My friend Hilary (one of my all-time favorite people on this planet) and I play online Scrabble, sending each other emails back and forth with our moves. We take turns asking each other three questions and then answering them. The other day she asked me, “Would you rather be a NY times bestseller, a rock star, or the head of a foundation.” Now as an aspiring writer, the obvious choice would be the bestseller. If you’re my mom and you think I’m a really nice guy who really cares about people, then maybe I should be the head of some philanthropist foundation. My brain tells me the former is a good choice, my conscious tells me the later, but every other part of my body (especially my penis) would love to be a rock star.
I don’t think I need to go into great depth about why it would be cool to be a rock star. If you’ve ever been to a big rock concert and heard the sound of the crowd erupting when the lights go down then you can imagine how much of a thrill it would be to play in front of an adoring audience. Not to mention the groupies, the destruction of hotel rooms, and the opportunity to have my own iTunes mix. I wouldn’t even have to be the lead guitarist. I’m happy to be Ringo or the bassist who just plays scales over and over again.
Alas, I have no musical talent. None. I can play a handful of chords on the guitar and probably stumble over a few Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin tunes, but a rock star I will never be. I do have plans to buy a ukulele. One of the Office writers inspired me. It’s a pretty sound and easy to play, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I’m never going to be a rock star and that sucks.
Driving into work this morning, I heard Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” and took solace. I never really cared for the song before I saw “Almost Famous.” Now I blast it every time it comes on the radio. There is a strong visual and emotional connection between that song and one of the seminal scenes of the movie. Both the movie and the song are better off having joined as companions.
The same can be said about countless other songs that have appeared in films. Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” is one of my favorite love songs, and it’s almost certainly due to its appearance in “Say Anything.” I’ve become of fan of Loverboy because of “Wet Hot American Summer.” Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” is a terrible song, but I love it because I can’t hear it without thinking about Rocky. The list could go on forever. Directors like Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, and Wes Anderson have greatly expanded my taste in music and also managed to reenergize classic songs, bringing them to the forefront of pop culture.
A great movie almost invariably has a great soundtrack or at least a few great songs on it. Obviously there are exceptions, but most of them involve movies that have fantastic scores rather than soundtracks and that doesn’t really count. When a movie captures the essence of song or reinvents its essence (and vice versa), the song and movie become forever linked in my mind. I have trouble separating one from the other and the sum the parts ends up being so much greater than pieces alone.
This is a wonderful phenomenon. Songs get better, movies get better, and perhaps I’ll get to live out my dream after all. Maybe one day I’ll write a feature and convince the director to allow me some input into the soundtrack (note: I’m aware that even if the former were to happen, the later is incredibly unlikely). Maybe I can shine a light on a few unknown bands or songs. Maybe I can help to shape those songs, turn them into something special, and in doing so, excite people’s ears almost like a rock star would. A boy can dream anyway.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Monday, April 9, 2007
Women Make Me Cry
Sorry (to the two or three people who actually read this) about the lack of recent entries. I had the week off last week and when I wasn’t camping or running errands, I was busy doing my own writing. Now I’m back at work and that means time to kill, so hopefully I’ll have a few posts over the next couple of weeks.
I was driving back from Big Bear this weekend and Christine was complaining about the CD I was listening to (Pinback – “Blue Screen Life” which I think is absolutely amazing… the Vein turned me onto them and if you’ve never heard them, I urge you to check them out… best “new” indie band I’ve heard in a long time). So I decided to put on a band that she’d never heard, but was sure to like. Portishead is this crazy-good trip-hop band, that features the amazing Beth Gibbons on vocals. Sad, beautiful, haunting songs that feature Gibbons’ incredible voice never fail to get me emotional.
Sure enough, Christine enjoyed what she heard, at least until she fell asleep, which she’s prone to doing a lot. While she slept, I found myself singing along and getting emotional as usual. As I sang “Glorybox,” I found myself tearing up as I bellowed (and butchered) the chorus: “Give me a reason to love you. Give me a reason to beeeehe… a woman. Just want to be a woman…”
Was this odd behavior? Probably for most guys, but it’s become an increasingly common occurrence for me. I’ve always prided myself on being comfortable enough with my manhood and sexuality, that I’m not afraid to get in touch with my sensitive and feminine sides. I don’t cry very often, but I tear up all the fracking time. The local news, NPR’s “This I Believe,” and all the Jim and Pam drama on the Office are sure to make my eyes wet. I’m an emotional guy, and feelings of empathy are nothing to be afraid of.
That being said, I still can’t begin to comprehend the complexities of women. They remain a mystery to me, one that I know I’ll never fully understand. I remember back in high school, sitting at a table full of girls, I was asked if I had the opportunity, would I want to be a woman for a day. I said of course; it would help explain some of what seems like pure loony bin behavior to me. When I turned the question on the girls, there was a resounding affirmation, that the girls would all love to be a guy for a day. When I asked why, my friend Hana explained, “I’d spend the whole day jerking off.” I tried to point out that women could masturbate nearly as easily as guys, but that sentiment was shot down. Now, the truly interesting thing about this conversation has very little to do with masturbation. I’m sure most of those girls have grown up, become more comfortable with their bodies, and have no trouble double clicking the mouse once in a while. The interesting thing is the way the opposite sexes characterized one another.
I thought women were complex creatures, impossible for me to understand. They thought of men as simple beings, endlessly entertained by touching themselves. As much as I’d love to dispute those girls, their over-simplified logic, contained more than a hint of truth. I don’t consider myself to be that complex. I like sleeping, eating, being entertained, pretty girls, laughing, and… touching myself. Everyday I try and navigate the murky waters of femininity in my day-to-day interactions with women. Everyday I fail.
Which brings me back to Portishead and crying. I find that while there are several male artists who move me, very few can reduce me to tears: Al Green, Sting, Kurt Cobain, Elliot Smith, Neil Young, and The Beatles were the only ones that popped into my head. But there are countless female artists who do it to me all the time.
Understanding this phenomenon like understanding a women, is not easy. My initial instinct was to turn to science. I hypothesized that perhaps there is an intrinsic emotional response to soprano singing. The higher a person sang, the farther those notes traveled into your heart, mind, and soul. And perhaps there’s some truth to this somewhat absurd notion, but there’s far too many exceptions to the rule, to make for much of a theory.
With that in mind, I came up with a second thesis. Female singers cause me to get emotional far more often than male singers, because females are tapping into a set of emotions that I’m not familiar with. In the same way that society has become largely indifferent to the over-saturation of violence they see on television and in the movies, men have become largely unmoved by other men singing about emotional subjects. We, as men, spend so much time and energy dealing with problems that are strictly man problems, that it takes a particularly powerful male song to move us. But since we rarely have to deal with the emotional problems unique to women, a woman’s voice moves us in a unique way that we’re unaccustomed to (and when combined with a woman’s lyrics, it’s hard not to get emotional). My personal response is to tear up.
Aretha Franklin’s best-know song “Respect” generally doesn’t make me cry, but it moves me emotionally. Hearing her belt out, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T… find out what it means to me…” always humbles me as a man. The song has become a feminist anthem and it was impossible for me to listen to it and not wonder about how I treat the women in my life, until I discovered she was doing an Otis Redding cover. Now, no offense to Otis Redding who is incredible, but hearing his version made me feel downright guilty. I don’t know if it’s truly mysigonistic, but the lyrics took on a dark new meaning when being sung by a man: “I’m about to give you all my money. And all I’m askin’ in return, honey, is to give me my profits. When you get home, just a, just a, just a, just a… little bit…” Same song, same lyrics, but Aretha, purely in being a woman, causes me to tap into a set of emotions that I don’t deal with on a regular basis. Otis makes me feel guilty about enjoying sex.
The same can be said of Elvis Pressley’s cover of Big Mama Thorton’s “Hound Dog.” When Elvis sings, it’s just another song written by a man about a bad woman. I’ve heard a million of these, enjoyed many of them, sympathize, empathize, understand, and know a handful of “hound dogs.” But when Big Mama Thorton is bellowing out the same lyrics, I can’t help but reexamine every time I’ve mistreated a girl. Again, something about a woman singing, causes me to tap into emotions that I’m generally not comfortable dealing with.
Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In the Wind” and Judy’s Collins’ cover of it, affect me the same way. I understand that both are protest songs, both use the same lyrics, and I know that Bob’s version is the quintessential version, but somehow Judy Collins’ sweet voice gets me teary-eyed in a way that Bob Dylan’s raspy one never does.
The previous three examples, all compare male and female singers performing songs written by men (Hound Dog, while originally performed by Big Mama Thorton, was written by two men). The ability of a female singer to tap into a unique emotional spot in my soul using lyrics written by a man is somewhat astounding. That being the case, it’s no wonder a song written by a woman, sung by a woman, about a unique female experience, like the aforementioned “Glorybox,” gets me all emotional. Like dealing with a repressed memory, listening to a woman sing about pain and suffering, causes me to deal with emotions, memories, and thoughts that I’m just not accustomed to. And it seems a healthy endeavor to engage in. In doing so, I get in touch with my feminine side and begin to unwrap some of the mysteries of the opposite sex.
I was driving back from Big Bear this weekend and Christine was complaining about the CD I was listening to (Pinback – “Blue Screen Life” which I think is absolutely amazing… the Vein turned me onto them and if you’ve never heard them, I urge you to check them out… best “new” indie band I’ve heard in a long time). So I decided to put on a band that she’d never heard, but was sure to like. Portishead is this crazy-good trip-hop band, that features the amazing Beth Gibbons on vocals. Sad, beautiful, haunting songs that feature Gibbons’ incredible voice never fail to get me emotional.
Sure enough, Christine enjoyed what she heard, at least until she fell asleep, which she’s prone to doing a lot. While she slept, I found myself singing along and getting emotional as usual. As I sang “Glorybox,” I found myself tearing up as I bellowed (and butchered) the chorus: “Give me a reason to love you. Give me a reason to beeeehe… a woman. Just want to be a woman…”
Was this odd behavior? Probably for most guys, but it’s become an increasingly common occurrence for me. I’ve always prided myself on being comfortable enough with my manhood and sexuality, that I’m not afraid to get in touch with my sensitive and feminine sides. I don’t cry very often, but I tear up all the fracking time. The local news, NPR’s “This I Believe,” and all the Jim and Pam drama on the Office are sure to make my eyes wet. I’m an emotional guy, and feelings of empathy are nothing to be afraid of.
That being said, I still can’t begin to comprehend the complexities of women. They remain a mystery to me, one that I know I’ll never fully understand. I remember back in high school, sitting at a table full of girls, I was asked if I had the opportunity, would I want to be a woman for a day. I said of course; it would help explain some of what seems like pure loony bin behavior to me. When I turned the question on the girls, there was a resounding affirmation, that the girls would all love to be a guy for a day. When I asked why, my friend Hana explained, “I’d spend the whole day jerking off.” I tried to point out that women could masturbate nearly as easily as guys, but that sentiment was shot down. Now, the truly interesting thing about this conversation has very little to do with masturbation. I’m sure most of those girls have grown up, become more comfortable with their bodies, and have no trouble double clicking the mouse once in a while. The interesting thing is the way the opposite sexes characterized one another.
I thought women were complex creatures, impossible for me to understand. They thought of men as simple beings, endlessly entertained by touching themselves. As much as I’d love to dispute those girls, their over-simplified logic, contained more than a hint of truth. I don’t consider myself to be that complex. I like sleeping, eating, being entertained, pretty girls, laughing, and… touching myself. Everyday I try and navigate the murky waters of femininity in my day-to-day interactions with women. Everyday I fail.
Which brings me back to Portishead and crying. I find that while there are several male artists who move me, very few can reduce me to tears: Al Green, Sting, Kurt Cobain, Elliot Smith, Neil Young, and The Beatles were the only ones that popped into my head. But there are countless female artists who do it to me all the time.
Understanding this phenomenon like understanding a women, is not easy. My initial instinct was to turn to science. I hypothesized that perhaps there is an intrinsic emotional response to soprano singing. The higher a person sang, the farther those notes traveled into your heart, mind, and soul. And perhaps there’s some truth to this somewhat absurd notion, but there’s far too many exceptions to the rule, to make for much of a theory.
With that in mind, I came up with a second thesis. Female singers cause me to get emotional far more often than male singers, because females are tapping into a set of emotions that I’m not familiar with. In the same way that society has become largely indifferent to the over-saturation of violence they see on television and in the movies, men have become largely unmoved by other men singing about emotional subjects. We, as men, spend so much time and energy dealing with problems that are strictly man problems, that it takes a particularly powerful male song to move us. But since we rarely have to deal with the emotional problems unique to women, a woman’s voice moves us in a unique way that we’re unaccustomed to (and when combined with a woman’s lyrics, it’s hard not to get emotional). My personal response is to tear up.
Aretha Franklin’s best-know song “Respect” generally doesn’t make me cry, but it moves me emotionally. Hearing her belt out, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T… find out what it means to me…” always humbles me as a man. The song has become a feminist anthem and it was impossible for me to listen to it and not wonder about how I treat the women in my life, until I discovered she was doing an Otis Redding cover. Now, no offense to Otis Redding who is incredible, but hearing his version made me feel downright guilty. I don’t know if it’s truly mysigonistic, but the lyrics took on a dark new meaning when being sung by a man: “I’m about to give you all my money. And all I’m askin’ in return, honey, is to give me my profits. When you get home, just a, just a, just a, just a… little bit…” Same song, same lyrics, but Aretha, purely in being a woman, causes me to tap into a set of emotions that I don’t deal with on a regular basis. Otis makes me feel guilty about enjoying sex.
The same can be said of Elvis Pressley’s cover of Big Mama Thorton’s “Hound Dog.” When Elvis sings, it’s just another song written by a man about a bad woman. I’ve heard a million of these, enjoyed many of them, sympathize, empathize, understand, and know a handful of “hound dogs.” But when Big Mama Thorton is bellowing out the same lyrics, I can’t help but reexamine every time I’ve mistreated a girl. Again, something about a woman singing, causes me to tap into emotions that I’m generally not comfortable dealing with.
Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In the Wind” and Judy’s Collins’ cover of it, affect me the same way. I understand that both are protest songs, both use the same lyrics, and I know that Bob’s version is the quintessential version, but somehow Judy Collins’ sweet voice gets me teary-eyed in a way that Bob Dylan’s raspy one never does.
The previous three examples, all compare male and female singers performing songs written by men (Hound Dog, while originally performed by Big Mama Thorton, was written by two men). The ability of a female singer to tap into a unique emotional spot in my soul using lyrics written by a man is somewhat astounding. That being the case, it’s no wonder a song written by a woman, sung by a woman, about a unique female experience, like the aforementioned “Glorybox,” gets me all emotional. Like dealing with a repressed memory, listening to a woman sing about pain and suffering, causes me to deal with emotions, memories, and thoughts that I’m just not accustomed to. And it seems a healthy endeavor to engage in. In doing so, I get in touch with my feminine side and begin to unwrap some of the mysteries of the opposite sex.
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