Talk to Me

 

I cannot put pegs into these slots 

If any of you have stuck with me on these random posts I share every so often, over the past ten years or so, you’ll know that I’ve shared a lot of tales regarding my medical history.  I’m sure it’s not very entertaining, but it’s been my way of dealing with it.  Writing about my medical experiences helps me deal with them emotionally.  None of it is intended to create a pity party for me.  It is to get it off my chest, and by chance, by sharing my experiences, I might reach someone that may be helped!  I would be astounded.  I also like the idea that it might create connection.  It rarely has, but perhaps one day. 

Currently, I am in a strange place.  I was on a new medication that has been pretty successful at shrinking tumors caused by the genetic syndrome I have (VHL).  I began taking it in March of this year.  It did cause minor tumor shrinkage by May, but for me, the side effects were tough to handle.  I began to regularly struggle to breathe, and started to have occasional chest pains.  The doctor lowered my dose.  My next MRI, showed no tumor change by August, which seemed promising, yet the side effects made life unlivable, so my oncologist lowered my dose again.  This seemed okay, until September when the side effects kicked in again!  So bad, the chest pains were worse than ever.  I started having days where I could not do anything at all, because of the pain and lack of oxygen in my blood stream.  Turns out I had developed atrial fibrillation.  My heart was beating irregularly and way too fast.  One day in October, I actually ended up going to the ER, which seems to be called the ED now.  Now, I’m no longer taking the medication and my most recent MRI, early this month, shows new tumor growth. 

At this point, I honestly don’t know what to do.  I’ve been told that another brain surgery will be too dangerous, I already know that uncontained tumor growth will lead to paralysis, incredible pain, and eventually an agonizing death.  So, what should I do?  The medication is too harsh to take.  It’s intolerable.  I’ve been in mourning, while I try to accept the idea that I’ll have a rough road ahead.  I’m not done fighting, but I need to prepare for an unpleasant and possibly deadly near future.

Again, none of this is intended to elicit sympathy, it is simply my reality.  Besides possible connection with people, I am looking for understanding and support.  I am honestly, exhausted about unsolicited advice from people who clearly do not understand or try to understand my situation.  I do not believe that my problems are any worse than anyone else’s.  In fact, I am working hard to acknowledge my great fortune in life.  Everything could be so much worse. 

All of us have problems, it’s a part of living.  I get incredibly frustrated when people try to compete over who has things worse!  Is that what you really want?  Do you want to win at misery?  I certainly don’t, nor do I think I would.  There is a narcissism there that I cannot relate to and that I find incredibly frustrating.  Because of my experiences, I am actually very empathetic.  I take people’s troubles very seriously.  No matter what the troubles may consist of.  Being a patient in the hospital for long periods of time can be frustrating and difficult, but mostly humbling.  Your privacy and personal space are constantly invaded.  It’s like a chance to live like a helpless infant, but this time you will likely remember it – vividly!  As a side effect, at least for me, it takes away a lot of bullshit fronts that we all build up over time. 

 

Therapy is always all smiles

I have lost friendships as my health has declined in recent years, and more so, find that I don’t hear, nearly as often from my friends.  I don’t blame them, because I cannot do a lot of the things I used to be able to.  I wish it weren’t so, but it is reality, and another thing for me to mourn, along with mourning of the loss of that old functionality.  I get tired and very frustrated by fumbling around and struggling in an effort to do simple tasks.  And you know what?  It’s not pretty.  I try to be patient and positive, but endless hours of Physical and Occupational therapy exercise over several years have made very little impact.  I get incredibly angry and my neighbors are likely exhausted from hearing me shout exclamations through the shared walls of our apartments.  Everyone chooses their own path, and if I’m too much of a bummer, or no longer am that go to guy for a companion at a live show, or out on the golf course, or whatever, I respect the choice to take me off the list.  However, and most important, I want to thank everyone who has stuck by me over the years, I cannot thank you all enough!  Your generosity has kept me afloat, and that is incredibly humbling as well. 

I’m not sure what else I really want to say, other than a little understanding would be nice and incredibly comforting to me.  I am upset and angry enough.  Like I mentioned before, it helps me get my anxiety under some control, if I write about these things.  I have a lot of fight left in me!  I’m simply uncertain right now, and frankly, scared.

Trust

He was confused.  For some reason, there were people everywhere in his hospital room.  What happened to Covid protocols.  Why couldn’t he have visitors, if they were grouping patients together?  Last he remembered, he had been in the ICU.  Now, there were blinding lights, a TV blaring, and people all around, including kids.  The room was large and extended to the outside.  It reminded him of being at a camp.  The nurse gathered everyone to the outside area – a patio.  There were rows of people kneeling in a circle.  The children in the inner circle and adults around them.  He was still in his hospital gown and chilly from the cold evening air.  He asked the nurse if she could get him something for his throat, which felt scratchy.

The group of people in a circle were about to play some sort of game.  The nurse instructed everyone about how the game was played.  He didn’t pay any attention, as he sort of half-knelt on the outside of the circle.  He didn’t like games, or children.  Even as a child, he didn’t really like children.  He had several friends, but he mostly kept to himself.  He especially hated kids in movies and TV shows.  He always felt there was something suspicious and creepy about them.  He felt that the kids were always somehow generic depictions of kids as adults often perceive them: totally unrealistic and annoying.  The boys were always wat too sensitive and stupid, or bullies.  The girls were very saccharine sweet and gentle, or conniving and evil.  No nuance.  Nothing in-between.  You could only get intelligent characters with real feelings in the Peanuts cartoons.

He was staring at the TV, when the nurse returned with what looked like a spray bottle of Chloraseptic from the 70s for his throat.  He thought to himself that it may have been that long since he had used it.  He was super excited about it!  She sprayed a shot onto his tongue, which had been damaged during his surgery and was so swollen that he had a difficult time rolling it out of his mouth.  The sticky red substance burned his tongue at first, but the gooey juice hit his throat and he grinned at the distant memories it elicited.  He and the nurse discussed memories of the numbing candy that is the Chloraseptic.  He asked her, over the laughing and clapping of the crowd of people, if she could change the channel on the TV to some new show that was supposed to be about a guy on kidney dialysis.  He was curious, because he had been on dialysis.  She did, but it was already in progress.  He became immediately distracted and bored.  The outdoor area slowly emptied out and he sat on the edge of his hospital bed and stared at the Chloraseptic bottle, grabbed it, sprayed it into his mouth, or tried to, missed and instead sprayed it around his mouth.  He glanced around for a wash cloth, gave up, and simply wiped around his mouth with his hand.  He eventually laid back into his bed and wiped his sticky hand on the sheets.

A cool blast of air hit his naked back.  He wrapped his arms tightly around his torso.  He looked down and realized that he was naked, except for some tubes coming out of his body.  Gone was his flimsy hospital gown.  He called for the nurse after a few minutes of shivering.  He realized that he was in the back of something akin to mining cars on a rail.  His was about five empty cars back from the front.  The cars curled to the right and back inside the hospital.  Meanwhile, he was outside on the covered patio.  He told the nurse he was cold, the nurse said she’d be right back.  He examined his predicament.  How did he get here?  The patio was decorated with Halloween decorations.  Jack o’ Lanterns were placed around, black construction paper bat cutouts were everywhere,  and there was a string of orange lights along the patio ceiling.  He wasn’t sure if it was the Halloween vibes, or simply his dislike of that particular holiday that was giving him an itchy feeling of dread.  He tried to look around behind him, but he could not turn his head more than an inch or two, and he had already lost his peripheral vision prior to his brain surgery.  Then he heard something behind him.  That’s when he realized there was someone back there.

 

The nurse returned.  That’s when he noticed she wasn’t wearing scrubs, but instead wearing an old school nurse outfit with the weird hair hat thing folded into her hair.  He hadn’t seen a nurse dressed like that since his first hospital stay in the mid-eighties, and even then, most didn’t.  It must be Halloween.  He was still cold, but instead asked her if someone was behind him.  She looked right where he suspected this figure stood and hesitated and had recognition in her eyes.  He heard the sound of a gun clicking into firing mode. 

“No, there’s no one else here.”

He did not believe her.  She could no longer be trusted.  Here he was, naked, cold, outdoors, and about to be shot in the back.  He could not climb out of the railcar, nor turn his head, because of the surgery. 

“I know there is someone there.  I can feel them.”

“No, I swear to you, it’s just you and I, Alexander.”

She turned and left, and circled back indoors.

There was movement, he noticed, reflecting off a dark window to his right, but still in front of him.  He could hear someone let out some air and then take a quick breath in.  It seemed like it was from directly behind him.  He imagined someone with a pistol pointed down directly at the back of his head.  He started to say something, but instead decided he was okay with this.  He didn’t understand why this would happen.  The hospital is supposed to be a safe place, but he decided he was ready to give up fighting.  He was ready for this all to be over.  He put his head forward and put his arms out to show his surrender, yet nothing happened. 

After what seemed like hours.  He decided to try to escape.  Somehow, after several minutes, he willed himself out of the rail car, which felt like a prison.  He hurt his ribs, and scraped his knees while sliding out and hit the pavement of the patio indelicately.  He found his gown, which he had been sitting on.  He did his best to put it on and even tried to tie it on at the back of his neck, so it wouldn’t constantly fall off his shoulders and down his arms.  He did not see anyone around and the way back into the hospital was closed off, so he crawled/half walked his way off the patio onto some damp grass that wrapped around the hospital building and its surrounding bushes. 

It was very dark, but there were a lot of streetlamps illuminating the greenery giving the shrubbery long shadows – making them look much larger than they were.  He scuttled around the building in a shuffle.  He couldn’t quite walk, but this wasn’t exactly crawling either.  The uneven ground made him stumble and fall a lot.  There were windows every twenty feet or so, which looked like black squares.  The bushes would break and he could approach each window.  After checking several windows, he approached one and thought he saw movement inside.  He hunched down and felt that sinking feeling that there was a presence behind him again.  He envisioned the figure with the gun trained on him from directly behind.  He could hear the crunch of rubber soled sneakers squeak on the damp grass quietly behind him.  This time though, he sensed another figure to his left.  He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t sense any danger.  He quickly jerked his head to the left, as far as it would go, and a striking flash of pain shot down his spine – the pain dropped him to his knees.  He couldn’t be sure, but he surmised that the second presence had a motion picture camera trained on him.  He knocked on the window and began to shiver. 

His nurse opened the window from inside. 

“Shhhhh” she hissed.  “You’re going to ruin everything!”

“Can I get back to bed?  I’m exhausted and cold” he pleaded, before adding, “What’s going on?”

“There’s nothing going on, please trust me.  Would I do anything to hurt you?”

He hesitated.  He was confused by all of this activity.  He’d been in hospitals several times, yet this time, he wasn’t sure where he was or why he had been left alone outside.

“I – I don’t think so.  Can you help me?”

“Cut!”  He heard from behind.  He clumsily shifted from his knees to sit on his backside, so he could see out away from the window.  The damp grass made his exposed butt itch like crazy.  There was more than a figure or two behind him.  There were a bunch of people.  He didn’t see anyone with a gun, but instead what seemed to be an entire film crew!   There were a couple of cameras, someone with a long microphone, and likely a gaffer, and some grips.  He could see his nurse, now outside, and it looked like she was arguing with another woman.  This other woman seemed to be in charge – the director perhaps?

“He’s no good!  This isn’t working!  He’s not right for this!” the director shouted, while gesturing towards him. 

“I thought that there was no script!  I thought the whole plan was to see what happens!” his nurse seemed agitated.

“Let’s break it down,” the director shouted, and immediately, the crew, who had been so quiet, were now a flurry of activity.  What seemed like maybe thirty people were moving all around him, putting devices into cases, wrapping cords into loops, stuffing their faces with pastries, and carrying goods to a van far off in the parking lot.  

After an eternity of bewilderment, he looked at his nurse, who was now standing next to him. 

“Let’s get you into a wheelchair,” then she shouted out to some young guy to bring a chair.  The director walked over to him and the nurse, who stood with her arms crossed, her left foot placed in front of her, and an irritated look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander mumbled, looking up at the director.

“Oh Jesus!!” she gasped and stormed off toward the van.

The young guy eventually showed up with a wheelchair and he and the nurse helped Alexander transfer into the chair.  Immediately, his tense back relaxed and he started deep breathing.  Though still chilly, he felt a lot better, but instead of wheeling him back inside the hospital, they both walked off.  Most of the crew had disappeared and the van was gone.  He was alone. 

He turned his chair toward the window he was in front of and saw his nurse and the director in a conversation.  It looked like an argument.  Eventually, the nurse left the room and he sat in the wheelchair and watched the director stand in front of a whiteboard, crossing notes off the board and writing new ones over it. 

He sat there, for what seemed like an hour, shivering.  He shouted out for help, but no one came.

Daylight filled the room.  He tried to open his eyes and see where he was.  He was laying down back in his hospital bed.  He could tell that he had fresh and clean bedsheets.  He was still cold.  He pulled the comforter up over his shoulders.  He looked around the room through the blur.  It was like he had Vaseline in his eyes.  He struggled to focus and saw a blurry bottle of Chloraseptic sitting on the bedside table.  He dropped his head back onto the pillow, closed his eyes, and let his breath go until there was nothing left in his lungs.e dropped his head baxck He dropped He

 

 

 

The Light

 

He wrapped the sleeve of his jacket around his right fist and used the fabric to dry off a circle of condensation on the inside window of the bus so he could see out.  It was dark – really dark.  It was deep into Fall, when the darkness comes early, and we’re all still kind of used to the daylight lasting well into the evening.  He liked watching the lights coming from the buildings this particular bus passed along its path.  Its path was a long one.  It helped pass the time.  This was a commuter bus from downtown, through SW Portland surface streets, all the way out to the suburbs and ending finally in the countryside.  He enjoyed looking at the shops along the way.  He always noticed shops that he would not see during the day.  These intrigued him and made him think that maybe he would one day stop off and uncover some sort of Daniel Pinkwater world, where he would meet strange characters in a mysterious coffee shop or all night bookstore and go on adventures.  He was also intrigued by the seemingly endless number of apartment complexes along the way.  They were all much like his own.  He was fascinated by how few lights emanated from them.  He wondered if they were filled with lonely people, like himself, who while away their time at home, alone, mostly in the dark.  He never particularly liked light.  He liked the darkness.  His eyes were generally pretty sensitive to brightness.  He began to try to discern the lights that were coming from windows of the apartments.  There were many different shades, colors, and levels of brightness.  A strong wave of sadness enveloped him.  He began to imagine internal crises going on inside those boxes.  All of those people so close together, yet all living completely separate.  

His mind drifted back to a long-ago memory of him and his father visiting some young family’s home.  It was a home on one of those streets that has a grass covered island down the middle of the street.  On the end of that island was a covered half basketball court with one hoop.  It was dusk.  Mostly dark, but there were still faint hints of pale pink and urine yellow washes in the western sky.  Bright buzzing lights were already blaring from tall poles in and around the court.  He spent his time shooting baskets, because he used to enjoy that.  The constant bouncing of the ball, only broken by brief moments of silence for shots, echoed through the neighborhood, but did not stir any attention.  The echo of the dribbles – a simultaneous thwip/thud – were beginning to give him a headache, yet he continued on.  He was hyper aware of his surroundings.  He couldn’t really see outside the covered barrier due to the intensity of the lights, which were above and posted at each corner of the court.  These lights created those weird four-part shadows that show in every direction.  Only darkness lay beyond.  These intense and stark lights, along with the complete lack of activity throughout the neighborhood, made him feel incredibly lonely.  As he thought about this memory, he began to question it.  He couldn’t pin down when this was, approximately how old he was, who the people were, why they were there – wherever they were, why the rest of his family weren’t there, or if this was a completely invented memory.  He was not very old, so this stuff should’ve been much clearer.

He was certain that his Mom would’ve turned every light in the house on day and night, if she had the option, but no one else wanted that.  She loved light.  He started to understand, as he looked at all of the dark residences.  He longed for a window with light and life coming out.  Sure, each apartment complex had street lighting and strategic light posts in and around each pathway, the parking lots, and the doors of each unit, but those only highlighted the sheer stillness.  No activity could be seen.  He began to imagine birthday parties inside, or other fun memories and moments, but could not conjure anything, but empty spaces, or people alone, motionless, in front of a TV.  He decided that it couldn’t be all that bleak.  He remembered how he used to sit for hours staring into the lights of his stereo, as he listened to the radio stations fade in and out, afraid to turn it off, in case he might miss that one important song that would change his life. 

 

He had other basketball memories.  When he played on the High School team, the two best teams in their league were also the two biggest schools.  Both of them had weird lighting in their gyms.  It’s no surprise his teams’ had little chance of victory.  One of the gyms had strange blue-ish lights that made everyone look like a corpse.  It actually made everyone’s lips look blue, and everyone felt sluggish and weighed down with heavy limbs.  The other looked like an old cabin in the forest, which was lit by about a dozen bare 40-watt light bulbs.  It was dark and creepy like the old slasher movies that he had been exposed to far too early in life.

He drifted off into more thought.  There is probably some sort of science to how lighting dictates mood and entire communities who are hyper-aware of how different lighting effects them, and do their best to control it.  If only he cared enough to look it up on his phone, but he only got so far as pulling it out of his pocket.  Then he started thinking about lights in the classrooms he grew up attending in school and in his workplace.  Upsetting at best.  Then he started thinking about those who are into controlling their lighting environments – it must be be exhausting.  He guessed that being too aware of how light can affect mood could make one too sensitive, so in effect cancelling the entire point.  We cannot control most lighting we’re exposed to and it can truly be disconcerting and uncomfortable at times.  For example, the lighting on this bus is startling and disturbing.  It makes everyone look weird.  It’s set for night driving, it’s a dark red near the driver, but bright in the rear to a point where you can see everyone’s blood vessels.  He decided to open his phone to social media to pass the time.  Isolated with about 30 other people nearby.

Expert in a Dying Field

 

The Beths

Expert in a Dying Field

(Carpark)

How does a person become an expert?  I'm not sure what that entails or feels like.  I suppose I became an export of sorts at some of my various jobs over the years, after practicing them for many years.  That never felt like anything other than doing a bunch of stuff that I really didn’t want to do.  Perhaps that is my problem that I need to figure out and adjust.  What I do know is that despite living in a country and society that touts capitalism, I seem to embrace dying fields, or anything that can be lucrative financially.  The things I enjoy doing or being a part of one rarely gets the opportunity to earn a living.  I have a feeling that this is true for many of us.  The entire “job” scenario alludes me.  How did we get here?  Why can I not be productive with the stupid shit I like to do without spending most of my time trying to make enough money to survive?  This is part of why I try to be so supportive of the artists I appreciate.  I try to buy stuff and talk about it when I can, in a minor effort to keep these atists enhancing my life with their creativity. 

The more life I’ve lived, the less I understand how to navigate it.  All of the good ideas I have and things I’d like to do feel impossible.  I’d like to be involved with music related projects, but the music industry is only profitable to an incredible minority and I don’t ever fit in, nor do I know how to break in.  My friend Ox and I have tried releasing music, and online music retail, but almost no one buys it anymore.  I sometimes enjoy writing. in my amateurish way, but I am allergic to promoting it, or trying to monetize it, nor do I think I could earn a living at it.  When I was a dialysis patient I had some serious ideas that might help dialysis patients with their difficult diets, but I never knew how to make that happen.  I would like to help people dealing with trying to navigate the medical system, but I don’t have the job experience or education to be taken seriously.  I have the problem of shooting myself down before anyone else can.  I am good at self-sabotaging, and I tend to disengage from things I like and can be good at, when they become jobs.

It’s surprising to me that this will be the first time I’ve written about Auckland, New Zealand’s The Beths.  Expert in a Dying Field is their third album since 2018 and it is as fresh and exciting as their debut!  I first happened upon them by accident via their first single “Future Me Hates Me,” which the creepy YouTube algorithms thrust upon me after I played my chosen song and I had let it play.  Turns out this one was right on!  I immediately pre-ordered that first LP.  It’s been a fun ride ever since.

The Beths "Future Me Hates Me"

I hate say it, since I recently referenced it, but I think I may have given The Beths a bit of a short shrift in that Men at Work way (read here).  They are fun and display a sense of humor, yet they are much more than that.  The “Future Me Hates Me” video is a sweet kind of goofy clip and the song has an awe-shucks ‘everything goes wrong’ self-deprecation shrug vibe to it.  This is an unfair and shallow assessment.  Bandleader Elizabeth Stokes’ lyrics are incredibly clever, inventive, heartfelt and impactful.  She has an unbelievable knack for creating effortless sounding pop songs that are relatable in an every-person sort of way.    Plus, they flat out rock!  These pop tunes are crunchy, buzzy, energetic, light on their feet and performed flawlessly.  The background vocals are otherworldly, frequent and super fun.  They capture the relatability and excellence of some of 90s band That Dog, but with way more consistency. 

The thing is that these songs can be fun and fun to blast on a warm sunny day, but they have a lot of depth.  Not far underneath these clever and inventive songs is some deeply felt emotion and huge dollops of melancholy.  There is a sense of loss and longing that is infused in most of their songs giving them an added depth.

I realize that the excellent title and lead off song for this album, “Expert in a Dying Field,” is a thought-provoking missive about clarity about a dying relationship, but to me, it’s more universal.  It’s bigger than that.  The title alone has stuck with me since it was first released as a single.  Stokes has had me contemplating life, existence, work, usefulness, and the damning passage of time just with the song title alone!  It has me feeling like an old relic.  Not the potentially valuable kind, but the kind that sits unnoticed in a weekend garage sale, that will be thrown away if not sold for a nickel.  Far too often, I feel like most of my interests and desires are part of dying fields. 

Having said that though, this album does not make me feel old.  Anything but!  The Beths brand of energetic pop rock is the type of thing that has always rejuvenated me.  Their mix of high energy, burbling basslines, noisy guitars, frantic drumming, incredible sing along songs full of passion is never not utterly infectious. 

The second song on the LP, “Knees Deep,” is the kind of song that confuses me.  It is so catchy and relatable, at least to me (“The shame / I wish I was brave enough to dive in”), it should be a massive worldwide hit that none of us can escape.  These songs are all over this album and their entire catalog.  This can also be said of the ultra-sentimental “Your Side,” the anthemic “Best Left,” the rocking “I Told You that I was Afraid,” and the reflective and wistful love song “2am.”

I think about times in my life, when I have pushed difficult and uncompromising noise onto others, attempting to prove to others that I am also those things.  There is that side of me, but I still get giddy over really well-done pop music.  I would’ve loved the Beths when I was a 4^th grader and I love them now as an old relic, or anytime in-between.

(https://thebethsnz.bandcamp.com/album/expert-in-a-dying-field)

The Beths "Expert in a Dying Field"

Keep on Working

 

Every September for the past several years, I have posted hyper-enthusiastic posts regarding my annual vacation time spent attending the annual visit to Portland by the LPGA (Ladies Professional Golf Association).  Except for last year.  Last year, I was hobbled too much by my medical condition, the tournament was moved to a terrible location and it was mostly rained out.  I did try to attend one day, but the course was simply too hilly.  It was upsetting, but I kept telling myself: next year.

Everything started falling in to place.  The tournament is set to return to its usual location at Columbia Edgewater CC and return period.  A new sponsor has signed on (AmazingCre – whatever that is), and the field looks to be loaded with stars.  However, I am not ready.  Generally, I get involved for the entire week.  I have volunteered to caddie for the two Pro-Ams and attend from dawn until near dusk all four rounds of the tournament.  I genuinely love it.  Perhaps too much!  Every year, I realize that I feel truly at home out there and feel great!  It makes me giddy!  I have always been able to overcome my physical limitations and push through and walk those hills repeatedly in the sunshine.  I had considered buying what they call Champion’s Club tickets (which are like luxury box seats in an arena (food and beverages are provided), but these seats overlooking the final hole are now too expensive for me to consider, even though I have bought them in the past.  I most enjoy following and rooting on my favorite players as they make their way around the course, but had considered the Champion’s Club seats as an alternative due to my current disabled state.  Unfortunately, they priced this particular riff raff out of the market, and the realization that the walk from the adjacent field parking lot to the golf course would likely be too difficult.

Now, on the eve of the tournament, I find myself truly lost.  I don’t carry cable TV anymore, so I will miss the TV coverage and I won’t get to see the golf and the trials and triumphs that take place everywhere on the course.  It is depressing.  To most, it likely sounds silly.  Yet to me, it’s emblematic of where I am now.  So much of who I am and what I do, or have always done, is gone.  Live music?  Gone.  I know there are ways to make some of these things happen, but it is all just too much for me to handle at this point.  I’m in mourning for what I used to be able to do and have not yet figured out what’s next.  I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into depression and this event that I always find so important and so rejuvenating has slipped through my hands for a second year in a row.

Next Year.  There’s always next year.  Gotta keep on working.

Overkill

 

Apparently, I’m a very nostalgic person.  I was thinking about how during the fall of 1988, my senior year of high school, I made a melancholy mix tape made up of songs from my earliest purchased records, so we’re talking stuff from like 81-83.  I remember being a huge Men at Work fan in 5^th & 6^th grade and digging their goofy schtick.  By 1988, I was fully immersed in the darkness of a lot of postpunk, gothic rock and industrial, so I was pleased to choose songs like the hyper reflective and nostalgic “I Can See it Your Eyes” and the underrated “Overkill” as choices for my mix.  It was fun rediscovering these things from my then distant past.  It seems silly now, because that was only five or so years prior, but it was almost a third of my life at the time.  Now that I am officially old, five years is a blink of an eye in an ever-unchanging lifestyle.

 

Men At Work "I Can See it in Your Eyes"

I realize that it is quite meta to be reminiscing about a time that I was reminiscing about songs about reminiscing, but that’s how I seem to be built.  Besides, if one listens to these two songs closely, they will tell my story here much better and more eloquently than I can.

 

Men At Work "Overkill"

As summer turned into fall in 2004, I was sick.  I was really sick.  I’ve written about it before, so I won’t dive too far into it here, but I had been on kidney dialysis for almost three years, I was going through treatments to kill my immune system, and my skeleton was withering away.  I was dying.  I hadn’t given up, but unconsciously, I think I knew my time was coming.  I had stopped sleeping, so every night I would weed through all of my stuff and box most of it up to get rid of.  I began perusing through old stuff like all of my comic books from the early 80s and all of those old mixtapes I used to make for car rides.  Before getting rid of these things, I read the comic books and listened to the tapes.  Both would transport me not only into the world’s within, but to the times that I originally encountered them.  It was pretty powerful.  It was a slow-cooked version of having much of my isolated life pass before my eyes.  There was a particular mix tape from 1987 that blossomed a very powerful flashback to a very particular day.  It included the song by the Cure, “Why Can’t I Be You?”  I think the fact that the tape had been put together when that song was brand new, took me back to that time.  When I say “took me back,” the memory became so vivid and real that it became a powerful beacon that I began to strive for. 

 

The Cure "Why Can't I Be You?"

The flashback was from a day in 1987, likely June, just after school had ended (sophomore year).  It was a rare bright sunny and warm Saturday on the Oregon coast and I was blasting music in my bedroom, and I remember feeling antsy and likely bored.  My dad told me he was driving to Salem to drop off some commercial art he had done for a client.  I asked him if I could ride along as long as he dropped me off at a record store.  He did and I purchased the Cure’s wild new double album Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me and Concrete Blonde’s debut.  When we got home, I put on the Cure’s new album, and my headphones and was completely drawn in.  The album was epic and more than I could’ve ever hoped for.  It was everything!  Not long afterwards, I got a ride to the south end of town for a dance at our city’s Masonic Temple.  It was there that I hit the dance floor for the first time in my life (to “Why Can’t I Be You?” and Depeche Mode’s “Strangelove”) and later sort of tried my first clove cigarette (so 80s).  It was a good day!   As a memory, in 2004, it was so real – so tangible, I began to feel like I was living that day again.  I’m not sure of the significance of that day, but I wanted those feelings again.  I loved that Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me felt like it was brand new again, that I had not yet heard “Just Like Heaven” 40,000 times and had developed a dislike of the final LP single “Hot Hot Hot!!!”  Not long after this recurring flashback began to dominate all of my thoughts, I got a call for my life saving kidney transplant. 

Like a lot of people, my memories are generally tied to the music I remember from those times.  It’s an old cliché, but it is truly a soundtrack to our life stories.  Personally, I am fascinated by stories.  A lot of the old stories I’ve shared on this page, are moments in time with some deep significance for the narrator/character.  This is why I’ve been so thankful and excited about the handful of Song Stories people have sent in.  It’s these personal attachments to important songs that can sadly get lost when we go. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to some Northern Picture Library and Field Mice songs in my car, as I was stuck in traffic.  I became overwhelmed by the emotion behind some of those songs.  Old wounds from heartbreak bubbled up to the surface, as did an intense longing.  I began to think about how important, not only those songs are to me, but those feelings that they still bring to the surface, which are tied to moments from my life that are only meaningful to me, and hopefully to the other players from those moments.  Then I began to think about how fleeting those moments are and how easily they disappear.  When I finally do pass, all those important moments that make up what and who I am will be gone. 

It brings up all of those old questions everyone asks themselves: “what is all of this for?”  Believe me, I’m not just now asking these things, but for some reason, it has been on my mind a lot lately.  Perhaps it’s because I’m older, wildly unhealthy, and feeling a lot lost.  There is a strong sense of purposelessness happening in my life right now.  I do not feel like I’m contributing, but instead just taking up room and valuable resources.  Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel like I used to.  I’ve reached a point in my life where I am too numb – too calloused from past physical and emotional distress.  Most news is bad news, so when I get positive news, I don’t trust it!  That life soundtrack is getting old and outdated.  New memories are rare and rarely as affecting as they used to be.  I kind of miss feeling dramatic and alive!  Am I alone on this? 

This is a long-winded call for more Song Stories!  Please share them here (tangledrec@hotmail.com).  Every story is important and I’m personally interested in why it’s important.  It can be any song and it can be anonymous.  Let’s explore these hidden moments together.

Thank you Alexandra Smith for sending me the "Overkill" video.

From Capelton Hill

 

Canadian six-piece, Stars, have hit pay dirt with their 9^th album!  I shouldn’t say that, because they have always been consistently good.  They have earned my loyalty.  If they release new music, I will purchase it unheard.  Stars have returned to form!  This, is also untrue.  As I said before, they have always been great!  However, they did set the bar very high from their humble beginning as an electronic duo in 2001 (I was drawn in by their cover of the Smiths “This Charming Man”), to the expanded four-piece lineup enhanced LP Heart, then to the amazing all-time classic that is their third LP, 2004’s Set Yourself on Fire.  It was this LP that blew my mind.  An album that somehow captured some kind of unholy crossing of the Beautiful South and the Delgados.  Capturing a melodrama filled with broken relationships and heartbreak with fantastic orchestral string-laden arrangements.  It was an impossible album to follow, and to be fair, they’ve done an incredible job trying.  Their albums are all consistently good to great, and they always bring that Fire melodrama and energy to their live performances.  However, From Capelton Hill brings back the strings and their secret weapon of having their lead singers, Torquil Campbell and Amy Millan sing most of the songs together.  I don’t know what it is, but the seamless combination of their voices seems to elevate the lyrics to another level.  Every song feels that much more important and crucial. 

It’s pretty remarkable that 21 years on this band has released an album so inspired that it plays like a best of collection.  Drop the needle anywhere and you’re in a song that sounds like it should be a single.  This record is informed by all of their past.  They have the dramatic duets full of desperate, sad and longing words from their early work, busy arrangements like their great 2010 single “Fixed.”  They’ve got the disco inspired dance numbers (a la the No One is Lost LP) of “Build a Fire” and “If I Never See London Again” (more of a Pet Shop Boys-styled circa ’89 Euro-disco triumph), and wonderful ballads such as “Patterns,” “That Girl,” and “Snowy Owl.”  Sure, the dramatics can be a bit overboard at times, like in “To Feel What They Feel,” but I think we all need to be bludgeoned over the head to gain some needed empathy for others, if we’re ever going to get out of our current ugly state of affairs culturally. 

It’s downright remarkable that they can pump out such all-time songs like “Palmistry,” “Pretenders,” and the cinematic “Back at the End,” and “Capelton Hill.”  Personally, I have always loved Amy Millan’s vocals, and this is the album where she is a part of every song!  And a special shout out to Evan Cranley, as the basslines here are fun and lively.  It is truly inspiring to hear a band this engaged after doing this for so long. 

(https://starsband.bandcamp.com/)

Stars "Capelton Hill"