Vigilantes of Love, “Skin” (download)

The same holds true here. The line “Your princess, she don’t want to know you / Your princess, she don’t want to hear / So Vincent, he picked up the blade / And he put it to his ear,” goes far enough into framing Van Gogh’s instability. But after that, the song recasts itself into something many songwriters dread and far fewer navigate gracefully: The pep talk tune. They dread it because it is almost impossible to write one convincingly, and because it’s even harder not to drown in the murk of inspirational cliches and Sylvester Stallone arm-wrestling montage scores. “If you’re gonna come around here and say those sorts of things / You’re gonna take a few on the chin / Talkin’ ’bout love and all that stuff? / You better put on your thickest skin.” Nowhere is the listener being discouraged from being openhearted. On the contrary, it’s being encouraged, but with the implicit proviso that a cynical world may not react kindly to it.

The chorus is sewn up with this less than triumphant sentiment: “Sometimes you can’t please everyone / Sometimes you can’t please anyone at all / So you sew your heart on to your sleeve / And wait for the axe to fall.” I suspect what songwriter Mallonee is trying to say is that it is Van Gogh’s peaceful scenes that we remember most (the starry night, the fields of corn that, disturbingly, he would go to in a suicide attempt). Other painters may have made their bones on angst and torment, but Vincent’s work, while ornate, had a naivete that gave off a second life, a third and a fourth. If I say Picasso’s Guernica, do you automatically see it in your mind? If I say Van Gogh’s Starry Night, how about that? I rest my case.

It is Mallonee’s ability to extract universality out of unlikely sources that make the most powerful statements. If you gamble looking for love, you may find it as much as you may fail and crash. If you seek peace versus violence, you might get a punch in the face. If you stand for right, even when the power you speak truth to would rather you joined them or should just shut up, you could die. The nobility of love, peace and the just remain undiminished, and that’s where immortaility truly lies.

A parting thought, though: In today’s climate of prescription heart-menders, pain smoothies and mood lifters, could an artist like Vincent Van Gogh even exist?

It had been an interesting and emotional trip, as rushed visits between distant lovers can be. He had told me early on in the relationship that he loved me. It was the first time anyone other than a family member or friend had used that word to describe how they felt about me. It put me in a confusing state of mind. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, too, but regardless of what my emotions were telling me, I felt obligated to understand what, exactly, that word meant. What it meant to him. What it meant to me, in regards to those I felt I had loved in the past, but also in relation to him. I felt like I had to explore what I was acknowledging, what I was committing to, what was expected of me.

After an extended visit from him, I was exhausted. And the fact that the confusing Long Island Rail Road schedule caused him to miss his flight didn’t help. He booked another and I rode out to the airport with him. After we parted ways, I hopped back on a train to campus. I was exhausted and selected the “Jazz” genre on my iPod and drifted off to sleep.

Eventually, I was awakened by a fast and furious stream of notes from a saxophone. It was A Love Supreme. I had never really listened to it, but owned it because of my jazz history class. Music history courses usually came with listening tests, which I was habitually horrible at. I made sure I owned all of the music from the course so I could listen to it on repeat. A Love Supreme was one of the pieces.

John Coltrane, “A Love Supreme, Part 1: Acknowledgement” (download)

I watched the Long Island scenery flash by, perfect suburban houses with yards and swimming pools. I thought about my boyfriend, about graduating, about where I would be in a year. But mostly I just listened to Coltrane. Its complexity and hyperactive energy had a strangely calming effect. When the “a love supreme” chant kicked in, I felt like everything I wanted to know had been explained. Sure, Coltrane was making an ode to his supreme love for God, but damned if it didn’t feel prescient. A Love Supreme, it seemed, was telling me that this was just the way love was, the way life was. Chaotic. Complex. Constantly changing. And that despite the way that might sound at first, there was something lovely about it, too.

Since then, A Love Supreme has been the light in dark times. A reminder of the simple facts of life. I heard it last November. It was election week. I had just met someone new, and my brain was in bloom with all of the seeds of thought that get planted in those first whirlwind moments of adoration. And there was the election. Despite what I wanted to believe, I was still nervous that I would watch my country make me feel like a stranger for the third election in a row. I walked through the subway at Union Square, where a man with a saxophone was quoting from A Love Supreme, and I was reminded of that train trip from MacArthur airport. That night, I went home, made myself dinner, and listened to A Love Supreme while I ate. I felt a supreme calm.

It’s been months since then, and though the election turned the way I had hoped, there is plenty in my life that remains chaotic, that leaves me feeling uneasy, stressed, out of control. But I have A Love Supreme to remind me that, hey, that’s just how it goes. And that’s okay.

We met in a summer program through a local occupational school that allowed you to take a culinary arts class in the summer and get credit for it. The program lasted for half of the summer, and you actually got to run a restaurant, which you’d cycle through each section of. Damon was two years older than me, and very mature and well dressed for a high school guy in Washington state. He worked at the Gap at the mall 15 minutes from my house.

We became fast friends, which quickly grew to stronger feelings on my end. Damon was the guy I’d talk to for hours on my private phone line late at night, hiding the receiver in my sweatshirt hood so I could quickly feign sleep if my mom came in to check on me. If it wasn’t the phone, we would talk for hours on AIM, and I’d frequently fall asleep on the couch in the computer room, waiting for him to sign on. (Author’s note: thank god high school is over.)

Damon was a pretty talented piano player and singer, and I was constantly harassing him into performing for me. Somewhere in my childhood bedroom, I have a tape of him singing an on the spot version of U2’s “If God Will Send His Angels.”

During my formative years, I’d become obsessed with Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet, including the soundtrack, and Des’ree’s “Kissing You” was my sad-romantic anthem. So, for my birthday one year, Damon came over and played and sang to “Kissing You” on the piano for me. It was one of the happiest moments of my adolescent life.

Des’ree, “Kissing You” (download)

My feelings went unfulfilled, and we eventually lost touch, but we reconnected not too long ago. (Hello, Damon, if you ever read this, and apologies if you’re embarrassed, but don’t be!) I still always think of him when I hear that song, and I still always smile when I think of him.

But willful music binging has its benefits, too. On a recommendation from someone on tumblr who responded to a video of Skip James that I posted, I’ve been watching the seven-part Martin Scorsese blues documentary series, Martin Scorsese Presents: The Blues: A Musical Journey. I’ve seen five of the seven films, and so far have just about broken even: two of the films I could have passed on, two of them I found captivating, and one of them fell somewhere in the middle. Unsurprisingly, I’ve been grabbing artists like Skip James, Robert Johnson and B.B. King out of my collection lately, and have a long list of artists and albums I plan to acquire. One thing on that list is the song used in the opening credits for each of the films – I hadn’t looked it up or written it down, I just reminded myself each time I watched another chapter in the series that I needed to look it up.

A few days ago I embarked on a massive digital library clean-up, requiring that I both listen to some of those things I’ve been meaning to get around to hearing, and be honest about my listening habits enough to purge the stuff I just don’t listen to. I put iTunes on shuffle, got comfortable, and began. At some point, the opening credits song from Martin Scorsese Presents: The Blues began playing. It’s Muddy Waters‘ “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had.” I have no idea where I got the mp3 from, or how long I’ve had it, but there it was. Right under my nose all along.

Muddy Waters, “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had” (download)

Unsurprisingly, there’s no shortage of things about Fahey that bowl me over. I could certainly talk about all the technical aspects, his love for old blues, modern classical composers (i.e. Bartok) and foreign song form, all the things that should’ve tipped me off that I would like him before I even had to push “play.” But what gets me most about Fahey is how much he communicates with just the guitar. As a product of modern times, it’s easy to get caught up in modern styles, full bands, singers and the like, regardless of how much one might like other forms and genres. When most of what you hear took several people to create, sometimes you need a reminder of how much just one person can do with just one instrument.

Fahey creates such an intense and specific sentiment with his guitar that it makes you wonder if some bands aren’t getting off too easy for doing too little. Pretty much any song from The Transfiguration of Blind Joe Death can be used as an example, but “On the Sunny Side of the Ocean” sounds the most suited to discussion. (The Transfiguration… is the only Fahey I have right now, so recommendations of other albums are welcome.)

John Fahey, “On the Sunny Side of the Ocean” (download)

The title acts as a guide, in a way. The song is everything one might envision – the rays of the sun touching upon everything in its expanse, the ripples of the water, the birds in the sky, the boat scooting along the horizon. But even without considering the direction he’s hinted the mind to move in, there’s that same relaxed and soothing setting, tinged with a curiosity for the unknown and out of reach.

The Doors, “The Crystal Ship” (download)

Immediately, Jim Morrison’s lyrics are kind of off-putting, not because of language, but because of the subject: “Before you slip into unconsciousness / I’d like to have another kiss / Another flashing chance at bliss / another kiss, another kiss.”

Why are we slipping into unconsciousness? More than likely because we’re on drugs, but what if we’ve been drugged by someone else, what if there’s a darker, more sinister reason? Do we really want Morrison to be our last memory before whatever state of mind it is that we’re about to enter? But then there’s that romantic weight he puts on just one kiss: “Another flashing chance at bliss.”

The second verse is particularly conflicted. “Enclose me in your gentle rain,” he asks us, before he explains, “The time you ran was too insane.” Does a man like Morrison really have the right to make any kind of judgment about someone’s mental state? But despite the name calling, he insists, “We’ll meet again.”

Some of Morrison’s best poetry is found in the third section: “Oh tell me where your freedom lies / the streets are fields that never die.” But following that comes a sort of insensitivity, “You’d rather cry / I’d rather fly,” he begins, before getting into the real kiss-off closing verse, “The crystal ship is being filled / a thousand girls, a thousand thrills / a million ways to spend your time / when we get back, I’ll drop a line.”

In many ways, it’s the ideal break-up song, if only because of its accuracy. He longs for the woman’s sweetness, but yearns to escape from her theatrics. He’s kind, but also not so kind. All the usual send-offs are in here, just in different forms. “I want to still be friends” can be found in, “We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again,” and, “When we get back, I’ll drop a line.” Jealousy comes to play here, too, as he’s sure to mention he’ll be spending time with “A thousand girls.”

Musically, the song is almost alarmingly delicate for a Doors song. That heavy organ sound occasionally didn’t really blend (which, for the most part, is fine) – but letting the piano guide “The Crystal Ship” was an inspired choice. It gives the song its fragility, which plays in to both the subject matter and the title. It also makes it a little more accessible to those who aren’t so fond of the Doors’ canon.

It’s also short. Almost too short. The length works with the song’s fleeting nature, that must be conceded, and Morrison does achieve something that it must be assumed he wanted to, which is that we’re left wanting more of him, despite his coldness and ego. You miss him as soon as the song is over, and even though we all know that “When we get back, I’ll drop a line” bit probably isn’t true – who hasn’t gotten that before? For that matter, who hasn’t given that before? – it’s still tempting to hope he means it.

As things progressed with the guy I was seeing, I discovered that Huey Lewis had a song for every stage in a relationship. There was “Power of Love” for the happier days, and “If This Is It,” for when things started getting bad. Right after it was over, “So Little Kindness” was there to assure me that I wasn’t the only one who thought it was perplexing how quickly so much passion, interest and civility could dissolve.

After that came “I Never Think About You.”

Huey Lewis & the News, “I Never Think About You” (download)

This song from Plan B isn’t on Greatest Hits - I think I dug it up online somewhere. As much as I loved a lot of the Huey Lewis & the News songs I was listening to, I listened to “I Never Think About You” more than any of the others. I spent a summer as something of a recluse (I was house sitting for some friends), driving around and belting this song while I zipped down a freeway with the windows open. It really did make me feel better, and I became convinced that with this song, I could throw it all behind me. Then one day I realized I had some of the lyrics wrong.

The chorus goes, “Now I’m living by myself without a care in the world / I never think about you / And I’m happy as I’ve ever been — well, I pretend I am / I never think about you.” In my version, that third line went, “And I’m as happy as I’ve ever been — without pretending I am.” This makes for a huge change in the song’s message. In actuality, Lewis thinks about this person all the time and is singing all this for show, where I had thought he was genuine. I probably should’ve guessed I was hearing it wrong, because it’s not exactly a happy song. I suppose I just assumed that he was sad to see it all go, like that quote from Swingers I love so much.

Realizing I had the lyrics wrong, I was forced to confront that maybe I really wasn’t over this person, that I did think about them all the time, and perhaps I was just fooling myself, same as Huey Lewis. There were already more than enough songs that reminded me of them, and I had just added one more.

But knowing that didn’t change how damn good it made me feel to listen to the song. So I kept on singing the wrong lyrics anyhow.

Though the average person associates Seattle with rock ‘n’ roll – grunge, Sub Pop and that ilk – Seattle has an impressive hip-hop scene, particularly from a production standpoint. Our most famous name is Sir Mix A Lot (who I drove past one day in Capitol Hill), but hip-hop aficionados might recognize the names Jake One, Bean One and Vitamin D, producers who’ve worked on albums from big names like 50 Cent, Jurassic 5 and Mary J. Blige.

While I was interning at NARAS, they hosted an event spotlighting the Seattle hip-hop production scene. As the intern, I helped set up, then got to stay for the event. It wasn’t exactly what I expected. I went into it thinking it would be more or less like any other rap show. Instead, it was the producers highlighting beats they created, and every once and awhile, someone would come up and rap to them.

As a writer, I’m a sucker for a good lyric, so it’s often easy for me to get distracted by what someone is saying and thus pay less attention to what’s going on musically. I love a lot of instrumentals, post-rock and classical music because I can really focus on the music and not be trying to juggle my attention. So, when I attended the event and heard just the beats, it was taking the genre and kind of flipping it on its head for me, particularly because at that time, much of the focus in hip-hop discussion was still on what rappers were saying, how they were rhyming or who they were insulting, though that’s certainly changed since.

The beat that really got to me was when Jake One played his beat from De La Soul’s “Rock Co. Kane Flow,” off of the Grind Date (which, incidentally, was the beat that put him on the map). After years of listening to mostly mainstream rap, It was just so unlike like any beat I’d ever heard. To this day, I cannot listen to that song without focusing on that beat, because it’s just so majestic and unusual. No matter how hard I concentrate on what they’re rapping, my ears always focus on the production.

De La Soul, “Rock Co. Kane Flow (Feat. MF Doom)” (download)

DJ Bobo, “Chihuahua” (download)

A bit of a ridiculous song, “Chihuahua” is a silly, bouncy, dance tune that’s not actually about those yippy dogs that often get mistaken for rats and/or promote Taco Bell, but instead is about how the word “Chihuahua” makes DJ Bobo very, very happy.

I’m walking in the street and the moon shines bright
A little melody is spinning on my mind tonight
I gotcha it’s the song about chihuahua
Yeah, that’s cool alright (chihuahua)
It means fun – and a life without sorrow
Feels young – when you think about tomorrow
Say yo – when you’re about to freak out
Just go, and then shout it out loud

Nonsensical as it may be, it’s the kind of song that gets stuck in your head for hours on end, driving you insane. Kind of like “It’s A Small World.”

I first heard it two years ago on the aforementioned trip to Europe, when the tour guide used to play it to wake us up. (It was incredibly effective.) I downloaded the song as a fun little reminder, and had listened to it maybe twice since then. That is, until last week.

Before a screening of WALL-E (which was excellent), my friends and I were “treated” to a preview of the upcoming Disney movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua, which seems to be about how Chihuahuas are great warriors infiltrating our homes and destined to take over humanity. Or something. Not only does it look absolutely, completely horrible in comparison to the kinds of movies Disney has produced in the past, it uses a remixed version of DJ Bobo’s “Chihuahua.” Modified lyrically to make the song actually about the breed of dog, of course.

Should this seem too absurd to actually exist and, thus, you are in great doubt, here’s the trailer for Beverly Hills Chihuahua – and below that, DJ Bobo’s video for the song:

However, there are few songs that connect with the holiday for me. Sure, there are all the patriotic anthems if you want to get stereotypical. There’s really only one song that reminds me of a particular fourth of July.

While I was still summering at home on the West Coast, it was something of tradition to go out to the cabin of some family friends on Harstine Island, which is in Puget Sound. It’s right on the water, so it cools off at night, and it’s far from any big cities, so it gets really dark. Because it’s so quiet and woodsy, everyone is shooing off fireworks. You can stand on the shore and be surrounded by bright, colorful lights in every direction — including an Indian reservation. They always delivered. Big time.

I was more or less left to my own thoughts at these holidays, and often I’d clear my mind of everything associated with my life in the cities, my life in New York, my life in Seattle, and just spend hours using as many senses as possible.  Watching the water roll in waves, skimming my hand on top of soft, pointed blades of grass, listening to the sounds of voices from far away, smelling the musk of the forest and the smoke of barbecues in the air… the taste of alcohol.

Drinking in the country is a joy, particularly because there’s little to no ramification. You have a few drinks, you soak up the surroundings, you lay down in your tent — done. Then came modern technology. Like cell phones. Bringing the possibility of a drunk dial to your fingertips, even in the most remote of places.

One particular fourth of July, my brain found it hard to escape the mental prison of thinking about an ex.  It all started so simply, remembering what I had done fourth of July the year before. Ah yes. Last year, I was wrapped up thinking about so-and-so, because we were just starting to get things together. If you don’t cut the path off at the earliest signs, next thing you know, you’re heading full speed to a place you’d rather not return to. And there it was. The Dismemberment Plan’s “The First Anniversary of Your Last Phone Call.” On the mix CD I had made for the drive out (this was before iPod days, unfortunately). At the time, I couldn’t explain what had compelled me to put it on there, it just seemed to fit with the mood and tone of everything else I was including, so there it was. The third song.

The Dismemberment Plan, “The First Anniversary of Your Last Phone Call” (download)

Several hours (and drinks) later, I found myself, in the car, searching for my phone. I locked myself in and started singing “The First Anniversary of Your Last Phone Call” — out loud, of course. I found the phone, held it firmly in my hand, and began to scroll down to the name of my ex in the address book. I stared at it. And stared at it. I closed the phone… then opened it again. I listened to “The First Anniversary of Your Last Phone Call” on the car stereo. I had made up my mind. It didn’t matter that it was late, that my ex was in a time zone three hours later than I, I was resolved. But, as I finished listening to the song, and picked up my phone, something happened.

It broke.

I frantically struggled, turning it on and off, taking out the battery, taking out the SIM card, charging it in the lighter, to no avail. It was dead. Not only could I not call my ex that night, I couldn’t call him any other night, because no phone numbers were saved to the SIM card. Just the phone’s internal memory. Which was now dead.

It only took a night of sleep for me to decide that this was some sort of sign disguised in technological breakdown and, not to mention, probably for the best.

And I was never tempted to drunk dial an ex after that.