Songs With Stories: Sonic Dust And Wanderlust
Hey there, it's so good to see you again. Man, it feels like forever since I've last seen you.
Sorry it's been so long. I guess I've just been busy.
What's that? No, not at all. I'm not being like that, I swear.
Oh, come on. That's not true at all. I'm one of the least vindictive people you could hit with a stone's throw if, in fact, you choose to throw stones from a glass house.
But you're not like that, this I know. Nor am I. We're all cool in here. So let's just skate on past any unnecessary embryonic unpleasantries that need not be given oxygen to grow, thrive, survive, and someday wreak further havoc upon the greater good of the human experience.
OK? High five.
Anyway ...
So damn, you're looking good these days. Seriously, you're oozing with the Beau Brummell-ness or Sassy Suzy-ism of a person who hasn't aged a day in a decade. You're a scrappy soul of superhuman clout, gracefully defying gravity without being blasted by the dastardly sands of time. You should be profoundly proud of yourself for that.
I'm very proud of you. I really am.
But that's crazy, isn't it? How could I possibly see you? All you did was click here to read something, and now it's being suggested that we're actually engaged in this cyber-relational, person-to-person cosmic volley somewhere within "The Cloud."
I want you to try something if you would indulge me. Let's experiment.
Take a deep breath. Be very still and silent.
Please, pay attention! Sorry for raising my voice, but your full, unbridled focus is paramount to our success here. This is an important, highly classified mission of which success rests upon the wings of full cooperation, both yours and mine.
Concentrate very intensely and intently.
Now tell me, can you read my thoughts?
Because I can read yours, and let me say that you should be ashamed of yourself. But your secret is safe with me.
I'll never tell.
I'm not being serious, of course. If I were, that would be grounds for some true concern, now wouldn't it? You might even feel the need to cosmically reach out, cautiously asking if I'm in need of a telepathic talking-to. I would merely reply with a shrug and a grin.
Negative. No need for that, good buddy ... 10-4, 1-Adam-12, that's the 411, and I'm out.
However, that camera on your device that you love to use for snapping pics of vacation bliss and happiness?
It's watching you. And you know what? So am I.
"So maybe they're watching me, too," he thought to himself while attempting to keep a lid on a bubbling paranoid boil.
Can you see me? God, I hope not, or I would have made myself as presentable as you have for such a special occasion. I now feel I'm at a disadvantage, like I'm the guy who showed up for Sunday dinner in torn sweatpants. Please forgive me. What will the neighbors think?
What have I gotten myself into? Make it stop!
OK, enough of this ... it's gone too far. There is no conceivable way that I can see you, hear you, read your thoughts, or anything else of the sort. So now I'm just going to play some tunes, kick back, and see where this road leads to. I really appreciate you being here and lending your time and mind to my mind and time, regardless of where we end up. As always, you're the bee's knees.
That's why I have to be honest before moving on, as only a true friend would.
You have something in your nose.
You actually checked, didn't you? It's totally cool. You don't have to be honest with me.
But always - always - be honest with yourself. It is vital to personal growth.
On that note, take note of the following notes ...
Dick Dale - Surfing Drums
As the sun gracefully lowered itself toward the curved Pacific horizon, the drums locked in unison during one of the most spiritually satisfying moments I have ever known.
I remember it well - the vibe, the rhythmic aesthetic - hypnotic in both this world and the parallel universe it stemmed from and spoke to. It was another sunset on Venice Beach in the faraway land of California, normal to the natives but spectacular and foreign to this wide-eyed traveler from the heartland.
But regardless if you were a local, visitor, or an alien from another galaxy, none could begin to deny the awe of this moment.
What I learned from the fortunate souls who were in the know and familiar, each Sunday sunset on the beach beckoned to a bevy of percussive spirits. What resulted each week was a celebratory drum circle that brought out what appeared to be hundreds of people with instruments in tow, ranging from drums to congas to bongos to bells - percussion galore of all types.
Some went above and beyond in their creative participation, donning handmade racks of saw blades and anything else that would utter a tone when struck. It was, without question, a magical gathering and sonic smorgasbord I felt blessed to witness.
If only I would have known in advance, I could have brought some sort of instrument to join the fray with. But it mattered not, as I soon found myself clapping along to what was about to take place alongside others who accidentally found themselves there.
But who am I kidding? This was no accident ... I was certainly meant to be there. There's not a doubt in my mind nor memory.
The first beats of the rhythmic waves met the flow of the ocean's, beginning with a few drums before the current took hold and spread throughout the circle with a wild, magnetic power that attracted the players one by one. Gradually, the rhythms and counter-rhythms melded together in perfect connection, as did the people involved.
As one pattern ripped through the warm California evening, another would start somewhere in the midst of the circle. Soon, there was morphing and shift that followed the same process of its predecessor, and before long the entire mob was on an entirely different groove in unison.
The occasional horn would bellow at the dipping sun, which seemed to take an eternity to finally reach its destination tucked below the welcoming horizon.
I didn't mind. I could have sat there for the rest of my life. It was that powerful.
You didn't just hear it, and you didn't just feel it.
For a few long moments of beautiful bliss, you left this world and became it.
To this day, I can't hear any sort of surf song without being whisked back to that one time on Venice Beach when I gratefully experienced something of such a captivating nature that I never knew previously existed.
And I'm sure I don't have to add that I don't mind that at all, and that I feel like a better person for simply knowing something that captivating is possible in this world.
But I will ...
Faith No More - Ashes To Ashes
If I can be perfectly blunt, I fancy myself to be a fairly sharp, intelligent person.
Now, sure, some may argue that. And after reading this, many may argue that.
Because while I like to think I'm in touch, in time, in tune, and in focus with the what's what, who's who, and why's why of the thick and thin, there are more times than I'd like to admit that things really miss the mark with me.
I mean the most obvious of the obvious. Yeah ...
So let's flash back to 1997. I was running auto parts on a delivery route that took me over many rivers and through many woods, visiting both friendly and cantankerous mechanics alike with the parts they needed to butter their bread. I was always welcomed, if sometimes for that very reason alone, everywhere from cities, to burghs, to dells.
It was one of my favorite gigs, to be honest. The pressure was low, the roads were soothing, and the music was always a valued copilot.
One bright, sunny day (I don't really recall the weather. It could have been just as likely that the weather was pure shit, but for the sake of pleasantries, we'll go with the former), I was on the road in the middle of nowhere on my way to the center of somewhere when a new song from one of my favorite bands leaked from the speakers.
This was so cool to me. I knew that Faith No More had a new album coming out, and I was eagerly anticipating that launch from my place on the launchpad.
Or, rather, the delivery van.
These were the days when you knew the exact date a particular album - album, not single for streaming purposes - was set for release, and you counted down the days to available consumption with vigor.
While I may be a bit dusty on the weather that day, I will not forget hearing this first song for the first time, nor will the memory of what came later that evening ever fade from my recollection.
In fact, if I ever fall prey to the woes of complete memory loss, this one will be the last man standing. That may be somewhat of a dramatization, but again, for the sake of storytelling ...
This one will be the last man standing.
I found the song to be wonderful, as I suspected it would be. The hum of tires on the winding road added an extra dash of dreaminess to it, and I soaked it up until the DJ's voice replaced that of Mike Patton's. Maybe that hum of the tires was more intrusive than I thought, because all I heard through his audible word salad was ...
Album of the year.
I was amazed. I mean, this album just came out. And it already got some award for album of the year? I figured I really needed to hear the rest of this compilation, because it would take a damn good album to garner such an accolade so quickly.
That night at practice, I shared my wonderment with the rest of the band. This album, I stressed, already was named album of the year.
And it was - before it was even released. But just not as glamorous as I had thought.
As I was embarrassed to promptly learn, Faith No More made it so. The title of the record was ...
Album Of The Year.
OK, so it wasn't cause for too much humiliation, despite the rest of the band's collective amusement. I could have made a mountain out of a molehill here, as I sometimes do. But I was really embarrassed, man, and hearing this song made me think about that day, as it always will.
It was like the time I pissed myself a little at school in the second grade.
But that's an entirely different story ...
Stray Cats - Rock This Town
This one takes me back a few years ago to my days as a sportswriter, which may seem odd.
But hear me out. Or, rather, read me out. I thought we decided that we were not actually talking to each other like that.
Let's not go there again.
So this one high school basketball player had some radically stylish hair, and it reminded me exactly of the trademark locks worn by none other than Brian Setzer. For those who don't know, he fronted Stray Cats with slick vocals, a mean guitar ...
And some stunning locks.
I laugh when I think back to the first time I saw this kid out on the court. Not because his hair was laughable or that I was making fun of him, but because of the vivid scene that took place in my head whenever I was sent out to cover one of his team's games.
It never failed. As soon as the team bolted from the locker room for pregame warmups, the internal madness began. I even began to brace for it after a while as I scanned the lineup.
No, no, no ... yep, there he is. The kid with the Brian Setzer hair.
At that moment, Rock This Town began to play in my head. I was powerless to stop it, although I tried a couple of times. Eventually, I just rolled with it.
What can I say? It was so amusing. But it didn't stop there.
Eventually, all of the other players assumed character roles in my pregame imagination. They were everything from greasers to 50's style hoodlums to the clean-cut "jock" types. You know, like something you would see in a musical about the trials and tribulations of growing up as an old-school teenaged tough, complete with song and dance.
Of course, Rock This Town was the theme song each and every time. Gradually, I began to pull it up and let it flow through my earbuds, just to help accentuate the scene in real-time. Soon, the cheerleaders were involved as well ... it became a big old sock hop in my head with the Brian Setzer lookalike playing the leader of the pack.
And when I say it was every time I covered this team, I mean every time I covered this team. I will never forget those times, as they are engrained forever in the trenches of my brain.
Again, what can I say?
The jump ball always brought an end to the sock hop and it was back to business as usual. But when the next game rolled around, the earbuds were back in, Rock This Town was cued up, and I was anticipating the pregame choreography with Brian Setzer's jangly guitar riff tipping it off before the actual tipoff.
Strange? Yeah, maybe. But damn, imagination can be so much fun when you need it.
Or when you least expect it.
Having typed that, I'm off to somewhere else now. Thanks for burning some time with me, as usual. I hope it was as much fun for you as it was for me.
And if not, I hope you aren't too upset with me for that comment about your nose. It's what friends do, though.
You take care now. Until we meet again ...
