Happy New Year and welcome back, my beloved Tigers. With an Opening Day win today I see no reason why we’re not staring yet another 162-0 year straight in the face. Let the historic run commence.
I’m very proud to introduce the world to Read•Write•Design, my editing agency that is taking over where cgerben consulting left off. My plans for the agency include providing project work for individual and corporate clients. Please check out the site and stay tune.
And that will do it for this year. Lessons learned: don’t start on December 19, try to narrow down the tracklisting to under 30 songs, try to meet more people so that my writing isn’t so self-centered, have fun. I hope you did, too.
If nothing else I’m including this song just because this album artwork is so wonderful. It’s by far my favorite. The fact that this song is so short and earnest just makes it all the better. In another band’s hands this could feel like a real jewel on another album. Here it sounds almost throw-away, which actually makes me marvel all the more. Someone told me a long time ago that we’d look back and see Wilco as our Beatles. I’m still skeptical, but there’s no doubt they’ve written themselves deep into our history books at this point.
Because of family and work obligations I’ve only gone to see one movie within the last year. I went alone, during the day, and walked home with this song in my head, apropos of absolutely nothing. The film was Manchester By the Sea, which was beautiful but also the most depressing thing I think I’ve ever seen. I really liked it, though. I just can’t take any storyline that features children getting hurt. I’m a softy. And a dad. This song came out of nowhere and somehow saved me that day. Thanks, boys.
Back when I started this list around the time of the winter solstice I detailed a visit to my daughter’s class to read to them from Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods…” I don’t recall if I mentioned that I spent hours agonizing over a hand-out of the poem that I gave to each 3yr-old. I did, and I’m still happy with it even if they probably got thrown away or scribbled on with crayon later that night. Here it is:
I’ve always loved Drive-By Truckers, but their modest yet explicit attempt to attack social/political issues dead ahead through a rocking beat on this album is something more than admirable. That this earworm of a hook also tells a try story is a testament to how they make something serious look so easy.
I honestly have no idea where this one came from or where it was going, but I sorta like it. It’s been on my desktop for at least a year and I can honestly say I don’t remember writing it, but I kinda like its voice:
I just kept thinking: if I could just stay in this room it would all be all right. If I could just figure everything out before I emerge it would be fine. No knocks on the door. No trips to town. Just get to work. Figure it out.
Sometimes I would. Sometimes I’d spend a whole day focusing on my hands, on my thoughts. Sometimes I’d write things down, commit them to memory.
But, you know, sometimes. Well, most times. I’d fail. I’d fail again and again. Looking out the window, fixing something that needs fixing. Or reading. Or thinking about things that don’t require thinking about. Those are the worst things, the wicked things. The things that take up so much time but mean nothing really.
I’d be my best each new year. Like I had a new start, a fresh start. When everything around me slowed down too and we had a promise together to just keep things quiet until it was all sorted out, you know? The more it snowed, the deeper the spent stalks got buried and the hemlocks laid heavy, the calmer I felt. Not because I was doing much, but because there was still time.
The sun became my enemy then. Each warm afternoon threatened everything.
So I began to wish for the night, to wait for the night. Clear skies and partial moons, dull galaxy in the distance, while the snow crystalized and the critter tracks kept time to the weather’s movements. Silence. It was the silence that I loved most. I knew wind was good, too, maybe better. But it blew my calmness into unpredictable drifts. It exposed big patches in the ground where that other life still existed.
But in the silence nothing changed. I was the only listener. The only watcher. I could come and go as I pleased and nothing changed. Nothing changed me. Only Orion’s hunt across the sky marked the progress I was racing against. But that’s the thing, you see, it wasn’t a race during those times. There was no time. There was no people, as long as I kept away from them anyway. It was just me and my plans.
As an Austinite it’s now my sworn-duty to like Hayes Carll. Fortunately he makes it pretty easy, even if I haven’t really sunk my teeth fully into this album as much as I’d like to. The title alone would make believers our of sinners if you ask me.
I discovered this band late one autumn night, at least an hour after I should have reasonably gone to bed. But there I was in the lowlight of the stovetop listening to this song and thinking about camping trips gone by with my friend Adam up and down both banks of Lake Michigan. The music made perfect sense then, even if it doesn’t quite now.
Really nothing to see here, but this is a scrap of something that hangs around my desktop (although I see now that I could have chucked it months ago.) It was apparently a start to something that never went anywhere:
Where I’m from, the outskirts of Detroit, manufacturing didn’t just provide us with jobs, it kept us local. With such a powerful force of economic gravity, there was no reason (or hope?) to leave. And though outsiders look at our city’s downfall as spiraling from the 1960s on, what many don’t realize is that the automobile industry kept us in its good graces well into the late 1990s. By that time I was heading off to college at the nearby University of Michigan, while the bulk of my classmates stayed home. While I waited for life to happen on campus, they were driving new F150s and buying homes in the same neighborhoods as their parents. At the time, there was little doubt about who was making the more immediately smart decision.
It was far from a land of opportunity: by the time I reached junior high I had passed through three elementary schools, each one shuttered as teachers were pinkslipped after the steel workers were pinkslipped. Maritime and railroad trade halted as our region’s lifeblood slowed on area roads. But in the waning days of the 20th century, the jobs were still there.
I moved. First out of Detroit’s orbit, and then across state lines to Indiana, New York, and California. When I came back as a visitor a decade later I was suddenly alone. Both the landscape and the population had moved on. Once and local hangouts—Big Boy’s, Denny’s, near nameless bars on Fort St.—were no more. And my classmates had escaped to jobs of service and security: moving out of state to become store managers, restaurant workers, and border patrolmen.
Even though I had struggled to define myself and find success in those years, I had always hoped that I was exceptional. A prodigal son and a permanent sense of place. But I’ve come to realize in my reflection of empty storefronts that I was no exception. I left, but I was merely early. I left, and I was alone. But back in the place that I called home, no one remained, and as I returned to my life in progress in California and later Texas, I grew older (like we all do) and realized more acutely how alone I truly was.
Much like her songs, Lisa Hannigan releases sneak up on you. And though I haven’t spent much time with this one, this song in particular jumped out instantly like a soundtrack to nature that was always there among the hush and crunch of January.
I started writing this poem last year in the days after Valentine’s Day (my least favorite non-NYE holiday.) One of the few social things I had going for me in the year after moving to Austin was taking my daughter grocery shopping after school. There she’d invariably want to touch and hold every plush red and pink doll that depressed the hell out of me. But she loved them with some earnestness and sincerity that I felt shamed to ever doubt the power of stupid inanimate objects to bring out the purest emotion in the purest of hearts.
It’s incomplete, but I’d love to return to it one day:
Making room for the end-caps.
Turning over the seasonal aisle.
Dark reds and violets
Bleed out to soft pastels.
And bears and bugs
And all in-betweens
Are reborn in the harsh
Into bunnies and baskets
And chicks and
It’s too much
Love has no season.
Sadly Beth Orton, for me, will never outlive her deep attachment to my solitary walks up and down hills in San Francisco now over 12yrs ago. Still, I have a continuing very deep soft spot for her music however it comes, as long as it comes ethereal and melancholy.