Goodbyes

The parting words:

“I hope you find something that makes you happy. Don’t drink too much whiskey and quit smoking.”

That’s someone who knows me.

I can’t find the shuffle button. Only repeat.

I have this bad habit.

I listen to a song over and over again and associate it in my mind with someone in particular. In high school it was Hendrix. Later in life, the songs changed, but the feeling behind it stayed the same: every time I heard a particular song, I would think of a certain person. I still do it. The longer I know a person, the longer they are a part of my life, the more songs I attribute to them. After a while, it seems like there aren’t any good songs left.

But there’s always new music.

There’s always a new person.

The thought and the feelings behind those thoughts tend to stay the same. Now it’s a Jay Farrar cover and a Ray LaMontagne song. But even after the association goes sour – even after I want nothing more than eject someone from my life – I still listen to those songs.

Some people cut themselves. Some people get drunk. I listen to music.

Well, I get drunk too.

Everyone has their vices.

But I won’t stop listening to those songs. I see them in my CD case and pause for a second. I think about the songs and what they’ll do. I reach into the case, pull the CD out and skip ahead to those specific tracks.

Everything comes rushing back. I play it again.

Maybe it’s some weird catharsis, but I doubt it. That Hendrix song still brings a shy blond girl with arresting blue eyes to mind.

The hair color changes. The eye color does too. But those songs stay the same. And I keep listening to them.

Over and over.

The intensity fades. Of course it does, after ten years it’s hard to feel the same way about anything. But something still sparks.

The more immediate, the more times I hit repeat until I want to break it, crack the CD in half, throw it out the window and let the tire tread of a thousand cars grind it dust.

Instead I hit repeat one more time, light a cigarette and settle in for a long ride. Brake lights flash, but it is only a short delay. The destination is unchanged.

Blog life crisis?

Haven’t written in a while. Mostly because I haven’t been to a show since Upstairs at the Middle East. Mostly because I’ve been hesitant to write about what has been going on. There’s something to be said about having the onion sack to write about your thoughts and the current events of your life. It’s a lot of exposure. (Well, it could be a lot of exposure if anyone ever read this thing.)

Plus, do I really want to write about myself? Is that really interesting to anyone?

Went to the store today because I needed some shaving cream. Bought some rutabagas. Later I think I’ll pull my pants down and slide on the ice. 

Come on. With the exception of that last part (if I do that, there will be pictures), that isn’t interesting to me — and I’m the one doing it.  This makes me wonder if I need some direction for this blog. One friend has a Red Sox blog. Another has a fishing and outdoors blog. Lately I’ve been writing — with various degrees of success depending on who you ask — about music. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of music blogs in the world. Does that deter me? Not really. Writing about shows and albums is something I want to do, so I’ll keep it up. 

But what about the rest of the time? Do you want to know about what is or isn’t going on with Melody? Most of you reading this have never met her. Would I feel bad writing about it? No, because I like to think I’d try to be objective about it, but, really, who of you cares?

But, man. That personal writing… it always makes for the most compelling and interesting stuff to read. Beth keeps telling me I’ve got the chops to blog on a daily basis if I wasn’t so lazy. She’s probably right and I appreciate the support, but I’ve got to have something to put on paper. Or screen. I’ll keep working on it. And hopefully I’ll keep you interested.

Until then, Melody, I am going to pull my pants down and slide on the ice. 

Ole!

 

 

The last thing I wanted to do this weekend was think about Spain, the Spanish language or anything that was remotely Spanish. My roommate asked me if I wanted to get Mexican food this weekend and I was forced to threaten him a pair of pliers, some expired milk and a leftover saltine cracker.

 

Such is my rancor.

 

So naturally, I was immersed in it all weekend. You think by now I would be speaking in Spanish while flamenco dancing to the tune of “Los Frijoles Magicale.”

 

It started Thursday.

 

I saw Paco de Lucia in concert at the Orpheum. It was supposed to be a surprise date for a certain lady. I bought the tickets about two months ago and told her to keep the date open. So naturally, she decided to book a flight to Barcelona, Spain that left the night before the concert. Oh yeah, and she decided to stop seeing me, too.

 

I thought about selling the tickets and just forgetting about the show but Dave was going and so was Julia. I decided to offer the extra ticket to a friend, who graciously accepted, and went anyway.

 

I’m still riding the high that show gave me.

 

It was my first time at the Orpheum and my seats were orchestra left. Not bad seats, all things considered. I was about 20 or so rows from the stage with a full view of all the fingers-of-fury action.

 

At least, where I was sitting was all right. The seats themselves had about three inches of room between the edge of the seat and the seat back in front of me. I ended up with one leg touching Tessa and the other in the lap of the guy sitting next to me. I was splayed open for all to see. It felt like there was an electronic sign with an arrow point at my onion sack saying, “Eat…At… Brian’s.” “Eat at Brian’s.”

 

What a terrible night to wear my kilt.

 

The venue itself was all right. The acoustics were good and it reminded me a lot of the Vic in Chicago – except it was a little more upscale — maybe a cross between the Vic and the Lyric Opera House. Gold gilding, white walls and a huge mezzanine level.

 

But for Paco, it was perfect. The stage was mostly empty with seven chairs set up in a half moon around the stage. Paco came on at ten to eight, sat in the center of the half moon and got to work. Eventually the rest of the seats were filled with two singers (who also did some flamenco dancing), rhythm guitarist, a keyboard/harmonica player, electric bass and percussionist rounded out the line up. The sound was full and as sensual as anything Al Green, Barry White and Marvin Gaye could muster.

 

Paco played nine songs in two hours and ten minutes, and the time melted away like cold whipped cream on hot skin.

 

Friday I went to watch a cover band play at one of my favorite watering holes. Normally, this is a pretty good way to blow off steam, see some friends and have a little bit of fun. Unfortunately, the night ended with an ill advised phone call to a local Chinese restaurant at 2:30 in the morning for delivery.

 

Saturday was rough. In more ways than one.

 

I help a friend move from Dorchester to Southboro, while still feeling the harsh after affects of the Chinese food. I hadn’t seen Hannah in a while so we caught up on what was going on with each other. I was driving a 22-foot Penske van through Dorchester (Which I recommend you try if you get the chance. I’ve never seen so many Cabbies get the hell out of my way before) to Southboro. That was a solid hour of talking about Spain and the Spanish Inquisition that I was trying to avoid – with follow ups through the whole day.

 

Sunday I saw Pan’s Labyrinth. And it was my idea. Maybe not the smartest move, but what an amazing movie. I loved everything about it. The escapist themes, cinematography and the shockingly violent moments all came together to create something close to the perfect fairy tale.

 

Of course, the whole thing was in Spanish with English subtitles.

I must be a masochist.