else's blood

and walking arm in arm
you hope it don't get harmed
but even if it does
you'll just do it all again
on the radio
you hear november rain
that solo's awful long
but it's a nice refrain
you listen to it twice
cause the dj is asleep
on the radio...

Albums I'm listening to

Putumayo presents Mali (various)

This album contains some of the weirdest and most beautiful music I have ever heard--vocally and instrumentally. There is a sort of French hip-hop/African traditional fusion going on, something that's not too unexpected. But what you wouldn't expect at all is the way the harmonica and accordion are used. This is groundbreaking stuff, and frankly I think some of these musicians from Mali are putting blues and polka players to shame. Props go to my Dad, who turned us on to this CD. I recommend buying it at 10,000 Villages, but it's on Amazon.com, too.


The best of Van Morrison (Van Morrison)

Few singers have experimented with so many types of music, throughout so many eras, and still managed to stay afloat. I'm not saying Van's for everyone, but you just can't say that "Domino" is any less than a timeless classic that rocks the casbah. Given Van's colorful (and lengthy) career, it may be a little on the eclectic side (to the point of giving some people musical whiplash) but I just can't get enough of his Beatles-esque "Gloria" juxtaposed against his later "Bright side of the road."


Speak for yourself (Imogen Heap)

Ahh, you didn't see this one coming, now did you? Apparently, as of sometime last winter, I am into electronic music. I guess, when it really comes down to it, I believe deeply that anything can be used as a musical instrument; it's just that very often, when people experiment, pretty bad things happen (remember the electronic experiments of the 70s and 80s?). But Imogen Heap is a master of this genre, and she knows how to combine the natural, raw tones of her voice with the otherworldly synthesized sounds she creates and produces herself. It's bizarre, but brilliant.

Free your music

There are hours of music--or if you're like me, something like five days' worth of songs--that are sitting in your living room, imprisoned within the confines of your CDs.

The one amazing Enya song on your Fellowship of the Rings soundtrack (yes, I know, you're not nerdy enough to own it, but I am) is not free to frolic with all the other Enya songs you bought on iTunes. Unless you've ripped all your music and reorganized it in iTunes, that is.

Smart playlists are one glorious breath of the air of freedom--but there's more. You don't sit at your computer all day, and let's face it: your computer speakers suck.

Last night, thanks to the fantastic consumer choice made by Mr. Incredible, I enjoyed music as it's meant to be enjoyed--in freedom.

I know this sounds like a commercial--and I guess it is--but I can't help it. I'm a Squeezebox evangelist, and proud of it.