Sitting in Starbucks (ostensibly "working", i.e. writing, but quite honestly just goofing off a whole lot of the time) I am sometimes forced to listen to music when really maybe I would rather just hear the ambient sounds of Harvard denizens ordering coffee in their "I'm richer than you, peasant!" voices. I would love to have a T-Shirt line that just has messages like: "I paid $50 for this T Shirt, so obviously I am a member of the Corporate Elite, and You are NOT!".
Back to my point: being forced to listen to music not of my choosing has caused me to realize that there is some music I really despise, or at least intensely dislike, even though I somehow feel I "should" like it. Well, I just don't. It's shocking.
One person is Paul Simon. Honestly, his whining just really hurts my stomach. And whatever happened to Edie Brickell once she married him? Why did her talent just seem to disappear off the face of the earth?
Another is KD LANG (caps intentional). I really do NOT enjoy the timbre of her voice. There is something just so self-consciously full of herself in every ooh and aahhh. Even the way she spells her name strikes me as pretentious. Who does she think she is? e. e. cummings?
Another is Kate McGarrigle's son Rufus Wainwright. First of all, I have seen him interact with his Mom onstage, and he comes off as a real little bitch. Kate should just get out from behind her keyboards and slap him upside the head. Seriously. Second, no Rufus, you do not sing "Hallelujah" better than Leonard Cohen. Yes, I know he's from Canada. And so is k.d. I should support them. But in Rufus's case the nepotism really annoys me. I'm not so sure he deserves the special spot he has gotten in the music industry. Without Mom and Dad I am not so sure he would have gotten there.
Not to be anti-Canadian, let me also say that I really don't like Mariah Carey. At all (although I DO like her shenanigans and diva attitude). Her super-soprano riffs just don't impress me. The biggest problem is that I feel NOTHING when I hear her sing. On top of that, most of her songs are non-melodic and really dull. Come on! With all that money, couldn't she has least get a few good songwriters in her corner?
And, to be fair and not biased against women, I'm not that fond of Sting either. OK yes, I do like the song "Every Breath You Take" even if it strikes me as a super stalker song, and reminds me of one of my hopeless lovers, Herve from Montreal. Besides that, Sting is another person who just doesn't do much for me, even though he seems quite convinced of his own genius (and yes, I do appreciate some of the charity work he's done, but...).
[As a side note, I have remarked in my life that males seem much more easily convinced of their own genius even when this is so far from reality as to be a fairy tale. On the other hand, some really amazingly talented, smart women (like me!) might take a lot of convincing that they ARE very smart, talented women. Something to do with behavioral therapy imposed by society, teachers, the media etc. starting pretty much from birth.]
For me to love a musician, I need to feel touched by them somehow. Aretha Franklin made me cry when I saw her in person. George Thorogood made me feel like a motorcyle mama, hot blood coursing through my veins. Ella Fitzgerland made me fell blessed and cleansed to the core of my soul. Bruce Cockburn has stirred up a lot of rage in me at the cruelty that exists in this world. Al Green has reminded me what it feels like to be madly in love when I felt furthest removed from that wild sensation.
We need artists in this world, desperately, despite the attempt by scientists, war-mongers and pedlars of trivial crap to convince us otherwise. Let's support the REAL artists, and stop being afraid to call out the emperor or empress when in fact they are stark naked in their superficiality and sense of self-importance.
Just sayin'....
Showing posts with label Al Green. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Al Green. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Bob, Al Green and The Witch of Salem
So last week I met Bob, who was thin and drunk and mustachioed and shivering on a bus bench, after catching the Rev. Al Green in concert at the House of Blues. [Al was great, inspiring and charming, incredible band, two WONDERFUL drummers, but the show was a tad brief...sorry Rev. Al!]
I thought maybe Bob wanted the bench space to himself, so when he turned to me, I said, "Sorry--just waiting for the One Bus to Cambridge". Bob replied, "Do you have a cell phone?" Warily, I said, "Yeah. Do you need to use it?", hoping he would not abscond with it, or maybe worse, vomit on my phone. Bob said, "Can you call 911 for me? I'm dying here."
Wow. Now I felt like a jerk, for thinking bad thoughts about Bob. I'm familiar with that "I'm dying here" feeling, so I asked, "What's going on?" Bob held out his gnarled shaking hands and said, "I can't stop shaking. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the cold, but I feel like I'm dying. I need to get to a hospital." It was really cold and damp. Bob's short green jacket was way too thin for the weather. I figured maybe Bob had hypothermia, and I told him so.
Bob told me he felt like laying down on the bench and going to sleep. He leaned over. I tugged on his jacket and said, "I don't think that's a good idea. You really need to stay awake." That's what I remembered from Red Cross training in high school. Drugs, head trauma, hypothermia. Keep the victim awake til they get to the hospital.
As I fished in my backpack for my phone, Bob explained to me he had already asked several passersby if they could help by calling 911, but everyone had ignored him. Oh yes, Boston, that warmest and kindest of all places!
I called 911. I explained that I thought Bob had hypothermia, and could they get there ASAP? The woman on the other end said, "five or ten minutes".
To take Bob's mind off his distress while we waited, I decided to make conversation. I asked his name-- "Bob", his age "45", and where he was from "Salem". "I wish I was there now, " said Bob.
"Oh, yeah, the Witch Capital of the Northeast," I commented. Bob eyed my long red hair and black and red clothing and asked, "Are you a witch?" I said "No", but Bob didn't believe me.
"It's OK with me, I don't mind witches," he said, to reassure me.
I told him, "It's not that I don't believe in that stuff, I just think you have to be very, very careful with it, or it can come back and bite you in the ass." Bob nodded in agreement.
I looked down Mass Ave toward the Hynes Center, hoping the ambulance would arrive quickly. I didn't want to miss my bus.
"I know Laurie Cabot, the Witch of Salem," Bob announced.
"You do?" I asked.
Bob said, "Yep. I went to high school with her daughter."
I nodded, curious about what was coming next.
"Her daughter and I got caught smoking weed together one day at school. Sent to the principal's office. They called our Moms. My Mom got there first. Then a big black limousine pulled up in front of the school. Laurie Cabot got out, 6 feet tall, hair to her waist, long black robes, carrying a skull and a witch's staff."
"A skull?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yep," said Bob. "A skull...so anyways, my Mom started to speak up, but my Mom looked kinda normal. I took one look at Laurie Cabot, and said to my Mom, 'I think we better let Laurie Cabot handle this.' "
"So did Laurie Cabot 'handle' it?" I asked.
"Oh yeah," said Bob. "You shoulda seen the look on the principal's face." Bob made his eyes huge and terrified. "He was scared to death. They let us go home with just a warning."
I laughed, loudly. Bob laughed too. Passersby with zealously guarded cell phones looked over to see what all the happy ruckus was about. Bob and I laughed some more, while Bob shivered and I listened for the ambulance.
A few minutes, both the ambulance and the bus pulled up. Bob told me to go ahead and grab my bus, but I figured I should wait to make sure he was properly cared for. He wobbled badly getting on the ambulance, but the emergency worker didn't think he had hypothermia. She put a latex-gloved hand inside the top of this shirt to touch his bare skin. No explanation to Bob about what she was doing. I thought this was disrespectful. Bob was drunk, not comatose. But she said since his skin was warm, if he had hypothermia, it was mild. Bob looked a little annoyed by her hand on his chest, but I think he was mostly worried about dyin' at that moment, so he didn't say anything.
They had a heater in the ambulance and blasted it directly at Bob. I waited until they left in the direction of the Boston Medical Center. I hope the doctors there took good care of Bob. I hope someone gives Bob a proper winter coat. I hope Bob gets into detox, soon. And that it sticks this time.
Bob has some great stories to tell. I'm pretty sure that with the life he has lived, he has a couple dozen books inside of him desperate to get out.
Thanks Bob, for letting me sit next to you, and sharing your amazing story. I feel really lucky. Sorry for worrying about my stupid phone. Hope you are OK.
I thought maybe Bob wanted the bench space to himself, so when he turned to me, I said, "Sorry--just waiting for the One Bus to Cambridge". Bob replied, "Do you have a cell phone?" Warily, I said, "Yeah. Do you need to use it?", hoping he would not abscond with it, or maybe worse, vomit on my phone. Bob said, "Can you call 911 for me? I'm dying here."
Wow. Now I felt like a jerk, for thinking bad thoughts about Bob. I'm familiar with that "I'm dying here" feeling, so I asked, "What's going on?" Bob held out his gnarled shaking hands and said, "I can't stop shaking. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the cold, but I feel like I'm dying. I need to get to a hospital." It was really cold and damp. Bob's short green jacket was way too thin for the weather. I figured maybe Bob had hypothermia, and I told him so.
Bob told me he felt like laying down on the bench and going to sleep. He leaned over. I tugged on his jacket and said, "I don't think that's a good idea. You really need to stay awake." That's what I remembered from Red Cross training in high school. Drugs, head trauma, hypothermia. Keep the victim awake til they get to the hospital.
As I fished in my backpack for my phone, Bob explained to me he had already asked several passersby if they could help by calling 911, but everyone had ignored him. Oh yes, Boston, that warmest and kindest of all places!
I called 911. I explained that I thought Bob had hypothermia, and could they get there ASAP? The woman on the other end said, "five or ten minutes".
To take Bob's mind off his distress while we waited, I decided to make conversation. I asked his name-- "Bob", his age "45", and where he was from "Salem". "I wish I was there now, " said Bob.
"Oh, yeah, the Witch Capital of the Northeast," I commented. Bob eyed my long red hair and black and red clothing and asked, "Are you a witch?" I said "No", but Bob didn't believe me.
"It's OK with me, I don't mind witches," he said, to reassure me.
I told him, "It's not that I don't believe in that stuff, I just think you have to be very, very careful with it, or it can come back and bite you in the ass." Bob nodded in agreement.
I looked down Mass Ave toward the Hynes Center, hoping the ambulance would arrive quickly. I didn't want to miss my bus.
"I know Laurie Cabot, the Witch of Salem," Bob announced.
"You do?" I asked.
Bob said, "Yep. I went to high school with her daughter."
I nodded, curious about what was coming next.
"Her daughter and I got caught smoking weed together one day at school. Sent to the principal's office. They called our Moms. My Mom got there first. Then a big black limousine pulled up in front of the school. Laurie Cabot got out, 6 feet tall, hair to her waist, long black robes, carrying a skull and a witch's staff."
"A skull?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yep," said Bob. "A skull...so anyways, my Mom started to speak up, but my Mom looked kinda normal. I took one look at Laurie Cabot, and said to my Mom, 'I think we better let Laurie Cabot handle this.' "
"So did Laurie Cabot 'handle' it?" I asked.
"Oh yeah," said Bob. "You shoulda seen the look on the principal's face." Bob made his eyes huge and terrified. "He was scared to death. They let us go home with just a warning."
I laughed, loudly. Bob laughed too. Passersby with zealously guarded cell phones looked over to see what all the happy ruckus was about. Bob and I laughed some more, while Bob shivered and I listened for the ambulance.
A few minutes, both the ambulance and the bus pulled up. Bob told me to go ahead and grab my bus, but I figured I should wait to make sure he was properly cared for. He wobbled badly getting on the ambulance, but the emergency worker didn't think he had hypothermia. She put a latex-gloved hand inside the top of this shirt to touch his bare skin. No explanation to Bob about what she was doing. I thought this was disrespectful. Bob was drunk, not comatose. But she said since his skin was warm, if he had hypothermia, it was mild. Bob looked a little annoyed by her hand on his chest, but I think he was mostly worried about dyin' at that moment, so he didn't say anything.
They had a heater in the ambulance and blasted it directly at Bob. I waited until they left in the direction of the Boston Medical Center. I hope the doctors there took good care of Bob. I hope someone gives Bob a proper winter coat. I hope Bob gets into detox, soon. And that it sticks this time.
Bob has some great stories to tell. I'm pretty sure that with the life he has lived, he has a couple dozen books inside of him desperate to get out.
Thanks Bob, for letting me sit next to you, and sharing your amazing story. I feel really lucky. Sorry for worrying about my stupid phone. Hope you are OK.
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