Category — Music la la la

To the woman from New Jersey on the 151 bus yesterday.  It is not necessary to scream out the name of every building on Michigan Ave. as you spot it.  You are on a bus, so please use your inside voice.  Otherwise we will have to brand your forehead with the words “obnoxious tourist.”

To her daughter who blocked the aisle with her baby’s stroller.  Newsflash.  “Public transportation” means that this vehicle will actually transporting the public.  This is not your personal SUV.

To the four idiots attending the Bonnie Raitt concert last night.  People paid to hear the artist, not you guys talking loudly in a drunken stupor.  We have enough bars in the city who would be thrilled to have you.

If your name isn't on this marquee, then please STFU during the concert.

To the musicians who keep dying.  Stop it.  Seriously.  Between Davy Jones, Whitney Houston, Donna Summer, Barry Gibb, I’m exhausted from reading breaking news bulletins about death.  Yeah, I know it’s inevitable, but can we please space these out a little more.

To the peeps at Saturday Night Live.  The season ender with Mick Jagger as the host was hilarious.  Especially the karaoke bar skit where the cast tried to sing Rolling Stones songs and Mick butchering Satisfaction.  Well played.

To Ralph Lauren.  Was it necessary for you to discontinue the 600 thread count Regent line?  I think not.

To the person who invented Pinkberry mango flavored yogurt.  I love you.

To the person who invented M Burger’s chicken sandwich.  I love you, too.

To my musician friends, who gave me two weekends of amazing concerts, I love you the most.

That would be my elderly  (as in born before Prohibition) mother.

The thing is, she is at her most hilarious when she is not trying.

Take today for example.  We were running a few errands during lunch and I had the radio playing in the car.  Suddenly she says, “I really like this song.”

Normally, this would be a signal that she was being sarcastic.

“Mom, are you being serious?

“Yes, I really like it.”

“Why?”

“I like the beat.”  (Okay, she really didn’t say the word “beat” but she mimicked the sound.)

That’s when I started to laugh.  This is what was playing on the radio:

Who knew mom was into guys with really long beards?!

That’s all I got tonight!  Rock on, mom!

It’s only a matter of time before she discovers Freebird.

…in my dream.  Yeah, that’s right.  In my dream.  It went a little something like this.

I was sitting towards the back of the plane in an aisle seat.  (Don’t ask me where I was flying to.  I couldn’t see my boarding pass in my dream.)  Anyway, toward the end of the flight to who-knows-where, the flight attendant announced that we had a special passenger on board who would be making an appearance shortly.

Whatever.  Bring back the free blanket and hot meals and you’ll get my attention.  A celebrity?  No so much.

So, right before we land, Prince somehow magically appears in the aisle, holding a bouquet of flowers.  He starts walking toward the cockpit.  (If you are named after royalty, apparently the “fasten your seat belt” sign doesn’t apply to you.)

As he passed me, I noticed his hair in the back was shorter than normal.  It troubles me that I even knew that, but hey….this is why people choose me to be on their Trivial Pursuit team.

He very quickly got to the cockpit door, except in this instance, it had been transformed into two tall, white double French doors.  (Hey!  I must have been flying Air France!)

Prince opened them  (apparently waving some magic TSA security wand) and entered the cockpit.  That’s when I woke up and was left pondering why he did that.

Maybe he works part-time for Teleflora?

Here’s what I’ve come up with.

1.  He was about to propose to a pilot.

2.  The only place on the entire plane with a vase was the cockpit.

3.  He thought there was a bathtub in the cockpit and his plan was to pull off the petals from the flowers and throw them in.

4.  He thought there was a bed in the cockpit and his plan was to pull off the petals from the flowers and throw them on top.

5.  He was looking for his raspberry beret and thought he might have left it there.

6.  He wanted to see if purple rain existed above the clouds.

7.  First class wasn’t good enough for him, he wanted pilot class.

8.  He heard that the cockpit is the place they keep all the symbols.

9.  He’s Prince.  He can do whatever he wants.

10.  I need to stop eating late at night.

What’s your guess?

In the span of a couple of hours, I’ve taken a half-century (give or take) musical journey.

I’m sitting here watching the BET awards.  Two hours ago, I was sorting through these:

Kicking it old school.

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that I have a 45 from the Plastic Ono band, but otherwise what I was buying back in the day has stood the test of time.

The Association, The Doors, Mamas and Papas, the Monkees (don’t judge), Elton John, the Archies (I said…don’t judge), Marvin Gaye with Tammi Terrell, Jefferson Airplane, The Box Tops, Petula Clark, Booker T and the MGs and about 30 more.

The discs might be vinyl, the sleeves paper and the box made of metal, but here’s something thought provoking.

Many of the sleeves still had the store price tag on them.  They ranged from 59 to 89 cents. (Don’t forget the flip side, so that’s for two tracks.)

That would mean close to 50 years later, single-track downloads are only twice what they were back in the day.  When we consider that the price of gasoline has increased 20 times during the same period, music continues to be a pretty good deal.  (Thus ends my economic commentary.)

But the journey through the decades didn’t end there.  The closet shelves that contained the 45s, also had a bazillion VHS and cassette tapes.  Why I didn’t get rid of this stuff years ago is beyond me.

While the 45s were carefully cleaned and restored, the VHS and cassette tapes were thrown away with total emotional detachment.

I was flying through the stuff until I hit a stack of books. Included in the pile of fiction, memoirs and self-help books was this:

Not in this lifetime.

Hilarious.  What on God’s green earth could I have been thinking.  (This is actually worse than admitting I have an Archie’s 45.  Did I mention it’s Sugar, Sugar?)

I am the least craft-y person on the plant.  The thought of applying glue on small pieces of paper and slapping them on another object is as appealing to me as writing a doctoral thesis on the mating call of the equatorial iguana.

I must have bought this to give to someone as a gift.  Yeah, that’s it.  I’m just grateful I never owned an 8-track.  Copping to that would have been like admitting that I owned a Plastic Ono Band 45.

Oh, wait.

Walking out of dinner with clients this evening, I say my goodbyes and walk a block or so to grab a taxi.  It’s 11 pm on a Friday night in downtown Chicago.  Streets are filled with people who are walking out of restaurants headed for either home or a night cap.  Or maybe even a hookup.

I’m long past my hookup days, so the object of my desire is a taxi and a warm bed.  However, before I can get to either,  a  homeless person steps into my path and demands to know who my favorite rapper is.

Helloooo?!  Take a good look.  I’m a middle-aged white woman.  At face value, odds are pretty high that you’ve got the wrong demographic.  But then, again, my behavior and preferences have never been typical of my age group.  So, I launch into my spiel.

Well, right now…I like Ricky Ross in Diddy Dirty Money.  Nicki Minaj is okay, but I think it’s a tad weird that she changed her last name to Minaj because she is bisexual and Minaj is a homage to menage a trois.  I like Sean Kingston in Bieber’s Eenie Meanie and who couldn’t possibly like Ludacris…Luda to you.

I think Kanye is talented but he’s a real asshat and Eminem has grown on me recent years.  Of course, you can’t deny Jay-Z’s talent.  I’m halfway through his book Decoded—the digital version—been reading it on my iPad.  Quite interesting, don’t you think?!

Long about now the crazy homeless guy is looking at me like I’m the one with the lost marbles.  He’s probably thinking…what the hell did I get myself into.  This crazy bitch is about to go into the history of rap 101 starting with the Sugar Hill Gang and Rapper’s Delight.

Morale of the story?  Never judge the book by its cover, shawty.   You feel me?

I’m heavily into music.  Pretty much all types.  My iPod looks like it’s owned by a schizophrenic.  Mozart to Eminem.  In fact, as I type this, I’m watching this year’s Rock Hall of Fame Induction via DVR.  (BTW, worse editing of a television program…ever.)

But even I have my limits as to how far I’ll take my passion.  Apparently not so for this guy.

If you clicked on the link, you’ve gotten the message.  If you haven’t, the Cliff Notes are that he has started a business to press ashes (as in the dearly departed) into vinyl.  You know…so that you can play over/through your loved one’s DNA.

WTF???!!!

Where do I even begin?

Hi.  In the mood for a little music?  I’d love to play my dad.

Oh, is your dad a musician?

No. He was a plumber.  But I thought it would be a good idea to embed his ashes into a vinyl record.  Please ignore the hissing and popping on the second track.  That’s dad’s right big toe.

I mean, why don’t we start making jewelry from our beloved deceased so that we can always carry them with us.  Or how about some place mats so that we never miss a meal without their presence.  Really?!!

We already have the bury or cremate options. Do we really need ash accessories?  I don’t think so.

But just in case the executor of my estate goes rogue and decides to music-afy my remains, I’m making my preferences clear right now.  Because tramps like us, baby we were born to run (right out of the cemetery and onto track #1).

Yes, that's his real autograph.

Specifically, I’d like my feet embedded into the title track, I’d like my lips inserted into Thunder Road and my ass placed on Backstreets. I also wouldn’t be opposed if people sang She’s The One loudly during the vinyl pressing process.

If all of that is not possible, please just stick me into the ground and send the worms a dinner invitation.

As creepy as that sounds, I think it’s better than having a record needle skip over my nose.  Just sayin’.

You are probably thinking that I’m about to go into some life-affirming explanation.  Nope, this isn’t that heavy.

It’sbecauseIwenttoseetheJustinBieber3Dmoviecalled NeverSayNeveryesterday.   (Okay, I’m just slightly embarrassed and a bit worried my AARP card is going to get revoked.)

Exhibit A.

The thing is, I love music.  All sorts of genres. ( I even dabbled in artist management a while back.)  The reviews for the film were pretty decent, so I decided to check it out for myself.

This is what I took away:

a. Admission was $15. A new personal movie-going high for me.  And I spent it on a 16-year-old kid’s biopic.  Ouch…and ouch.  (If anyone ever asks me, what’s the most I’ve paid for a movie, I’m going to say it was for an IMAX screening of a National Geographic expedition on the mating call of Antarctic penguins.)

b.  I’m old enough to be his grandmother.  In fact, his grandmother may be younger than me.  (Depressing.  Baby, baby, baby, oh.)  Just for that reason alone, I feel I should have gotten a senior discount.

c. Social media is everything.  Especially if you are in the music business.  (His mom posted a video of him performing several years ago to share with friends/relatives.  Strangers starting viewing and the dominos started to fall.)

d. I wasn’t prepared to like him as much as I did.

Regardless, of your taste in music, a good rags-to-riches story tends to tug at the heart.  Justin Bieber was born to a teenage (17-year-old) mother who made raising this child a priority.  We also see the grandparents who have been like surrogate parents to him all of his life.

Concert footage of his recent performance at Madison Square Garden is interspersed with family/historical footage of his rise to fame.

The moral of this story is that a ton of hard work (which he has definitely put in), the love of a supporting family, mixed in with a little right place/right stuff is what dreams are made of.

In retrospect, I guess I have to say it was $15 well spent.  But, in case anyone asks…I’m still sticking with the penguin movie story.