My Harpo-Meets-Eraserhead era has ended, or at least gone to the bathroom. It’s too hot for such. And despite some good coaching from curly women, I had a hard time mastering Kinky Management. My lovely stylist, CJ, laughed at my high-rise and went straight for the chain saw.
I’m a handful of haircuts (and a barrel-full of hair) past my chemo chapter. That can mean only one thing: It’s testing week. Yes, my esteemed care team will soon be filling me with nuclear fluids, inserting me into tubes, and sending cameras down my proboscis, among other not-cheap thrills. So I again reach out to you, my dear readers and friends, after what turned into an unplanned Blogging BreakAway.
This first clinical curtain call is new to me, and produces uptight stage fright. I’ve discussed my pre-testing anxiety with some of my team and other AdvisorZ. And they all had this advice: Yep. When I said to one, “I’m still learning to breathe again—I have no idea what I’d do if they told me bad news.” Sagely, he enquired, “What do you imagine you’d do.” I wiped my eyes, paused, and stated, “I suppose I’d put on my tough-guy, Iowa helmet and shout,
Let’s do this!’”
“Yep,” he replied. Is it any wonder we pay these pros the big bucks? So may I offer that same guidance to you for whatever might be freaking you out: Yep.
Meanwhile, this has become a most challenging post to write. Ain’t enough stool softener in Wal-Mart to make it come out. I began it in January—when on an island vacation. Now, the weather’s turned tropical here. In fact, the heat index may hit 110° (not %) this weekend, just in time for my daughter’s soccer tournament in sunny, progressive Wisconsin. Yep, we complain about the cold and the heat around here. It’s our MN Constitutional Right. And yes, we live in extreme, and may I add, anxious, times.
Music saved my life. Countless times—and that was before I got sick. I really can’t imagine going through cancer without music. Oh, and grapes. I ate a lot of grapes.
So I share these songs because they brought vital light during the darkest of daze. And BTW, I know you’re not really going to listen. And that’s okay. It’s not your fault; it’s what the internets have done to listening and overall info overload since the days of, say, the 45, the LP, the sacred mix tape. We’re now so hyper and burnt out on stimuli that even a friend’s, nay—a master’s!—music recommendations become just more noise.
To that I can only say…Covfefe!
I must confess one rather embarrassing reason I’ve been unable to finish this bastard: Every time try to write, I watch these (and other) videos and become mesmerized. This, in short, is why I almost never watch my music. The coma hits like Cabernet+codeine. And then I lose whatever I’d imagined in my head—which was much more pure, more musical, more…magical. It’s just too easy to…watch.
Still, these are worth watching.
Yes. Let’s dance.
If you can watch this and not smile, you need “a whiskey drink, a vodka drink, a lager drink, and a cider drink.” It’s got everything you need from a timeless, yet 20-year-old, Brit-kitsch hit, including booze idolatry and silly karaoke capers. If you had the profound pleasure of stopping by my Survivor Sing-Along party at Honey, the nightclub, you know I opened by playing along with this recording. In my mind, I was gigging with Chumbawamba. And you were my groupies.
Killer Lyric: I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down…
Justin Vernon, a local boy with humble and loyal roots from Eau Claire (where I am right now, though I can’t find him no matter how many bars I go to) fronts this brilliant band. He’s been internationally adored forever. And his come-out show some years back in Minneapolis had people weeping and raving. This hard-ass, wanna-be critic agreed, yet believed Dude had growing pains to endure and then much more to say.
Now he’s saying it. Mr. Vernon has been open about the demons and dramas that have caused him to seek family-cabin seclusion and cancel tours. That makes his shows even more extraordinary, and has also matured his material. Bless.
This performance comes courtesy of Jimmy Fallon. Can you believe they make this sound live? For 3m in a TV studio? And…20-some musicians. (No wonder the tours are intimidating!) Note how the band looks like a bunch of high school mates, because, well, many of them are. I love the reassuring little hug he gives a blown-away Jimmy at the end.
If I had $1 for every time I listened to this album during treatments, we could all go out for steaks and Napa Cab. In my new Porsche.
Killer lyric: I’m standing in the street now… And I carry his guitar…
Let’s go retro. After years of forgetting them and sniffing at their many reunion tours (dumb mistake), I dialed these guys up in the heat of last summer, just when the fan was hitting the shit. I felt like I was back in high school and fell in love again, Give me layers of guitars and huge harmonies any day—two things sadly shunned by today’s pop stars.
This 4.5 minutes of music is so excellent it makes me want to smash my instruments.
Killer Lyric: I have a ship and all her flags are a’flyin’… She is all that I have left, and music is her name…
Best. Breakup. Song. Ever? And—who needs chemo—how ‘bout about that hair!?! This NoCare boy is awesome, suave, and just plain prolific. 17 albums in as many years? More moods than Garbo and Brando and all the Greats? His choruses can keep you awake at night, while his voice makes anyone singing along deserve a slap.
Ryan was divorcing sexy star Mandy Moore when he made this powerful album —which only adds to the tension. So when he asks, “Do you still love me, babe?” We know her answer is, “Hmm, nah.” Hey, Mandy: Your loss.
Killer lyric: Why can’t I feel your love? Heart must be blind…
Beck. A man of mystery, hilarity, and exquisite irony. His following is cult-like, and I’m definitely snorting the Kool-Aid. He finally recently gave us a new song, with an album to follow, and then a hot-ticket tour in smaller venues at laughably low ticket prices. This vid shows that his ever-ready Hollywood posse makes sure we still get twisted characters, freeway dancing, and girls shaking booties. It’s like…Wow!
Killer lyric: Giddyup!
My cancer posts have featured one link at the end—always to a song that, if I may say so mice elf, fit the arc perfectly. I know you didn’t take the link bait. So I’m giving you another chance at this one. This video (a studio performance with gospel singers that will make you believe) was unquestionably the most inspirational song for me. Over and over.
I know I was blessed with great medical care. Yet I’m pretty certain it was music that cured my cancer.
Music to wow the ears and cool the soul? We got this!
If you listen to these songs, and I so hope you do, well then,
Thanks for listening…