Anchorage

I think I probably started included Michelle Shocked's "Anchorage" on every mix tape I made for anybody shortly after I first moved to Halifax. It's a very "Amelia song," as my dear friend and ex-boyfriend Sean would say. He really would say this, rolling his eyes, because by the time I met him, this song's inclusion on the countless mix tapes I made for other people was already a cliche. But aside from that, it is an "Amelia song" because I am sentimental like that about old friends, and I am also in love with faraway, cold places like Alaska. Or at least with the idea of them.

In Sean's basement apartment on Woodbine avenue, we began a tradition of playing DJ for one another, drinking Lakers or cheap red wine, sharing our favourites with one another and eventually compiling them on mixes for our friends, usually yet unknown to one party, and as we, at this beginning stage of our relationship, were fairly unknown to one another too, we learned about each other through the way we related to our friends and how and why we would make the selections that were made.

There are a few old friends that I think about when I listen to "Anchorage," mostly people who have both settled into family life, and who are also far removed from being involved in any kind of artistic or musical community the way that I am. It's a lifestyle difference that is clearly articulated here in the way this song contrasts Anchorage, Alaska with New York City. I feel a real fondness for these old friends, but I also feel the miles in between us and like it's impossible to ever recover what we had in high school or in our first few years of "adulthood."

Last year, my old friends Kim and Anne, with whom I was reunited through facebook (of course) concocted a crazy scheme, wherein Anne and I would, over the Christmas holidays, make the five hour drive from southern Ontario to visit Kim in Sudbury where she now owns a home with her police officer partner and her children, and where the three of us - a lifetime ago it often seems - attended university immediately following high school. I hadn't seen either of them in close to a decade, but our facebook correspondences were excited and optimistic, and I guess I am generally of the opinion that people don't really change that much, and that the often inexplicable reasons we all have for liking who we like are usually enduring.

Kim and I never had any illusions about the unlikeliness of our friendship. We both really hated living in residence, and we hid in our tiny shared dorm room together, but that confined space and the people who surrounded us were all that really seemed to bind us. She dragged me out to Ralph's Sports Bar where I was forced to put up with godawful dance music and the succession of bland, jockey guys who took a shine to her. I dragged her to the Townehouse Tavern where she was forced to listen to punk bands and drink disgusting northern draught in a smokey room full of weirdos. Anne, who lived a few floors below us, was kind of in the middle. Which is not to say that she was easy. On the contrary, Anne is one of the most sensitive people I have ever met, and I bet she sucked up all kinds of things and situations she probably didn't want to be a part of. Looking back, I don't know how I wasn't constantly and openly amazed by how much alike we were in our temperaments.

The last time I saw Anne, prior to our reunion this past December, I was visiting my friend Andrea - also a friend from Sudbury, who I had met my second year there - in their mutual home town of Guelph, Ontario. It was weird, because I was definitely there to see (and I stayed with) Andrea, but I made a point of meeting up with Anne one evening. When I'd visited Guelph in the past it had been to see Anne. This time there was an awkward tension between us. I really felt that we had "grown apart" and it made me feel sad and uncomfortable. If I honestly analyze these kinds of situations I know that it is probably more about me than about the other person. There was an over-riding sense of shame. I could see that Anne was happily back in school, in a serious relationship (with the man she would eventually marry), and was acting, well, like the adult that she was. Me: I still felt and acted like a kid. I was a university drop-out, still getting wasted all the time, living rent-free at my mom's, working at Chapters, and making plans to travel across Canada. I was openly self-righteous, insisting that I was being authentically myself. But I was lazy and selfish and aimless and incredibly worried about how apparent all of that might be to other people.

And because aside from being nearly, finally, finished an undergraduate degree, I didn't actually feel that my life or lifestyle had changed all that much in the interim, I was nervous about our 2007 reunion.

It was good. I think Anne and I approached one another with an appropriate amount of reserve, but we talked about quite a lot of weighty stuff during the ten hours total that we spent in her car together. I won't get into details, because a lot of it was pretty personal. There was reminiscing of course, and at the same time it was like we were taking stock of and comparing the people we were to the people we are. I was really impressed with Anne's self-awareness, and it was absolutely heartening to see how comfortable she eventually became - or, at least, so it seemed - with herself.

Kim was exactly as I'd remembered her and completely easy to be with. But I don't see any of myself in her.

I think one of the best things about "Anchorage" is Leroy. He's exactly the kind of guy you want your dear friend to end up with.

I think Anne and I were really glad to see one another, and glad to get back to our own lives, and that we will be glad to see one another again.

Anchorage - Michelle Shocked

I took time out to write to my old friend

I walked across that burning bridge

Mailed my letter off to Dallas

But her reply came from Anchorage, Alaska

She said:"Hey girl, it's about time you wrote

It's been over two years you know, my old friend

Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams

And the all-night rock and rollin'...

We was wild then

Hey Shell, you know it's kind of funny

Texas always seemed so big

But you know you're in the largest state in the union

When you're anchored down in Anchorage

Hey Girl, I think the last time I saw you

Was on me and Leroy's wedding day

What was the name of that love song they played?

I forgot how it goes

I don't recall how it goes

Anchorage

Anchored down in Anchorage

Leroy got a better job so we moved

Kevin lost a tooth now he's started school

I got a brand new eight month old baby girl

I sound like a housewife

I think I'm a housewife

Hey Girl, what's it like to be in New York?

New York City - imagine that!

Tell me, what's it like to be a skateboard punk rocker?

Leroy says "Send a picture"

Leroy says "Hello"

Leroy says "Oh, keep on rocking, girl"

"yeah, keep on rocking"

Hey Shell, you know it's kind of funny

Texas always seemed so big

But you know you're in the largest state in the union

When you're anchored down in Anchorage

Oh, Anchorage

Anchored down in Anchorage

Oh, Anchorage

Icarus

I first came across this song several years ago. It was included on a compilation CD called "British Folk Troubadours" that Sean received as a promo when he was managing Sam the Record Man on Barrington street, and which he thoughtfully passed on to me. This version was recorded by Martin Simpson, but the song was written by a woman called Ann Lister, who I know nothing at all about. (I'd love to know something about her!) I played it for everyone I could, and their responses were always along the lines of, "Yeah, it's nice." I could not for the life of me understand why it wasn't blowing their minds. It is like how I was always stunned to learn that I could still register for classes called things like "Critical Theory" and "Feminism and Composition" at such a late date. Doesn't everyone dig this stuff? I never really think I'm that weird until I find out that I am.

The only other version I've heard was performed by Garnet Rogers when he played at Ginger's probably about a year ago. After the show I enthused about how thrilling it was to have heard him play that song live, explaining how no one I knew seemed to know anything about it, and how it was one of my favourite songs in the world. Then I told him how I also loved it that he played a Greg Brown cover, and I didn't say a word about his own stuff which was, you know, alright, but nothing to write home about. Garnet Rogers has a reputation for being kind of a jerk, but he was absolutely kind and forthcoming when I spoke to him after the show, despite my dis-by-omission.

It's kind of funny that a song about the purest, truest kind of love that one can have for another human being is one that reminds me so much of my own singularity and isolation. A carrier of heavy wings is way more than anyone should ever expect.

Oh, and when I said that thing about love songs a couple of entries ago, I forgot to say that almost all my favourite songs are love songs.

Icarus - Ann Lister (Martin Simpson, Garnet Rogers)

I never wanted to fly high

I was too fond of walking

And when you said you'd touch the sky

I thought it was your way of talking

And then you said you'd build some wings

And find out how it could be done

But I was doubtful of everything

I never thought you'd reach the sun

You were so clever with your hands

I'd watch you for hours

With the glue and the rubber bands

Feathers and lace and flowers

And the finished wings they glowed so bright

Like some bird of glory

I began to envy you your flight

Like some old hero's story

You tried to get me to go with you

You tried always to dare me

But I looked at the sky so blue

I thought the height would scare me

But I carried your wings for you

Up the path to the cliff face

Kissed you goodbye and watched your eyes

Already bright with sunlight

Oh it was grand at the start

To watch you soaring higher

There was a pain deep in my heart

The wings seemed tipped with fire

Like a seagull or a lark

Rising up forever

Like some ember or some spark

Rising from earth to heaven

Then I believed you'd touch the sun

I believed all you told me

Do a thing no man has ever done

You'd touch the stars to please me

But then I saw the white wings fail

Then I saw the feathers falter

Watched you drop like a bowl of gold

Into the wide green water

Now some are born to fly high

And some are born to follow

Some are born to touch the sky

While some walk in the hollow

And as I watched your body fall

I knew that really you had won

For your grave was not the earth

But the reflection of the sun

The Swimming Song

Yesterday afternoon, as Jonathan returned to the apartment we shared for the last sixteen months, to pick up a couple of remaining items and to drop off his keys, I jokingly remarked, "So I guess we can go back to being friends now that we aren't roommates anymore," after offering him my new phone number. He laughed.

It wasn't really that bad, living with Jonathan. It's been way, way worse with other roommates, but we certainly let sharing space issues interfere with what was once a pretty fun and very honest and close friendship.

The end of summer, three summers ago, "The Swimming Song" was our soundtrack, whether we were driving through the Annapolis Valley or getting merrily stoned and drunk in someones apartment, raising our voices like a choir to hear it. And boy, did we hear it! Jonathan would repeat the song as many as ten times in a row, I am sure, fiddling with the MP3 player attached to his stereo as we sat outside in his beat-up car smoking cigarettes there to avoid the rain. I liked his car, I liked smoking there. I liked the imposed physical intimacy that such a small space offered.

Most of that summer revolved around the Granite Brewery. It is where we met one another, and where we met Jen, who for much of that summer completed our hedonistic trio. We consumed so much alcohol, the three of us, and we stayed up so late. We thought we were the best of friends but we were really just as immediate as Loudon Wainwright's song, which is not to belittle that time. It is something to talk so closely, to be so abandoned and in the moment. And it was nice to feel like we were in a kind of a club, the three of us. I know that I felt free, and I know that it was because of these late nights and this feeling of belonging and this speedy, motorized vehicle that brought us to the beach on sunny days. I would go so far as to say that it was the comfort and confidence that Jonathan and Jen unknowingly afforded me that allowed me to be receptive to other people, too. I belonged in that pub on Barrington street. I could walk into the building by myself and be recognized and welcomed and known. Katie, and Lisa, and Joe, and many other dear friendships came of this. I cried and laughed and danced with these people, and I was every single version of my messy, uninhibited, insecure, honest, sad self that warm and receptive hearts and several pints of Peculiar can unleash.

Time will tell, it always does, what is forever and what was for then, but it was all real, whatever kind of spin I'm inclined to put on it.

I am so glad that Jonathan laughed.

The Swimming Song - Loudon Wainwright III

This summer I went swimming,

This summer I might have drowned

But I held my breath and I kicked my feet

And I moved my arms around,

I moved my arms around.

This summer I swam in the ocean,

And I swam in a swimming pool,

Salt my wounds, chlorine my eyes,

I'm a self-destructive fool,

a self-destructive fool.

This summer I swam in a public place

And a reservoir, to boot,

At the latter I was informal,

At the former I wore my suit,

I wore my swimming suit.

This summer I did the backstroke

And you know that's not all

I did the breast stroke and the butterfly

And the old Australian crawl,

the old Australian crawl.

This summer I did swan dives

And jackknifes for you all

And once when you weren't looking

I did a cannonball,

I did a cannonball.

Here We Go

This summer I went to two weddings.

The first one occurred in June. My father married Susan Kent, a wonderful woman he had been involved with for the preceding five years. They both, I think, had kind of given up on finding someone so late in life. My father arrived in Nova Scotia with a suitcase and a guitar, having purged himself of all physical reminders of his earlier life, travelling light and, I believe, without a real destination in mind. Susan, alternately, kept everything she had ever owned in boxes that she never opened, and that surrounded her in her impossibly cluttered apartment. Having seen this apartment myself, it amazes me that there was room for my father within it, but he happily found his space. They balanced each other out, matching one another's quirks and personalities in a magical way. They are so obviously into one another, but rather than alienating the people around them by being too insular, their affection for one another manages to infect everyone in their vicinity. They glow, in the healthiest, most inviting way. I think that much of it comes from being so surprised to have found one another.

Most of my favourite love songs aren't really about being in love, and I don't want to extrapolate on that much further lest I ruin potential future entries. I'll just say that most of my favourites are about looking back on a relationship with a certain nostalgic fondness and self-awareness that is very much grounded in and by the speaker's present state of mind. Songs about being in love usually seem kind of sucky, all caught up in sentiment and flowers, with a very few notable exceptions like Fountains of Wayne's innocently joyful "Hey Julie," for example.

I like "Here We Go" so much because it's both hopeful and realistic, and also because it puts so much onus on the speaker himself, rather than being concerned with a love interest who is little more than a one-dimensional ideal, or/and, as in many love-lost songs, the cause of the speaker's downfall and misery. This is a getting-ready-for-love song, and I don't think there are too many of 'em.

"You've gotta hope that there's someone for you, as strange as you are / Who can cope with the things that you do without trying too hard." That's it, isn't it?

My friends Ian and Kate got married last week-end, and my favourite part of everything was watching Kate pronounce her vows with such earnestness and devotion, on the verge of tears the entire time. These are two remarkable people on their own, and people who are optimistic but realistic enough to, I think, know that they don't need one another, and would be okay anyway, and almost pleasantly surprised to have found one another. Amazed, even. Because, of course, love is amazing.

Dad and Susan got married at Susan's sister's house because there was no electricity in their own home, where they had planned to have their very small and modest ceremony, and many of their neighbours were in fact in danger of losing their lives and property to the forest fires that were raging through Porter's Lake. I couldn't believe it when Dad called to tell me that the ceremony was going to happen as planned, just at another venue.

Love is not all I'll-be-there-until-the-end-of-time. It is way more specific than that. It is forest fires and towering boxes that could fall on your head if just one thing is shifted the wrong way. It is amazing that any thinking person ever walks down that aisle. Good for them!

Here We Go - Jon Brion

You've gotta hope that there's someone for you

As strange as you are

Who can cope with the things that you do

Without trying too hard

Because you can bend the truth

Until it's suiting you

These things that you're wrapping all around you

You never know what they will amount to

And your life is just going on without you

It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

You've gotta know that there's more to this world

Than what you have seen

Because we all have a limited view

Of what we can be

As we move along with our blinders on

Each one of us feels a little stranded

And you can't explain or understand it

Each one of us on a different planet

And amidst all the to and fro

Someone can say hello

Here we go

The feeling that someone really gets you

It's something that no one should object to

It could happen today so I suggest you

Skip your habit of laying low

It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

Annabel

When Tom Glenne hosted the open mic. at the Free Times Cafe on College st., in Toronto, he would often give this spiel that went something like [serious paraphrasing], "You could all be sitting at home watching the hockey game on television, but instead you came out here to listen to live music." And it would make me think about how amazing it was - this tiny gesture - this going outside, to experience music and community, whether I was performing or just taking it in. And of course I would have to suffer through some whiny or boring or even embarrassing performances, but these amazing things happened there, too. I think above and beyond the individual songs and songwriters I discovered was this sense of community that was created in this very organic way. People met future band mates and friends on these Monday nights, arriving as early as six o'clock in the evening to ensure themselves a spot on the list that was almost always filled by the time the evening started at eight. For several months I was in attendance almost every Monday, lugging my guitar home to Etobicoke at the end of the night in time to get barely enough sleep to face Tuesday. Showcases were also held there, one evening a month, featuring four open mic. performers in what was often their first real gig. It was something that the open mic. hosts organized. Musicians waited for their own turns attentively and quietly. It was such a welcoming environment for songwriters, like myself, who were fairly new at performing in front of an audience and even at playing their instruments. More experienced musicians often used Monday nights to try out new material in front of an attentive audience.

Despite my long and comfortable relationship with the Granite Brewery and Ginger's Tavern, in Halifax, I have only ever been a kinda sorta regular at their own Monday night open mic., "Stage Fright," mostly just because Monday has historically been the one evening I have wanted very much to just go home after work. I am not someone who goes home and comes back. I stick it out or I go to bed, and the hours between six and ten seem like a lot and Monday is usually my most sensible day for thinking that way.

But there is clearly a community of musicians who have come together and out of "Stage Fright."

Tonight, Bend the River released their first CD, Revolt of Angels, which they actually recorded in the venue over the winter. The songs on this album were all written by Ronok Sarkar, with the exception of one song co-written by Ronok and the band's drummer and "Stage Fright" host RJ Donovan. The band also includes Adam Fine, Jonathan Andrews, and Matt Myer, with assistance from Evan Kolvoord, Bill Travis, Erin Costelo, and Kevin Corbett. Opening for Bend the River were Erin Costello and former open mic. regular, Jon McKiel. It's unclear to me exactly how all of these musicians found one another, but it seems that Monday nights at Ginger's was indeed the springboard for these friendships and collaborations.

It was an amazing show, let me please state that for the record, even though that's not really what this blog entry is about. I can't wait until these guys are so fucking HUGE, and I can be all "I told you so," 'cause the world is just a terrible, unfair, stupid place if that doesn't happen.

I made some friends at the Free Times, I found some people to sing with, to share gigs with. I appreciated the camaraderie and the recognition. It is some thing to be known, to be "regular."

And the musicians themselves. There is something so intimate and lucky about being in that room, being so close to someone so earnestly, and of course in the best instances, so masterfully, playing their songs like that. Live! You never know what will get lost or altered on the recording. You never know that they'll even make a recording. An original song is a magical, unique piece of work that changes every time it gets played.

Kat Goldman, when she was Kathy Goldman, used to play at the Free Times. She was my favourite. Her lyrics aren't on the internet and thus not so easily paste-able, and so I promise to painstakingly type them all out when I get the chance. But not tonight.

Annabel - Kat Goldman

Wes Anderson

I couldn't find the other best ones. Pretend I didn't just say that. I wanted this to be a silent blog.

Too much Tenenbaums I know, I know. Blame google image search.

The Wind / Don't Be Shy

Well, I just feel so fantastic this evening. After a rather not-fantastic day, I managed to take stock of and remember the things that I am proud to be doing and the things that I am grateful for. Walking home, feeling pretty serene as I watched the last light of day disappear, I thought it was pretty stupid of me to be trying so desperately to recover a favourite wallowing song of mine from the depths of my memory - this was my intended project - when, as it turned out, I no longer felt at all like wallowing.

It's hard to pick a favourite Cat Stevens song. (So I won't.) All of his songs feel like things that have always been there, comforting like pajamas fresh out of the dryer. My hippie friend Jill once said, "Cat Stevens is the best driving music" I couldn't agree more. Listening to Cat Stevens is like being reminded of the journey while you're in it. It's free and alert and absolutely - literally - wonderful.

We used to sing "Wild World,"  Liz & Steph & whoever else & I, sitting outside in Markland Woods by Liz's pool or at Centennial Park with guitars.

This is a short one - no more explanations and no more fucking brackets.

This song is just so good. And it is almost always so hard for me to relax.

I'm going to go watch Rushmore.

**Photo is a screenshot from Harold & Maude, retrieved by google. How do I credit this? Am I being criminal? Um, I got it here: http://4thwall.de/uploads/maude.jpg

The Wind - Cat Stevens

I listen to the wind to the wind of my soul

Where I'll end up well I think, only God really knows

I've sat upon the setting sun

But never, never never never

I never wanted water once

No, never, never, never

I listen to my words but they fall far below

I let my music take me where my heart wants to go

I swam upon the devil's lake

But never, never never never

I'll never make the same mistake

No, never, never, never

Don't Be Shy - Cat Stevens

Don't be shy just let your feelings roll on by

Don't wear fear or nobody will know you're there

Just lift your head, and let your feelings out instead

And don't be shy, just let your feeling roll on by

On by...

You know love is better than a song

Love is where all of us belong

So don't be shy just let your feelings roll on by

Don't wear fear or nobody will know you're there

You're there...

Don't be shy just let your feelings roll on by

Don't wear fear or nobody will know you're there

Just lift your head, and let your feelings out instead

And don't be shy, just let your feeling roll on by

On by, on by, on by, on by...