But Everyone Knew Her as Nancy Saturday, November 01, 2003

An unspooky Halloween. We drove out to Howard Beach to pick up some donated books for Mrs. WTJ's job. Coming and going we got caught in unimaginable traffic. I kept expected to see Panzers on fire along the Belt Parkway. Tempers got frayed--mostly mine--and the lousy radio stations didn't help. But then we got back to Bayonne, and saw lots of munchkins trooping down Broadway, demanding candy. It lifted the spirits.

Today, a stopover with buddies and some Secret Thing work. Listening now to "Abbey Road." I am prepared to forgive Paul McCartney anything for his vocal on the chorus of "Golden Slumbers."

In general, I think the Beatles are receding for me too. They wrote some wonderful pop songs, and they were a moment, but I think the culture speaks a different language these days and I'm not sure the Beatles can answer it.

Which is to say: Sinatra remains an icon. You hear in his records a grace and restraint and cool that simply doesn't exist anymore--so he becomes an examplar of a lost popular style and an implicit rebuke to modern music. Cash, meanwhile, is the "dark father," as my buddy Dave described him: You hear in him the seeds of the edginess and danger of modern pop music.

But the Beatles...I don't know what they represent anymore. These days, it's just as easy to hear them as the progenitors of fluffy, irrelevant pop as protean innovators. Lots of their lyrics are afterthoughts, many of their tunes are parodies of melody: In other words, hippie jokes, Frank Zappa without the farts. By the same token, lots of their "serious" stuff sounds ludicrous these days. All those strings, all those studio effects...in the service of what? "Sgt. Pepper" reminds me of a building in Jersey City: A huge apartment complex that hangs over the edge of a palisade, supported by a bunch of spindly little girders. It looks great on top, but what's holding it up?

Call me a dope, but my favorite Beatles songs aren't the "eternal" ones, but tunes like "When I'm Sixty-Four" and "Obla-Di, Obla-Da"--sprightly, unpretentious pub songs without the weight of Revolution or even Commentary.

Go watch "The Rutles." It's funnier than this!

@ 11:29:00 AM, ,

Just to Watch Him Die Thursday, October 30, 2003

My good buddy Dave has written a nifty little obit for Johnny Cash, including a list of favorite songs. I'd add "Without Love" (written by his son-in-law, Nick Lowe), "I Walk the Line" (whose first line, "I keep a close watch on this heart of mine," John Cale turned into a memorable song), "Get Rhythm" (rockabilly at its best), and, of course, "Ring of Fire." I would blaspheme, though, and say that the Stan Ridgway/Wall of Voodoo cover of that song resonates more strongly than the original does. It sounds like it was recorded in the engine room of an aircraft carrier, with the pulse of the engines taking the place of the brappy Mexican horns. Unbeatable, and Stan's in fine voice.

On the whole, Johnny Cash has receded for me. He was rock-n-roll the same way Frank Sinatra was rock-n-roll--a musician who was so undeniably talented he stood above genre and became an icon of cool. But I think Johnny made a mistake letting himself get co-opted by the kids (e.g., recording with U2)--the same way Frank stumbled by recording, say, Rod McKuen songs. The kids understand the magnetism, but they don't get the nuances. So the records come off sounding a bit arch, if not campy.

Whatever. Johnny was a genius, and doesn't need my help. And Frankie was a kind of saint. Discuss.

@ 10:28:00 AM, ,

Like Dreamers Do Wednesday, October 29, 2003

My CD drive is dead--just days after I cunningly moved my stereo into the living room, figuring I'd use my computer for listening to music in the back room. We hardly knew ye. Also discovered that I'm scheduled to be on call Thanksgiving Day. In other words, I need to be within range of a computer or the office until I get the all-clear from the editor in charge. Isn't journalism wonderful?

A migraine day. I walked outside expecting a chilly day, and it was hot. Just when I'd adjusted to that, the train was air-conditioned; my head started to pound. Then out into the hot air again. Pound pound pound. Then my friend's air-conditioned office. Pound pound pound. Then hot air. Pound pound pound. Then a stiflingly hot bus. Pound pound pound. So I took some Tylenol, drank some caffeine, and revisited my evening meal. Still feel woozy. But tomorrow morning will be swellegant: There's nothing like waking up without a migraine. Unless it's a tumor, in which case this blog will get even more ponderous.

Tomorrow Mrs. WTJ and I talk to the priest: We need him to sign some paperwork certifying that we attend his church and we don't eat babies. If he doesn't play, I'll slip him a few bucks.

@ 9:47:00 PM, ,

And Assorted Other Mishegais Tuesday, October 28, 2003

At long last received the soundtrack to "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three"--a key audio aid for the Secret Thing (audiovisual, actually, if you count the movie itself). And it does not disappoint. The liner notes open with the question: "What does New York City sound like?" Perfect way to put it! The score sounds like exactly like John Lindsay's New York--funky and lumbering, noisy and pushy, and generally coming apart at the seams. A city full of Chevy Novas and Ford Galaxies, graffiti on the walls, guys in checkered jackets, cops with big moustaches...

Made some big, funky progress on the big, funky Secret Thing. A couple hours ago, just as I was feeling OK with calling it a day, a friend told me another company is putting out something similar to the Secret Thing early next year. Which strikes me as bad news and leaves me wondering if I want an earlier deadline (or if I should take breaks to sleep and defecate). I don't have anything in writing just yet, which is why I'm hesitant to go into more detail (realizing of course that I'm being coy). But it's a game, if you haven't figured that out already, and the soundtrack to "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three" is a fabbo audio accompaniment.

What else can I tell you? Listened to the new Shins record. In the same retro vein as Ladybug Transistor but done much better. Still, it leaves the question: Is that all there is? You've got talented musicians, you've got studio time, you've got the eyes of the hipsters at Other Music and the label's A&R department on you--and you put out this. OK, as it goes. But why not more?

Hell awaits! See you tomorrow.

@ 9:09:00 PM, ,

The Last Question Answered?? Monday, October 27, 2003

Wow, this is a biggie. All my life I've had a vague memory of sitting in the room I shared with my sister, and hearing a bizarro song on the radio: a deeeeeeeeeep male voice singing something ominous, alternating with a woman saying something in a kiddie singsong. (Over the years I decided the guy was saying something like "In the garden doom doom doom" and the woman something like "Jesus Christ, very nice.")

It's the kind of thing I can't leave alone. I've hunted down TV shows where the only detail I remember was the kind of gun the main character was carrying; I've tracked down children's books on the basis of a sort-of half-memory of the illustrations. But I couldn't for the life of me place that song. And it's quietly driven me nuts. In hindsight it seemed like an experimental punk/goth song: Like a Nick Cave number, say, with some kid spliced in for the sake of oddball juxtaposition. But how the hell was I going to find it? Even in the Internet age, you can't post a note someplace and say, "Hey, anybody know a song that maybe had a chorus that sounded like 'Jesus Christ, very nice'?"

The search is over. The song is "Some Velvet Morning" by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazelwood. As weird as Top 40 gets. Lee singing Deep Lyrics in an echo chamber...Nancy breaking through with a calliope behind her. The line is "Learn from us, very much."

So what do I do now? I mean, the mystery's over, the big one, the one I was never going to solve. What do I do, on a Monday night, with this enormous riddle gone that doesn't mean anything to anyone but me?

Go to sleep and see what happens. See ya tomorrow.

@ 11:59:00 PM, ,

The Time Is Short...

...You Die at Dawn! My early Halloween message, courtesy of Dr. Caligari. So ends day one of my vacation, spent working on Secret Thing #1. It takes shape! More details when it gets closer.

Forgot to mention one of my favorite moments from the weekend. We stopped off to see my niece and nephews-in-law in Lexington, Mass.--sweeties and mischief-makers in just the right proportion. They showed up a few minutes after we got there, and the middle kid--a puppy of a boy--came bounding in shouting "Monkey hockey! Monkey hockey!" And shoved a video into my hands: "MOST VALUABLE PRIMATE," about a skating ape who saves a local hockey team.

"Monkey hockey! Monkey hockey!" he cried again, and started demolishing the couch. Later his sly sister played the piano and I talked Mrs. WTJ into putting lipstick on him. Meanwhile, his baby brother, a kimodo dragon with a gurgly disposition, swatted at moist Cheerios and kicked his feet in time.

And then my pals got married. If that's not the best life can be, I don't know what is.

@ 9:09:00 PM, ,

Masspike East Sunday, October 26, 2003

Once again, we closed in Boston. An old dear pal married a new dear one, in a lovely ceremony, held in a converted arsenal with turning trees and chestnuts on the lawn. I've only been to a couple of Jewish weddings, but both times I've been amazed at how the proceedings seemed off-the-cuff and eternal at the same time. At Catholic weddings I'm always aware of The Church as the framework for the occasion: The couple is stepping into tradition. At Jewish weddings, it always seems like the reverse: Tradition is manifesting itself as two people. At any rate, tradition couldn't have asked for a finer Sunday, or a sweeter bride and groom. Mazel tov!

Made some new friends, ate some astonishing beef and unmentionable cake, maybe came up with a story idea.

More later.

@ 9:22:00 PM, ,