Five Song Friday: Old Gods Not Quite Dead
This Week: Scented Candles, TED Talks and Sock Drawers
Last week, Taylor Swift made my daughter cry.
We’re not talking crocodile tears. These were heaving, full-body sobs.
On the frantic iPhone footage, her be-glittered face was soaked and sparkly as she jumped up and down, scream-singing every lyric to every song.
Everyone else in the stadium was in a similar state of pure emotional rapture.
When we asked how it was? She answered without hesitation…
“The best thing I’ve EVER DONE.”
Am I jealous? Absolutely.
I’m a beyond-middle-aged, cynical, sober dude who gets excited about hummus and naps.
Pure emotional rapture is my great white whale.
Watching my daughter’s videos made me long for the days when a live show could feel like a tent revival. When hearing your favorite song felt like you were lifted out of your body and your soul was shot from a cannon into the mosh pit.
This old bastard hasn’t screamed or cried at a concert in a long time.
I find myself in a strange live music demographic these days.
I’ve been told by sources close to me that I’m too old for music festivals. And I don’t have the stamina or schedule to spend time skulking around small clubs.
So my wife and I do a lot of icon chasing.
When we hear about someone big that we like who’s doing a victory lap, we feel obliged to go.
I’m not proud to admit that (more than once) I’ve said out loud, “We should get tickets because he/she could be dead soon.”
Which brings me to the Robert Plant and Alison Krauss concert we attended this week.
We both enjoyed the albums they did together. And while I love that Mr. Plant has continued to reinvent himself, the biggest reason I bought the ticket was because he’s the former lead singer of Led Zeppelin.
Plant’s voice can still give you chills and my wife pointed out that she’s never seen a man so successfully rock a pair of leather pants.
Most of the crowd seemed to connect with his new music, but there were plenty of folks who completely lost their minds when the band launched into a twangy, low-key version of “Rock & Roll” from Led Zeppelin III.
Mee-Maws and Pee-Paws filled the aisles, pumping their fists, nodding their heads and stomp-dancing like toddlers who had to go potty.
To be fair, it wasn’t just the older crowd. Everyone seemed to grasp the significance of the moment. Asses of all ages rose from their expensive plastic seats to show respect.
This was Robert-freaking-Plant singing Led-freaking-Zeppelin.
Even I had a big dumb smile on my stupid hairy face.
But I couldn’t shake the fact that fundamentally, the music didn’t really belong to me.
Plant is the same age as my father. And the source album for all three covers that night (the aforementioned Led Zeppelin III) was released the month before I was born.
Maybe it wasn’t that it didn’t belong to me, but that I felt like a bit of a tourist.
As I watched him onstage, I was reverent and respectful and completely conscious that I was witnessing rock and roll royalty.
This is important. This means something.
I felt similar in front of Picasso’s “Guernica.”
How long is long enough to stand and absorb the full impact and import of an iconic work of art?
Who knows.
I didn’t stare at the painting that long, but I remember opening my eyes a little wider and looking hard at the details. I zoomed in on brush stokes and etched the moment in my mind until I felt it was stuck.
I did the same with Robert Plant.
I didn’t linger on his pants as much as my wife, but I remember “taking him in” like I was being shuffled through a museum and this was my one shot to spend time in front of a masterpiece.
I watched his face on the monitor. I looked at his hands and his slightly twisted fingers. I noticed that he mostly danced with his arms.
I wondered if he wasn’t tired of all this by now.
In the end, Robert Plant did not make me cry. My soul did not leave my body.
But I did get to hear him sing about swords and dragons and levees breaking.
And while my eyes stayed dry, I’m sure that somewhere in the venue, tears were shed.
Someone that night felt that it was the best thing they’d ever done.
So good for them.
But my search goes on.
Sincerely,
DJ CrankyPete
Five Song Friday 064
“Wind Up” - Shopping
I’m a sucker for songs that sound like the stone-cold-cool, post-punk pop rock of the eighties. And this song is right in my sucker wheelhouse.
“Shove” - L7
I was lucky enough to see L7 live in New Orleans and it was a delightfully evening of screaming and loudness and bad words. This song is from the album, Smell the Magic, which is a great name for a scented candle store but a terrible thing to say in an elevator.
“Dancing To” - Kurd Maverick
Every once in a while it helps if you just dance like an idiot in the privacy of your own home. This song has helped me accomplish that goal on several occasions and I am grateful for its assistance.
“I Slept With All Your Mothers” - Harriet
The title of this song is one of those brags that really depends on the audience. It’s a bold opening line for someone’s TED talk. But if a guy walks into the living room and says this to his kids? Not so impressive and honestly, kind of implied.
“NEW YORK (CONCEPT DE PARIS)” - JAY-Z, Gil Scott-Heron
I know that Jay-Z is one of the most influential and successful musical artists in modern times with a wife who millions worship like a goddess and a bank account bigger than the GDP of most countries. But I don’t envy his marriage, his sports cars or the oversized luxury watches that he wears. I would however like to spend time in his art closet. He’s also probably got a really sweet sock drawer.
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That’s all for now. Thanks for reading!
“People haven't always been there for me but music always has.” ― Taylor Swift