Promised You A Miracle

 

He flopped back over onto his left side and let out a loud frustrated groan.  He thought he had gotten past getting pissed off when trying and failing to sleep.  After not being able to sleep for most of his life, he had finally let it go and accepted it.  He had learned to get out of bed, instead of fighting sleep, and try to be productive, or just zone out to the overnight news broadcasts to try to relax.  It was the spiraling thought.  It was his biggest sleep enemy.  Some sort of dreadful anxious notion that would repeat in his mind endlessly, keeping him from sleep and making him agitated.  Generally, when he was younger, these were about trying to solve some problem at school – not wanting to fall behind, or having to deal with a classmate for some reason.  Then it became work shit and sleep became that much more difficult – especially having a job that was never resolved – just a constant continuing cycle of chaos where no sense of accomplishment could ever be felt.  Yet, he had begun to feel better, once he realized that if he just accepted sleeplessness as a part of his life. 

The futility of it all is what made him so upset.  It all reminded him of his past experience with the Pain Management Clinic and the resulting overnight sleep study.  The bizarre study that took place on a Friday night one summer, where he was expected to go to sleep at about 7 in the evening.  They hooked about 500 wires to him and left him in a lightless room, with nothing to do.  According to the unbelievably handsome doctor who he consulted with the following morning, he did actually sleep some, but stayed in the first phase of sleep the entire time.  This is a phase, where the sleeper’s mind is still semi-conscious and they have incredibly vivid visions or dreams.  This phase normally lasts for less than ten minutes, but he laughed as he told Charles that he stayed there much of the night and never delved into the next phase.  He said, that it’s actually more tiring than not sleeping, again with a chuckle, as he looked to be practicing his golf grip on the pointer in his tan hands.  That was it!  Charles didn’t ask any questions either!  It was like six am on a sunny summer Saturday morning, he probably had a tee time too.  The good looking sleep doctor wrote him a prescription for Ambien, which Chuck had tried in the past and for which it had long lost any effectiveness.

Charles laughed to himself as he thought about the old Pain Management Clinic.  It had all started when his normal headaches were becoming so intense that he was struggling to function.  It was a few months after his kidney transplant, and his transplant doctor thought the PMC might be able to help him.  The clinic was designed to address chronic pain from different angles.  A patient was set up with a medical doctor to direct each case, a physical therapist, and a psychiatrist.  I met my team and they immediately referred me to a headache specialist who looked way too much like the early Law & Order detective Lennie Briscoe.  It’s amazing how little we as people know about the brain.  Treating sleep and headaches at that time was to prescribe a series of formerly antidepressant medications, of which none of them helped my headache nor my sleep, so, after a while Dr. Jerry Orbach sent me back to the PMC.  The four people I interacted with there was the receptionist, who was clearly in charge of the entire clinic and who was a voluptuous blonde named Jenna Jameson, who seemed oblivious that she shared the same name as the most well-known porn star at the time.  Charles would save the phone messages from her regarding upcoming appointments – hoping his roommates would listen to them.  His doctor was Dr. Miracle, who was eerily similar to the Orbit Gum spokeswoman with her sharp British accent and early 60s fashion sense, the psychiatrist was a creepy guy who reeked of cigarettes, had a tiny cramped office, greasy hair, and tons of cassette tapes which he had recorded of him saying things quietly over the sounds of a babbling brook or some such.  Chuck’s first and last session with him took place in a tiny windowless office crowded with stacks of file boxes, after it seemed the shrink had inhaled a tuna sandwich.  They were in facing desk chairs only a few feet apart.  Charles was incredibly uncomfortable, while the psychiatrist diagnosed him as needing sleep, so gave him a few of his homemade relaxation tapes.  Lastly, Charles would see a physical therapist each visit, who would generally employ Craniosacral Therapy on him, which would make him incredibly woozy for the rest of the day, and unsurprisingly, she was the one who diagnosed and solved his headache issues. 

 

He was now dreaming.  He could tell, because he was about four or five years old and there was his mom walking behind him.  She was wearing dark sunglasses.  Beside him was his childhood friend, Jon, whose family lived across the street in their old neighborhood.  They seemed to be at a carnival of some sort.  Dried and pressed grass beneath their feet, twirling rides all about, the smell of burned grease and oil.  He was wearing sandals with white socks and blue shorts.  He had a t-shirt on underneath the green cardigan sweater his grandmother had knitted him.  He was also wearing a blue bucket hat, which he had loved.  He spotted another kid nearby with an ice cream cone shoved up underneath his nose.  He immediately thought about asking his mom for one, but decided against it, when he realized that he was carrying something.  He had a scrapbook in his hands.  Within the context of the dream, he knew that it was his.  His soon to be Kindergarten teacher and his mom had started this book for him.  Inside were projects for him to work on.  It contained reading assignments, art to draw and color, things to read and places to write about various things.

His mom had not been around the family for a short while, and had taken this book with her, but now she was back and the book had some new pages.  The carnival seemed to be near the Hollywood District in Portland.  They had likely walked down the hill from their neighborhood to get there.  It seemed to be themed around movie and TV characters who were based in Portland.  There was a ride/exhibit that featured odd random characters from the old primetime cartoon the Flintstones, who were apparently Portland born.  Strange, but very Portland.  Our inferiority complex runs deep.  Our local news will report about an earthquake in Istanbul or somewhere and relate it to our quake readiness for “when the big one comes.”  They always find some reason to find a NW connection – no matter how loose – to any news positive or not

This was different from any dream he had ever had with his mom.  The only dreams she ever showed up in were the occasional dreams where she would re-appear in his life, such as it is now.  She hadn’t died.  Instead she had gone into hiding for all of these years.  In other words, she had chosen to leave.  These were disturbing, hurtful and very realistic dreams that he hated.  Over the years, he had worked to try to control his dreams, but in this light state of sleep, his influence generally just woke him.  In the case of disturbing dreams like these, he was okay with that.

His mom used to discuss various controversial subjects with him.  The first one he remembered was when Oregon passed a mandatory seatbelt law, but he remembered long discussions regarding hunting, clear cutting forests versus preserving them, the death penalty, abortion, and even daylight savings time.  She would let him come to his own conclusions, would never raise her voice or try to sway his decision, but would play devil’s advocate to test his newly found stances no matter the side he had chosen.  He learned a lot and always appreciated her approach.  It made him feel important.

He sat next to her on a park bench.  Jon, and his older sister Michelle, were waiting in line to ride a Merry-Go-Round made up of Portland based cartoon dinosaurs.  He was looking at his scrapbook.  His mom had added some pages about accepting death.  He turned to her and asked her what these were for, and she said that it was time to get back home.  All of us kids were due at our elderly neighbor’s house, the Kimberly’s.  The childless elderly couple often took care of the young kids in the neighborhood and they spoiled all of us.  We were always welcome to come in for cookies or candy, or play basketball in their driveway, or watch their television.  They were super nice.  He tried to ask his mom again regarding the death pages in the scrapbook.  His semi-conscious self wondered if these were a warning years too late?  This was before his grandmother had passed and all of the dying began.  Were they preparing him for an upcoming loss of someone close in his life now?  Were they for his own life?    His attempt to control the dream stirred him to wake up and feel more exhausted than before he laid down.

Bother

 

None of us want to be a bother, yet we all have differing ideas of what that actually means and likely apply it differently to those around us.  Trying to not be a bother has played a huge roll in my life and I’m not exactly sure why.  When asked why I’m so afraid of being a bother, I generally resort to an answer involving not wanting to be the center of attention or a nuisance, which is true, but it doesn’t tell the whole story.  Much like my recent realization that much of my decision making throughout my life has been made with a very temporary mindset, me realizing that I worry too much about being a bother to others has hindered my growth.  In both cases there’s nothing I can do about the past, but I can try to recognize it going forward and potentially do better going forward.

Abecedarians "They Said Tomorrow"

In 1990, I first heard the amazing song “They Said Tomorrow” by Abecedarians, which has a repeated line about the singer trying to build up the nerve to approach a someone he is drawn to: “If I bother you/please tell me to go away/I don’t want to bother you/but it’s not for me to say” and it hit me at the time like a ton of bricks.  It encapsulated so much of what I’ve always felt.  I’ve always felt like my presence alone is an unwanted intrusion.  I do not have a ready reason why this is and I don’t think it’s particularly important.  What I do know is that feeling this way has prevented me from trying a lot of things.  In that song “They Said Tomorrow,” it displays the other definition of ‘bother,’ which is to not try something period.  The narrator of that song keeps putting off this supposed urgent need, instead saying to himself “I’ll try it again tomorrow.”  This other side of the coin is intriguing me today, because it calls to motivation.  Have I been more concerned about disturbing others, or does it have to do more with me not wanting to disturb myself?  Did I not ask the girl out on a date, because I was afraid of bugging her, or was it because I was afraid of her saying yes?  It cannot ever have been about rejection, because that was pretty much my expectation.  After missing a week of school as a little kid, and falling woefully behind in math, did I not ask the teacher for help, because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, or be a burden, or because I didn’t want to do the extra work to catch up? 

Not sure any of these questions are answerable in a definitive way, or if they’re even relevant.  The important part is to recognize, going forward, when I am about to use ‘bother’ as an excuse, I need to consider the response further.  If the past week has proved anything to me is that I am not far from needing to be taken care of to survive.  During the past week or so, I have fallen in public, which is scary because there’s little chance that I will be able to get up again on my own, I have found it nearly impossible to climb out of bed, I am struggling to eat or prepare food or even obtain groceries, I struggle to focus to fill out or even read health insurance paperwork, I canceled a doctor’s appointment, because it was too much effort to get there.  I will have to be a bother.  This cannot go on.  It’s depressing as hell.  I don’t know how to ask for help.  Perhaps, ‘bother’ to me, has always meant ‘burden’ – a heavy load to be dragged around.  I am trying my damnedest to get through this.  I wish it were a switch I could flip off.  

I have been blessed with family and friends that want to help, but I honestly don’t know how to accept it.  I do not feel like I deserve it.  It’s not so much that I don’t want to be a bother, it’s that I don’t think I’m worth the bother.  Perhaps that is where I need the most assistance – help to find the ability to accept assistance and accept it gracefully. 

The Sun is in Our Eyes

 

UJU

The Sun is in Our Eyes

(Melt)

There is some kind of scientifically enhanced surgery going on with how precisely this collection of songs tugs at my heartstrings.  The Sun is in Our Eyes is melodramatic and depicts the romanticism of past love in a very unreal light.  I know we’d all like to believe that from our past there’s the one perfect match that got away, but the reality is generally far different.  There’s commonly a very good reason they are no longer a big part of our life.  Yet, for some reason, it’s very powerful to look back into our pasts and overly romanticize a stolen kiss at summer camp and the delightful innocence of it all.

Firstly, I need to thank DJ Krissy Vanderwoude for this, because she played a song by UJU on her radio show, Drowned in a Sea of Sound. a couple of weeks ago.  I cannot contain my enthusiasm for this album!  This is one of those: ‘was this made for me?’ sort of albums.  Okay, I have to slow down.  UJU is from the Philipines and The Sun is in Our Eyes is their second album.  I do not have much prior experience with Filipino bands, other than going nuts over Julie Plug’s sparkling bright debut Starmaker way back in 1998/99.  UJU do share Julie Plug’s incredible pop sensibilities, but instead of the overt chiming pop rock of JP, UJU explores a dreamier approach.  In fact, the first few songs remind me heavily of the quiet approach of that first EP by The Arrogants.  There’s a simplicity to the songs that really helps set a particular reflective mood.  Much like the power of Robert Wratten’s songwriting, and more specifically, during the brief Northern Picture Library period.  There’s an ambient atmosphere combined with nakedly emotional lyrics that pretty much wins me over every time 

Early single, “Promises,” borrows the guitar melody from New Order’s amazing “Leave Me Alone,” (full overly melodramatic disclosure: pretty much any evening during my high school years, I was probably listening to “Leave Me Alone” with an intense desperation wanting everyone to leave me alone, despite the fact that they did - especially the girls.  Of course, it isn’t until the spectacular sixth song, “Anywhere, Everywhere,” that a burst of Adorable’s “Sunshine Smile” type guitars sprawls out like a splash of bright color.  The album takes a much more shoegazey turn, sound-wise, the rest of the way, especially, the epic crashing wave that is the title track..  There’s a foggy atmospheric haze to many of these songs that reminds of Singapore’s motifs, or Australia’s Lowtide.  However, Leeju Jung’s vocals are an entirely different game here.  She does not blend her voice in like another instrument like so many shoegaze artists.  She really sings, but she does not fall into that dreadful American Idol-style of oversinging.  Instead, songs such as the bouncy, “We Should’ve Walked, but We Ran,” feel like something sung by Rachel Mayfield’s former band, Delicious Monster. 

There are so many great songs here that pull those emotional strings!  “Summer’s Gone and so Are You,” I mean C’MON?!!  Then there’s the intensely exciting instrumental “Was it the Sound of a Car Crash, Broken Glass, or the Moments I’ll Never Get Back?” which paints a dramatic picture, where words would be too much.  The closing “I’ll Be Alright (I’m Still Here)” is repetitive, but undeniably pretty and reassuring and romantic as hell.

Yesterday morning, after listening to this album over and over about a half dozen times, and deciding that I wanted to write about it, I learned that UJU is now taking a “hiatus.”  I guess it’s a good thing that there’s another album to discover!

(https://meltrecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-sun-is-in-our-eyes)

UJU "THe Sun is in Our Eyes"

Half-Life, Remembered

When I was in High School, I worked at a pizza parlor, and sometimes I made and rolled the dough.  The dough room was long and narrow and very white.  There was a small radio that sat on a ledge near the high ceiling by a row of windows that were far too high to see out.  Up on the window ledge a radio blared, far beyond its sonic capabilities, a radio station that had a penchant for late 80s Top 40 hair metal.  The white walls were decorated with beer and wine cooler posters, brought in by beer distribution sales reps.  All of them depicted attractive models in bikinis holding bottles of beer.  One, in particular stands out in my memory.  It had three models laying out on a Budweiser logo blanket, while wearing Budweiser bathing suits.  Somehow they had become Budweiser.  I used to stare at this poster for hours.  It’s no wonder I used to get a little aroused every time I saw a can of Budweiser.

 

Back then, I used to buy all kinds of posters.  None of them were beer posters.  Unsurprisingly, I bought a lot of rock-n-roll posters of my favorite bands.  I especially enjoyed those subway style posters, which were large and more graphic in design.  I was not really interested in posed band pictures, or live action pictures.  My most treasured poster was a massive New Order Substance poster with the blue flower thingy.  During those times, and into my early twenties, I began to amass quite a collection of great music posters, bumper stickers, concert flyers and badges.  For some reason, I never displayed them.  Those posters never made it onto a wall at any place I’ve ever lived.  None of those stickers were stuck on anything.  Those posters remained inside a pair of poster tubes for years, until I finally donated those tubes to charity years ago. 

 

When I went away to college, my dorm room roommate became a close friend and he immediately decorated his side of our shared space with Siouxsie and the Banshees and Iron Maiden posters.  The room became his.  I remember staring at giant pictures of Siouxsie Sioux and Eddie, while trying to go to sleep.  My side of the room remained blank, until about mid school year, when I finally put a small concert flyer for a band named Skin Yard that I had ripped off of a telephone pole.  I placed the flyer too high on the wall, and it was mildly askew.  Its meager presence only enhanced the otherwise emptiness of the walls.

 

I’ve begun wondering why this is.  I mean, I had tons and tons of artwork for coveted bands in posters that I could’ve proudly displayed, but I never did, nor did I have any inclination.  Oddly enough, I think it’s due to my health.  When I was diagnosed with Von Hippel Lindau (VHL) in 1985 as an 8^th grader, I think I began to see life and any lifestyle that I would ever choose as temporary.  I’ve mentioned it on this space before, but I was 13 when I decided to never have children due to the genetic danger of passing VHL along, but beyond that I think I began to be wary of getting involved with relationships in general, because I felt that they had no chance of lasting, I think I lost a lot of ambition due to the idea that I would constantly be side-tracked by continuing health crises, so I have a history of working at jobs, just to earn money, not to try to maximize my potential.  Ironically, I have stayed at jobs forever, again, I think it’s because I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and by “other shoe,” I mean serious surgery.  Instead of being ambitious, I just remain in place until the next surgery.  I think this notion of temporariness has affected my life on more levels than I can ever realize.  I think it is the reason why I have always been reluctant to make my home – feel like my home – something as small as decorating the walls. 

Regrets have been a huge part of my life.  I have tortured myself ever since I became old enough to make any kind of real decisions, and just now, I think I know why.  I have experienced a lot of life’s stops and restarts due to VHL and its various surgical maintenance needs, and I can attest that they are difficult and frustrating.  Yet, the fact that I have never allowed myself a sense of purpose, or home, or permanence, has been devastating.  I have short changed all of the people I’ve met along the way too.  I have a small handful of long-time friends who I grew up with pre-VHL, but I could have had more, if I ever let people in.  I think this mindset is a big reason why I have always been so slow to trust.  The more I consider this notion, the more I realize that I have lived the last 35+ years with a mentality that I cannot be a part of things, because I’ll only be around for a moment.  It’s like a life philosophy based on the idea that I don’t want to play the game at the party, because my ride will be here any minute.  It feels ridiculous, but I can honestly say that I have never made these decisions to avoid things consciously.  I have agonized over missed opportunities, due to these decisions for eons.  Looking back at my life under this new realization makes everything feel pretty damn ridiculous, but I really am that clueless!

Sadly, there’s nothing I can do about the past.  Perhaps, I can now move forward with clearer thoughts and more informed decision making, though I worry that it’s too late.  I am at that age where I should now be reaping the benefits of all of those important life decisions of the past – those decisions that I made with the mindset that I didn’t have a future to consider, nor did I believe that future me worth the bother.

 

(image for) drawing on canvas

 

SPOOL

(image for) drawing on canvas

(self-released)

After several singles the past couple of years, Japanese four-piece, SPOOL, return with a full length at the end of 2022!  There is something special about this band, but to be honest, I have a difficult time putting my finger on it.  They are always solid.  They mine a style that is a psychedelic indie rock that reminds me of the early Teenage Fanclub, when they were more similar the Dinosaur Jr than the Byrds. 

This new LP fits right in, yet mines another adjacent style.  The songs and production here are very straight ahead and streamlined.  SPOOL have often employed a dreamier, exploratory sound, but here the basslines are tight with the massive sounding drums.  This album would’ve fit neatly into the US dominated 4AD record label years from about 91-95.  I’m talking about when 4AD began releasing alterna-rock hits by US bands like Pixies, Throwing Muses, Belly, and especially the Breeders.  I’m not implying that Spool sounds like these bands, or is copying their sound, I’m just saying that if you appreciated these artists, you might enjoy this one. 

From the tight thumping of the momentum gathering opening instrumental “fu_ka_n” to the closing melancholy “nevv song,” this album is pleasing at every stop.  The highlights for me are the vaguely Lush-like ”Somewhere,” which scratches many itches, along with the heavy and cranking “In My Head,” which includes a guitar line that sounds like a buoy beacon in the distance, and the two minute scorcher “P-90.” “Light of the Sun” is amazing too, despite ripping off the opening of Adorable’s 1994 “Vendetta” single.  What a song to steal from though!!  It becomes its own rocker by the time the first verse comes in.  The three pre-LP singles are all nice inclusions, though surprisingly, three of the quieter additions.

SPOOL, have easily earned the honor of being a band that I will continue to purchase prior to hearing new offerings.  I know that sounds silly, but I take that very seriously.  There aren’t many that my tightwad hands will ungrip for sound unheard.  It almost feels like they’re taken for granted after only three excellent albums.

(https://spool1991.bandcamp.com/album/image-for-drawing-on-canvas)

SPOOL "(image for) drawing on canvas"

Going Missing

 

For a television season or two, during the late 00s, on Sunday evenings, CBS used to air the television shows Cold Case and Without a Trace back to back.  I will not go into the quality of these shows, or a breakdown of them in any fashion.  I had consistently watched both of them prior to their pairing.  I liked them both.  I liked the idea of Cold Case and how they would pair music from the time of the unsolved murder in the flashback scenes.  I always thought that would’ve been a fun job.  Wish I had thought of it.  Without A Trace was always intriguing to me, because I have always been incredibly fascinated by the idea of going missing without a trace.

Sundays have been important days for me since I was in High School.  Back then it was my music day.  I remember doing my school work mostly on that day, while listening to my most recent music discoveries and reading books about music.  Then in the evenings, I would listen to my favorite new music radio shows, before tuning in to MTVs 120 minutes for more music.  The main thread here, is that I would spend the day alone, focusing on enjoying my interests.  They were days where I would recharge.  Ever since, I have tried to keep that tradition alive.  I am slow to make plans for activities or social things on Sundays, because of this.  However, as a mostly Monday through Friday worker bot, over the years, Sundays became a day of dread.  Here I would be dedicated to languishing in my pursuits, all while trying to ignore the building dread in my gut about the idea of returning to work the next day.  One day, perhaps I will try to explore this mindset of not living in the moment, and focusing on only the negative side of things, but that time is not now.

For about a year, my Sunday evenings would end with a double TV shot of Cold Case followed by Without A Trace.  There was something satisfying about the two shows that quelled some of that work dread and always had me feeling all kinds of things about life.  I don’t know why, but I think it was the sheer sadness that came from both shows.  Both shows always centered around investigations where each victim’s life is uncovered and we get to learn about all of the horrible shit in their lives.  All of their bad relationships, hidden pain, and their dark secrets.  I guess I found it grounding to see that we’re all effed up in different ways.  It also taught me to truly realize that everyone has their issues and to be more understanding in general. 

A few years ago, I wrote about my strange fascination with a local missing person case (Jennifer, She Said), where I touched on how I identified with her case, and I still feel it in a way that makes me a little nervous.  I don’t think I have the courage or the whereabouts to go missing.  Without A Trace was a perfect show for me. It was generally tragic and sad, it contained all kinds of unresolved emotions, and it tugged at my odd desire to go missing.  Unfortunately, the missing I want to go, is one where I am also unaware of the details, so I can enjoy the mystery. Where there are people looking at clues from your life and finding importance in them, when literally no one else ever would.

 In a sense, I have gone missing before.  There were times, during my dialysis years, where I would be hospitalized for up to a week, and would not alert anyone, besides my workplace, and even then, not always.  You know what?  It was never a big deal.  My lack of communication was mostly a case of sheer laziness, and most of the time, no one noticed.  There was no FBI investigation.  There weren’t any panicked phone calls from family or friends wondering what happened to me, or even why my car hadn’t moved from a strip mall parking lot for five days and nights. 

Truly, I do not understand my interest in going missing.  During my last hospital stay, after a brain surgery, I struggled with hallucinations.  For a long time, I believed that I was under constant threat via kidnapping, which led to torture and likely death.  It was all incredibly real and clear that none of that stuff would be something to wish for.  None of that was real, and it was some of the scariest stuff I’ve ever experienced!  So no, I really don’t want to go missing against my will and I really don’t seem to be able to go missing on my own.  I remember one weekday morning about five or six years ago, I decided to drive to the ocean instead of going to work.  I left my phone at home, drove to a quiet, isolated beach, and sat in amongst some giant piles of driftwood with my head in my hands in an attempt to shut out the world.  It was cool and cloudy, and yet somehow, I still got a wicked sunburn, and when I returned to work the  next day, my manager asked me where I had disappeared to the day before, I told him that I needed a day away, and he was completely understanding and cool with it.  It really pissed me off! 

Maybe I want to go missing from my life as it is.  Perhaps it’s a desire to start over in some fashion – to rid myself of all of the responsibilities and obligations I feel each day.  Whenever I get asked what I would do, if I could do anything I want, I struggle to answer.  I’m not sure what I want, or I’m not sure I can allow myself to want things.  I know I want to escape from my health problems, and the constant obligation of checking up on the state of my poor health.  Instead, like so many of us, I wish for unattainable things, while trying to achieve some sort of record for denying myself any joy in life!  It’s clear that there is no reward for working those extra hours, or whatever.  No wonder I want to disappear! 

I vaguely remember an episode of Without A Trace where a woman went missing, and it turns out that she wanted to set up a fake kidnapping, so she could escape her life and start anew in some other country.  However, her fake kidnapper instead decided to really kidnap her, and it all went badly, until our TV heroes intervened just in time to save her from death.  That feels exactly right.

Maximo Park "Going Missing"

Song Stories: Changing Colors

When Wil and I started the This Wreckage ‘zine over 30 years ago now, the idea is that we would have people submit material that we would throw in each issue as is and put it out to the world.  What we didn’t realize going in is that most people do not want to actually share things like that.  We struggled in finding material to achieve our albeit ambitious goal of a monthly issue. 

However, in a small way, I’d like to float out a similar request we used to do every issue, but with more of a singular focus.  I am hoping that anyone who reads this would be willing to send some kind of story of a certain song that means something to them.  This could mean a short story, an essay, a drawing, a photograph, a poem, a few words, I don’t know.  One of my favorite things is to tie music to pretty much every waking minute of my life.  It’s a problem really.  There are hundreds of songs that evoke a lot of emotions for me for a variety of reasons based on their being nearby at the time.  I absolutely love hearing and reading other people’s stories along these lines.  I don’t care the genre or the artist, or my personal history, if any, with the song, I find these stories endlessly fascinating.

I’m hoping to encourage any and every one who might be willing to send some of their stories to me via messenger, or via email: tangledrec@hotmail.com.  I would like to share them here, on this site, if given the permission.

Please ask any questions you may have.

A few months into the pandemic, like late spring, or early summer of 2020, I remember we were all dealing with the isolation of the lockdown.  A lot of us who were fortunate enough, could work from home, most places were closed, and most people were wearing masks.  There was also very little traffic, even at those busiest of times.  Despite all of the terrible news of conflict everywhere, there were a few promising reports at the time that the lockdown might be working and that we may have seen the worst of it by that point, and that there were a few signs of how quickly the environment was recovering with so little traffic every day.  I have a distinct memory of having to drive somewhere.  It was a warm, sunny day and I had a brief flash of optimism.  I can’t believe it now, but I actually thought to myself: “This might not last much longer.”  Apparently, I was drunk, but the idea that we all collectively could actually make a difference and be willing to make sacrifices for the good of us all.  We just needed to hang in there for a little while. 

Pretty sure it was a Wednesday night in June of 2020, when I tuned into DJ Amber Crain’s fantastic internet radio show When the Sun Hits on Decayfm.com, when she played a brand new track, “Changing Colors,” by a band named Weathering.  When DJ Amber played “Changing Colors,” its wall of guitar buzz smacked me across the face.  It somehow became the best and biggest power chord I’d ever heard!  I never get tired of its wallop.  Even though it’s seemingly a heavy mass, it is still light and tuneful, instead of the heavy sludge and grinding of so many metal/industrial/noise bands that I once loved so much.  Instead it’s the sound of inspiration and energy.  I remember, years ago, trying to compare Bob Mould’s heavy solo album Black Sheets of Rain to Sugar’s Copper Blue.  Where Black Sheets’ guitars felt like actual weight that we were fighting to climb out from under, Copper Blue’s sounds were like bolts of sparkling electricity filling us with gusto.  Both styles can be great in their own way, but this…this somehow bridges both the heavy and the fire.

I’m spinning circles

Like wheels in my eyes

I’ve been changing colors

All my metal oxidizing 

I went absolutely cold.  Shivers cascaded down my spine.  A giant lump welled up in my throat.  Water pooled up in my eyes.  Not only did these words hit me with a ton of bricks, as that super power chord transitioned into a luxurious, nearly orchestral space for the vocals, but it was that voice.  There are times that certain voices affect me emotionally, and I do not know why.  But this voice, provided by Elinor Carbone, reminded me of Emma Pollock’s voice the first time I ever heard The Delgados on their jaunty single “Everything Goes around the Water,” which quickly became one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite albums ever.  They have voices that crackle with emotion and endless tunefulness.  I can’t get them out of my head!  Their phrasing keeps me humming their vocal refrains over and over, like a puzzle I can’t solve, but keep making the same efforts to try.  Those words too.  As I grow ever older, I constantly fight the notion that I’m spinning circles – getting stagnant, but I feel like it’s a constant battle.  I desire stillness and quiet.  I mostly want to be left alone.  I want to wrap myself up into an isolated cocoon and shield myself from the madness and needs and expectations of others, but those tendencies are exactly what leads to the rust build up.

The Delgados "Everything Goes Around the Water"

Watch me kick the dust up

Don’t like it settling settling down

These words hit hard and act as a reminder to shake off the oxidation and fight to stay relevant or at least feel like I’m trying.  This is inspirational to me, yet it is an ever increasing challenge as I age and as my health quickly declines.  Those leaves change colors no matter what.  This past October was like summer, where it was well into the 80s and dry nearly the entire month, but dammit, those leaves still began to change from green to yellow and so on.  Ready to fall.

I can act so restless

Take care, you carry me home

It’s so strange to be loved

When I insist on being left alone 

In recent years, I have had to face the very real notion that I may not be able to take care of myself.  Currently, I struggle to cook, clean, shower, and on certain days: everything.  Yet my lifelong need to be independent and mostly alone has put me in a very real crossroads.  How do I accept help?  How do I handle the idea that there are people willing to help, and are simply waiting for the call.  How do I handle such things without feeling useless and embarrassed?  However, that heavy guitar instills me with life, especially when that killer guitar melody sits in atop the fuzz, it is a perfect example of why music is Goddamn important.  Plus, the song ends abruptly with a sharp snare drum smack and hi hat tap, like a lot of Bad Religion songs, which always leaves me wanting more.  Don't get me started about my general dislike of fade outs.

😭

This is not much of a story.  The reality is that I was sitting over my laptop with my headphones on, sitting in the dark, yet I will not forget that moment.  “Changing Colors” is the whole package for me as far as a song is concerned.  It’s exciting and fun to hear, to play air guitar to, to sing along with, and it makes me feel things – a lot of things.  When I hear it, I get inspired, I get sad, and I want to hear it again.  The song is powerful and defiant, and yet sad and reflective.  During each airing of When the Sun Hits, there is always a coinciding live chat about the songs on Facebook and initially, during that particular airing, all I could do was put in a crying emoji.  My heart was racing, as I was overcome with an intense emotional and physical reaction to this song, and of course, my collector nerd need to purchase it kicked in like a panic, which I did!

Weathering "Changing Colors"