Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I’ve been head-streaming this off and on for the last few days. Fragile by Yes was an album we frequently listened to in art class. I always enjoyed the silent communion among students as we listened to rock music and worked on art projects. This song, “Long Distance Runaround,” grew on my consciousness, first because of the unique sounds they employed in the song, but then the lyrics drew me in. It’s progressive seventies rock at its finest.
Today’s theme song, “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” began streaming into me as felines catgregated around me wherever I went. The lyrics are repetitive – “I want you, I want you so bad” (perfect lyrics for the cats as they follow, waiting for me to sit so they can sit on my feet or jump on my lap) – but I enjoy the song’s tempo changes and the variations on how “I want you” is sung.
I heard this one on Santa Clarita Diet last night. It’s been so long since I last heard it. The song, as performed by the Animals, came out in 1965. “It’s My Life” checks all the marks for that era’s emerging rock for me, giving me an enjoyable nostalgia rush today. I liked the lyrics and Burdon’s rusty, defiant, angry delivery – “It’s my life, and I’ll do what I want.” That’s a perfect anthem for a nine-year-old, right? Hah, yeah.
I was vacuuming yesterday, utilizing the central vacuum system and its fifty feet of hose.
What a snake it would have been.
See, as a child, I used Mom’s appliances to augment my reality. She had a little home salon hair dryer. Contained in a small brown suitcase, it opened up, displaying controls and a lit mirror. You’d attach a hose which attached to a plastic bonnet that she wore on her head. An intake fan was in the middle. Several push buttons orchestrated fan speed and temperature.
The hair dryer was perfect as my spaceship’s controls. The short hose was my communication device to communicate with star base, or, if necessary, Earth Command.
Besides it, we had an Electrolux vacuum cleaner, a canister type with a hose attached. The hose became a snake, serpent, or dragon for me to fight, sometimes utilizing a discarded paper towel tube as a sword, but often something I’d need to battle with my bare hands.
The Electrolux’s canister was my rocket sled. It also worked as a time-machine, enabling a quick escape from now to the future or past. Pillows, chairs, and blankets were employed as forts while boxes were ships and rockets. Mom and Dad’s transistor radios were also communication devices. Sunglasses were useful as protective devices but also enabled me to see into other dimensions. They could also be employed to see over the horizon to far-away places, like China, Europe, South America, and Antarctica.
Things changed. Television developed. I acquired modeling clay and shaped rockets and space ships. By now I was twelve, and drawing these vessels, reading books, and watching television. While those were great vehicles for my imagination, it wasn’t quite as good as opening up the hair dryer and blasting off.
This song streamed into my head while I was shaving this morning. There’s no evidence for why this song emerged from my mind’s general morning chaos. The song came out when I was eight years old, but it’s a ubiquitous melody with an easy, harmonic hook. The Beach Boys were known for those harmonies.
I like the time changes of this song. It begins with an older rockabilly tone to it before it segues into 1970s rock. It’s all about music and the generation gap (remember that expression?). Anyway, I thought it appropriate for the U.S., where we just jumped through the daylight savings time hoop. Here’s Loggins & Messina with “Your Mama Don’t Dance” from 1972.
Today’s music came out in 1965, when I was nine. I lived in Wilkinsburg, PA, around that time. A group of us liked going into one girl’s basement and pretending we were musicians, singers, and daughters. The Outsiders, Monkees, Nancy Sinatra, Johnny Rivers, the Turtles, and Paul Revere and the Raiders provided us with our music via forty-five RPM records. We’d take turns performing. It was a way to spend time. I don’t know who provided us with that record collection.
Anyway, “Time Won’t Let Me” by The Outsiders, was one of those songs. Later, after reading the book, and then much later, when I saw the movie, I wondered if the Outsiders had taken their name from the novel. Then I found that the band existed before the novel. Oh, well.
As an aside, the movie was interesting. Francis Ford Coppola directed it. The cast was an amazing ensemble of young stars. Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez, Patrick Swayze, Tom Cruise, Ralph Macchio, Diane Lane, and Matt Dillon all come readily to mind.
One final aside, I read the novel around 1970, when a teacher recommended it to me. The novel is controversial and remains one of the most frequently challenged books in America.
As I endured the cold and its migrations, interactions, and pain during the last few days and nights, I began assigning musical instruments and notes to my experience, thinking, how would my cold sound musically? Just something to while away the sleepless, mucus filled hours.
Doing so reminded me of “Love Reign O’er Me,” by the Who. The song begins with a thunderstorm and rain. The song is the final cut of the Who rock-opera, Quadraphenia, and marks the final act and possibly redemption of the main character after chaotic struggles with love, drugs, family, violence, and identity.
Mom bought the album for me for Christmas 1973, based on my older sister’s recommendation. Thanks, Mom and sis!
I’d only recently learned that Dave Mason wrote this song. I knew that Traffic had performed it, but in my heart, this song always belonged to Joe Cocker. Whichever group or performer does it, the song always lifts me up. I loved it when he sang it in concert.
Hope it lifts you today, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing. Here’s Joe Cocker with “Feeling Alright” from 1969.
Staying with Argent, I enjoy one of the early songs he wrote for The Zombies, “She’s Not There.” Although it’s been covered by many others, including Santana, I like the original.
It came out in 1964, when I was eight years old. I obviously learned it through repetitive play, mostly on the radio. Its melody seems reflective about the subject, while the words are bitter and wondering. I like the yin and yang feel to the combination.
Michael Seidel, writer 