Somedays you can rule the world, make new content, slay the day, hustle and flow and GSD. Other days you don’t. On the days that are other, it can feel like you’re wading through softened butter- too soft to slide over, and too sludgey to swim through. So you trudge along, with slips and falls and easier bits and then the dogged trudging again. You know that forward momentum is what you need, in fact it’s the only thing that will get you through the mire, but sometimes you just want to lay down and rest. The butter would probably feel nice, wouldn’t it?
Somedays you wake up with energy and verve, and other days you would rather just hide under the doona and wait for the day to pass without it asking anything of you. Which is fine if that other day is a Sunday with no commitments, but if it’s a work day, and a school day and a you have to be a Mum day, then someone is going to pull the doona back and find you at some stage, no matter how stealthily and silently you hide away.
If this is the someday that you feel inspired to do all of the things: yippee. Go do them.
If this is an other day for you, then this is your reminder that you don’t have to butter up or hide from the world: you are allowed to take the day. You don’t have to be productive and perfectly put together every day. You just have to be true to you. And the only way to know what you wants, and maybe even needs, is to take some time to ask yourself. To sit quietly and listen to the beat of your heart and see what song plays today. It might be different to the one you were secretly hoping to dance to, but just like when the Wedding DJ plays True Colours when you were hoping for She Bop (and who doesn’t love a good She Bop? *leery winky face*) you can still swing it if you let the rhythm flow.
So this is your permission to do whatever day you want. Dance if you like, sing if you’re in the mood, or just quietly enjoy the music.
Tomorrow’s song will be different.
…From The Ashers
PS Sorry if you just found out that your twelve year old self used to dance around the loungeroom to a song about solo female pleasure. But if you did: go you good thing. Bop on.
I have a kid who loves musicals. The schadenfreude that my friends have over this is something just short of proper evil. I fell asleep at Phantom of the Opera. I read a book during Jesus Christ Superstar, and I created an entire study/life timetable during The Boyfriend. The only musical that has ever really captured my full attention is Rocky Horror, and I guess that probably says more about me than the show.
Having a kid who loves musicals means that instead of spending our evenings seeing cool bands, shocking comedians and important movies, we see people prancing about the stage and singing things that they could easily just say, with songs that always end with a big ‘bomp’ (just in was you didn’t know that the song was ended).
Having a kid who loves musicals means that she is IN musicals as well. I have written before about the surprising magic that happens when you watch a group of actors bring a show to life- the frizty energy backstage before the curtain raise, the almost rapturous delight as they take their final bows. Humans humaning towards a common goal is always an honour to experience, and acting is no exception.
Having a kid who loves musicals of course means that we are going to see Hamilton. On paper it sounds strange and yes, I had to initially watch it with an IMBD blow by blow explanation of the plot and the history, but once you understand what the heck is going on, and that there are double castings (so actors can get killed off and come back as someone else), it is strangely compelling. We are going in August, so as is my wont, I’m learning the songs. And they are earworms.
Slogans, song lyrics and advertising jingles have always been my crack. I have a brain that is constantly talking to itself, arguing, defining and rejecting ideas it doesn’t like, so to penetrate the membrane and get inside, things often have to find the back way in. Which is what song lyrics do. I don’t take much notice of the music, but I suspect it has a Trojan horse effect for me, hiding the punch of the pop, until it explodes into my limbic system- that place where emotions all hang out together.
Hamilton has weasled its way in. Lin-Manuel Miranda, that clever, clever writer has woven riffs of songs from my early twenties with new lyrics, making old music and even older stories into a fresh new fabric. The familiar snippets of tunes just outside my conscious reach means that I allow the next layer to be implanted. Its entirely tricksy and almost the G-word. If not genius, it’s definitely inspired.
Three phrases have wormed my ear most significantly: The world turned upside down. I’m not throwing away my shot. You will never be satisfied, I will never be satisfied.
The world turned upside down: over and over again, in this post-2020 year, I’ve found reason after reason to sing these three lines.
I’m not throwing away my shot: I’ve used that more times than I care to admit, noticing moments of joy that I would usually rush past. Taking opportunities I might usually squander. Living more. Being more. Taking chances. Adding richness. Not throwing away any shots I have for being present.
You will never be satisfied, I will never be satisfied: this one’s the kicker. Of all the lyrics in all the songs (and there’s more than twenty of them) this one is the one that gets me every time. When is it ever going to be enough? Is there ever enough? Will I ever be enough? It’s the question that keeps me awake at night, enveloped in the love and warmth of an amazing family, home and life, and yet still wondering: is there more? Is there something else that I could be doing? Have I done enough?
So just as I suspected: musicals suck. They make you think all the thoughts and question all the things, getting in and under your skin until they end, or you end: BOMP.
Once upon a time I had a Dad who was alive in this world and he loved music.
He loved to listen to it cranked up so that it drowned out whatever he was tinkering with in the shed. If you listened hard you could hear his sighing, gravelly voice joining in with that riffy blues that used to get under the skin at the base of my neck and make me want to shrug like Atlas. The blues gave them to me then, and they give them to me now.
Thankfully, he loved many other styles of music, with a record collection stretching from Abba to Zappa like a long line of Friday afternoon bank customers, craning their necks to see when it would be their turn on the table to start the party. His tastes expanded mine from 3XY, giving a breadth that allowed me to take in more than the latest chart topper, and aged my repertoire so that I often have people older than me take in my skin, and try to figure out my generation when I know the words to something before my time.
He taught me that music is to be shared and pooled and mixed together and made available to all. He was always a one for making tapes of the albums he bought home from Brashs most Fridays, taking them out of their slippery sleeves to check for scratches before reverently placing them on the turntable. I think he held his breath a little until the crackles gave way to the opening bars. And then he was away. Lost in the story and the emotion.
The first time I heard Mental As Anything we were at our holiday place at Torquay, where the salty west-coast winds flapped the canvas roof up and down all summer long, reminding us to get to the beach before the cool change came in. My Dad had made a TDK-60 recording to play in the black tape-recorder that sat on top of the 1950s fridge (Current paint job: royal blue).
“Woah-ho, the nips are getting bigger.” sang Greedy and his buddies, the flippy tune forming an exuberant sound-track to my latest Trixie Beldon. It was the one where they found some dope-smugglers and when I asked Mum how to pronounce “Mara-jewu-wana”, she snatched it away with a black-snake whip, until I could convince her that Trixie and Honey were catching the baddies, not sparking up. I spent most of the rest of those hols, humming along to the Mentals, and laughing to myself about how a song about fishing and the nips they were getting, could be so catchy.
Last weekend, Greedy and a new gaggle of fellas came to a little country town near us. Reg has gone onto other things, and Martin is pretty crook, but Greedy was there, playing his keyboard and belting out all the old tunes as if it was 1986.
At first I thought I might stand politely up the middle-to-back and have beer or two (I started out, just drinking beer.) and maybe lip sync a few songs then head home. However the first notes of the fist song did something to my synapses and within a beat I was back in that summer.
White zinc cream mixed with that hard, peeling skin on my nose. Lips infused with salt. Hair faded to light from the sun. Sandpaper sheets, and still, melting heat making it hard to sleep, whilst parents caroused- the cadence of their laughter and stories a backdrop to the click of the crickets. Eventually silent, only moments before the crows started their morning dance on the thick canvas roof. We would toss and turn and try to scrinch out the light, until the paperboy started his litany, “SunAgeAddyAustral-yan” and bleary-headed Dads in their jocks ran out to grab the news of what they were missing from their city lives.
So when Greedy started, I wove my way through the crowd like an eel, taking my place among the old and the young. The Old who were swaying to the echoes from a simpler life. The Young who were there for the cheap live music, or, in one girls case, because her Mum had loved The Mentals.
Had.
I sighed with her, and kissed her maternally on the head as she told me her story of loss and scattered corpuscles, and we toasted her Mum and we toasted my Dad and we toasted the silly, fizzy soundtrack that could take us back to a time and and place where our hearts were still whole and unscarred.
I was flicking around on Facebook, when one thing led to another, and before too long, I managed to procure what may (or may not) be the deal of the century. I found a woman on Bribie Island who was willing to sell me her deceased grandparents’ record collection for two pineapples. Or five lobsters, in the old measure. I couldn’t believe my luck. For not only did she want to sell for a song, Nathan and the kids just happened to be kind-of-almost-sort-of going past Bribie on Saturday. So I got a lifetime of someone’s music (or muzak as it should rightfully be called) without an ounce of effort.
That’s the kind of Christmas Sale transaction I like.
We (well, Nath) hefted that box of shiny black discs upstairs, and I spent the rest of the weekend sneezing, (old records really do have a distinctive smell) and singing along. Happy Days. (But not “Happy Days”, surprisingly there is no Happy Days soundtrack in the mix, although there are many, many more of that ilk)
As I flicked through the piles (I had them in piles so that I could immediately put them in alphabetical order- funny, I did this without even thinking) I silently wished I had this Modern Device:
Can you read the text? It’s a SPACE AGE device!
yet still, labour or not- shrieking as I uncovered each new gem. Ol’ Joy purchased some pearlers and some shockers in her time, and it seems she had a particular penchant for the compilation album. Ahh, compilations, my second favourite genre. (My favourite is duets, if you have to ask)
I was deliriously happy as I spun disk after disk, finding that by some freakish sorcery, the words to these songs were stored in the back recesses of my gyri, intact, after all these eons. Lyrics to songs that, if you asked me, I would say that I am only vaguely familiar with, came flooding back as soon as the first verses began.
Sometimes I was a bit behind- like when you do that thing with your friend, pretending to guess what the other will say, speaking the same words at the same time in a kind of slow motion- but often I was right on time, knowing the words as if they were my favourite songs, now playing on 3XY.
I found a surprising joy in this. In finding that my brain somehow knew some things that I don’t. It was like there was me, and then another me, both sitting on the couch with a beer, familiar together, yet not quite sure what the other one would do next.
My favourite was when I played this album:
I remember the cover distinctly- Mum had it when I was a kid- and I knew it contained the tracks Disco Duck and Cherry Bomb, but other than that, nothing. It turns out that Old Me has some bytes of information stored up, and she knew all of the words, to all of the songs, even ones that New Me doesn’t really like. What fun. And what else is stored up there? Do I secretly know how to play piano or speak German, two things I have been exposed to, but have no working memory of? And if there is more up there, how do I get it out?
In the end I guess it doesn’t really matter, it will all come out when I’m old(er) and nuts and asking my children as they change my Depend, for Choo Choo Bars because they were-are my favourite confection, circa 1978.
Nathan and the kids were vaguely interested in all of my nonsense, but by and by they grew tired of the crackling and the scratchings of the turntable, and decided to introduce my to the soundtrack of their Saturday drive: Uptown Fudgey Wudge.
My synapses hurtled through time and space, one moment dealing with the tricky intricacies of stuffing those thin black circles pressed with the voices of The Temptations from long ago, into those strange clingy bags, to the next, downloading the latest Mark Ronson track (which is actually called Uptown Funk, if you wanna do yourself a favour and go listen) and having it almost immediately available to listen to with the caress of a screen.
So we jumped and funked and grooved around the dance-floor to something that some guy probably could have made in his bedroom, and beamed to my phone the second after he pressed the STOP button on his Garage Band app. It’s probably not how it happened, but it could have. And that’s the crazy bit of Uptown Fudgey Wudge vs Karma Chameleon. Both are hits in their time. And both are fantastic in their way. Both make your feet tap and your brain smile. Both know how to pick you up and shrug off some of the load.
Music eh?
Wow.
This morning as I write, I am looking up from time to time at the mountain of vinyl shoved in the corner, and I see I have inadvertently placed the early birthday pressie I procured for myself from Typo last week, on top of it.
Thanks Joy B. Thanks for taking the time to collect the songs of your life, carefully writing your name on their covers so that I can send you a cheers, whenever I take them for a spin. You made me Happy.
Do you still have a record player (yes, I know it’s now called a turntable)?
I overheard myself last week saying, “I’ve always wanted to play an instrument.”
Clearly I am a liar, because at 43years of age, I have barely ever picked up any instrument, other than to move it out of a thoroughfare in this hovel we call home, or to wipe dust off it. In this house there are: two ukeles, one drum kit, one violin, two guitars, one clarinet and various blues harmonicas. Along with a keyboard that comes to visit every now and then. So it would seem that it isn’t a scarcity of equipment that has prevented my burgeoning musical talent from blossoming.
The reason why I can‘t play is because I don’t.
This week I decided to remedy that, and in a pique of inspiration I did what I always do when I don’t know the answer in this brave new world: I ask Google, or someone under fifteen.
Google told me I could learn three chords and play ten songs, seemingly within minutes. The App Store told me that I could have a free virtual teacher at my disposal with a push of a button. The under fifteens said, “Hmmm, it’s harder than it looks, Mum. You have to practise. A lot. And you have to, you know, listen to the beat of the music and follow the rules.”
“Piffle”, I thought to myself, and did the next thing my goal book said to do to successfully achieve something: I told Nath (loudly) that I was off to learn the guitar, and I would be back with a song presently.
By and by, after many repeat viewings of the YouTube clips my new friend Stephen put together for me, my neck began to ache from hunching over the frets, and my fingertips slowly lost any semblance of feeling. Other than pain, that is. They could still feel pain.
By and by it became apparent that even though my fingers are small, strong and nimble, and seemingly perfect for playing guitar, they are also very stupid. It came to my attention that they don’t learn new things as easily as I had hoped, and so it came to pass that my much awaited debut of that classic piece: Hound Dog, would have to be postponed until my finger pads recovered. (And I was somehow struck with musical talent.)
For even though I was kinda sorta learning the chords okay, the ability to play music requires some other skills to come together. Not only is there all of the intricate movements of the left hand to make the shapes, the right hand has to strum, and the strumming has to follow an unvarying routine, for it all to sound anything resembling a song. Stephen keeps breaking my pretty shapes into lots of a dozen, and then tells me to make them for four or three ‘beats’. He has never said how far apart these beats are. One second? Two? And how about this little group of twelve that is to be repeated until the end- how long is that? I could put on a timer if I knew. I’m good at timing. Doing things without proper rules? Not so much.
I googled all sorts of things about tabs vs chords, about the length of a bar, about where to hold the strings down. The information was strangely elusive for a discipline that is purported to be based on simple rules.
I sought the advice of the children. They are how somehow imbedded with the knowledge, from years of music lessons imprinted on open minds. Which means that they don’t know the specifics of the questions I’m asking. They just look at me strangely and shrug, whilst blowing, banging or strumming familiar tunes. “You just listen to it and play it, Mum,” they say. Which is exactly what they do, and precisely what I can’t.
I asked Liam a question about the production of a particular notation on the music sheet, and he sighed, picked up the guitar and said, “This should explain it.” He proceeded to play some notes (I guess they are called notes), that kind of sounded similar (where they the same?) down the neck of the thing. “See?” he asked, expectantly.
I had no idea what he was on about, so I just nodded my head. This seemed to satisfy him. So at least I still know how to act like a ‘good student’ regardless of any actual learning taking place.
All I can say, is Playstation, you have a lot to answer for. And Real World, you are nothing like the virtual world makes you out to be.
I think it’s time to go back to Guitar Hero.
I hope we didn’t sell it in the garage sale.
Have you tried to learn anything new as an adult? Is it hard?
Aplogies to the neighbours, but I’m stuck in the 70s tonight
Today we had Double J playing, and “Size of a Cow” by The Wonderstuff came on. I was singing along, I guess I know most of the words (or at least my version of them, which may vary from the intended, but that’s not a new thing) and Nath was just looking at me. He said he’d never, ever heard it.
That was weird. We are the same vintage, had lots of the same friends, and came from the same town, so usually we know the same songs. We varied a bit in taste, back in those teenage days- I was more Billy Bragg and Bob Dylan, he was more Rolling Stones and all of the other headachy Blues stuff that makes me doubt my ability to be happy ever again. But usually we kind of cross-over a little.
And a similar thing happened last night- we were doing the random scroll thing on our iPods- you know where you close your eyes and flick and point and then have to listen to whatever comes on? Well, “Death of a Disco Dancer” (The Smiths) came on. Nath didn’t know it at all. I can understand why- Morrissey is painful at the best of times at that is a particularly moan-ey song- but still. Never, ever? That felt a bit wrong.
So if he doesn’t know those two songs- I mean, to not even have heard them- then what else doesn’t he know, that I do? Of course there is all of the professional information that we each carry- I don’t think that either of us knows the intricacies of each other’s work- but what other world stuff?
When we play Trivial Pursuit we are fairly evenly matched- I know a bit more Science and Lit, he knows more History, and don’t even talk to me about the Geography (I’ve been waiting for Google Maps my whole life), but we are fairly similar. I sometimes say, “How did you know THAT?” quickly followed by, “and who wants to know anyway?” Because I don’t like to be wrong.
When we talk about tv shows, movies, places, pubs, people, there is a calming reassurance that is like coming home. We nod our heads at the same bits.
We know the same jokes, the same streets, the same beaches.
Familiar.
And comforting.
This afternoon I did that thing where you twist a wet towel into a whip and then flick someone with it. I was going to show the kids, because: life skill. I said to Nath, “Remember how there was that Collingwood footy player, maybe like Des Tuddenham or someone, who they said got testicular cancer from a towel flick?” Nath was very adamant that it was Peter Crimmens who played for Hawthorn. I don’t know anything much about footy, and I don’t have testicles, so I suspect that Nath is right, but it bugs me that something is off. That something happened in the world, and we have completely different representations in our brains about it. I know it is most probable that I’m wrong, but my neurology has created a very clear picture of a Tuddy and a Collingwood jumper in my head. So I guess I’m muddling up and mooshing together some news item/ Urban Myth, and a scene from The Club.
How often does this happen?
I bet it happens a lot.
I find that disconcerting.
So tonight we watched Countdown together, and, quite frankly, it was a relief. We knew the same songs. We thought the same outfits were ridiculous. We reminisced about cold Sunday nights in Melbourne, huddled around the fire, having Heinz tomato soup (with white bread dunked in it) and watching Countdown with our families. Waiting to see what Molly would do wrong. Hoping to see our favourite band in the Number One spot.
Tonight we sat in our own home. Sweltering in the Queensland Spring, singing along to the songs of our youth. The songs that everyone knew. Back in those days there were no obscure bands, or at least not in our suburbs. Everyone watched Countdown (except Joanne Mifsud, because her Mum said it was too rude), and everyone knew all of the words, all of the music. Countdown made us part of a gang. We could recognise each other in the harmonies. It felt just right.
Tonight I sang along with the Skyhooks in their crazy, theatrical over-the-top, splendour: “Horror movie, Right there on my tv, Horror movie, Right there on my tv, Horror movie, And it’s blown a fuse, Horror movie, It’s the sex they don’t use.”
Nath just looked at me, eyes a little wide, and didn’t say a.single.thing.
I think he knows I’ve had enough shocks for one day. There’s no need to tell me what the words really are, no need at all. I might blow a fuse.
Excuse me whilst I give these old records a spin. How RUDE were the Skyhooks?!!
Did you watch Countdown? Who was your favourite band?
kidzta on Lessons From Lego (and Liam): “Liam’s insight is refreshing – instead of decluttering, he suggests expanding, embracing new ideas and opportunities. A youthful perspective on…” Dec 21, 16:08
kidzta on Lessons From Lego (and Liam): “Absolutely! It’s akin to acquiring a larger handbag – you end up filling it with more things to lug around…” Dec 21, 00:17
Alison Asher on Something Delicious: “Thank you! That’s such a nice thing to say… Happy writing!” Aug 31, 07:30
Tracy on Something Delicious: “I love your style (writing in particular) and you inspire me to develop mine too. Love the “new” words and…” Aug 30, 23:20
Alison Asher on Change It Up: “I will. Reminds me of the good old locum days. Maybe that will be a thing again soon??” Aug 27, 11:01
Alison Asher on Change It Up: “Yes, as if people “have” a panel beater on call… Well I do, but…. Lucky it was you, is all…” Aug 27, 10:59
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