The scene that I just wrote tonight, is perhaps the most perfect scene I’ve ever written.
Maybe it’s the mania talking–that feeling that comes after I’ve done something I think it is wicked awesome. Could be. I mean, it’s late, and I might have had one drink. And I might have gotten swept away in the song that I feel helped facilitate the scene (which I listened to on repeat), and so, in short, who knows?
I don’t know. I think the scene is perfect. It wasn’t easy to write either. I began it a few days ago, but it’s a night scene. A serious scene. And I was writing it while the sun ripped through the sky happily shining on everything, illuminating every last thing.
And this scene, is a poignant one. The setting is night. The emotion is sorrow and regret, and some form of penitence, mashed together with self-defense.
I couldn’t write it in the day. It needed to be night. And I needed to be in a certain frame of mind to tap into the emotions.
I’m still not sure if I did it justice for Holly Drake. I tried my best, and the readers (you!) will decide in the end if it works or not.
And tomorrow there’s a really good chance I’ll read back over it and laugh and ask, “What the fuck was I thinking?”
But right now, I feel like I’ve never written anything more tender and gentle about a character and her life than this one in this moment.
Holly Drake’s stories are sci-fi, steam punk, space opera. But I write real scenes about real grief and real joy. It’s not a love story, but there is love in it, and hope, and desire. And that’s because I think those are the things that make the excitement and adventure worth more than a monkey’s ass. Without the human grief and emotion, who really gives a shit about a wicked awesome scene where Holly is basically surfing through the sky on a thin slab of metal?
I ask you. What’s the point?
Oh, and here’s the amazing song I listened to on repeat. You’re welcome, my friend. You’re welcome.
Sometime in the late 70s/early 80s (exact date of song genesis unknown), Paul Anka wrote a song called “Hold Me Till the Morning Comes.” And then he proceeded to record about fifty thousand different versions. Since 1997, I have been looking for the version that appeared on a tape that some attractive Marine made for me during the autumn of 1996 (we didn’t last, as a couple).
But around the turn of the century, the Internet didn’t yet have the answer to every single question I might have, because, well, see for yourself:
Amazon literally looked like an unkempt rainforest back then, didn’t it? No wonder I couldn’t find answers!
(cont.) and so I ended up with the crappy version (from the 1983 album “Walk a Fine Line”) that appeared on the album “Body of Work” that came out in 1998. Confused? You should be. Because I was. And have been, for 17 years, apparently. Anyway, that version sounds like this:
(Note: the above video is not the original video featured in this post. Youtube/SME blocked the original, which was great. IP is such a drag).
The Youtuber who posted this is a marketing genius. Put Peter Cetera on the cover of your vid and get 239,952 views (5,000 of them are mine) vs. the comparison I’ll make later in this post.
And I knew it wasn’t the right version. Because this version just sounds . . . less punchy. It’s almost like Paul couldn’t let Peter have his moment, there, at the end, when Peter is saying, “Would you love me in the morning?” And Paul is like, “Would you lo-ove me?” over the top of Peter’s vocals. Not great.
I mean, I DO wonder what Paul was doing. And what he was thinking, because even if the critics didn’t love him or the album this song appeared on, he was hella successful. I mean, it’s the sort of thing when writers complain that Twilight sucked and why was it so successful? It’s crap! And then some wiser person, for instance, me, responds, “Yeah, it’s crap. That’s why Stephenie is laughing all the way to her bank account. The account in the bank she OWNS BECAUSE SHE’S UNIMAGINABLY RICH.”
That’s Paul Anka. He had some hits in the 50s, then made a series of business-brilliant moves and even if his voice is “slight” and “a little hard to hear” with “all that talent surrounding it” {link} HE DOESN’T have to be as impressive as Peter. Paul’s smart. And he did a lot of genius crap and now he’s reaping the rewards.
But I digress. That version, where Paul is like, “I will not let you steal my spotlight! I must dub my own vocals over Peter’s shit because he’s the BACKING vocals and I’m the main act!” It’s a crap version.
Amongst the weird vocal blips at the end, there are other instrumental differences as well, which I noticed and didn’t like. Plus I could obviously compare it to the track that was on the tape Matt the Marine made for me, because back then I still had my double-cassette tape deck. It looked exactly like this random image of the precise make and model of the stereo I had back when Matt made me that tape:
This puppy was for sale in Canada for $40. And now that I have no way to listen to cassettes, I obvs. wish I would have known. I could have bought it! And then proceeded to live in the past, where everything is sunnier and warmer all the time.
So, despite years of obstacles and insurmountable blockades by record labels looking to repeatedly release new albums full of bad versions of old songs and not reissue Japanese 45s, the Internet in 2017 wins. Because while it didn’t have the answer to every life-long mystery back in 1999 . . . . {drum roll}
IT HAS THEM NOW. Here is the BEST VERSION of Paul Anka’s hit “Hold Me Til the Morning Comes” (featuring Peter Cetera on backing [backing, dammit, backing!] vocals).
NOTE: Again, this is not the original version that made it into this awesome post. I can no longer find that rare single version. SME keeps blocking everything. They’re so FUN like that. They apparently only want the crap versions of Paul’s hit circulating in the world. But here’s the actual link. It won’t embed, but you may be able to see it on Youtube.
Here’s that comparison for you (update: which no longer matters, due to the shittiness of Youtube and SME): the above version of the song only has like 500 views, because unlike the other Youtuber, they didn’t put Peter on the cover. Or in the title. We need to get a marketing team on this, because it would be great to get that crap version of the song out of circulation!
And for your reference, here is the version I found before I found the version from the Japanese 45, which also features a hilarious (I just have to be honest about that) Euro-version at the end. I guess that one is supposed to be for the discotheques.
https://youtu.be/NTbKlJceLYk
(This link is the same link as above, because of the amorphous nature of Youtube and rules and b.s. stuff like that).
TL;DR — It took me 17 years to find a version of a song that I first heard in 1996. The Internet saved me, finally, from taking the complete mystery to my grave.
NOTE: This once stunning work of posting genius has been mangled by Youtube and my attempts to keep it up to date. I refuse to be stymied by THEIR whims. So I’m keeping it out of stubbornness.
If any question loomed about the overall direction Purity Ring would go on their sophomore release, it gets answered pretty quickly on “Heartsigh,” the opener onAnother Eternity. It’s bolder, brighter and beefier than anything on 2012′s Shrines, and Megan James and Corin Roddick’s playful, often introspective electro-pop has transitioned into a vast, aural landscape that manages to be upbeat and energetic, more fun than ominous. The sort of quiet, somber musical channels that were explored onShrines in tracks like “Obedear” and “Shuck” are missing. And the eerie, sometimes uncomfortable wordplay that has been a staple of James’ lyrical ventures are either more sanitized or simply gone in favor of less complex, more digestible bits. {Read more on Treblezine…}
Father John Misty is at his best when juxtaposing irreverent lyrics with the sublime beauty of a slow ’60s jam or a sunny, upbeat number, both found on his sophomore album, I Love You Honeybear. Gorgeous, swirling melodies and horn-infused tracks are jarring in their not-so-subtle, oft ribald subject matters. But this is nothing new for Tillman, who slipped under the Father John Misty moniker after he left Fleet Foxes. When Josh Tillman speaks about his art and the craft of the Father John Misty persona, you quickly realize if anything is true, it’s that the man is clever, eloquent, and possibly too bright to take for granted. {Read more on Treblezine…}
I’ve been trying to work out a plot for Feed 2. Or Feed 2.0
Feed, an Addendum.
Feed, the Followup.
FEED THE REVOLUTION.
Also working on a name. Because Feed 2 is lame. Suggestions welcome.
The problem is that I’m to the point in this pregnancy where I can’t sit comfortably. I’m worse than Jabba the Hut right now, as in, I have to sit at an angle in a normal chair just so I’m not crunching my stomach up into my esophagus.
This is how I look when sitting. Notice the huge bulge just beneath Jabba’s fat rolls. We’re like twins. Our bellies even match colorwise. I feel like I’ve made this joke before, but I never tire of it.
Here’s something you never think about until you experience pregnancy yourself — the huge bulge in your torso is NOT flexible . . . you know, like how fat is? So pregnant women are not obese. Fat moves around and changes shape like some kind of amazing product that hasn’t been invented yet, but if it were, it would totally revolutionize important things like couches and beds and bird’s nests and whatnot.
If you need to bend over to pick up a toy car that you just stepped on because you didn’t see it (limited visibility due to huge stomach) or to clean up cat vomit or whatever totally normal items you often have to pick up off the carpet, your belly shifts all your internal organs up into your chestal region, where you nearly 1) stop your heart; 2) break your rib cage; 3) annihilate your lungs; 4) burn your esophagus with the heat of ten suns that comes from your natural stomach acid. Normally stomach acid is an awesome thing because it aids in digestion and other life-saving techniques known only to wise medical doctors, shamans, and nutritionists. The usual.
But right now, I curse stomach acid with the strength of one hundred ripped gladiators from the Roman gladiator era. They can raise their swords to my stomach acid right now, and I really wish they would. Currently, I sound like a smoker in both my husky, dry voice and persistent cough. People love thinking that a very pregnant woman is a smoker. You should see the glares I get . . .
But hey! The cough comes from kicks from the baby and the shortness of breath and raspy voice come from stomach acid spurting up into my throat.
Where was I going with this? I got off on a whining tangent….
Oh yeah. I can hardly be expected to sit and plot out a book. I’m trying. But my thoughts persistently wander forward in time to the joy I’ll feel the day the baby is healthy and on the outside of me.
How can I think about things like, “What would be really awesome? I mean, as this chapter ends, what would be freaking thrilling to read next, if I were a reader? A sudden betrayal! A knife in the back! A twist! That would rock!” Thoughts like those are interrupted by a baby foot in my rib. Yeah, who could have ever conceived of propagating the race like this?! Babies in bodies!! I mean, why not do it the way kangaroos do it? That would be so much easier!
But no. It’s like nature felt that the best way to further the species would be to torture women for almost a year. I hate you nature…
I have moments where I can really visualize the story, but I’m not usually in a position where I can write it out. It’s usually when I’m driving in a daze or showering or laying in bed, unable to sleep (and move), and therefore not in a literal position to get it out on paper, so to speak. Moving quickly is not one of the strengths of an extremely pregnant woman.
Damn. But I doubt this is even a REAL pregnant woman.
I know it’s weird that I can manage a blog post here and there and music reviews this pregnant, but they don’t require a marathon of daydreaming, or whatever you want to label plotting. Writing a book is more like that and less of a jaunt into someone else’s artistic work and what makes it good.
The worst case scenario will be that I have the baby and don’t care to write books, like, ever again.
Oh my hell! WHY WOULD THAT HAPPEN?
And why did I even imagine it for a second? Total idiot, here.
Breathe. Breathe.
It’s fine. It’s fine. That won’t happen.
I’m soooooo not superstitious. This is all going to be OK.
Who here thinks “400 Lux” is a better song that “Royals”? Raise your hand! Yeah!
And Beck’s “Heart is a Drum”! Total save. Everything’s going to be OK. Yeah. Really OK. Follow the drum, dude.
The new Wye Oak is perfect! Here’s a teaser from my review over at Treblezine:
“Tracks like ‘Before,’ ‘Shriek,’ and ‘Sick Talk’ effervesce in pleasant waves of synths and drum loops. Wasner’s vocals carry sunlight and hope as she muses about being reborn and emerging from a dream brand new. Shriek is the brighter side, the payoff. It’s the antithesis of Civilian, where the themes and tones were shadowy and dark, constructed of half-light and driving guitars and drums, all of it designed around the concept of suppressed emotion, blunted desire and regret.” [Read More…]
One spin from S. Carey’s new offering, Range of Light, and a complex, layered, work of art unfolds that meanders somewhere between shadow and sun. Christened after John Muir’s name for the Sierra Nevada mountain range, Carey’s second album pulls off “sophomore album” like a professional student repeating a grade.
It begins on the highest possible note, holding nothing back, stripping bare Carey’s most personal thoughts with “Glass/Film.” There’s something confessional and private about the track, yet confident in delivery, which prevents any unease we might have as listeners: “In the glass / see your face / I know this place / I’ve called the case / I was made for this / I was tamed by this.” Though it’s most likely named after composer Philip Glass, it’s hard not to speculate as to whether the moment Carey has captured is related to his becoming a father over the course of the composition of Range of Light. Careful percussion creates a satisfying, complex echo-like chamber as sounds seem to bounce off of each other. Layered instruments and vocals combine as though to signify an awakening. [Read More]
I admit it, reviewing Future Islands was incredibly hard merely because I’ve been into them for a few years now. So, am I objective? Probably not. Check out a teaser from my review at Treblezine:
Vocalist Sam Herring says that calling Future Islands’ newest album Singles is an act of bravado. Every track is so good that each one could be a single. He’s not that far off, really, but there are key differences between this 2014 release and their others that fans won’t recognize as typical of their sound. Once billed as the constant underdog, Herring has come hard onstage this year, punches flying, or in his case, churning out inimitable dance moves — pure Herring — so good that the only appropriate response is to love him for his raw, uncensored expression. He’s the alpha dog now, prepared to take his prize at the front of a band with the power to win over David Letterman and land a plum spot at this year’s Coachella. [Read More]
Back in 1997, a Los Angeles band called Kara’s Flowers made their debut with The Fourth World, an album with a sound reminiscent of contemporary alt-rock fare like Weezer and Green Day. Yet, despite their loyal following, massive hooks and the backing of a big-time producer (Rob Cavallo), their only album had little success and their label, Reprise, dropped them. Not that this was the end, necessarily. Four years later, they re-emerged with a new sound, a little more experience and a completely new identity. The punchline? They changed their name to Maroon 5.
Kara’s Flowers is just a recent example in a long line of rock band identity shifts, and it certainly worked out for their bank accounts. But even rarer is the band that starts anew for the sake of hitting reset on their art. In their time together, San Diego based Cuckoo Chaos released some upbeat, groove-heavy tracks, got some positive exposure, left their impact at CMJ and garnered some positive press in the process. Now they’ve dropped the Cuckoo Chaos moniker and reformed as Deadphones with their first album out on Waaga Records. {Read More}
Blue Film is the kind of freshman album that excites the nerves with the thrill of discovery, like The xx’s first album or Pure Heroine, the debut album by New Zealand success story Lorde — with whom Lo-Fang is currently on tour. But Blue Film is a thing apart—and while comparisons are inevitable, the album rides its own heights, suspended deliciously over staccato strings and choppy keys that conjure images of exotic locales. Lo-Fang crafted the heart of Blue Film across several years, traveling in the United States and abroad, with a National Geographic photographer and friend, to places like Cambodia and Iceland, where musical influences surfaced, however subtly, in tracks like “#88” and “Confusing Happiness.”
Despite making an important connection in Lorde, Lo-Fang is the farthest thing from a name-dropping, talentless Gladstone Gander, riding the coattails of others toward success. He’s classically trained as a violinist, for starters. This string-centered specialty is evident on all of Blue Film’s tracks. Though their iridescence comes from the supporting electronica loops and themes, their effervescence explodes from those hints of his classical training. Staccato strings rise from empty spaces that turn the tracks into something complex and folded over, like a kind of theoretical physics model. {Read More}
