I've Got An Eight-Track Mind

Smells trigger memory.  So does the weather.  In my case, as I've discussed in a previous post, dull, repetitive menial tasks do it, too.  I'd call the phenomenon "Proustian," but that would be pretentious and would suggest that I have managed to get through Remembrances of Times Past, something I have not been able to do up to this point in my life. 

One of the greatest memory triggers for me, and for many, I've heard, is music.  Anything by Paul McCartney and Wings, for example, takes me right back to Rocky Ledge, the swim club where we spent our summer days when I was a pre-teen, and where I fell in love on a daily basis, with girls in bikinis who never even knew I was there. 

I've taken to using the Shazam app when I am driving to and from work, in order to capture songs I either like or connect with, for whatever reason.  Okay, it's also to show off, since I know the songs I tag will automatically post on my Facebook page.  I like to imagine people seeing what I'm listening to and thinking, "Wow, that Dan sure does have an eclectic music sense!" 

The other day Dionne Warwick's rendition of Burt Bacharach and Hal Davis's "Walk on By" came on KUTX -- our public radio station here in Austin.  It hit me like the proverbial bullet in the brain, and I was in our living room on Hartford Lane, dozing in my father's lap, staring out the pre-dawn bay window, hearing the "Ca-CHUNK-click" of the eight-track stereo cassette player, switching tracks. 

I'm sure my dad had lots of 8 track tapes, but the three I remember best are Dionne Warwick, A Partridge Family Christmas, and Simon and Garfunkel.  The latter is the only one of these three that I currently own on MP3.  Everyone I know who remembers 8 track, does so fondly, with a glint in their eye.  It's so archaic now, of course, along the same lines as the CB radio.  But for me, it's a joyful, warm memory, and I may very well have to get myself some Dionne Warwick/Burt Bacharach for my iPod some time soon.



Happy Anniversary...Compact Disc

Back in October, during my ride to work, NPR ran a brief, uninteresting story on the 30th anniversary of the advent of the Compact Disc.  Despite being forgettable, the piece did send me into one of my reveries, this time back to the corner of East First Street and First Avenue, where my friend Jem Aswad lived in a walk-up, split-level apartment.  It was small but interesting, with lots of exposed brick and an upstairs loft space with roof access.  

Jem has always been my music buddy.  The first time we met, he taught me how to play a few songs on the guitar in the lounge space on the third floor of Shaw Hall in Syracuse.  He was wearing a Psychedelic Furs t-shirt.  Although I knew nothing about the band in 1981, I could tell by looking at the shirt that they were cool, as was the dude wearing it.  Jem (who went by "Jim" back then) turned out to have an extensive record collection, and he worked part time in an indie record store called Desert Shore Records.  During our 30 year friendship, I've witnessed Jem's complete immersion into the world of music, from LPs, to cassettes (he made some amazing mixed tapes for me and the rest of our crowd back then), to CDs to MP3s.  I'm sure he's still got a warehouse full of vinyl records stashed somewhere, and lord knows how many songs are on his iPod at this point.

But yes, CDs entered the mix some time in the 1980s, and I will never forget my introduction to them.  One afternoon down there in the East Village, Jem happened to show me a cardboard box he had in the bottom of his closet.  The box was filled with CDs, which I'd never seen before.  Not in person, anyway.  My understanding was that they were significantly more expensive than records, which I still listened to at that time -- in 1986 or '87 -- after Jem moved into 1st and 1st and before I snuck on over to Europe for my expat stint.  

"Come on," Jem said, with that familiar twinkle in the eye that suggested impending mischief.  He grabbed the box, and I followed him up the iron spiral staircase that led to the loft and out onto the roof.  From six stories up, we had a good view of the block.  I'm not sure, thinking back on it, what time of the day it was; I'd like to think there weren't too many people around.  

Remember now, the CDs in that box were like exotic treasure to me.  To Jem, however, they were nothing more than what probably amounted to an unending stream of freebies that awaited him daily at CMJ, where he had an entry-level editor's job at the time.  He sent the first disc flying out into space, and I marveled at the way it dipped and dived, shining prismatically before smashing into the sidewalk below.  I threw one of my own, Frisbee style, and watched it crash as well.  

I'm sure it didn't take long for us to realize that what we were doing -- our little act of Keith Moonesque rebellion -- was idiotic.  Rather than wait to get arrested or threatened with violence, we moved our party back inside the apartment.  We may have smashed two CDs that day, and for the sake of the story, I'm sure it would be better to contend that we tossed the whole lot off the roof.  Regardless of the number, I'll never forget the sense of pure decadence I felt, as I watched what was still a technological novelty at the time, these shining flying saucers, crashing into shards down below.  

The Dreaded Two-Hour Power Nap

It always seems like a good idea at the time. Let the six year-old fall asleep in the back of the car on the way home from school. Ahh, sweet silence!

Not silence, exactly; it's not ever really silent when you've got two kids. However there's a different tone to an eight year-old's discourse. They're already starting to form an idea of what it means to be sophisticated or cool, and it doesn't usually involve speaking at high decibel levels. If he's excited enough about something, Diego, the 8 year-old, will speak quickly, without taking a breath; still, it's not the same intense volume at which Jackson speaks when he's excited.

It's not just about loudness, either. There's a manic intensity that Jackson has that Diego is too cool to possess. Again, I'm not sure if this is a function of age, personality or both. Diego has become a bit more emotionally predictable now that he's a little older, so there's hope. I guess.

The saying "Borrowing from Peter to pay Paul" comes to mind. He just looks so sweet, so peaceful, with his eyes closed, breathing gently, his mouth slightly agape. I lift him out of the car, whispering "Come to Daddy," as he grabs a hold around my neck. Placing him gently on the bed, I tiptoe out into the rest of the house, and wonder how long he'll be down. I know there's a good chance I may regret this, yet I do it, for the short-term gains.

Diego and I go out and run a couple of errands, and when we get home, at around 8, I look around. No Jackson. I look at Jeanette and can feel the expression of dread come over my face.

"He isn't..."

"Still asleep? Yep."

Oh God help us. God help us all.

I'm exaggerating, of course. Jackson was actually great company, jumping into the game of Uno Diego and I were playing. Jackson's energy level rose after eating dinner, and rose, and rose, and rose. The music came on and the dancing began. Poor Diego tried to hang, but eventually made his way into his bed and went to sleep before a story, and just as the dance party was beginning. Jackson and Jeanette cut the rug, while Diego snored and I struggled to keep my eyes open.

The party lines are being drawn in this family, and the message is clear to me. I'll need to start napping if I'm ever going to keep up.

Time to Download More Songs

Jeanette and I are currently looking closely at our budget, thoughtfully tightening our belts. Times are tough after all.

But I think there is such a thing as budgeting for peace of mind, and as I wrote down the first several songs I heard this morning, during my coffee-drinking/journal-writing/iPod Nano-listening time, I came to the conclusion that I have GOT to buy new music.

1) The Cover of the Rolling Stone (Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show)

2) La Cura (Frankie Ruiz)

3) Wildfire (Michael Murphy)

4) 867-5309/Jenny (Tommy Tutone)

5) 17 (Kings of Leon)

6) Two Tickets to Paradise (Eddie Money)

7) Hold the Line (Toto)

8) Where is Maria? (Greg Brown)

They're not bad songs; in fact some are very good. It's just a weird mix, and I'm clearly stuck in the 70's.

So here's my question: They say that "These Kids Today" never pay for music. They somehow download their music for free. Can any of you kids out there teach ME how to do that??

(It would certainly help my budget....)

Deafness Never Stopped Her Singin' Heart

My mother, the late Carol Fuchs, was a remarkable person, and I have any number of reasons to miss her. One of the less likely ones is her singing voice.

It wasn’t good, exactly, her voice. In fact, it was pretty horrible. Scarlett Fever had knocked out most of her hearing, and her adult life was punctuated by a series of ear operations and hearing aid innovations. Her deafness wasn’t evident in her speaking voice, but anyone who does any work with the deaf would have been able to tell she was a lip-reader, moving her lips subtly along with the person she was trying to understand. And her singing voice went beyond just tone deaf.

I don’t know if it was due to her being half Irish on her mother, Hazel Ferrell’s side, or maybe it was a generational thing, but my mother definitely had a song in her heart. I remember two of her favorites were “Katie” and “Candy.”

“Katie” was a song delivered in a stutter:

K-k-k-katie,

You’re the most remarkable girl that I adore.

When the m-m-moon shines,

Over the c-c-cowshed,

I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.

“Candy” was probably her favorite tune, and she sang it so off-key you had to smile:

Candy, I call my sugar Candy,

And I’m so sweet on Candy,

Cause Candy’s sweet on me.

Thinking back on it now, I’m proud of my mother for never giving up on singing. She knew it didn’t sound the way it was supposed to, but it didn’t matter. It was a way for her to express herself, and Lord knows she was never shy about that.

The fact that it made my brother and me blush was probably an added bonus for her.

From the Vault: "KGSR and Me"

February 3, 2009

Recently I’ve been aware of how important music is at this particular moment in my life. I suppose it always has been; however, it's been my tendency to remark on its significance after the fact. I’m one of those members of my generation who fills his iPod with songs from the past, dredging up memories of spiky haircuts, girls in legwarmers and sweaty, flailing college students on beer-sticky dance floors from years gone by.

Or, in the more distant past, if I hear anything that was in the top 40 between 1973 and 1977, I’m transported back to Rocky Ledge, a local swimming club, hidden away in the hills of North White Plains, where my brother and I spent our summers swimming, looking at girls and listening to people like Paul McCartney and Wings, War, Rod Stewart, Earth Wind and Fire, Frampton and the Bee Gees being piped constantly through loud speakers around the grounds.

So now here I am in this new place, this new city so well known for its music, and I’ve been introduced to KGSR, a station that does its best to honor Austin – not only musically, but by making sure to profile people in the community who do good works, in the areas of charity, education and the arts.

And every day, between the hours of 7 and 8 in the morning and then, after work, between 5 and 6, I turn on the car radio and listen to GSR’s programming. (Yes, I admit to sometimes switching over to Bob-FM during commercials, for the aforementioned fix of 70’s and 80’s one sometimes gets to hear there.) I’ll also occasionally dial up kgsr.com on my office computer when I’m anchored there with a lot to write. I never complain about the songs they tend to repeat, this due to the realization I mentioned at the start of this entry; these are the songs that will evoke this special time in my life in the years to come: “Real Love” by Lucinda Williams, “Sister Lost Soul” and “Always a Friend” by Alejandro Escovedo, “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles, “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz, “Strange Overtones” by David Byrne and Brian Eno, lots of Lyle Lovett, some Dixie Chicks, a smidgen of Johnny Cash, and the occasional Willie Nelson, of course.

This list is incomplete. But I know that wherever life takes me in the future, the moment I hear any of these songs, I’ll be driving down I-35 from Pflugerville to Austin, pulling into my numbered parking space at Austin High, pointing out the longhorn statues walking across the roof of the car dealership to my kids, or wondering why the hell all those birds descend upon the La Frontera Shopping Center every evening at dusk…

I'm a Big Fan... of the Big Fans

Here is the hilarious wikipedia "explanation" of the Spanish band "Locomia":

Locomía (also known as Loco Mia) was a Spanish pop group popular in the 1980s and 1990s. They combined elements of tropical with British music of the New Wave and New Romantics. Their first hit was the eponymous "Locomia".

The original members were Xavier Font, Manuel Arjona, Gard Paschieer, and Luis Font. In 1987, the latter two were replaced by Juan Antonio Fuentes and Carlos Armas, followed by Francesc Picas. The band was probably as famous for its costumes as for the music. They often appeared in extravagant outfits that combined Spanish matador pants with frilly jackets done in eighteenth-century style. Fan-twirling was an important part of both their stage performance and their music videos.*

By way of an explanation, I should let you know, if you didn't already, that the members of the (reconstituted, apparently) band lived next door to us on the top floor of 8 Cava de San Miguel, right in the middle of the ancient part of Madrid. I lived there in the late 1980's upon my brief return to Madrid, after my mother's death. They were pleasant enough when I would occasionally pass one of them on the stairwell or coming out of the door to their apartment. Nothing particularly unusual went on there, except for a lot of rehearsal time, with loud playback in the background. When they weren't dressed in their garish costumes, they actually looked quite, well, normal. Kind of preppy, really.

The main annoyance that came with living next door to pop stars was that young girls would often ring our buzzer (5th floor, Right-hand side apartment) thinking it was Locomia's (5th floor, left). There was just so much high-pitched tween screaming one could take, particularly when it came late at night. I can see how that might have gotten pretty old pretty fast.

Sadly, I left that apartment, and Spain, before getting to know any of those lads very well. I will say this for them: It was evident that they were serious dancers, who worked hard at what they did. True, their "music" (ahem) may not have stood the test of time, but don't rule out a Locomia reunion. Couldn't you see them opening for Lady Gaga?

I could.


* Speaking of their videos, here's one. And oh, by the way... you're welcome! And you have to admit it -- the fan twirling is kind of cool.

Got Fooled (Again): Abbreviating a Classic

Okay, so I'm driving home from work on Springdale Road, slowing down for some traffic up ahead, when one of my favorite classic rock tunes of all time, Won't Get Fooled Again by the Who, from their "Who's Next" album, comes on the radio.

Perfect! This is exactly the song I want to hear in this situation. At about 8 minutes 30 seconds, it should get me through this bottleneck approaching the junction with Route 183. I crank the volume, and straighten up in my seat a bit, getting myself prepared for some serious air drum action. (And air guitar, and air synthesizer.)

But then a weird thing happens. The long, meandering, cyclical, hypnotic synthesizer intro goes about a quarter as long as it's meant to. The thing gets cut off by the entrance of Pete's power guitar and Moonie and Entwistle's power rhythm way too early. "What the hell?" I say out loud to an empty car. See, one of the ways that you show your pride as a "Who-Head," which I've been since my freshman year in college, thirty years ago, is to air-guitar and/or drum your way into this song, right on cue. Won't Get Fooled is full of these hooks that fly in through the mist of the synthesizer line, which flows the entire length of the song. (You get extra points if you can nail Pete singing "Do ya?" quietly, a few bars after Roger sings the line "I know that the hypnotized never lie.")

The question I have is one that many would probably find naive, and maybe some of my musically inclined friends (Andy L., Ken, Jem, Chino, Jess, Pete H., Dave L.) can answer it for me:

Why is this okay?

They chop the song up so much that it goes from an eight and a half minute rock meditation to a three minute piece of chewing gum. I mean I didn't even get to the traffic light by the time this version of one of my favorite songs was over. It completely changes the experience for the listener. Am I making too much of this?

My guess is that Pete Townshend must have made some loot on this deal. After all, Who songs are popping up all over the place, in commercials, and for young people of this current generation Who Are You is "the CSI song," Won't Get Fooled Again is "the CSI: Miami song," and Baba O'Riley is "the CSI: New York song." Don't get me wrong; I'm a big CSI guy, and I suppose I'll always be a Who-Head at heart. But come on, man. Won't Get Fooled Again is not a three minute song. That's like making a three-minute version of Freebird or Stairway to Heaven or Hotel California or American Pie. These songs require commitment on the part of the listener, and I was so ready for that this afternoon.

I guess in the day of 140-words-or-less tweets, I shouldn't be so shocked, right?

Silly Love Songs: The Soundtrack of a Sappy Boy

Stay with me while we grow old/
And we will live each day in springtime/
Cause lovin' you has made my life so beautiful/
And every day my life is filled with lovin' you.

-- Lovin You, Minnie Riperton and Richard Rudolph

The Grammy Awards have come and gone, and it kept the attention of my two boys (ages 5 and 7) surprisingly well. I guess it makes sense -- people making music and wearing outlandish costumes is kind of like every Disney musical they've ever seen. Some were more cartoonish than others, obviously.

I was most struck by the enthusiasm with which Jackson, the five year old, responded when The Bieber (as we call him around Chez Fuchs) appeared on screen. Again, not much mystery there; he's a child who wows adults with his rhythmic and dancing skills. And you can't turn on any of the channels my kids enjoy watching without seeing The Bieber promoting his new film, "Never Say Never." I've got highly educated friends of mine professing their love for the kid on their Facebook pages. It's kind of scary.

So as I'm witnessing my kids' idolization of Grammy hopefuls like The Bieber, I am prompted to take a look back in time to when I was at my sappiest. The year was 1976, and I was 12 going on 13, squarely in the most uncomfortable time in a boy's life -- the "pre-teen" years. The pop songs that dominated the spring of that year went right to my heart, pulling at its mythical strings. "I Like Dreaming," "My Eyes Adored You," and "Silly Love Songs" are three hits that sent me into flights of romantic imaginings. When I heard these songs I needed to find a quiet, private space where I could just sit and listen and place myself in the story I thought the song was trying to tell. One of those places was in the stand of pine trees that marked the property line between the Karneses and the Hills. I liked to climb to the top of these pines, some thirty to forty feet up. From that high I had a great view of the Francises' back yard, and I would often see Debbie, a dimple-cheeked girl with a dazzling, snaggle-toothed smile and sandy brown hair, running and playing with her three collies who barked non-stop, all day and night. The song was perfect in my mind: “Carried your books from school, playing make believe you’re married to me. /You were fifth grade; I was sixth, when we came to meet.”

Of course as anyone and everyone knows, 1976 also marked the pinnacle of the ascendancy of disco music, and although I certainly recall trying to make sense of "Disco Duck" and "(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty," Rick Dees and K.C. did not feature prominently in the soundtrack of my childhood. Disco was the music that made its way through the rafters of the ice skating rink at Rye Playland, where my friends tried to rip the labels off the back of the girls’ Levi’s as they giggled past, fully aware of their part in the game. When you actually got the tag, which was rare indeed, the idea was to walk the girl in question outside to the boardwalk. Then you’d push your way through a cut-out bit of chain link fence and make your way down to the beach. Once there, you were expected to chat a bit. And then you made out.

I'd like to tell you I know this from my own experience at the time, but then I'd be getting into the realm of fiction. In reality, I may have gone skating once or twice at Playland, but I was self-conscious, awkward, and decidedly unsuccessful in the seeking and acquisition of Levi's tags. In a word, I was a sap. I made up elaborate stories in my head of defending Debbie's honor and rescuing her from those who would do her harm. These were usually personified by boys in our class who I identified as bullies. In my fantasies I beat them senseless, utilizing Kung Fu skills that made Bruce Lee's look amateurish. In tears, she would thank me, and we would kiss.

It wasn't until a couple of years later, not long after my braces were removed, that I finally had my first kiss. It was an abject failure. The girl was someone I didn't even know all that well; we were at a drive-in movie together with a group of friends, and I guess she just felt it was the thing to do. Her breath smelled like cigarette smoke and buttery popcorn, and she watched the movie with one eye as we kissed. That would have been in the summer of 1979, when I was sixteen years old. Late, I know, for a first kiss. 1979 was, appropriately, the year of Meatloaf's "You Took The Words Right Out of My Mouth." The lyric continues, "It must have been while you were kissing me."

Thankfully, my first "real girlfriend" saved me later that summer, when she kissed me the way every 16 year old boy wants to be kissed. When I'm asked about my First Kiss, I usually delete the drive-in one, and move right to this one. It happened on a perfect, temperate night, and we were playing ping pong in an odd little outbuilding that her family had constructed for the kids years ago. It had electricity, and I remember this, because at an opportune moment, I turned off the light, pulled her to me in the darkness and had the kiss that made me understand what the big deal was. Thinking of it now, my breathing changes, and my vision clouds a little. (Or maybe I'm just getting to the age where I need my asthma pump and reading glasses.)

Keeping to the theme, our make-out album was Carole King's Tapestry, which came out in 1971. I liked that it was retro and not tied to the inane stuff that we were hearing on the radio that year. (Ah, who am I kidding? I loved "What A Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers and "Crazy Love" by Poco.)

There's one song that I listen to today that still brings me back to that perfect moment. (And it is a perfect moment. It's one of those moments I'll be muttering about as an old man, when my grandchildren come to visit me at the Home.) It's a stanza from Greg Brown's 1990 song, "If I Had Known."

A hayride on an Autumn night
Well we was 15 if I remember right
We were far apart at the start of the ride
but somehow we ended up side by side
We hit a bump and she grabbed my arm
The night was as cold as her lips were warm
I shivered as her hand held mine
And then I kissed her one more time

And Jane if I had known--
I might have stopped kissing right then
It's just as well we don't know
when things will never be that good again


Now, there are people out there -- some of whom are likely to be reading this -- who need to be assured that they're not to take Greg's words literally. Of course, there have been experiences that have eclipsed the one I described above since that time.

But the memory of that moment is pristine. It was as if my sappy boyhood fantasies all suddenly came to life. Not surprisingly, those fantasies tailed off after that, as I found that living in the real world wasn't so bad after all.

Oh and by the way, if I managed to get any of the songs I've referenced stuck in your head, I apologize.