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I don’t know what my life would be without The Doors, some cavernous gaping void aching to be filled, most likely. A lifetime of memories of and with my Dad, and countless hours listening and singing and dancing along on my own. A wild, crazy love borne in the womb.
So it is with great sadness that I bid adieu to Ray Manzarek, keyboardist extraordinaire.
Break on through, Ray, and say hello to Jim.
photograph by Michael Ochs
Tags: Music
I am always dazzled by coincidence, the latest being Frankenstein, so very much of him, here, there, everywhere. We watched a fantastic Spanish fil-um called The Spirit of the Beehive a few weeks ago. I won’t say much about it, save that it is well worth your time. Gorgeous and on the sad side, with windswept, honey-laden landscapes, and the appearance of Frankenstein, first via a mobile cinema and then metaphor (a writer’s dream!). I was especially struck by the mobile cinema itself. It just seemed so quaint and special, nearly the whole town bringing their chairs to the meeting hall to watch a movie.
Frankenstein made a second appearance when I saw a picture hanging while out and about. The third happened when I realized that Boris Karloff was the narrator and The Grinch in How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Finally, on Friday, Lori and I went holiday shopping, complete with breakfast fortification. A plate of biscuits with mushroom gravy made me ever so happy. What did not make me happy was our very handsome server mistakenly giving me a cup of caffeinated coffee. I only drank half of it, but it revved my engines for nearly the whole of the day. Poor Lori and the hubster witness to the madness that is Colleen hepped up on stimulants, yippity-yapping practically non-stop, complete with wacky non sequiturs and me absolutely giddy to see a most exquisite Boris Karloff as Frankenstein tattoo on the forearm of the aforementioned caffeine server. I asked him if I could touch it, and he obliged, “It’s only skin.” Very smooth is all I can say about that. Frankenstein!
As for the photos, this is Friday night, mostly post-caffeine madness. The band is Califone (currently listening to Roots & Crowns) and they played a stellar show at Mississippi Studios. What struck me most was the economy of the players, for such a still stage presence (everyone seated the entire time, rocking, strumming, singing, and drumming), they make a lot of sound. A wildness to it, earthy and playful, too. We talked music (Radiohead, Motley Crue, and the Scorpions) with the nice bartenders at Bar Bar pre-show, the hubster enjoying some Guinness and me finally coming down from the caffeine with whiskey, sweet sigh.
But that was only Friday! On Saturday we walked, feeling cabin feverish even after a late night night out. Sometimes there is no explaining the soul’s stirrings. We headed to Division for a Little Big Burger. Have you tried their veggie version? Deep fried and delicious, my friends. We strolled further, buying matches at the hardware store and tea at Townshend’s, the Circulatory blend (such cold hands and feet!) for home and a coconut bubble for the road.
Fresh air and stretched legs gave me a kitchen itch. I scratched it good and proper, with yeasted pumpkin bread (recipe coming soon), walnut fudge, and biscochitos (Squirrel!). It was a Proustian time of reminiscing. Of Mom, singing along to Johnny Mathis. Of Daddy, sitting in the twinkle of tree lights. Of Maren, making squirrel shaped cookies for Valentine’s day. Of my grandparents, because it was Nana (my grandpa’s mom) who got us all eating biscochitos and her recipe I used. I made phone calls and left messages and spoke to Grandma, excited about the cookies and eager to wish her a happy birthday, too (ninety on Sunday). We caught up while Grandpa watched college football and the hubster made software magic.
What a hodgepodge of love, silliness, and sweetness, made and felt through my whole being, that I nipped into bed early and slept, heavy as a stone, no dreams remembered. This mad life I am living is just so good! I don’t know that I could love it any more earnestly, feel it more fully. Fresh air and the sweet scent of cedar, the squeak of guitar strings, a raindrop on my cheek, sun dancing on the pavement, the words of a loved one, the hubster’s lips on mine, one great cup spilling over and over again.
Tags: Portland, Restaurants
Last week, I stumbled upon a very cool skateboarding video, Altered Route with Kilian Martin. Did you know that about me? That I love watching skateboarders? And surfers? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched Dogtown and Z-Boys or YouTube videos on loops (Laird Hamilton, you slay me!), truth be told. The mesmerizing click and roll of wheels on pavement, hands skimming air and water, the ceaseless rolling of waves, I am dazzled and awed at what bodies can do, so much and so beautifully, against gravity and odds and nature. Anyhoo, the video had the sweetest song playing, very atypical of what most would consider skateboarding music. Patrick Watson, “Adventures in Your Own Backyard.” I couldn’t get it out of my head, this stirring sound, so I bought the album and a couple of other songs and started playing them on a loop while I wrote.
Then, when that was not enough, I went to Patrick Watson’s website and clicked around, pushing the concert button to find the band would be in town in four short days. Tickets still available. Click-boom! The hubster and I were go-ing. Yup, yup.
We arrived at The Mission Theater to very little fanfare, hardly a line, a table steps from the small stage. The opening band, Cat Martino, was sweet, her voice very fine, with a slight eighties vibe, and Cat’s band mate Sven (who totally reminded us of Zach, Maren!) with some of the coolest tattoos I’ve ever seen – small birds flying all over the right side of his body. I love that kind of thought.
Then it was time for the main attraction. The theater went completely dark and Patrick Watson came out, each with two or three small lights attached to their fingers. They played “Lighthouse” (pretty sure), which starts with Patrick playing softly on the piano and singing before being joined by the rest of the band – a violin (Melanie Blair), a guitar (Simon Angell), a bass (Mishka Stein), and drums (Robbie Kuster), building and building to this marvelous explosion of sound.
And that was only the beginning.
I’ve seen a lot of shows in my time, many in venues like this one, two hundred people gathered around a stage. But those small spaces had nothing to do with the intimacy of the show. Last night, we were part of something, transported elsewhere, our collective souls stirred into one. It was tender, silly, raucous, rakish, and laugh out loud funny, and we were all in it together. Dazzlingly simple, too, a string of patio lights and long shadows cast, minstrel-style, upon the ceiling and walls.
Then there was the singing. The hypnotizing guitar and bass. The haunting violin. The dynamic drumming. A whole song, “Into Giants,” I think, when the band came into the audience, no amplification, standing single file, Patrick right in front of me, Mishka’s tattoo peeking from his t-shirted arm while he strummed the guitar, so close I could have lifted the sleeve and revealed its secret. They sang and stomped so powerfully that Robbie might as well have been playing the drums.
M A G I C A L. Really and truly. The best show of my life, and I yelled it out the window of the Mini as we zoomed home, Patrick smoking a cigarette on the corner. Yeah, that was me. And since the band hails from Montreal, I gotta say, “Merci mille fois!”
Tags: Music
It’s a happy day here, for no particular reason, yet there are so many to celebrate. First, a bounty of kick-ass yoga sessions this week. My body is feeling as strong and beautiful as a wild mustang, caught full-gallop in a still photograph, and I’m not embarrassed to say it. I am very disciplined in my practice and being able to move in ways previously unfathomable is beyond thrilling.
Second, and I cannot think the words without unleashing a torrent of grateful tears about the myriad friends, near and far, who grace my life. I get calls and mail and messages and hugs and the tiniest of remembrances that render my soul into the highest of soaring kites. Squee, I tell you, squee!
Third, the weather has turned, maybe for only a brief period, but I am holding it with all I can muster, wiggling my toes on sun drenched pavement, while my ears fill with birdsong and the humming of bees, and inhale the scent of lilac, earth, and grass and the promise that is Spring.
Fourth, I’ve been grooving and dancing and singing, ever so much, to Radiohead (goes without saying, I suppose), Fleet Foxes, Other Lives, and My Morning Jacket. BIG sounds that awaken ancient stirrings.
Hoping it is lovely wherever you find yourself.
Hugs and love to you from an entirely unapologetic Pollyanna…
…
Happy Birthday Martha!
