Which Will

I've been reading my stockpile of short stories and writing exercises. Many of my pieces have a character asking questions, usually to themselves. There is a lot of thinking and questioning going on. That seems like something I need to watch. I wonder why I do that so often and how else I might be able to write things.

All that thinking about questions and questioning my thinking made me think about questioning songs. Huh? What could I learn by listening to the questions songs asked me?

Am I right?
Am I the man?
Are You Living Humble?
Are You Lonesome Tonight?
Are You Ready?
Are you Ready for the Country?
Are you sure Hank Done it this way?
Are You Sure The Name Of The Game Is Love?
Are you the One I've been waiting for?
Bill, When Are You Coming Back?
Brother? Can You Spare A Dime?
Can I Get A Witness?
Can You Hear Me?
Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?
Can You Rock it Like This?
Dare I Ask?
Did You See His Name?
Did You See Me?
Didn't He Ramble?
Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)?
Didn't It Rain [Live]?
Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?
Do They Know It's Christmas?
Do Ya?
Do You Feel Like We Do?
Do You Know Him?
Do You Love Me?
Do You Think It's Alright?
Do You Wanna Dance?
Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)?
Does Anybody Out There Even Care?
Does everyone stare?
Does Jesus Care?
Does She Need Me? 1 & 2
Does She Talk?
Does This Bus Stop At 82nd Street?
Does Your Mama Know About Me?
How Blue Can You Get? (Live)
How can I face tomorrow?
How Come You Don't Call Me?
How Deep Is Your Love?
How High Can You Fly?
How High The Moon?
How Soon Is Now?
Mister Would You Please Help My Pony?
Oh Bess, Oh Where's My Bess?
Oh Death Where Is Thy Sting?
Oh God, Where Are You Now? (In Pickeral Lake? Pigeon? Marquette? Mackinaw?)
Où s'en vont ces gais bergers?
Tommy Can you Hear Me?
Were You There?
What's The Frequency, Kenneth?
What About It?
What Am I Gonna Do With You?
What are you Doing?
What Are You Doing Sunday?
What Are You Raising Your Children For?
What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted?
What Child Is This? (Greensleeves)
What could I do?
What Did You Do To My Life?
What Difference Does It Make?
What Do I Care?
What Does It Take (To Win Your Love)?
What Else Is New?
What Happened Then?
What If We Give It Away?
What Is Life?
What Is Truth?
What Kind of Friend Is This?
What Kind Of Man?
What More Can Jesus Do?
What's Going On?
What's Good?
What's Happening Brother?
What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love And Understanding?
What's The New Mary Jane?
Whatcha Gonna Do?
What Ever Happened To All The Fun In The World?
When will I be loved?
When You Gonna Wake Up?
Where Could I Go But To The Lord?
Where Did Our Love Go?
Where Do We Go Now But Nowhere?
Where Is My Mind?
Where Will I Be?
Who Am I?
Who By Fire?
Who Do You Love?
Who Drove The Red Sports Car?
Who Killed Davey Moore?
Who Loves the Sun?
Who Needs Love (Like That)?
Who Says A Funk Band Can't Play Rock?
Who's Crying Now?
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?
Who's In The Strawberry Patch With Sally?
Who's Lovin' You?
Who's That Girl?
Why Can't He Be You?
Why Can't I Be You?
Why Cry?
Why Do I Feel So Sad?
Why Don't We Do It In The Road?
Why Don't You Write Me?
Why Must I Wear This Shroud?
Why, oh why?
Why Me?
Why Me Lord?
Will Anything Happen?
Will The Circle Be Unbroken?
Will The Wolf Survive?
Will You Ever Be Mine?
Would I Lie To You?
Would You Believe?
Wouldn't It Be Nice?
?Y tu que has hecho?

Many of these songs don't have question marks in the title, but I added them so I could easily make a playlist. I did a search for "?" and then all the interrogatives I could think of. That brought to light all those questionable questions that might be statements. And then there are surprise punctuation marks.

Life on Mars?

Hymns and spirituals ask questions; Bob Dylan does too. Tony Orlando and Ween ask weird questions, but most people just seem lonely, insecure, or wondering why love has done them wrong. In my stories, the characters who ask a lot of questions seem to be lonely, insecure and questioning fate too. Maybe that's it. What do you think?

Bee Boppa a Boobaloobadooba Bobbin zing!!@*

I'm taking a sewing class.

Last night, I spent a couple hours sewing the muslin test garment for the dress I'm working on -- with the bobbin loaded backward. This morning, while I sat there with my green tea and seam ripper, my running dialog went something like this:

Hoarders

I'm fascinated with the A&E show Hoarders. I also love Clean House and a show that used to be on BBC called Life Laundry. I am obsessed with people and their strangely cluttered homes.

My house is not a zen garden showplace by any means but I am the only one in my family who seems to have escaped the crazed collector sickness. My mom, who collects what seems to be the entire contents of homes my aged relatives have moved out of, says I am a "minimalist." She lives in a house with my stepfather, who collects stacks and stacks of out-of-date road maps, travel literature, magazines and newspapers. My sister scoffs at the "minimalist" tag but she is not in a good position to talk: she collects juicers, and cookbooks, and Weebles, and those little string and wood toys that you push the bottom of the base and they collapse into a heap.

I do have a few weird things, like an assortment of radio tubes, about a half dozen pairs of never worn children's shoes from Buster Brown, and lots of "round things." I like to put my round things into the empty bowls of broken, black globes that I also seem to have collected over time. But everything has a place and you can see my floors and table tops. I don't have to make tunnels to my toilet; I just have a few oddball, small collections.

When I watch Hoarders, it amazes me that the people on the show so often can't see their junk for the junk it is. How is it possible that someone with 5 apartments crammed full of stuff can't see that dried out face cleaning pads belong in the trash? The people are clearly traumatized by seeing their things go into the dumpster. Women who have lost their children due to unsafe and unsanitary conditions cry over the thought of throwing away a moldy, flood-damaged, coffee table with a missing leg. It's really hard to understand when you don't have that problem.

And luckily I don't ....... but even I have to say that my music collecting has crossed a line into silly. My iPod is packed full of some useless and awful stuff. For awhile, I was going to the library and checking out CDs to copy them onto my iPod. I'd copy entire albums from one-hit wonder bands (who knows, maybe there was an under-appreciated gem on there!)and artists I had never heard of but had interesting cover art or song titles. All this unknown and unloved crap gets in the way of finding what I really want. My ability to browse and discover is hampered.

It's the same with music review podcasts. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with how many backlogged podcasts I have to listen to but I can't just delete old ones and start fresh, what if my favorite new band is there waiting to be discovered!? Sometimes I even listen to them but, when it comes time to delete them, feel like I need to keep it and listen again later because I really wasn't giving it my full attention.

I was thinking about this the other night as I was syncing my iPod. I noticed that I had 276 days and 19 hours worth of music to listen to and decided that life iss too short to spend with music I don't like. It was time to clean house. I started with the non-Music podcasts, anything more than 1 month old was deleted. Then I moved on to the music podcasts. That was harder. I decided listen to a bunch that I knew I was interested in, deleted a bunch that I knew I was not interested in and saved a few to listen to later when I cleaned the kitchen. While I would not be giving those my full attention. i figured if it was my next favorite new band, it would grab my attention and I'd take notice. If it didn't grab my attention, it was not meant to be.

Then I sorted out all the songs I had given a "1 star" rating too. Every now and again I rate a song, either a favorite or a song I never, ever want to hear again. I highlighted the songs and tried to click the delete button. I couldn't do it. Delete is permanent. What if I changed my mind? What if my tastes changed? I'd have to compromise for now. I unchecked those songs so they would not sync but would still be retained in iTunes.

Baby steps.

Beer and Cheese for Dinner

I'm having beer and cheese for dinner because I am too tired to do anything more elaborate than open a bottle and slice off a slab of cheese. Of course this makes me think of Wisconsin, so I thought maybe I'd put on some sort of "Wisconsin music" to listen to while I ate.

Nothing sprang right to mind (other than a friends' now defunct band) so I started Googling "famous people born in Wisconsin." I admit I don't know who many of the musicians listed are, but all in all, I'm calling WI out for a really lame track record for rock stars.

I had it narrowed it down to Steve Miller, Liberace and Gordon Gano when I remembered Bon Iver. I knew he was squirreled away in a cold cabin and that seemed pretty Wisconsin, so I checked. Get him on your lists, Cheeseheads!

I'm currently listening to a really bizarre shuffled playlist of Bon Iver and Violent Femmes songs.

Take Me Out Tonight

I’m not a fan of dating. The idea of sitting across a table with a stranger and chit chatting about our jobs and families sounds torturous. Especially if the date is with a beer-bellied guy with a bad comb over who has proclaimed his interest in young women in mini-skirts but who has decided he might be able to settle for an old gal like me. My dear friend J. confirmed my dread of the process yesterday when she shared an exchange she had with a potential online suitor. He had contacted her and, after reviewing his profile, she sent a polite “Thanks but I don't think we're a match” response. She got a message back with nasty comments about her hygiene and girl parts. Good times.

I'm not anti-social. I frequently have long conversations with all sorts of characters on buses, in the grocery store, or at a bar or club. And I don't think I have a long list of unreasonable expectations for a partner. It's mostly just the dating thing that turns me off. Unfortunately, this lack of enthusiasm is at odds with being single, 40 and not wanting to be a spinster, librarian, cat-hoarder in my old age. When I was younger, it all happened pretty easily and organically. There were friends and friend of friends. Single men around my age were at bars and clubs, coffee shops and parties. They lived down the hall, next door and they sat next to me in class. Occasionally, a straight one might even work at the same place I did. Somehow, I just met potential boyfriends and, rather than dating, we moved in the same social scene, got to know each other, and started relationships. We didn't go out for coffee to see if there was any chemistry between us; I usually knew quite a bit about a guy before I found myself across a table from him.

It doesn’t work that way any more and I’m told that a more positive attitude about dating might help me avoid that spinster hoarding thing. In this positive spirit, I've been trying to purge my mind of the handful of truly awful and awkward date memories I have and focus on moments of excitement and butterflies.



I dated M. during my junior and part of senior years of high school. When I think of him, my first thought is that night I drank sloe gin straight from a bottle and threw my shoes at his car because he dumped me. But immediately AFTER that, I think of how happy and excited I was when we were dating. There was no dread, just anticipation. Anticipation was even part of the fun. The future seemed full of possibility. We went to see the Cult and Divinyls at the Royal Oak Music Theater (and Christina Amphlett? ... really weird). There were lots of movies and dinners in Greek Town. What was most fun though was just driving in his car, talking and listening to music.

I hadn’t been happy at home since my mom remarried when I was 12. At first it was okay, but as I became an admittedly obnoxious teenager, my step dad and I did not get along. I often heard about how irresponsible, abnormal and delinquent I was. There were long talks about my attitude and behavior. My step dad lectured, I sulked and scowled, my mom cried and felt like she was in the middle of two stubborn personalities.

But M. was a nice boy from a nice family. He had a safe, reliable car and came in to meet my parents. More important though, I liked him. We had fun together. I remember waiting in the bathroom, long after I had done my hair and makeup and gotten dressed, just so I could keep an eye on the driveway from the window and know the second he arrived. I also remember how great it felt to get home and find that everyone had gone to bed and the house was quiet. It was late and I was tired, but I wished the night had not ended and I looked forward to next time. Now I just need to find some sort of 40-year old version of that.

"Only ... from the mouth of a Southern bull d!ke a$$hole ingrate of a vicious nowhere c*nt can this trash come"

I can't really give a music tie in to this post, but I am so excited by the email I just got from Steppenwolf Theater. (Steppenwolf, there, good enough!)

Presale tickets are available for David Mamet's American Buffalo. I love David Mamet and I love this play.

I know some people are turned off by his language but I have never heard such poetic vulgarity. I know others hate how male and misogynistic his plays are, I find them fascinating. I can't wait to see this production.

*Note, I have ridiculously bleeped my quote from the renowned playwright to better accommodate the standards of my unknown Blogger community and avoid being "flagged"

American History 101

Everything I know about Charles Guiteau I learned from the Kelly Harrell song on The Anthology of American Folk Music and a student performance of Assassins. I realized this last night and wondered what other events and people in American History I would have no clue about if I hadn't heard a song. History classes in grade school and high school stunk. It seemed like every year we would start with the Magna Carta and, if we were lucky, get close to the end of the American Revolution by year's end.

I did have one interesting history teacher in high school, I remember him demonstrating the principal behind the flying buttress by leaning spread-eagle and in frisking position against the classroom wall. He also told us tales about how mind numbingly-boring it was to work in the GM assembly lines. The employees used to pile empty liquor bottles in the bathroom stalls at the plant. I don't think that was part of a labor history curriculum though, it was more of a "stay in school and go to college" pep talk. By the time I got to college, there were great courses to take, but I had sold my soul to the Middle Ages and was pretty focused.

Would I have ever learned about The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald if it wasn't for Gordon Lightfoot? What about Kent State if not for Neil Young? Probably, I love the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum and that iconic Kent State photograph is everywhere.

I wish now, though, that I had taken some modern history courses. I find my interests lean that way more and more; it's a good thing I have access to books and the Internet and I can read.

Fun facts about Charles Guiteau:
1. Part of his brain is on display at the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia
2. When the jury at his trial read the guilty verdict he yelled: "you are all low, consummate jackasses"
3. Garfield died 11 weeks after being shot by Guiteau of complications of infection brought about by doctors poking at him with unwashed hands and medical instruments.

Two Fine Betties

Last week at work --two days in a row-- I saw gorgeous, young women with big afros, amazing figures and really skimpy outfits. This might be common where you work, but I work in a rare book library and usually see crusty academics; octogenarian family history buffs; and intense, nerdy, graduate students who look too young to drive. The first woman was using the computer in the genealogy section and was wearing a little, yellow, plaid skirt that looked like it came as part of the Naughty School Girl Halloween costume. She had legs Tina Turner would have killed for 40 years ago. The second woman was standing in front of our building and had on form fitting leggings that looked more like pantyhose, studded ankle boots and a crop jacket. Her hour-glass figure was perfect.

On the bus ride home that second day, while listening to a backlog of podcasts, the February 9, 2009 NPR All Songs Considered show featured Lesser Known Love Songs. The Sleater Kinney lady was on and one of her picks was Betty Davis’ Anti Love Song. Fate was clearly telling me to take notice of beautiful black women with killer legs and rocking attitudes, so I went home and listened to the Betty Davis CD I bought last year.

I can't remember what I read or heard that got me started on Betty Davis, she's pretty new to me, but I love her. I admit I have to be in the right mood to listen to her extremely raw, sexual shrieking though.



Bettye LaVette, on the other hand, whose albums I've also only purchased recently, I'm always in the mood to hear. I was so glad to see her steal the show at the inauguration last year. Aretha is awesome, but at that event, she was defined by her new hat and Bettye wore the Queen of Soul crown for awhile. And about time.

Birthday Party

Happy Birthday to Nick Cave, Joan Jett, and a guy I used to date. Nineteen years ago today, I was waking up after a late night seeing Nick Cave at the Latin Quarter (or maybe it was at St. Andrews Hall).


Photo from the Detroit Yes webpage which is sad but very interesting. The Latin Quarter looked a LITTLE bit better in 1990.

My favorite Nick Cave song has always been The Weeping Song.



I once drove from Craters of the Moon, Idaho to Denver by myself and sang along with that song over and over. I find it strangely cheerful considering the lyrics; it's so over the top you can't help but laugh. Especially if you have a girl voice and try to sing like Blixa Bargeld. I think it also has a lot to do with the xylophone which is both eerie and high spirited. While mucking about on YouTube, I discovered several versions I had not heard before where the xylophone was replaced with fiddle. I assume that is Warren Ellis playing and it is fabulous; nothing beats punk rock fiddle. I also love the low-budget, old school video NC and BB made with what looks like a bunch of trash bags, a fan, a row boat, an old book and a case of beer.

Where the Cyborgs Bury Their Dead

I’ll admit two things upfront that explain this story:

1.) I love science fiction
2.) I often have a really hard time figuring out lyrics in songs

I don’t go to sci-fi conventions dressed in costume and I don’t collect action figures, but I love a good classic sci-fi book. If there is a TV show or movie with robots or aliens I’m bound to be watching it. My dad watched the original Star Trek and I hated it at the time but I loved Lost in Space and had a crush on Gil Gerard in Buck Rogers. In 1980, one of my friends had a Flash Gordon birthday party. I loved Ming the Merciless and preferred Princess Aura to Dale Arden; I always seem to prefer the hot, evil brunette to the blonde good girl. Princess Ardala is far more interesting than Wilma Deering and the same goes for Diana versus Julie Parrish in V.

For my freshman English class, our final project was to read two books by the same author, do some biographical research and write a 5 page essay. I’m not sure how I stumbled across the book, but I checked out Asimov’s Caves of Steel from the library. I think I stayed up all night and read the book and then checked out The Naked Sun, The Robots of Dawn, and Robots and Empire the next day. I also grabbed In Memory Yet Green and In Joy Still Felt, the two volumes of autobiography Asimov had published at that point: the books consisted of 1,560 pages. I had to get an extension on the paper and I was hooked.

Star Wars, Star Trek (all generations), Terminator, Twelve Monkeys, Matrix, RoboCop, Time Bandits, Bladerunner, Back to the Future, Planet of the Apes: give me an alternate reality or time anomaly and I will give you my undivided attention. I’ve even watched that smarmy Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour movie and Lake House with Keanu Reeves without complaint (please don’t ask me to watch Tron though). The only thing better than a Dr. Who and Torchwood Netflix marathon weekend is a Battlestar Galactica Netflix marathon weekend. (I do want to know why I still can’t download the Bear McCreary All Along the Watchtower from iTunes yet though).

You get the idea; I’ve got a mind predisposed to Daleks and Clyons. When I first listened to Palace Music Viva Last Blues in the late 90s, it is not all that surprising that I started thinking of a certain song as “That Cyborg Song.” Sure, Will Oldham named it Cat’s Blues but to me it was about human-machine hybrids and, if I could just pick out the words he mumbled, I would get the whole story. I didn’t think about it much, I mostly enjoyed the music and WO’s voice as an instrument. I loved the sound, it didn’t matter what the lyrics were. But based on the words I was picking out, there was no doubt in my mind that it was about the children of men bowing before their new mutant steel overlords.

On Saturday, when the song popped up while I was running, my first thought was “Yay, the Cyborg Song” followed quickly with “Hey, I should write a science fiction story.” I'd call it Where the Cyborgs Bury their Dead even though I knew that the line in the song was “Where the Cyborgs bury their HATS.” I liked the idea of a machine graveyard and thought about what kind of monuments and mausoleums they might have. What would the funeral rituals be like. Why were they burying the dead rather than reusing parts?

Then I thought more about their entire life cycle and how they might also bury their heads in some sort of gestation period. A first generation would need to be created with the harvesting of humans parts but after that the cyborg would develop a way to reproduce themselves and decrease the amount of DNA that came from humans who had lived as 100% human at one point. I imagined there would be some sort of class structure where later generations were considered better than early generations. The less human you were, the better.

What would sprout from the head of a cyborg? I'd have to work Zeus and Athena in there somewhere. I decided that it would be one of those revolting stink mushrooms that look like a penis and have horrible, rot-smelling sacs filled with goo. The Meat (I decided the organic portion of the Cyborg as well as human beings would be called "The Meat") would grow inside the stink mushrooms until large enough to be implanted into a new head.

What would happen to the body of the parent cyborg while its head was buried? Would it die? Would it be the whole head that was buried or just a hat? More like a shell. Maybe during the gestation period both the parent and the child cyborg would be vulnerable. The human resistance movement (there is always a human resistance movement) would hunt out the buried heads and destroy them while killing the parent whose Meat was now exposed and vulnerable. This entertained me for a full two miles of running. When I got home I was excited and looked up the song lyrics to see what it was actually about while I was stuffing a post-run sandwich into my mouth.

Yeah.

Let’s just say I have no idea what this song is about and no one out there in the internet is offering me a better explanation of the “cyborgs burying their hats” line either. I’m going to continue to kick ideas around for my sci-fi story and will post the lyrics as I found them through a Google search.

I love your song, Bonnie Prince Billy, but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.

I'm gonna turn my back for awhile, down
while nothing bad can or will befall
the lights welcome me all by myself
and the fires only bronze they do not burn

well do you understand girls where its going
I'll fuck girls, if there's violence to come
why, happiness, ohhhh happiness
they're crying, and their night has come

See them in the theatre, they're very, very real
Scold them when they come home, dirty, crying
Well, love, is forbidden outwardly
but inside there is no denying, oh

so, ???? boys, bury their hats
and they suffer while they waste and hurt
they are men who bow before us now
and I do not trust them, no
How many children are there like this?
Yeah, and how many will I serve?
Oh if I could have a clue what justice is
it would be more than I deserve, oh

Oh time is passing, come into my house
loot the pantries and muss the sheets
Have you found it useful, thinkin' here?
Your host will be ten miles, on back

Out of my Range

No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to sing along to Lost Highway with Hank Williams. I'll take this disappointment to my grave.

Love Hurts

My friend B., who has become obsessed with Gram Parsons, stopped by the other weekend. He talked about how beautiful the Love Hurts duet with Emmylou Harris was and how he was learning the song on guitar. I agreed it was beautiful and we listened to the two versions I had: I like the Live 1973 version better than the Grievous Angel version. The entire time we were talking and listening, I was giving my friend the look that said, “You know I have to say it.” He was giving me the look in return that told me he was expecting it.

“When it comes to Love Hurts, I’ve got to go with Nazareth.” He shook his head at my predictable response.

I started to justify myself by mentioning that the Nazareth version was the first I had ever heard and that I listened to it during my formative years.

“Formative years?” he scoffed. “You must have been in high school by then.”
“I’m not that much older than you are and that song was out for a long time before I really remember listening to it.”
“You were in high school …when? 1987?”
“I graduated in 1987. I would have been listening to Love Hurts when my sister was in high school and before I even started. 1983 at the latest.”

I knew this without a doubt because Love Hurts was on the Ur-mixtape of my life: the mixtape that was the mother of all mixtapes to come. My sister D. made it on a cheap, no brand cassette tape and I would sneak in her room and listen to it when she was not around. When she was no longer interested in it, I took it over for good. I can’t say how many times I had to jam a pencil into the wheel and manually rewind that tape after the boom box ate it.

Of course we had to bet on the release date and of course Google proved me right (Hair of the Dog was released in 1974 for anyone interested). By the time we had that settled though, I had decided I wasn’t going to go with the “formative years” explanation anyway. I didn’t need excuses. The Nazareth version is one of the best break-up songs ever and I think my friends in Canada, the Netherlands and Norway (where it went to #1 on the charts) will stand with me.

When I’m dumped, do I want to hear GP and Emmylou singing sweet harmony together? No! I want to hear Dan McCafferty croak and wail. My pain is epic. It’s huge. It deserves the full force of 1974 big rock sound. Gram and Emmylou were still getting burned by a STOVE. Nazareth knew that lost love doesn’t feel like a potholder slipping out of place when you pull out a sheet of fresh-baked cookies. Unrequited love is a full-on, skin charring, eyeball melting, blue hot FLAME.

Maybe I was going too fast though in crowning Nazareth king. The only other version I had was Joan Jett. I knew she wasn’t a contender but there were other versions out there. What had I been missing between 1960 when the Everly Brothers first recorded it and now? There was only one thing to do: Comparathon.

I went to Wikipedia to compile a list of other known versions and was sidetracked with questions about the songwriters, Bodleaux and Felice Bryant. Brother-sister? Husband-wife? How did they come to write this song together? Further research made them seem like a happy couple, meeting in 1945 and married until Boudleaux’s death in 1987. Felice died in 2003. Who knows what inspired this best break-up song ever.

A few fun side facts though:

1. They also wrote All I have to do is Dream, Wake up Little Susie and Bye Bye Love. I’ve always hated Wake up Little Susie.
2. Boudleaux has one of the best names ever: Diadorius Boudleaux.
3. Felice’s given name is Matilda Genevieve.
4. Bob Dylan’s Self-Portrait album includes Take Me as I Am (Or Let Me Go) written by Boudleaux and Take a Message to Mary written by both.

Camparathon was exhausting and I only heard a fraction of the versions out there. By the end of it, I was ready to shove a knife in my ears if I heard it again. From my the master list, I was able to listen to Everly Brothers, Roy Orbison, Cher, Jennifer Warnes, Heart, Pat Boone, Little Milton and Lucinda Williams, Robin Gibb, Emmylou and Elvis Costello, Keith Richards and Norah Jones, and Rod Stewart. I heard 30 seconds of Sinead O’Connor.

Heart was my favorite but let’s never mention Pat, Jennifer, or Robin ever again. Roy and Rod were runners up – I love their quirky voices and I guess I just want that in my Love Hurts. I love Lucinda Williams and enjoyed most of the Little Milton duet but I found my mind wandering at the end. Same with Emmylou and Elvis. I’ll give those another listen some day when I have not listened to 16 versions in a row. Cher gets bonus points for best costume and for singing like she knows hurt in the Live in Providence YouTube clip.

The Everly Brothers were just too jangly and light. The downfall of most of the versions was fruity instrumental parts and annoying back-up vocals. Norah Jones was beautiful but Keith had some weird vocal affectations. The hideous, spoken “I love you's” thrown in by Robin Gibb were intolerable.

I was particularly disappointed not to have access to The Who, Journey, Kim Carnes, Corey Hart, Juice Newton, Leo Sayer and Bon Jovi. But I'm on the lookout now.

Nazareth still wins, but thank God I don't have to pick just one.

Just Because a Record has a Groove

I’m not one of those people who remembers their mother standing over the crib and shaking a rattle. I don’t remember much before 1977 and by that time I was seven years old. If I try hard, I can remember things and put them on the timeline before that, but it takes a lot of effort. ‘Me’ as I know me started when I was seven.

The years before that are a blur; I have a vague, happy feeling about the time with nothing to grab onto. I’m sure I heard a lot of music during that time; I remember Motown and classic rock on the radio of my Dad’s Blue Chevy Blazer. And I still have Vol. 1 of The Wonderful World of Disney Music I got as a Christmas gift sometime after 1972.

“24 Complete Songs! 6 Long-Playing Records! Be sure to get Volumes 1 and 2!” (I blame this early childhood box set pushing for making me agonize over spending money I don’t have on Neil Young Archives Vol. 1 1963-72 and the remastered Beatles box set.)

But my real life in music started with a race at the Sheet Metal Workers Union Picnic and a trip to Chatham Plus. Until I was seven, the Union Picnic was mostly about eating as much boiled sweet corn slathered in butter that my mom would let me get my hands on. But that year, the picnic was about the thrill of victory. I’d entered a girls' race and won. First prize …. record player! The case was covered in mustard-yellow, calico vinyl.

I spent hours listening to my Disney records and the 45s I shared with my sister that were put out by Peter Pan, Cricket and Robin Hood labels. I’m fairly certain my parents didn’t let me get my candy covered hands on their records but, not too long after the big race, my mom let me pick out my first ever grown up record during a shopping trip to Chatham Plus: Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke.

Chatham Plus was a precursor to the mega stores like Wal*Mart, Meijer, and Target. Places with groceries, clothing, record departments, wrapping paper, garden supplies, tampons and car parts all in one big store. The big thrill for me was the conveyor belt check out system. I'm not exactly sure how it worked, but my memory is that you loaded all your stuff onto the belt at the back of the store and then picked it up, bagged and ready, at the front cashier.

The Sir Duke label didn't have kiddie cartoon characters on it, just brown and mustard yellow paper (it matched the record player!), the TAMLA logo, and a world globe. I sang the lyrics over and over and had no idea who Basie, Miller, Satchmo, or the king of all Sir Duke were. It was years before I heard a voice like Ella’s ringing out. But I sang and danced and clapped my hands and felt that song all over. I still do more than 30 years later and, even though I've never won another race in my life, Sir Duke has been on every playlist I've made to listen to while running.