The Gift of Music

What is your first memory of music that made a lasting impression? What musical memories do you closely associate with certain family members? What place did music have in your home or neighborhood? Much of the research I've been exposed to says lasting musical memories begin building when we're between 12-15 years old. Based on my own life, this rings true. How about for you?

I was fortunate to have two parents who enjoyed music. My father played the ukulele and my mother had a nice singing voice and good ear for harmony. When Dad would play a popular song from the 1930's - the years he and Mom were in that 12–15-year-old range - and my Mother would sing, the songs were unfamiliar to me. But songs like "Embraceable You" or "I Get a Kick Out of You" - and others written years before I was born - occupied a space in my early musical landscape even if they didn't take up as much space as "Where Did Our Love Go", "Surfin USA", or other songs popular when I was an adolescent. 

And now? A substantial portion of my 2026 guitar repertoire includes songs Dad played on the uke while Mom sang all those years ago. When Mom died in 1977, I was still singing rock n' roll in the bars. Dad lived almost another 20 years and by then I had switched to playing some of those early standards in a jazz style, so he got to appreciate this turn in my music. And though both of them always loved and supported my rock n' roll ambitions, there's something comforting about my current musical life taking me back to songs from my parents' impressionable years. To those of you who still have your parents: Why not ask them to share with you the music that made an early impression on them? Then go on your favorite streaming service and make a playlist for them. What a gift that will be.  

My Lost Month

As the lost month of April limps to a close, it's a relief to be moving into second gear, slowly.  

No exercise, not much guitar, and erratic sleep made this month one I'm unlikely to forget anytime soon. And yet, as always, there's much to be grateful for. Foremost among those things is one simple fact: I am healing a little each day. Whenever I caught myself whining, it didn't take much effort to shift my thoughts to the people in my life who aren't healing like I am. And how about these ancillary benefits that my immobilized state facilitated? 

* On more sleepless nights than not, I cracked through to genius level on Spelling Bee. Watch your back, Bill. (And don't tell me Hillary never helps you.)

* I watched the entire six-episode run of The American Revolution, reinforcing my belief that Ken Burns stands alongside Toni Morrison, the New York Times, and the National Park System on any short list of American treasures. 

* I made some headway on my perpetually unmanageable "to read" list. Stay tuned in May for a post or two on the winners I finished while stuck in neutral. The duds? Mum's the word. 

In the meanwhile, I'm looking forward to a nice - probably short - walk later today with my wife. Did I mention how fortunate I am that she was around to assist me for most of my lost month? 

 

 

A Sure Thing

"Writing stabilized thoughts; it allowed you to see connections that thoughts alone didn't."

Gabriel's Moon (2024) is the fifth William Boyd novel I've read since Brazzaville Beach (1990) took my breath away. If you're looking for a novelist you can depend on, end your search. Among novelists I've been newly exposed to since leaving the full-time work world, few have thrilled me as consistently as Boyd. He is a masterful storyteller and gifted prose stylist with an exceptional feel for setting.

"The river was gunmetal green, despite the pale blue, cloudless sky. It was deep, the Congo, and whatever the sky above, azure blue or lowering grey, its color never really changed."  

Gabriel's Moon, told in two acts, has London-based travel writer and reluctant spy Gabriel Dax moving from Leopoldville to Madrid to Cadiz to Warsaw to Rome, each locale coming alive in Boyd's capable hands. I was particularly struck by his depiction of Madrid, having coincidentally just spent a few days there in mid-March on vacation.

"... a kind of agreeable melancholy suffusing the dark, brown, shabby streets ... grand squares and plazas ... proudly situated with their huge, palatial, ornamented buildings ..."

Some years back, I suggested to my brother-in-law that he might enjoy Waiting for Sunrise (2012), my second exposure to William Boyd. He did and has subsequently sent me five novels by this modern-day master, including Gabriel's Moon and the previous novel I finished by Boyd - Solo (2013). Because of my brother-in-law's generosity, I've still got three sure things waiting on my bookshelves. Cool.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Music Supervisor for Hire

Boomer Boners

When and how did you most recently date yourself?

I suppose it's predictive that the further I move into Act Three, the more I'll be dating myself. I'm grateful my thirty-something daughter and her thirty-something husband are usually kind when my boomer boners don't ring the faintest bell. Even my oldest niece - who turned fifty last November - usually lets me slide when I reference an actor, musician, or author who had their heyday in the 60s or 70s, never to be seen or heard from again. Bless her heart.

I've found I'm usually on safe ground mentioning boomer film or pop music figures who have managed to hang in there past their sell by date, e.g., Al Pacino or Paul McCartney. But those who haven't made it into People magazine for twenty+ years, no matter their previous level of notoriety? Boomer boner territory. With respect to authors closely associated with the peak boomer years, in my experience, that's fuzzier. 

When speaking to a Gen X or millennial reader, I might be OK casually dropping an author name here or there, especially when the work of that author had a place in Gen X or millennial school curricula, e.g., Harper Lee or Toni Morrison. And because literature is arguably less ephemeral than film and clearly less so than pop music or TV, boomer boners tend to be less frequent when I speak of authors, Arthur Hailey and James Michener aside.   

Still, a word of caution to my fellow boomers. There are many ways aside from references to actors, pop musicians, or authors to find yourself stuck in the boomer boner time warp. Rabbit ears, anyone? Penpals? Eight-tracks? Like it or not - and I don't - it's going to get more difficult as we old farts move deeper into Act Three. I'm already mulling over future conversations with my grandson. How do I explain to him why anyone ever had to give directions to someone else?

Open Letter: Road Scholar to Rhodes Scholar

Because I've been largely immobilized since returning from Spain in late March, day-to-day routines - by necessity - have since shifted. Included in that shift has been an insane competition with Rhodes Scholar and ex-President Bill Clinton. First, a little background.  

Some time back, my wife heard or read somewhere that Clinton gets to genius every time he plays Spelling Bee.  Soon after, she and I occasionally added Spelling Bee to our post-dinner ritual, i.e., the joint completion of Wordle, Strands, Connections and other games that can often be finished in a reasonable amount of time. On the nights we were foolish or ambitious enough to add Spelling Bee, I would joke that she was "gen" and I was "ius" whenever the two of us managed to get to Clinton's purported "every time" genius level. Fast forward now to late March and my lingering immobility.

With lots of time to myself - including a ten-day stretch when my wife was at her sister's - little out-of-the-house activity, an inability to sit for long stretches to play guitar, and interrupted sleep patterns, reading and writing dominated my waking hours for the first several days after our return from Spain. Then somewhere around the first week of April, my over-the-top competitive instinct combined with Clinton's reputation as a Spelling Bee genius kicked in. Word and/or game nerds who have spent frustrating hours with Spelling Bee might be able to predict how that time-sucking vortex - disguised as a harmless pastime - has since obsessed me. For those wise enough to have avoided ever being infuriated by Spelling Bee, skip the next paragraph, my open letter to Mr. Genius.

Dear Mr. President: Before uncovering both of today's pangrams - which you had to do to earn your everyday genius badge - did you even know "vincible" was a word? Did you use "hints" today? Do you ever use hints? Does Hillary ever assist you when playing Spelling Bee? How often? If she does, do you count those days when you reach genius with her help as your own or ... do you not count them at all or ... do you give her the gen or the ius? Last question Mr. Genius: On average, how many hours of serious torture does it take before you reach genius?

The last time I can recall being as seriously derailed by words as I've now been for a few weeks was in September 2011, soon after the notorious bagel store affair. Back then, following my first and only lifetime arrest, anagrams and palindromes tromped through my sleepless brain for weeks. See the link at the bottom for a blog post published soon after the impulsive act that ended up costing me over $4000.00 that year and helped thrust me into word misery for weeks. This current battle between obscure blogger and genius ex-President is thankfully unconnected to any rash act but has been no less consuming. This time it's my temporary homebound condition that has me endlessly shuffling seven letters in varying combinations for hours at a time until reaching that puerile but satisfying "I got genius" message. Alas, I suspect I'm spending more hours getting there than the genius who once occupied the White House. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Back (Mostly) From Anagram Land

Someday

April 17 is the day I knew I'd met my life partner. 

Forty-eight years ago today, she and I had our first real date. That date was preceded by an impromptu visit to a diner for late-night coffee on the night we met at a local bar near her home where I was doing a solo gig. At the diner, I asked her for a real date on my next night off, April 17. When she said yes, I was buzzing. And I remained in a state of heightened anticipation through the days leading up to our date. 

On April 17, as soon as she climbed into my VW van, I could smell her shampoo. Later at dinner I casually asked what brand she used. Her answer - "Whatever is in the shower at the time" - charmed me beyond reason. A mundane first date question met with an unguarded response; no pretense. 

After dinner, we went to hear a local musician play at a bar, doing a solo act much like my own. At this point, having spent less than ten hours together - including the diner, our dinner, and time at the bar - I was smitten and knew my life had changed. I said to her - "Someday I'm going to marry you". I don't recall her response. But she looked neither scared nor shocked. 

We've now been side-by-side since April 17, 1978. She has never let me forget we didn't get married until September 17, 1983. My only defense? I did say "Someday".   

An Assist from Jenny Wingfield Et Al

For more than forty years, my rationale for not re-watching movies - even those I loved the first time - was straightforward. I didn't want to spend hours in a redundant passive state. Such can be the curse of a goal-driven person. I don't claim to have never wasted precious hours re-watching an old favorite but it was rare and I was never tempted to purchase videocassettes just to have a standby on hand.  

Having more hours to myself after leaving the full-time work world as well as having a daughter in the film industry were two factors that moved me toward abandoning my longstanding resistance to re-watching movies. But the single factor that most persuaded me that re-watching films could be a productive use of my time was a deepening appreciation for the art of screenwriting. As I re-watched more movies, I began to see the way that first-rate screenwriting could help me as an aspiring writer, perhaps as much as great literature can. And I saw a clear link between how the concision of a great script contributes to movie magic and how a similar concision could aid me in my blog. Of course, it's possible I've simply constructed a neat rationalization for spending more time in front of a screen. But I don't think so.

When I recently re-watched The Man in the Moon (1991) for the first time since its theatrical release, the words of the perfectly realized script landed for me in a profoundly different way than they did thirty-five years ago. As the closing credits rolled, one thought wouldn't let me go. There was not a single false note in this coming-of-age film. Was Director Robert Mulligan's artistry on display? Without question. Were the central performances - including Reese Witherspoon in her film debut - nearly flawless? They were. 

But without the words of screenwriter Jenny Wingfield, all the other important elements that made this an extraordinary experience - twice - might have added up to a less satisfying whole. I may not improve as a writer having now been witness to Wingfield's words, twice. On the other hand, how can exposing myself more than once to her kind of artistry hurt me as a writer?

Atlas Riffing: Where Interest & Quirkiness Intersect

In grammar school I really enjoyed geography, which in my day was a subset of social studies. Remember that boomers? I don't recall ever telling peers that geography turned me on, probably because back then it wasn't considered a cool subject. Still, looking back it's easy for me to trace a clear line from my childhood enjoyment of geography to my adult interest in other cultures, my love of travel, and many of the quirky projects I've initiated throughout my life, like trying to sample the cuisine of as many countries in the world as possible. 

Where my enduring interest in geography and my quirkiness intersect is in a post full-time work habit I've dubbed Atlas riffing. When this habit will take control of me is not predictable, though books and movies are inclined to set me off. If a book or a film takes place in some unfamiliar locale, off the shelf comes my Atlas. So far, so good, right? I'm curious where in the world a story is taking place. I suspect many of you bookworms and film buffs might do something similar, perhaps with your phones. 

But once I step inside my Atlas, all bets are off. At that point, any casual observer watching you scrolling your phone vs. me Atlas riffing would clearly know which of us needs medication. I've lost count how many times over the past sixteen years I've riffed in that Atlas for several hours, bouncing from page to page like a deranged, happy pinball, all the while making fevered, frequently inscrutable annotations. On occasion, my Atlas riffing has gotten way out of hand in circumstances unconnected to books or films. For example, when mention is made of a less familiar country in casual conversation while I'm at home, it's difficult to suppress my immediate desire to grab the Atlas, which occupies a prominent place in the reference section of our over-stuffed bookshelves. If I do succumb, I try not to be rude via limiting my riffing time; sometimes I succeed. I also try not to appear obsessed while doing so. Another work in progress.  

Which quirky habit will you confess here? What got you started down that particular quirky road? Can you trace a line - as I have - from your current quirkiness to an interest developed early in life?