Foolery

"Home With the Chills" by Wheezer

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Home with the chills
That's where I seem to be! (icky icky)
Hanging at home with chills . . .
Potions and pills
Never seem to work on me (sicky sicky)
Hanging at home with the chills

Haven't worked out the rest of the lyrics, but this is what I came up with between the hours of 2:30 and 5:00 a.m. I'll let you know what I come up with tonight.

Good night.

(honk)

With big thanks to my buddy Meg who gave me the idea.

The Curse of Beach Baby in D

I was given a gift at birth which I have wasted, mostly. I have a very good ear -- for music, and accents, and pronunciations. While I do enjoy some aspects of my gift, especially mimicry, I was never interested enough to do the hard work necessary to develop my gift into even a minor talent.

My mother has perfect pitch. If she hears a note she can tell you whether it's an A flat or an F sharp. I have a lesser version of her gift, called relative pitch. I can hear a G natural in my mind at any time, and I use it as my touchstone, to determine other notes in relation to my G. Every once in a while I think I can identify a note other than G, and I'm right only about a third of the time.

The upside of such gifts includes the ability to tune guitars easily, which I used to do with ease. If you have a good ear and you happen to be a singer, I suppose you can keep yourself in tune.

The downside of a good ear is not often discussed, but Mom and I know it well. Imagine you're in a room full of people listening to Natalie Merchant, or post-retirement Frank Sinatra. Look around the room as Frank stretches lazily to reach a high note he used to hit with ease -- people may be singing along, tapping their toes, lost in a reverie. Not Mom and me. We're cringing in pain. I steal a glance at Mom, and she's suffering. "Pull it up, Frank!" I'm screaming in my brain.

Photo stolen from www.discoverynet.com/

Natalie Merchant is even worse -- she maintains a constant flatness that is rare even by today's low standards. I can't listen to her for longer than a couple of minutes.

Photo stolen from queenhoda.vox.com

Friday morning I was getting ready for work, listening to the various inanities of the morning news. As I brushed my teeth just around the corner from the television, I heard a Best Foods Mayonnaise commercial which used a jaunty pop instrumental behind the voice over. "That sounds like 'Beach Baby,'" I thought, annoyed that I knew that song in the first place. Listening again, I realized that the descending chords may indeed have been a rip-off of that awful pop song from -- was it the late 70s? trying to sound like the mid-60s? -- but "Beach Baby" ripped it off from Pachelbel's Canon in D first. I went to the piano and played the familiar descending chords, bile rising in my gullet.

Chas walked up just then, not saying anything, but shooting me a "what are you doing NOW" look. I played the familiar chords for him, and said, "Pachelbel's Canon, right?" Then I played it again and sang along with it, "Do you remember back in old L.A., oh-oh-oh . . ." GROAN.  Chas shook his head and walked away.  I know he thinks his wife is a nut job.


There's a certain smug satisfaction in hearing the "bones" of a song, and realizing where you heard it first (whether or not the songwriter even knew he was heavily borrowing). But most of the time it's a burden. From the physical discomfort I feel when Frank Sinatra or Barbra Streisand
can't . . .
quite . . .
make . . .
that high note, to the big fat bummer of forever hearing "Beach Baby" in my mind as a bride glides down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon, sometimes a gift is not a gift, it's a curse.

Here's a sample of "Beach Baby" so now you'll share my curse, too.

"Beach Baby" by First Class (you've been warned)

My Dwight Yoakam Confessional

This is the time to come clean.  I just posted this confessional on Dwight Yoakam's message board, and I'm waiting fo the tomatos to start hitting my roof and car any minute.

I joined Dwight's message board -- the "Lonesome Roads Hotel" -- in July 2005, on a lark.  My good friend Cheryl was caught up in some strange goings-on there, and kept showing me weird message board fights over a woman named Yolanda.  My friend was completely entranced, amused, obsessed.  She was having the time of her life.  I didn't get it.

Never liked country music, other than the giant Johnny Cash, and later Marty Robbins, Roger Miller, Lyle Lovett.  I mean I HATED twang and steel guitar.  I guess when you grow up in a sh**-kickin', boot-wearin', redneck world as I did -- and I was country (as in rural) when country was BEYOND uncool -- it's a sensitive subject.  Did everything I could to distance myself.  A friend with the same neurosis made her San Francisco fiancee get rid of his gorgeous, expensive ostrich cowboy boots because it just "cut too close to home."  We are NOT hicks.  We're NOT.

So when my dad started watching Dwight videos several years back, I made fun of him.  NO WAY.  Nice jeans . . . but NO WAY.

So how, exactly, did I find myself registering a screen name at the LRH, home of the honky-tonkiest, twangiest artist alive?  Just being silly, seeing how long it would take Cheryl to figure out that "Swami Dearest" was her old friend Laurie (about 2 minutes).

A funny thing happened on the way to my first DY show . . . I actually became a fan.  I like Dwight Yoakam's music.  I LOVE some of it.  I listen to it nearly daily.  I respect his history, appreciate his songwriting and LOVE his musicianship.  And now my little daughters think "Honky Tonk Man" is the bee's knees.

The reason I waited so long to say anything is that I didn't want anyone there to think I was making fun, or operating at anyone's expense.  I truly respect DY as an artist, and have since I started posting there.  If at the end of this strange odyssey I had ended up not liking Dwight I never would have said anything, because I like and respect that group of people, and feel I have made friends.  I hope no one there will feel that I cheated anyone or misled them . . . I was on a quest my head couldn't understand, but led with my heart and my ear.  My head has been schooled.

Okay, I can say it straight out now without irony:

I AM A DWIGHT YOAKAM FAN.

Dammit.

Thanks for listening, sorry if I seem like a jerk, and I hope anyone who is offended can forgive me.  I have now truly joined ranks at the hotel.

With fondness and humility,

Laurie "Swami Dearest" LaGrone

p.s.  PLEASE don't make me listen to any other country music -- my family just couldn't stand the strain.

It Seems I Got to Have a Change in Scene . . .

I HAD A DATE FRIDAY NIGHT!  HOLY COW!!!

Hurried home from work to get ready.  Chas had taken the kids over to Mom's already, where they were busy making cookies with Grandma.

Off to Paradise, which is nearly an hour away.  Dinner at Izzy's Burger Spa -- where the hamburgers are treated better than other places, one can only imagine.  The last time I went to a concert was with Cheryl, at the same venue, and Izzy's was the diner of choice then, so it seemed only fitting to take Chas there.  It didn't disappoint.  $1 burgers, onion rings and beers came to under eleven bucks -- am I a cheap date, or what?  The floor show entertainment consisted of a strategically-placed Marilyn Monroe doll near the ceiling, affording a view of her undies, and also a young lady dressed as a hamburger, waving to passing cars.  This is big stuff to largely home-bound oldsters like us.

Then to stand in line for half an hour outside the Paradise Performing Arts Center.  The place looks rather like a barn, but it's neat and clean, with AWESOME acoustics, comfy seats, and not one bad seat in the house.  Standing in line outside gave us a chance to enjoy the cool mountain air, and look at our fellow concert-goers.  Most were in their 40s and 50s, some were in tie-dye.  But since we were there to see the legendary Dave Mason, tie-dye wasn't out of the question.

The warm-up band -- Matt McBride's Red Horizon -- was local, and they were very talented.  They actually performed two songs with a didgeridoo, which was cool but got old fast.  A didgeridoo can't change key, so neither could the band.

 

But Mason and his band were wonderful (although Mason was perhaps the worst-dressed person I've seen in months, and I live in Orland, mind you).  Old Traffic stuff, old Dave Mason stuff, even some new stuff.  "World in Changes," "Shouldn't Have Took More Than You Gave," "Only You Know and I Know," "Feelin' Alright," etc.  His band was top-notch, but the conga player was completely extraneous, as far as I could tell.  He was having a great time, but he couldn't be heard.  My fascination with the conga player was cemented, however, when I realized he looked JUST LIKE DAN QUAYLE.  Couldn't take my eyes off him.  (Now, the conga player in Red Horizon was AWESOME, and appropriately mic'd.  For anyone who remembers, he had been in the Chico band Spark and Cinder years ago -- a band I always wanted to hear but was too young to get into the bar venues they played.  Also, he looked nothing like Dan Quayle.)

 

Funny to watch the audience in this retirement community -- polite as a Japanese crowd, at first anyway.  When a couple of middle-aged women headed for the spacious area in front of the stage in order to dance, a geriatric bouncer in a red blazer hurried down to shoo them away.  Well, after that either someone clued Red Blazer in to how rock concerts work, or he didn't like walking in front of the stacks, or he gave up in fear or throngs of 50somethings gettin' their groove on -- because eventually the whole area in front of the stage was packed with dancers.  Chas and I didn't join them.  We were happy just to relax and listen to great old music, feeling the throb of the bass and drums reverberate through our cores like back in the old days when we weren't ancient old farts.  I was so tired I was nearly asleep -- hard to imagine, I know -- but had a great time anyway.  I was thrilled to notice that at least four people remembered to bring their Bic lighters for the encore.

 

Chas affected a strange posture the middle of the concert, sort of slouched in his seat and leaning on me.  I didn't think anything of it, but he told me later that he had a hamstring cramp, and when his leg seized he kicked his water bottle.  Off it rolled toward the stage, ka-bump, ka-bump, ka-bump.  The one thing he most needed was water at that moment, and he kicked it.  Man, are we old farts.  At least we don't look like Dan Quayle, though.  At least, I don't.

* * * * * Dates are tricky as there is no way to ensure they will go smoothly! Unlike getting DMEPOS bonds.

I Draw the Line at Mariah Carey

My oldest, dearest friend Cheryl and I are engaged in a strange game of “Let’s Creep Each Other Out With Bad Music.”  Actually, it’s Cheryl’s game, which I know she plays with anyone dumb enough to give her their e-mail address.  I’m just a poor pretender, and Cheryl is the game Master.

It goes like this.  Think of a song that made you cringe when it was popular.  If you can find it on the internet, send Cheryl an MP4 (music file) via e-mail.  If you can’t find it, Google the lyrics, and at least send her the lyrics.  The idea is to get a bad song stuck in Cheryl’s head, however you can achieve it.

Cheryl’s version of the game: think of a song which has always made Laurie’s skin crawl, or, more likely, made Laurie cover her ears and babble “I’M NOT LISTENING!  I’M NOT LISTENING!  BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH . . .”  Once you download the song, send it to Laurie at work with a “ha ha” message.

After a couple of weeks of this, you and Cheryl should have a large stockpile of truly awful music.  Then you can burn CDs for your other friends (if you still have any), who will wonder why you happen to have Paul Anka’s singularly awful “Havin’ My Baby” in your collection (that’s one of the ones whose lyrics I sent Cheryl).

This whole game also works very well with funny music.  Cheryl sent me Ray Stevens’ “Guitarzan” a couple of weeks ago.  I’m listening to another of her little gifts right now – the Kinks’ “Apeman,” which I own on vinyl and have always loved.  Hey, there seems to be a hairy primate theme going here (especially when you consider Paul Anka).

Must go finish my lunch, to the accompaniment of Lulu’s “To Sir With Love.” Ta Ta.