Brian has more energy than anyone I know, maybe even anyone I've ever met. He just doesn't seem to run out of steam. Ever. Although I am frequently full of hot air, I am a steam-challenged individual. I asked Brian how he manages to be so energetic, especially with two kids.
"Kids give you more energy," he said.
I laughed. "That's not what I've heard," I replied, thinking of Amber and Maysan and all my other mommy friends who gaze wistfully when I speak of uninterrupted Sunday afternoon naps.
"Have I told you my theory of dynamic range?" Brian asked. No, he hadn't. So he grabbed some paper and a pen, and as he drew a sine wave, he explained his philosophy. In music, dynamic range is the ratio between the quietest and loudest volumes. The concept, he said, isn't limited to sound.
"So you know the first time you fall in love," he continued, "and you feel all of these things you've never felt before?"
I nodded.
"Well, that expands your dynamic range, and now you're way up here" — he pointed to the peak of a wave — "but then you break up and it just feels awful and you think you'll never love again. But you do, and maybe it's even better than that first time. So your dynamic range grows again, but it grows in both directions so you have more risk. More to lose, but more to love. It works for all kinds of things in life, and that's why being a father brings me more energy than I had before."
It was more eloquent when he explained it. Trust me on that. And again, I insist this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but how can you not hum Sing Your Life when you think of this concept? Or maybe that's just me.
"Kids give you more energy," he said.
I laughed. "That's not what I've heard," I replied, thinking of Amber and Maysan and all my other mommy friends who gaze wistfully when I speak of uninterrupted Sunday afternoon naps.
"Have I told you my theory of dynamic range?" Brian asked. No, he hadn't. So he grabbed some paper and a pen, and as he drew a sine wave, he explained his philosophy. In music, dynamic range is the ratio between the quietest and loudest volumes. The concept, he said, isn't limited to sound.
"So you know the first time you fall in love," he continued, "and you feel all of these things you've never felt before?"
I nodded.
"Well, that expands your dynamic range, and now you're way up here" — he pointed to the peak of a wave — "but then you break up and it just feels awful and you think you'll never love again. But you do, and maybe it's even better than that first time. So your dynamic range grows again, but it grows in both directions so you have more risk. More to lose, but more to love. It works for all kinds of things in life, and that's why being a father brings me more energy than I had before."
It was more eloquent when he explained it. Trust me on that. And again, I insist this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but how can you not hum Sing Your Life when you think of this concept? Or maybe that's just me.
Last time I was in Belize, Louis and I were riding horses through a tiny village called San Jose Succotz. We clip-clopped past ramshackle houses with tin roofs, scared away chickens in the dusty road, and headed toward the jungle. It was quiet in Succotz until I heard music. Blink-182 was slipping out of an open window, and that moment made me understand how major-label music truly goes worldwide.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
In a while, I'm going out with Sabs and Burger Time, lady-style. We're going to some Britpop night that involves dancing and karaoke. Sabs is an excellent singer (which is why she'll have to lead in our band) but I have a cowardly habit of choosing songs to purposely sing poorly. Burger may or may not be a good singer, but here's a glimpse of our duet from a while back:
I often feel like a giant klutz when karaoke-ing, because I really want to be good at it. I used to be a soprano in choir (until we were forced to do a Wilson Phillips medley, which threatened my indie cred) and I love to sing in the shower. But you get me in front of a crowd, and my voice turns terrible. I'd rather have people laugh at me on purpose, you know? So if you're out and about, SF, and you hear something like a pubescent toad belting out "This Charming Man," you'll know who to thank.
I often feel like a giant klutz when karaoke-ing, because I really want to be good at it. I used to be a soprano in choir (until we were forced to do a Wilson Phillips medley, which threatened my indie cred) and I love to sing in the shower. But you get me in front of a crowd, and my voice turns terrible. I'd rather have people laugh at me on purpose, you know? So if you're out and about, SF, and you hear something like a pubescent toad belting out "This Charming Man," you'll know who to thank.
Labels: morrissey, regression to adolescence
I can't sleep, so I decided to pull a Halloween costume together. I swear this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but I had everything in my closet. Obviously, the glasses aren't quite right-and then there's that whole "I'm not a flamboyant British man" thing—but for taking only five minutes to do this, it's entertaining enough. But few people would actually get the costume, and I'd be mistaken for a sullen, flower-loving drag king. (Which is fine but it's not the costume.)
Labels: halloween, morrissey, signs of latent homosexuality
I have a terrible confession to make. When I was in eighth grade, I shoplifted a Morrissey cassette tape from the campus bookstore at Kalamazoo College. Kill Uncle. Money was tight at home, and I didn't think my parents would give me the eight bucks for it. I can imagine them looking at the cover: "Why would he want to kill his uncle? Who is this queer-seeming man, and why is he praying like he's at a revival? His last name is Smith, you say?" So I took it.
Oh, but how I paid for that crime! I soon fell in love with Morrissey's witty lyrics and oddball appearance, and decided that my fellow Catholic schoolchildren would benefit from his brilliance. And what better time to introduce them to this foppish crooner than at a junior-high party? My teacher had cleared out the seventh-grade classroom to make room for the awkward spasms we called dancing. I can't remember who was in charge of manning the jukebox, but I do remember the teacher insisting that everyone be allowed to choose a song or two.
Most of my peers went with Paula Abdul, some New Jack Swing, a little Vanilla Ice, maybe a bit of Def Lep. I patiently waited in the shadows, cuing my tape to the right place on my Walkman. I could practically see my fellow students' gratitude: How happy they would be to discover such music, and how popular I would finally be! My turn came soon, and as I placed the tape into its holder, I bid adieu to my last moments of being a junior-high loser. Suedehead it was!
I don't think I really need to explain how things went down. Suffice it to say that I had not actually reached the lowest caste level prior to the dance, and choosing Morrissey plunged me into new depths of awkwardness. Poor Steven didn't even get a chance to get to the second verse before he was abruptly replaced with "Poison." (Yeah, "Poison.")
Morrissey is coming to town this month, and I so wanted to see him, but tickets were $65, and I'm still smarting from that adolescent stumble.
Labels: morrissey
My mom, reading a book: Who is... Tim Balland?
Me, thinking: (Does she mean Tim Burton?)
My mom: Tim Balland, Tim Balland...
Me, realizing: Oh, he's a rapper.
- - -
Last night, while gawking at the hundreds of channels afforded to my parents by the DirecTV, I ran across the FUSE channel. "Is that what Ophi and Tali were on?" my mother asked.
"No, that was TRL, on MTV," I responded, realizing that we were weirdly speaking half in abbreviations. "This is some other music channel."
The two people grinned on screen, announcing that they were sooo stoked about the new Morrissey video. "Mom, they're going to show Morrissey," I said. She punched the air, grinned, and scurried over to the couch. My father entered the room with O'Douls in hand. Morrissey started to lazily sway his hips. "Oh, he looks OLD!" observed my mother.
My father blinked at the television, perhaps wondering why we were watching the pomp of a graying pompadour. "Who is this?" he asked.
"It's Morrissey," said my mom. "He is old and grumpy and gay," I added. "Oh," said my father, and he, too, sat down to watch the video.
Me, thinking: (Does she mean Tim Burton?)
My mom: Tim Balland, Tim Balland...
Me, realizing: Oh, he's a rapper.
- - -
Last night, while gawking at the hundreds of channels afforded to my parents by the DirecTV, I ran across the FUSE channel. "Is that what Ophi and Tali were on?" my mother asked.
"No, that was TRL, on MTV," I responded, realizing that we were weirdly speaking half in abbreviations. "This is some other music channel."
The two people grinned on screen, announcing that they were sooo stoked about the new Morrissey video. "Mom, they're going to show Morrissey," I said. She punched the air, grinned, and scurried over to the couch. My father entered the room with O'Douls in hand. Morrissey started to lazily sway his hips. "Oh, he looks OLD!" observed my mother.
My father blinked at the television, perhaps wondering why we were watching the pomp of a graying pompadour. "Who is this?" he asked.
"It's Morrissey," said my mom. "He is old and grumpy and gay," I added. "Oh," said my father, and he, too, sat down to watch the video.
