Kind of a Drag

It’s kind of a drag, but I’m going to have to quit blogging for a while. My to-do list overfloweth – renovating bathroom in my house, renovating bathroom in my mom’s house, building outdoor chair, making path in backyard, tiling entranceway, killing Emily (Bell’s automated attendant), enjoying summer…

I'm going to keep reading everyone else's though.

Summer in the City/The Lovin' Spoonful

It’s June 21 today, which means that it’s officially summer in the city, and everywhere else for that matter.

Everything about Zal Yanovsky, who played lead guitar in the Lovin’ Spoonful, was big: big girth, big voice, big beard, big life. Zal moved to Kingston with his wife Rose after leaving the music business, and they opened one of Kingston’s most famous restaurants, Chez Piggy. Not ones to settle for lesser imitations, they imported $200 bottles of balsamic vinegar, and an oven from France to make baguette. Once I was dining at Chez Piggy and a friend pointed out a homeless man walking around the restaurant talking loudly to people. It was Zal, whose exuberant beard--which partially functioned as a bib--was often scattered with crumbs. Zal and Rose lived on a hobby farm outside the city, and when you drove by their place you could hear the eerie cries of peacocks. They were big supporters of the Humane Society and the Children’s Breakfast Program in local schools. Zal died of a heart attack one night. He was 58. His wife Rose died of cancer a couple of years later. Kingston just isn’t the same without them.

Hair

My hair is unruly at the best of times, but this hot and humid weather has turned it into a bipolar do that alternates between raging Medusa and overcooked limp linguini. Thankfully there are those out there who appreciate hair in all its moody manifestations…

Sultans of String

The description of their music

Atomic world-jazz-flamenco combining the sounds of Chris McKhool's lush, lyrical Gypsy-jazz violin with Kevin Laliberte's rhythm-fueled flamenco-inspired guitar playing for a wild improvised musical journey. Bassist Drew Birston energizes the groove with adventurous Latin, jazz and folk rhythms.

would likely have sent Mark Twain on a adjectival killing spree, but the music itself is anything but homicidal. So for those of you who would like some string after a swinging sing sing sing, the Sultans of String have some free listening at their website.

Photograph/Nickleback

The first one is of an elephant that no longer has a face. It looks like someone has used a powersaw to cross-section its skull, then taken a baseball bat to whatever was inside. I suppose there’s no neat and tidy way of removing tusks.

The second one shows two people sitting in the back of a car. The woman on the right looks calmly terrified. The man on the left is holding a gun to her head. He’s smoking and by the expression on his face, you’d think he was at a bar with some friends. The caption says that the woman was killed one hour later.

The third one is more personal, less dramatic. It hangs on my wall, and was taken at one of our numerous get-togethers. That’s when we all worked at Case Mix Research, which the people down the hall nicknamed Cake Mix Research, because we always seemed to be celebrating something. It was the kind of place where you felt you could have your cake and eat it too. Unfortunately it didn’t defy all platitudes, and all good things did come to an end. The research group folded, two of the group had a falling out, two others moved away and kept in selective touch only. I’m not sure how I feel when I look at the photograph of us all together, and wonder sometimes if I should take it down and put it in a box at the back of my closet.

Go All the Way/The Raspberries

Is there any fruit more sublime than the raspberry? An exceptionally succulent mango comes close, but doesn’t surpass. Raspberries are one of the premier pleasures of summer. But like many pleasures, they’re ephemeral: after a couple of days they become soggy and moldy. Instant gratification is called for. In honour of raspberries--and not delaying gratification in one of life’s other pleasures--I post this song.

The Unicorn Song

In my quest for a wilder life I’ve been looking into volunteer vacations, where you pay large sums of money to work (it sounds crazy, but how else am I ever going to get the opportunity to radio-collar a cheetah?). A lot of the projects involve wildlife conservation. I’m ambivalent about this. It’s sort of like going out one day a year to pick up garbage along the roads--things look better temporarily, but it doesn’t resolve the underlying problem. Maybe it would be better to leave the garbage where it is, a form of dispersed landfill, and let it get eyesoaringly high. The same goes with wildlife. So many zoos are trying to breed endangered species, so that one day they can restock dewindling natural populations. Even if that endeavour succeeds, won't they still be subject to the same forces that caused their numbers to decline in the first place, like loss of habitat and poaching? Maybe it would be better to let species die out. Nobody is really noticing all the little things that are no more, but if enough of the big ones go, maybe it will finally have an impact. Or maybe one day, elephants, tigers and rhinoceroses will seem as mythical as unicorns.

Mr. Bojangles

I wanted to post Mr. Bojangles, so thought I’d write about my cat Bo. But then, as they’re so apt to, my mind wandered… all the way back to elementary school, when one year I was best friends with Jill. When Jill was 11 her mom died suddenly. It’s funny how you can be best friends with a person yet be oblivious to their home life, even at an age when oblivion was the usual state of mind. Jill’s mom was an alcoholic, but Jill never talked about it. I wonder if she even knew?

These Boots are Made for Walking/Nancy Sinatra

I don’t know what made me think of this song this morning. Maybe it’s because I discovered my mugho pine being devoured by hordes of European pine sawflies. They eat their way up the branches but drop off and lay eggs before the new needles at the tips emerge, so what you end up with is a pine with a poodle cut. I guess, looking at my skeletal pine and imagining it with a perma-poodle-do, I felt like crushing all those worms underfoot.

Downtown/Petulia Clark

I grew up in the suburbs of Montreal, and downtown was the lure for our adolescent desires to roam wild. We never had money as teenagers, so we’d hop the freight trains as they rolled through Dorval. The getting on wasn’t so bad; it was the getting off that was scary. This was in the days when parents never knew where their kids were, and that was probably a good thing.

O Fortuna

Here’s the Big Ad stripped of most of its bigness, except for the big music part. O Fortuna is part of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, which is based on a collection of medieval poems. The poems talk about “the fickleness of fortune and wealth, the ephemeral nature of life, the joy of the return of Spring, and the pleasures and perils of drinking, gluttony, gambling and lust” – in other words, just about everything.

Big Ad

My god it’s big: big in the sublime unsubtlety of its message, big music, big scenery, big cast, big budget, big impact – this morning, for the first time ever, I found myself belting out a tune in the shower.

It's a big ad
Such a big ad
It's just so freak-----ing big...

About the only thing this big ad lacks is big hair.

Old Friends/Simon and Garfunkel

It’s a photo from 20+ years ago, and we look ecstatic. Maybe it’s because we’ve made it to the top of a 17,000-foot pass in Nepal. Maybe it’s because we’re about to indulge in a Kit-Kat eating frenzy. Or maybe it’s because we’re feelin’ groovy due to oxygen deprivation. I hope we both make it to 70 so that we can be old friends sharing memories on a park bench somewhere.

Caught in the Middle/A1

I was young, and with my parents at the airport. A man emerged from the arrivals area and ran towards the woman who was meeting him. I got caught in the middle of their embrace and they didn’t seem to notice me for what felt like a long time. It was my first experience of feeling claustrophobic in a relationship.

Telephone Line/ELO

I remember Friday nights (mis-?)spent with friends making prank phone calls; has *69 rendered such activities obsolete? And where have all the phone booths gone? No more giggling masses crammed into them to discuss all-important nothings with an absent friend. And what about scary movies of yore – like that one where the police phone the babysitter to inform her that the heavy breather is telephoning from the house she’s in – that today’s kids find laughably ridiculous? And whatever happened to E.L.O. and songs like Telephone Line?

Stand by Your Man/Tammy Wynette

I’ve never been a country music lover. The big hair and sequins distract from the lyrics. Although maybe that’s a good thing. Why the hell should I stand by my man if he’s screwing someone else? It would be better to hide a big knife in my big hair and stab him with it when he creeps back one cold and lonely night.* Why settle for country when you can have opera?

*I’d like to point out that I’m a firm believer in non-violence. It’s only my writing persona that is slightly psychotic.

Dueling Banjos

I’m not sure what makes bluegrass bluegrass, but I believe that a banjo is mandatory. Here’s a feisty one fighting it out with a guitar, from a 1972 movie that probably caused a lot of men to think twice about going on a canoeing trip with their buddies.

Sonatine Bureaucratique/Erik Satie

Classical music generally tends to be serious stuff with serious titles like Concerto #3 in D Minor or Opus 11 Movement 1. Erik Satie, on the other hand, wrote pieces like Genuine Flabby Preludes (for a dog) and Dried up Embryos. He also wrote text to accompany his scores, like this.

The Rabbit of Seville

I think opera needs to be seen and not just heard. I don’t enjoy listening to it, but going to see an opera is on my “to do before I die list.” Here’s an opera performance I enjoyed watching as a child.

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald/Gordon Lightfoot

I like folk music, and I like Gordon Lightfoot. But for some reason I hate this song. I know it’s about a tragic event in Canadian shipping history, but I still hate it. I know it reached #2 on the charts, but I still hate it. One standup comedian suggested playing it at parties when you’re trying to get everyone to go home.

Good Riddance/Green Day

I know nothing about punk rock, but I have opinions about it anyways. Too loud. Too confrontational. I was listening to this the other day though, and was surprised to learn it's by a group that falls under the punk rock banner, although apparently they are considered “pop punk”, which sounds much fluffier (and makes me think my musical tastes are too) than “post-punk,” “anarcho-punk,” "Hardcore punk" or “Oi!”.

Blue Monk/Thelonius Monk

I was at a chanting workshop once, led by a woman who used to be a jazz musician in New York. Her initial reaction to chanting was that it was idiotic and boring: strings of simple sounds repeated over and over. She’s since become a chanting convert, and now thinks of jazz as “mind vomit.” If you feel the same way, you should have a large mental barf bag handy as you listen to this.

Elephant Talk/King Crimson

And talking about elephants: Murphy’s Oil Soap is used to clean elephants. Vasectomies and immuno-contraception are used to control the elephant population in parts of Africa. Elephants are the only mammal other than humans that can stand on their head. By flapping its ears, an elephant can lower its blood temperature by 5 degrees Celsius (9 degrees Farenheit). Due to a process of unnatural selection, elephant tusks are getting smaller and smaller, and about 30% of elephants are now tuskless.

Plastic Bags

I remember an essay question from grade school: “Which would most bother you: the death of an elephant at the local zoo, or the death of 20 million Africans?” Most people picked the elephant. I guess we’re not good at processing large numbers. As a test, try fathoming this: Ontario shoppers take home 7 million plastic bags a day, and the US discards 100 billion of them a year. We’re like some giant raptor that gorges on plastic, then shits from our lofty heights on the rest of the earth.

Coconut/Cover by The Muppets

The only trivia I remember from Trivial Pursuit is that falling coconuts are the leading cause of death on Samoa. I hope I don’t experience a humorous demise; mourners should grieve, not giggle. On the other hand, maybe laughing at death isn't such a bad thing. If I’m killed by an errant coconut, please play this at my funeral.

Bicycle Song/Red Hot Chili Peppers

In my next life, I’m going to study anthropology and use California as the subject of my dissertation. I just heard that they’ve introduced valet parking for bicycles. How wacky yet loveable is that? I wonder if one day they’ll have bike limos, complete with chauffeur and mini-bar?

The Bicycle Song

Stay Awhile/The Bells

Does this song tug on your heart strings, or do you find it disturbing? I know it’s probably meant to be about teenagers indulging their hormones, but all that creeping, peeping and quivering, and that high-pitched breathy voice, conjure up visions of an older man sidling into a young girl’s room.

The Bills

I was going to say that The Bills – who used to be known as The Bill Hilly Band but I guess that had too many syllables – are great, but someone else said it more eloquently and with more syllables:

"The biggest blast of fresh air to come out of Canada since The Band, the Bills present bucketfuls of good stuff: bustling bluegrass, hillbilly symphonies, gypsy-swinging virtuosity, harmony-rich sea chanties, some great new songs and shades of Cajun, country dance and La Bottine Souriante's Quebecois brilliance."

They don’t appear to have made it to Youtube, but if you go here and click on one of the albums (are they still called that?), you can hear some samples.

Joel Plaskett/Come on Teacher

I don’t know much about Joel Plaskett, but every time I turn on the CBC I seem to hear his name. Here’s what I’ve gleaned from my online sources: he’s a Van Halen freak, and his music is “not complex, but it’s solid, fun and catchy as hell.”

Come on Teacher

A Poodle in Paris/Connie Kaldor

Connie Kaldor is a Canadian folk singer-songwriter who pens quirky songs like A Poodle in Paris. This provides a forum for peculiar people with a penchant for wearing puffy wigs (British judges and lawyers, for example) to post oddball videos on Youtube.

Oh Canada

Oh Canada. We want the US to say that using the same tone and intonation that the Bond girls would use with James. But the passion has long gone out of this relationship. Maybe it’s because we’re stuck in a perpetual missionary position (and guess who’s always on top?).

Rainy Day Woman/Bob Dylan

I was looking for “Everybody Must Get Stoned” on Youtube. Am I the only person who didn’t know that the actual title is “Rainy Day Woman”?

But I digress. I really wanted to write about Gord, the drug dealer who lives across the street. I’m not sure how I feel about having a drug dealer in the neighbourhood. It’s possible that I wouldn’t care at all, as long as he went about his business quietly. After having seen Maria Full of Grace though, I’m not sure I should be so complacent about local consumption that is provided via 50+-condom feeding frenzies and orgiastic violence elsewhere. Other addictive substances – cocoa and coffee come to mind – have fair trade alternatives. Maybe some enterprising drug dealer needs to start a fair trade drug business.

But I digress again. I’m bemused by Gord’s behaviour. I would have thought that drug dealers would be disinclined to draw attention to themselves. Maybe Gord is using some sort of reverse psychology. He has 5 hound dogs that lounge in the front window and bark at everything that goes by, so the house constantly attracts attention. Cars drive up at all hours, stereos blasting, the passengers not even bothering to hide the fact that some sort of transaction is about to take place. A monster truck arrived one night and charged a snowbank in Gord’s front yard, as if it were taking part in a demolition derby . Someone descended from the cab. “Hey, you got any fuckin’ money to pay this guy with?” he yelled at his friend in the truck. Once I went over to ask Gord to turn his music down, and was met at the door by Gilligan’s Doppelganger. He seemed surprised that I was bothered by the heavy bass, even though the house was visibly shaking. He was the one who pointed this latter fact out, although he said he couldn’t, while talking to me on his front doorstep, hear anything. He argued for a bit, claiming that the sound didn’t exceed 50 decibels. I told him I didn’t have a decibel meter, but the music was bothering me. We went back and forth like that for a bit, and finally he said he would turn it down. Then he shook my hand and introduced himself, which is how I learned his name is Gord.

A few weeks ago Gord got busted. They seized drugs with a street value of close to $100,000 from his house. This doesn’t seem to have had any impact on his business. Cars still pull up, people go into the house, leave after 5 minutes.

Soon this will no longer be my problem. A neighbour came over and told me that Gord is leaving. He bought a $1500 woofer, and wants to move somewhere where he can enjoy his music without other people complaining about the noise.

Money (that's what I want)

For me, the most memorable Candid Camera episode was when they planted a $20 bill under a car tire. Most passer-bys stopped, tried unsuccessfully to pull it out. One old lady, more resourceful, got in her car and rammed the other car repeatedly. Money, that’s what she wanted.

Flying Lizards

Jose Feliciano (for Susan)

John Lennon

Money/Pink Floyd

Money is on my mind this week. That’s because I’m taking my nephews to the Cirque du Soleil in Montreal next month, and now that I realize what the adventure’s going to cost, I’m aghast. I know, as Visa reminds me, that a weekend with my nephews is priceless; but I’m beginning to wish I had chosen a less-pricey priceless experience (but then again, in 10 years who will care?).

If I Had a Million Dollars/Barenaked Ladies

I don’t know what I’d do if I had a million dollars. I know studies have shown that people who win lots of money aren’t happy, but I have a hard time believing this. Although, someone my mom knows won $6 million, completed the $3 million spending spree in record time, and now her ex-husband is suing her for the remaining half, claiming they were only separated when she won it. She’s probably not too happy at this point.

Friday I'm in Love/The Cure

Friday I’m in love. But it’s sunny outside, which means that love, which falls like rain and disappears like puddles in the sun, should be waning. That’s according to the play I saw last night. It’s supposed to be meteorologically magnificent all weekend, so I may be heartbroken by Sunday.

Thursday's Child/David Bowie

Thursday’s Child. Blessed with beautiful bones, so even in middle age the face is elegant. That mirror isn’t doing him any favours though. Mirrors never give truthful reflections. On the other hand, they always answer honestly when asked who is the fairest of them all. Don't ask unless you're sure you want to know.

Wednesday Morning, 3 am/Simon and Garfunkel

Wednesday morning, 3 am. Charlotte is turning round and round on my pillow, finally draping her large frame over half of it, purring ferociously. Maybe she’s being affectionate. Maybe she’s attempting to muscle me out. Maybe she’s planning to suffocate me. Wednesday morning, 4 am. Festus is downstairs batting at the cat door, which is locked, knowing the noise will wake me up. Somehow he also knows I can’t yell at him, because I’ll wake Jen. I run down with the spray bottle. He’s nowhere in sight. He starts up again as soon as I go back to bed. Wednesday morning, 5 am. Bo is practicing his mouse-hunting skills, tossing some toy in the air and racing around the room after it. Occasionally it lands on the bed and he pounces on me instead. Wednesday morning, 8:30 am. I’m leaving for work, haggard-looking. All 3 cats are curled up in front of the fireplace, sleeping.

Tuesday Afternoon/Moody Blues

Tuesday afternoon. No after-work plans, which sometimes is the perfect plan. Scheduleless. Mindless. Endless (or so it seems, but of course that’s not so). It’s still too cold to chase clouds, but I can treat myself to daffodils, wine and chocolate and chase some dreams instead.

Monday Monday/The Mamas and The Papas

Monday Monday. Why do you roll around with such regularity? Some Greenwicher should decide the days of the week by rolling a die. It would, of course, be loaded, with the highest probability of throwing a Saturday or Sunday. And since only 6 possibilities can be entertained, let’s drop Monday as an option.

Wild, Wild Life/Talking Heads

The back of a Lonely Planet book shows someone taking part in the running of the bulls. The caption reads: “Will you have enough stories to tell your grandchildren?”

And the last lines of Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

I’ve been thinking a lot about these questions. And I’ve begun to dread the question “What’s new?” Sometimes it feels like I’m at the centre of the universe, but not in a good way. I’m standing still, while everyone around me is moving. I worry that I’m not going to have any stories to tell.

I want a Wild, Wild Life.

Qawwalis

TV generally portrays a one-dimensional view of Islam. Where, for example, are scenes of whirling dervishes swirling their way closer to Allah? (Although I’m intrigued, I would make a terrible whirling dervish; vomiting doesn’t seem part of their devotional rituals.) And where is the music like this?

Hare Krishna

Hinduism seems like the most fun and sensual of religions. Ganja-smoking Shivaites, a blue god who seduces milk-maidens in great cosmic lie-ins; bathing statues of the elephant-god Ganesh in milk and honey. I used to have fantasies of running away and joining the Hare Krishnas; their chanting is kind of infectious.

Hare Krishnas at an Iggy Pop and the Stooges music festival...

Om Mani Peme Hung

Barely 40, mother of two young kids (one not yet a year old), dying of a brain tumour in the hospital, no longer able to do anything except express her wishes. Who would begrudge her incense, chanting, an image of Buddha? Some of her friends, apparently.

A Buddhist mantra for Linda…

Ma Nishtana

An email exchange with a colleague last Thursday:

Me: Have a happy Easter.

Him: Thanks, but I’m actually celebrating Passover.

Me: Oops, sorry. Well, as long as whatever you’re celebrating involves chocolate?

Him: PRECISELY.

Some music for Passover...(I suggest the 4th song, Ma Nishtana)

Hallelujah (Handel's version, not Cohen's)

Years later I ventured back into churches. Not on a regular basis, but on those special occasions when choirs are featured. Those voices lift me out of the morass of pettiness I’m so often stuck in. I have yet to experience anything as transcendent as music.

A song for Easter, even though it always seems to be played at Christmas (I can’t listen to Youtube today, so hopefully this is a good recording).

Requiem/M. Ward

I dropped out of Sunday school because I found it hard to worship a being whose favourite activity seemed to be smiting. Thankfully, in that family it didn’t appear to be a case of “like father, like son.” We should have started with the New Testament.

A Requiem for Good Friday...

Here Comes the Sun

Here comes the song I play when I’m feeling down. Supposedly it was written by George when the Beatles were spending long days in the studio recording Abbey Road, and descending into divorce. George went to visit Eric Clapton one afternoon, and wrote this in his garden.

Venus/Shocking Blue (NOT Bananarama's version)

My younger self’s best friend’s father owned a bar. It was the era of go-go dancing, and sometimes Bonnie got to go go-going at his bar (he’d probably be raided for such actions now). I was envious: I wanted to don go-go boots and go go-go dancing too, to music like this.

Vincent (Starry Starry Night)

Vincent Van Gogh had “two unsuitable and unhappy romances and worked unsuccessfully as a clerk.” He even managed to get fired as a preacher, because of overzealousness (how often does that happen?). With that pile of prefixes slowly crushing him, it’s no wonder he killed himself.

Moondance

The moon is full, the air finely chilled, and wintry white skin will glow like pearls under the moonlight. So throw back the sheets that keep you tucked in, grab your favourite creature of the dark, and start moving. It’s a marvelous night for a Moondance.

Moonage a trois (sorry...)

I couldn’t decide which to pick, so choose the one(s) you want to sleep with tonight: Cowboy Junkies’ Crescent Moon (which lives in the gated community of Rhapsody so only Americans can get in), Genesis’ Mad Man Moon (video chosen specially for Maureen) or R.E.M.’s Man on the Moon.

Moon over Bourbon Street/Sting

He’s one of the community-integrated-media-savvy undead, like Lestat and Fido, who cannot overcome the urge to dine on humans, despite their high fat content. Having to destroy those you love would be a bitch, but think of all the bad habits one could indulge in when undead.

Blue Moon

Blue moons are relatively rare; they only occur, well, once in a
Blue Moon. Except after the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883, when all the particulate matter in the atmosphere caused the moon to appear blue for almost two years. Click here for upcoming blue moons.

Moonshadow

In European folklore, under a full moon your shadow comes alive and wreaks havoc. Maybe a moonshadow stole the Cat Stevens tape that I so adored. Maybe a moonshadow stole the musician that I so adored, so that not even a shadow of his former self remained.

Bad Moon Rising

I learned a new word today: mondegreen. It’s when you mishear something. There’s a mondegreen in Bad Moon Rising. Instead of There’s a bad moon on the rise some people (probably those with full bladders) think it's actually There’s a bathroom on the right.

Moon River

Truman Capote’s name conjures up chilling visions of In Cold Blood, and I was surprised to learn that he wrote Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Maybe that range is a testament to his genius. If Capote had had his way Marilyn Monroe would have been singing this, not Audrey Hepburn.

Harvest Moon/Neil Young

A huge orange moon loomed over Food Basics a few weeks ago, briefly bathing the store in beauty. The atmosphere is our magus, bringing us blushing sunrises, violent sunsets and harvest moons. It’s not September, nor a full moon, but the season for dancing and love has begun.

Landslide

Long ago I worked at a jewelry kiosk in the Montreal train station. A customer claimed to be Stevie Nicks. I had no idea who that was, but acted impressed since she seemed to expect it. I doubt it was her; the jewelry was cheap and charmless.

Autorickshaw

I looked on YouTube but kept getting videos of suicidal/homicidal autorickshaw drivers in India. They’re classified as Indo (although I have yet to detect the sounds of a sitar)-jazz-funk. When I listen to them I feel like the snake being seduced out of the snake-charmer’s basket.

I'm a lumberjack

Here’s a Canadian logging song that should be watched with a Norwegian Blue parrot that’s only sleeping, not dead, some Venezuelan Beaver Cheese and spam, a gun to defend yourself against fresh fruit attacks, and lots of nudge nudging, wink winking and say-no-more, say no moreing.

Arcade Fire/Owen Pallett

I had never heard of this band. I wanted to write about Owen Pallett, and found out that he plays with Arcade Fire. It’s hard to describe Pallett’s solo stuff–it’s like falling down a rabbit-hole into ViolinWonderland. YouTube doesn’t do him justice. Here's Arcade Fire instead.

Vishwa Mohan Bhatt

Now I know why the mohan veena sounds like a sitar; they’re genetically related. Vishwa Mohan Bhatt studied sitar with Ravi Shankar. He (Bhatt) was the first person to successfully breed in captivity a Spanish guitar and a sitar, and the mohan veena was born.

Harry Manx

Harry Manx can make a banjo sound like a sitar. Perhaps less surprisingly, he also makes the mohan veena sound like a sitar (to me, every Indian stringed instrument sounds like a sitar). Here he’s playing a “bluesier” piece, but if you want to sample his “not-a-sitar-but-sounds-sitarish” stuff, try here.

Bela Fleck and the Flecktones

Realizing that two left feet and an off-key voice would be large impediments to becoming a pip, I dreamt of becoming a banjo virtuoso (like Bela Fleck) instead. I’m also tone deaf—another thwarted dream. It seems my destiny is to enjoy others’ performances instead.

Midnight Train to Georgia

When I was younger I longed to be one of the pips. I’d imagine myself swaying hips to the left and shimmering body to the right, echoing Gladys’ refrain of broken dreams and love as the train sets out on its midnight run to Georgia ("ooh, ooh").

What a wonderful world/Louis Armstrong

YouTube has several videos of Louis Armstrong performing this: one shows idyllic nature scenes, another babies, yet another scenes from Good Morning Vietnam, and Yoda even makes an appearance. Yes, there’s war, famine, terrorist threats and telemarketers, but when I hear this song I’m somehow convinced this is a wonderful world.

Disco Duck

Another contender for stupidest song is Disco Duck, which also gave rise to the most embarrassing dance move ever. What can you expect from someone called Rick Dees & His Cast of Idiots? It is hard to resist though. (Help, I can’t stop flapping my arms…)

Sexy Sadie

I always thought Sexy Sadie was about a sexy woman named Sadie who, for reasons that were unclear, made a fool of everyone. Maybe I’m the last to know this, but it was actually written about Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and his wandering eyes/hands/other body parts.

On the nickel

Tom Waits wrote it, but don’t listen to his version on YouTube—it reminded me of that scene in The Simpsons when pseudo-Christopher Walken was reading Goodnight Moon to a bunch of kids. If you can, listen to Georgette Fry sing this lullaby for grownups.

Camino/Oliver Schroer

Most people walking the 800 km+ El Camino de Santiago travel as lightly as possible. Not so Oliver Schroer. He carried a violin and portable recording studio, “packed in a reliquary of socks and underwear.” Stopping in churches, he recorded a musical diary of his journey.

School's Out/Alice Cooper

A power shortage sent everyone home early today. I slipped into bed for a nap. Looking up at the blue sky above me I felt a delicious sense of freedom—the same feeling I had when School’s Out was played on the last day of every school year.

Born to run/Bruce Springsteen (with a cameo appearance by Clarissa Pinkola Estes)

I longed to run with Bruce whenever I heard this song, fuelled by wild love and runaway dreams. (Later I longed to run with the wolves, but that’s another story.) Looking back my life has been more of a stroll, but my knees are better for it.

Is this love/Bob Marley

Someone wrote “Bob only sounds good to people who would enjoy a phonebook reading accompanied by a metronome.” I guess I am one of THOSE easily excitable people who gets swoonish when listening to a recital of telephone numbers against the backdrop of a steady beat.

Rasputin

A little guesthouse in a little town in a remote area of Northern Java. Our days were spent sitting on the terrace, watching the fishing boats meander. Occasionally the ferry would pass, treating(?) us to the anomalous din of Boney M and “Russia’s greatest love machine.”

Rod Stewart and Maggie May

When I was a teenager, I desperately wanted to be Rod Stewart’s bed wrecking head kicking Maggie May. When I look at pictures of him now, my only thought is that he seems to be having a perpetual bad hair day. Too much head kicking perhaps.

Hallelujah

Perhaps whoever was on the school’s Christmas concert planning committee picked it because of the title, or maybe the committee was stacked with Leonard Cohen fans. Regardless, we were amused to hear 9 and 10 year olds passionately singing the words to Hallelujah:

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew her

She tied you

To a kitchen chair

She broke your throne, and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah…

Stairway to Heaven

Stairway to Heaven was the makeout song at the end of every high school party. It worked well for this purpose since it was so long. In contrast, the length of those stairs probably convinced many to take the paved road heading in the other direction.

The Doobie Brothers

Janet’s car was broken into in the 1970s. The thieves seemed to be targeting her collection of cassettes. They took them all except for a Doobie Brothers tape, which they contemptuously threw on the back seat. She still smarts at this slap across her musical taste.

Puff the Magic Dragon

I love Puff the Magic Dragon, which I thought was a bittersweet tale about growing up and losing one’s sense of wonder. Then someone informed me it’s an ode to getting stoned. Potheads aren’t seeking magical realms; they huff and they puff and they blow them down.