Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Part One

Now that the Eliot Spitzer hullabaloo seems to have died down a bit, I want to talk about it. Frankly, the last few weeks have been damn near intolerable media-wise. And, frankly again, this is why I’m writing now: In spite of the media frenzy—pesky flies zig-zagging over steaming ordure—two things still rankle.

Let's take a look at the first one...

Hookers, Whores, and Roustabouts

Shame on you David Letterman.

I love this man. Of those guiding cultural forces in my life, I count him amongst the most influential. Though I would like to claim that I started watching Letterman earlier than I did, I have to admit that his switch to CBS was really the turning point—the point at which he became a staple in my nightly television diet. At one point, I cut out his charming mug (from the February 1993 cover of Rolling Stone) and taped it over the hole in my college apartment's bathroom door. Why? Because it was an appropriate place for that face, of course!

The interplay between his off-beat humor (canned hams raining from the sky) and his awkward-but-sharp and honest interviewing skills, mixed with the debacle of his NBC/CBS feud, really resonated with my growing sense of cynicism. My world view was nourished by Dave's television trials and tribulations.

Now I am a man.

Er, well, I should say that Dave's place in my life has receded. I've gone through long periods of not watching the Late Show. It was only after the wife and I sold our soles (har har) to Time Warner Cable and hooked up the DVR that we started taping Letterman (because we're too old to stay up past ten!). Months ago, I found myself refreshed by re-introducing Letterman to my television routine. With the aid of the DVR, I can even by-pass interviews that are less than stellar!

Anyway, when the Spitzer scandal broke, it broke hard on late night television. And since the Late Show tapes in New York, I should not have been surprised to find Dave's monologues and desk banter peppered with references to the scandal. Suffice to say, it got old pretty quickly.

Then it turned on me: Dave unabashedly tossed out those terms—"whore" and "hooker." Each time he used either term, I found myself inwardly cringing. To be fair to Dave, he's gained a certain level of tenure and has the right to say and do as he pleases. In fact, part of what I love about the man is his fearlessness (most brilliantly tipped with his "Oh no! We're Gonna Get Sued!" bit).

But the verve with which he ennunciated those words…

In the end, I don't know if it was Dave's rampant use that led to my hyper-sensitivity, but I found myself continually jarred by others' use (overuse) of those two words.

Why?

Part of it. No, I take that back. All of it has to do with my pro-feminist moral compass. It falls in line with that other pack of words we don't say for fear they will turn back the civil rights movement. While reclamation seeks to make lemonade out of lemons, I just don't think it works.

Words have power. And despite our efforts, that power is not something we can harness or dilute. While we can, through knowledge, experience, acceptance and forgiveness, adapt and amend our personal senses of words, we cannot do the same for the collective social consciousness.

It's like our computers. When we delete files, they disappear from our consciousness. But those files don't wholly disappear. Sure, a computer may at some point completely erase the deleted file if it needs the space, but there's no guarantee of that. In fact, as our computers come closer and closer to becoming infinite in their capacity, we risk ever truly removing information.

So it's still there. Those negative connotations of words still exist—to greater and lesser degrees—and, despite our best efforts we cannot eradicate them without smashing our collective (cultural/historical) hard drive.

This is the problem with words that we've tried to reclaim.

But this is not the problem with hookers and whores.

Why? Because unlike those reclaimed words, no one that I am aware of has tried to reclaim "hooker" or "whore." True, we see "whore" in certain contexts that seek to be positive (or at least the word is used consciously to identify a personality trait), but even these instances carry baggage: the derivation of the term supposes a sale of something. Even in an instance of the term's conscious application to entrepreneurial behavior there is an implied unscrupulousness.

Let's look at this interesting di(con)vergence.

Dictionary.com's first result (Random House Unabridged) for "whore" notes, "a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, usually for money." While we are not likely to disagree with this definition, I must point to the inclusion of "promiscuous" in the definition. Had this term not been included, we might be inclined to write off "whore" simply as an occupation like any other!

Discovering this meaning push, I jumped over to Merriam-Webster Online and found this: " a woman who engages in sexual acts for money." This definition leaves out "promiscuous," which might satisfy my hypothesis above, but adjacent to this first defining phrase is the synonym "prostitute." Merriam-Webster's "prostitute" has no refuge, as she is "a promiscuous or immoral woman." In this instance, this definition, we don't even have room for a midnight cowboy!

Now, I should probably point out that definition number two re-genders whore ("a man who engages in sexual acts for money"), but the damage is already done. I'll add that M-W's third definition removes economics and gender from the equation, noting that a whore is simply "a venal or unscrupulous person."

Even if we were to invert the definitions, as colloquial practice some hundred years hence may do, the evidence of the word's origins would still be present. And just as I borrowed unscrupulously from these dictionary providers, future wordsmiths might easily steal a backward glance…

But I'll say it again: The damage is already done.

My concern here is with the gender issue. Mind you, I'm not taking up the age-old argument (go read/see George Bernard Shaw's Mrs. Warren's Profession for that debate). Rather, I'm circling around issues of proper usage and reclamation: If we are to divorce "whore" from negative connotations, then we have to be cognizant of how those connotations are gendered and seek to remove those connotations.

We're not doing this. I have two examples: Hustle & Flow and Pimp My Ride. Both of these cultural artifacts seek to elevate and exonerate the "pimp." Terrence Howard's performance in Hustle & Flow is deeply affecting. While we are not likely to befriend his ho-hustler-turned-rhyme-hustler, we can absolve him (or we are asked to by the writer and director). Can we say the same for the women he pimps? True, we see the softer side of pimping, but…

Pimp My Ride isn't in the same aesthetic ballpark as Hustle & Flow, but in regards to exploring the word "pimp" and its place in the American lexicon, it is worth pointing out the connection. Pimping has gained enough vernacular momentum to be accepted on television. Pimp is not one of the seven words you can't say on television. And while MTV is a cable television station, it pervades the American cultural spectrum.

My next point should come as no surprise: A watered-down version of "pimping" has become socially acceptable (even Oscar-worthy), but "pimping" is inherently gender-biased. What logically follows is the notion that pimping is acceptable because it is masculine. Heirarchically speaking, then, this is thinly-veiled sublimation of the feminine. The pimp is a man. The whore answers to the pimp.*

But let's face "whore" is still a nasty little word.

All of this to say: It's one thing to deride Eliot Spitzer. It's another thing to call a whore a whore. Spitzer deserves the derision. He clearly should have known better. The prostitutes in this case are also not blameless. But what is ultimately problematic, is trading jokes on terms that infer gender bias. As an elected public official, Spitzer has shown more than just poor judgement. By patronizing a prostitution ring, he not only chose to fund the "world's oldest profession" but helped reinforce traditional gender roles that treat women as objects for purchase.

That bugs me.

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* The supposition "pimp controls whore = man controls woman" does not leave much room for madams. I concede that my comments are based on 21^st century conceptions of the pimp/whore relationship. Arguably, this is not an issue: The late 20^th - early 21^st century attitude that begot Pimp My Ride is founded upon the gendered heirarchy I've noted above. A hold-over, maybe, from exploitation films?

Brothers Without Arms

First, let me say this is the third blog I've attempted to write in the past three weeks. Hopefully, I will be able to complete this one—which, in turn, should motivate me to finish the others…

Family

Let's get a quote to start things off. Since I am feeling displaced at the moment, I did what I tell my students not to do: I went to Google, typed in "quotes family" and hit the first page that popped up. Three quotes down, I found this one:

"The family is a haven in a heartless world." The suspect site suspiciously notes "Attributed to Christopher Lasch." Okay then.

Without sounding too dour, I'm currently of the mind that this is the root of (or at least a contributor to) all our worldly woes:

Family is no longer a haven in an increasingly spiteful world.

This revelation comes on the heals of a voice message from my mother. She called to inform me of finally hearing from my truant brother.

Without getting into the details (because, frankly, the details simply obscure the root cause; they are not the illness but simply compounded symptoms), I'll just say that my brother a) is deeply, emotionally, scarred (the poet in me turns to tragedy and cries fatal flaw!) and b) has not come to terms with my father's death. These two facts have led him on an errant quest which threatens to tear apart our close-knit, haven-like immediate family.

In short, my brother—without the oedipal overtones and creepy uncle-turned-stepfather—is Hamlet. His actions are misguided by a spectre he puts more trust in than the concreteness of accepted loss. He chooses to react rashly without seeing the cause of his madness—trusting instead the passion of his grief in lieu of the passion he so erroneously stamped out of himself long ago.

Having been the voice of reason for most of his life, I have chosen to be silent in hopes that some greater force (not that of a poison'd sword, mind you!) shakes some goddamn sense into him.

But let me go back to that "haven" thing again. Frankly, I don't buy it. Without resorting to an ignorant sweep of hand, I am prone to believe that the American family has never been a haven. Having first been cobbled together by misfits, castaways, and opportunists, then bound together by some sense of nationalism born of proud necessity, and finally stamped with the hollow hope of manifest destiny, the American family is exactly what we should have always seen it as—hopelessly dysfunctional. It's no wonder greedy opportunists have hoodwinked us into a comatose clan fattened on fast food and clobbered into pharmaceutical and multimedia addiction.

In this late hour, we cast our hopes to bring "it" back—whatever "it" might be. We long for the strength of family. But the very nature of the American Dream denies us the respite of our former haven. How can we seek out our destinies, establish ourselves on the frontier, without sacrificing the thing that grounds and keeps us true?

We can't.

Within the larger context of the world, I am inclined to remove that modifier "American" and say that all families are, at their cores, dysfunctional. Mind you, I'm playing fast and loose with "dysfunctional" because the horrors of this world are perpetrated by the confines of social norms. We need them to establish order, but they chafe like an over-starched shirt, or an itchy underwear tag.

Family, then, becomes just that: An improperly sewn label. The more we seek to de(re)fine it, the harder it is to maintain.

But, at the very least, we should be able to maintain our own family's integrity? Our family is worth something, isn't it? So why do we allow our "selves" to resist the outstretched arms of our kith and kin?

Okay, settle down. My wife and I talked about this recently (we talk about family a lot), and I've come to the conclusion that she has more faith than I do. And, frankly, she has a right to her faith. Or should I say it comes from a true place. After all, despite my family's faltering, we've been re-establishing her family. To this point, then, we have been establishing our family. There's hope in there somewhere. I love that about her.

Brotherly Love

Let's go back to that horrid quotes page. I couldn't find anything I liked (or felt was particularly enlightening), but this will do. Besides, it's Twain so it's worth repeating!

"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years." – Mark Twain

This is not applicable to me or my brother. That is, my brother and I were united in our love for my father. There was a time (those seven years Twain mentions) when he was embarrassing as hell, but it was good-natured embarrassment. We accepted it, even relished it at times—as I am quite sure my father did. But there was never a loss of respect between us.

My father was a great man. Flawed, but great.

And see, that's where the trouble lies. Going back to Twain's comment, my brother always idolized my father. The tragedy was that for the better part of my brother's childhood, my father wasn't around much. When he was, he wasn't particularly loving and open. Both my brother and I understand that better now. The weight of work presses harder on a father than most sons are able to understand. We've both long since forgiven him for that.

But there's another running thread in our family that goes something like this: I was my father's favorite; my brother was my mother's favorite. My brother also thought, on his own, that they both loved me more than they did him.

I now know that the truth was, as my father got older, and settled down a bit himself, he recognized that it was important to be around more, to play a much more active part in our daily lives. Unfortunately for my brother, this happened a little too late. What my brother saw was a doting on me that he had not received.

There's also the bit about birth order. As the oldest, my brother has always assumed that he was a child of trial and error, where as I had the benefit of experienced parents.

I'll admit that there may be some truth in that. Except that, in some respects, I became the more independent sibling. As we got older, I became the more grounded, socially stable one (har har). There were times we played roles like a married couple. I was the wife who took care of him, and he was the free-to-be-an-idiot bread-winner.

But all of this makes some simple sense. What doesn't work, though, is the idolatry. As I got older, I began to see the fractures and age-worn lines in my parents' existence. It was still the best relationship I had encountered, but it was far from perfect.

I, as have ages before me, began to see my parents as people.

My brother has never made that realization. As such, my father has become an absent god to him. He pays his fealty through a misguided mimicry. The bottom line is that my brother both unconsciously and consciously has been trying to live his life like my father lived his.

This shouldn't be so shocking since this is the way of things, right? I mean, "A man knows when he is growing old because he begins to look like his father," says Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And here again, my brother and I do not differ all that much. I am sometimes shocked when my father's habits and mannerisms present themselves in my actions. Hell, this damn blog is probably akin to something he would have written many, many moons ago!

But it seems my brother is dead-set to repeat and not learn from my father's mistakes. Why? Is this some desperate attempt to further garner his attention, his approval?

Well, yes.

What was that about Hamlet and Oedipus again?!

Tying the disparate points of this post together, I'm inclined to think that the root of my brother's problems is that he suffers from the converse of the oedipal complex. I will, in my cultural-critic-not-psychologist way, admit that there is something to be said about the tensions inherent in child-parent relationships, especially in regards to competing for attention.

Where the classic complex is guided by a patricidal impulse mixed with mother love, my brother subconsciously battled a matricidal impulse while harboring father love. In my brother's mind, he was competing with my mother for his father's attention. I was there, too, but it was my mother he was in true competition with (since I was an afterthought). Where my mother was simply trying to play out her part in the traditional cycle of things, my brother rebelled into a state of self-consciousness and self-hatred. His matricidal impulse has manifested in subconscious woman-hating and conscious escapism.

With my father's death, my mother's presence is an affront and her presence is intolerable. He, of course, blames her for his death and she is a constant reminder of his absence. This smacks of the Electra complex. Only, his desire manifests in escaping not killing.

This is, of course, speculation which he would deny (and maybe rightly so). But it makes sense to me, at least as I try to understand his motives. The problem is that somewhere along the line my brother never made it to the next stage. The tell-tale signs are in his dogmatic insistence on denying, or at the least delaying, love and happiness.

Interestingly enough, I think this is part of the mimicry again: My father spent his entire life delaying his own satisfaction in order to privilege ours. Because my father was never able to truly realize his own happiness, my brother feels he must deny himself the same.

Wow. Okay, there's a lot of swirling around up there.

Let's try to salvage something here. I love my brother despite his faults. And I do believe (hope) that some catharsis will occur (or be sprung upon him!). Because all that stuff about matricide, blame, mimicking, dysfunction is really just that—stuff. I am sure that my father did not die an unhappy man. Did he go gently into that good night? Certainly not! But there was some peace. He did, after all, love us. And while he may have denied himself happiness and rest, he did take pride and comfort in the fruits of his labor.

His family was the most important thing to him and none of us can deny that.

So, in the end, I have to recant. We've lost our way a bit, mostly because our grieving at the loss of a mighty patriarch has not yet run its course.

But I have faith (there's that again, too) that all will be well and that our haven will be restored.

Roadkill

I.

The year after my father died was pretty rough. Rougher than I thought it would be. After the initial implausibility wore off, things returned to general sense of normalcy—except for occasional, unexpected emotional meltdowns. My mother was fond of saying “I have good days and bad days.” As time went on, she had more good than bad days—but there was no way she could predict when one of those bad days would hit. Anything could trigger it—from simply waking up in the morning, to a bit of phrasing, a smell, or a picture. After the trigger, there was no telling how long the period of, well, mourning would last. She would just have to ride those moments out.

For me, it was less debilitating. I would tell myself this was because he was my father, not my husband. I hadn’t spent all my time with him—not in the way she had. She knew him as a person, as a mate. To me, he was just my father. To her, he was something much more. As a married man now, I get that. Big time.

When I taught mythology in the classroom, I would rationalize it as part of my hero’s journey: I was bound to lose my father and take his place in the cycle. This is the natural order of things.

But I was not immune to suffering. I was not apathetic.

One morning, my wife and I were on our way to work when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught site of a car in front of me as it clipped a kitten. I watched in dazed disbelief as this tiny patch of white and gray fur tumbled away into the median. My first thought was not one I was necessarily proud of: I’d hoped that my wife hadn’t seen the same thing I’d seen. She’s not as callous as I am. I could brush it off and pretend it had only been a piece of trash kicked up by the speed of spinning tires.

This was not the case.

What ensued might very well have been one of the most intense exchanges in our short time together. She pleaded, with growing intensity and passion, to turn around and go back. Her hope was that we could have done something—that we could have saved the kitten.

As I’m sure you might guess, my thoughts continued to be less empathetic: I insisted that nothing could be done. I even tried to pass it off as not having happened.

I did not turn around.

My wife was inconsolable. She cried and pleaded with me.

Why didn't I turn around?

I was, well, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was. I only know that the pleading of my wife was causing me tremendous anxiety and chest pains. I couldn’t get a handle on my breathing. If I remember correctly, I repeated several times “You have to stop.”

By this point, we were more than halfway to work. In my confused state of mind, I got off at an exit about ten minutes from work. It was the exit for my wife's father’s business. Not sure what I was doing, I pulled into the parking lot in front of her father’s shop and lost it.

I mean all of it. I don’t remember what I said. I said lots of things—amidst the gurgle of salty tears and spit. Exactly what I said, I can’t remember, but the general tone of my rambling was “There was nothing we could have done.”

There was nothing we could have done.

I must have scared my wife because the next thing I remembered was sitting in the passenger seat.

She drove us back home.

II.

I guess it was about a year and a half later, I was traveling on that same stretch of road—not quite to the point where that first incident happened—alone. By this point, my wife and I were no longer working at the same place and I was making the commute by myself.

A similar incident occurred. This time, I saw more than I had the first time.

Up ahead, I saw a dog meandering in the median. He was sniffing and moving at a pretty good but erratic clip. At one point, he darted toward the road but cut back. In front of me was a red VW Beetle, the driver of which I had already surmised oblivious. Sure enough, the dog made a run for it and what I saw was deeply disturbing. Beetle’s have a surprisingly high profile and while I couldn’t see the initial impact, I did watch (I didn’t look away) as the poor beast got caught in the undercarriage and was pulled for longer than I would imagine even the dimmest driver would manage.

When the driver finally did stop, the dog climbed frantically to his feet, bolted across the next lane of traffic (nearly getting hit again), and spun up the hill in front of a clean new office complex. I say spun because he was clearly injured and disoriented. The dog traveled in an ever-spiraling motion—like a Yeatsian gyre.

This time I at least made an effort to right the wrong. I didn’t turn around, but I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. They patched me through to Animal Rescue and I was assured someone was on his/her way.

Animal Rescue was better equipped to handle the situation than I would be, right? I imagined trying to wrestle a deeply injured dog—possibly hostile—into my little Civic and driving in search of respite.

III.

In my life, I’ve only ever—as far as I am aware—been the perpetrator of two acts of animal/car violence. My badge of shame: a turtle. A new driver at sixteen, I was barreling down the highway in my father’s big white Chevy Silverado when I spotted something in the road. I hit it shortly after I concluded it was a turtle. It would not have moved had I swerved, but I did not swerve. Since then, I’ve saved at least five turtles from potential flattening (myself almost flattened in the process).

The other incident was a bird. In this case, it was simply unavoidable. It dive-bombed my windshield and, well, I’m not sure what happened after that.

IV.

Ever since the incident with the kitten, I’ve been paying more attention to the frequency of roadkill. I’ve always been amazed at the sheer volume of it. I consider myself to be an active, attentive driver (except for that one moment of hesitation at sixteen). How is it that so many people cannot see the animals that cross their paths? Possum and deer. Those make a bit more sense. At night, on the highway, a random deer collision can be very unpredictable, especially since deer are very quick.

But hitting a dog or cat in broad daylight? Had the driver of that Beetle not seen what I had?

Then there’s the allusion, the follow-up questions.

Have I been seeing more dead animals lately?
Are there more now because of suburban sprawl, new highways, and diminishing resources?
Are drivers less attentive because of cell phones?

And the thought that keeps popping into my head every time I spot another carcass:

Are we all just roadkill?

Senseless violence. Inattentiveness. Apathy. More, more, more of everything.

I might ruin the implied purpose of my earlier prose, but my father’s death was not purposed.

There was nothing we could have done. Caught it sooner? Tried harder? We spent those months leading up to his death much like voyeurs of a horrible accident. We wanted to blame the doctors, the environment, corporate America, even ourselves. We wanted to stop time and pull him from the car before the crash.

Clearly, nothing could be done.

In a sense, the senselessness is easier to deal with when couched in clever analogies, allusions and metaphors. Mufasa holding Simba up to the cheering mass of jungle animals is heartwarming, refreshing because of its truth. The circle of life and all that jazz. I get that. Sitting here, with the comfort of my prose, I can write connecting lines from innocent beasts caught in car grills to the most tragic event of my life and be okay with it all.

But sometimes I have bad days.

They’re mostly good, though. I’m thankful for that.

Comedia Del Farte: Reflections on Born Standing Up

I don't remember what year it was, only that I was an early teen. For a short stretch of years my family was regularly engaged in the operations of a church in my hometown and, despite my father's deep distrust of organized religion, we found ourselves trekking up to "Presbyterian Point" at the lake. We would spend a handful of days boating and swimming—and even, gasp, sitting around the fire singing "Kumbaya."

The year in question, we got a copy of George Carlin's Carlin on Campus LP, and I painstakingly transferred it to cassette tape so we could listen to it in the car on the way up to the lake.

Wait a minute. I also distinctly remember bringing my copy of Def Leppard's Hysteria. That means we're talking 1987-88.

So, there we were—my father at the tiller, mom in the passenger seat, fluctuating between yelling at my father for driving too fast and nodding off, me and my brother in the back seat.

Carlin brought us all together. We merrily listened to the "Incomplete List of Impolite Words" and laughed our asses off. Need I remind you that this was a family moment? Teenage boys, mom and pop, listening to tit and fart jokes. My family was not typical.

Or so I thought.

The Entertainment Weekly review for Steve Martin's Born Standing Up intrigued me and, in a post-holiday shopping trip—to Best Buy of all places—I picked up a copy. I just finished it (it's an unassuming, slender volume) and I'm really glad I had a chance to read it.

Where these two thoughts intersect: Martin opens the third chapter of his book with a comment about his family traveling back and forth between Los Angeles and Texas. "On these road trips," Martin writes, "I was introduced to comedy." True, Steve Martin's family listening to Amos and Andy is a far cry from my family listening to George Carlin, but there's a chord of deep resonance here. While my family was far from perfect, we all knew how to laugh. And while my father had little use for television or movies, when he got a hold of something he truly thought funny, his laughter could wake the neighbors.

It's no coincidence, then, that my brother and I can, with our inappropriate laughter, ruin movies for strangers. I'll add that I have also had the great fortune to find like-minded compatriots who are also artists of laughter. I still feel bad for the poor people who had to watch There's Something About Mary with me and my brother. Or the poor rednecks who sat in front of me and my friend Michael for Happy Gilmore. They kept turning around with looks that might make Don Rickles pause. Or even those in the theatre when, after three hours of special effects overload, the (arguably) most emotional scene of Peter Jackson's King Kong was defused by my friend Dana's roaring laughter.

Reading Martin's book reminded me that one of my first loves—as a burgeoning beast of a boy—was comedy. That trip brought George Carlin into my life. I spent the next few years memorizing most of Carlin's albums—from What Am I Doing In New Jersey? to Playin' With Your Head. The family even got to see him live at the War Memorial Auditorium in Greensboro (I've seen him live four times). My good friend Jeff Williams and I would trade cassettes on road trips with the Boy Scouts, later reciting the bits to each other to gales of knowing laughter.

Carlin was my gateway drug into real comedy. I have to admit, though, that I was a product of the eighties and wasn't entirely industrious or thorough in my pursuit of new, old, or relevant comedians. Like all guys my age, I laughed my ass off to Eddie Murphy's Delirious and Raw. And I have fond memories of gathering around the telly for Monty Python marathons. (I am most disappointed in my inability to mimic a British accent.)

And I can't forget SNL. My heart still aches for the loss of Phil Hartman.

But I also must admit to laughing at Gallagher and Tim Allen. Even now, too, I must shamefully confess that I know of Lenny Bruce but haven't ever actually listened to Bruce. And while my mother liked Cosby, and tolerated Murphy, she did not like Richard Pryor—and refused to let us watch or listen to him. Must have had something to do with all those references to mothers…

There again, reading Martin's book reminds me of how little I know about the history of stand-up, of performance comedy—of the influences of my influences. Such is the way of things I guess. My obsession with Carlin left little room for history lessons. I may rectify that now…

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What I really appreciate about Born Standing Up is the honesty with which Martin recounts his decades worth of struggling (and his self-consciously cursory, anti-climactic description of his "success"; he mentions Sisyphus at one point, and that one mention colors everything before and after it—it's all about the journey and the process, not the end result). In that struggling is an acceptance of his short-comings. He does not consider himself a genius. He admits to being simply a man with a passion for comedy and performance, and a determination to do something original.

I mention all of this because I find doubt and self-consciousness my constant career companions. I know what I should be doing. I know what it should take. But it's not that easy—and there's a hollowness to the notion of "overnight success." What Martin's book reminds me of is the "work" in artwork.

That word is a pisser. Work. Martin clearly worked to attain his success. And what his book makes clear is that his work didn't necessarily pay off in the traditional sense. There is a tenuousness to his success. At any moment, he could have either given up, or missed the boat.

What it ultimately boils down: Persistence and passion. Or is it passion and persistence?

In the book, Martin talks about the countless ultimatums he gave himself, most notably his decision to quit if he didn't "make it" before his thirties. He did eventually get his break (or what he allowed himself to believe was his break). That moment, that "big break," was just enough to allow himself to continue. That break, though, wasn't exactly a breakthrough. It was simply a mile marker—one that signaled he'd gone past the halfway point so he might as well continue. It was enough of an affirmation of his persistence to keep him going. It was, if you will, that moment that Camus talks about. That moment at the top of the hill when Sisyphus pauses to look back before starting his task over again. "One must imagine Sisyphus happy," Camus writes.

One must imagine Steve happy.

One cannot do that, however, if there isn't some passion in the agency. And some genius, for that matter. See, I guess this is where I'm going with this. (The point most resonant in Martin's book.) Our country has managed to sell enough of its own myths to create a culture of shoulda-coulda-woulda's. As Tyler Durden says in Fight Club, we all want to be famous. But this is just the modern dilemma, the postmodern iteration of the American Dream. And, without resorting to name calling, this is the capitalist's dream. Keep the masses convinced that the odds are better than they are and, thereby, maintain a buying public.

This is the genius of American Idol. Tens of thousands of people turn out for a chance, a lottery ticket of fame. Yes, there's talent in these masses. Yes, there's determination (in spades) in these masses. But the two aren't guarantees. And it's clear, after how many seasons?, that there's not a secret formula, no perfect blend of talent and determination—and a little trumped up drama—to guarantee success. How many Idol hopefuls have been dropped from labels, dropped from the public eye? Really, who cares?

But the circus has come around again, and we've all bought our tickets. That's the genius.

What does any of this have to do with Steve Martin? Well, the man worked hard. The man was determined. And the man had (has) talent. But that wasn't enough. The planets had to align just the right way—just in time for all those other things to coalesce—in order for him to get noticed.

This notion should terrify anyone who seeks the life of an artist. And I mean terrify in the best possible sense! This is the crux of all human existence (except for poppin' out babies, of course): Life is meaningless. By which I mean it has no inherent value. Life only has meaning if we give it meaning, or find our own meaning in it. When the world falls apart around us, our only solace can be found within (this is where we might find god; not from without but from within). External reality is a book unread. Useless without a mind to open it.

And so, in the face of our own lives (success, failure, reprieve), we have to allow for a seeming contradiction: we have no control over our external reality; we have complete control over our perception of our reality.

Bottom line: We cannot expect the world to reward us for simply being who we are. Rather, we must constantly re-evaluate our lives and be guided by our passions—hoping all the while that we can find affirmation in ourselves.

Barring that, you can always trust a fart joke.

Best Albums of 2007

THE USUAL SUSPECTS

Let me start by saying that I've decided to never utter "This year was a disappointment," in regards to music, ever again. Not that this year (or any other year) was not rife with musical disappointments but, as I get older, that phrase just sounds whiny. Life might as well be a disappointment if I can no longer find things right in it. Since I choose not to see the world only as a grand failure (or at least the human part of it), I must simply accept the changes of middle age and move onward and upward.

This year had an interesting mix: some oldies put out solid but underwhelming products; some newbies rocked into heavy rotation. Casting a backward glance at past year end lists, I see patterns. Eric Bachmann (whether alone or as Crooked Fingers), The Decemberists, Tom Waits, and others have made my lists multiple years in a row. Hell, Crooked Fingers took top honors twice. And what about Ben Gibbard? He made the same list twice (Death Cab and Postal Service).

None of these artists are on this year's list. And while there are some repeat placers (Band of Horses, Wilco, Modest Mouse), top honors and big surprises go to new artists.

REITERATION OF THE PROCESS

This list is by no means a complete list—at least as true music critics and/or fanatics would have it. I cannot keep up with the sheer output of the world's artists. The best I can do is wait around for the usual suspects to put out new things, and lurk on Pitchfork, skimming reviews for highly rated albums and give some of them a try. In this respect, emusic.com needs to take some credit for my listening habits (and choices): If something new pops up on Pitchfork, and emusic has it, I will listen and download. Two of this year's top ten finishers came to me this way.

Other almost-rans (honorable mentions) might have made the top ten had they not gotten lost in the volume of downloads. Here again, my age shows. I can't get to it all—even the ones that I choose to download. I have my emusic subscription (65 downloads a month) and I can't keep up! Oh well.

So, with this in mind, I set forth the usual criteria: The albums on this list are ones that stuck. I either wore them out in the car, or I shuffled through them on the computer at work. All of the albums have tracks that made it to mixes.

And, like previous years, the albums that seemed to not only have kept my attention, but helped define the year as a whole, placed highest. In fact, if you were to chop all the other useless nonsense here (especially my long-winded prose), take the top three albums on my list and you've got an accurate summation of 2007.

Get on with it…

10. Interpol – Our Love To Admire

I'll admit, I don't particularly care for Interpol. I borrowed my good friend Brian Candler's copy of Turn On The Bright Lights and couldn't get into it. Yeah, it's good. But I don't own it—and probably never will. When Antics came out, I bought it. I listened to it. I kind of liked it. I think I even included it in my mentions (or did it make the top ten?! I can't remember!) for that year. And, like several of the other artists on this list, I caught them performing on Letterman. They were not good. I don't think I even made it through the entire performance before stopping the DVR.

When Our Love To Admire came out, I didn't rush to purchase it. In fact, when I did buy it, I did so because I just felt like buying something (o you American fool!). For all the "one-trick-ponyness" of this band, I really like this album. There is a quality on this one that I think the others lack: maturity.

As a happily married man, I have serious problems with the lyrics of "No I In Threesome." But it is my absolute favorite track on the album. And, interestingly enough, I find the best tracks on this album ("Pioneer To The Falls") are thematically reminiscent of the overall tone of Neon Bible. There's a sadness here…

9. Spoon – Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

Why isn't this higher? Why am I just now listening to Spoon? When it comes to "discovering" new music, one has to either spend considerable energies tracking down everything all the time, or one simply accepts that some things will go unlistened, undiscovered.

Luckily, I caught Spoon on Letterman. They performed "Underdog" and I was immediately hooked. I went out the next day (well, maybe not) and bought the disc. The strength of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is found in "Don't Make Me a Target," "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb," and "Underdog." It would be higher on the list, though, if for a few tracks that disrupt the overall package: "The Ghost of You Lingers" deflates the tense energy drummed up by "Don't Make Me a Target." The same could be said for "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case." There again, the album is buoyed back up when one considers the strength of all the lyrics. "Target" and "Underdog" are both in the running for best damn song of the year.

8. The Shins – Wincing The Night Away

Earlier this year, I woke up at two a.m. to the sound of knocking. Looking out of our second story windows, I saw a convertible Sebring crumpled up against my poor little Civic. This incident marks my relationship with Wincing The Night Away. I know this because I spent the weeks following the accident driving a brand new Dodge Charger (oh, how I loved that car… against my better judgment, of course!). The only cd that I had in the Charger for the two weeks I drove it was Wincing The Night Away.

Now, let me add that my "memory" (or recounting of it) is a bit fuzzy. I'd had the album for almost a month before the Charger entered the picture. I'd listened to it a few times and was less than enamored of it. It also didn't help that the cd wound up in my wife's car.

The result? Where I had, for the most part, moved on, dismissed it, Mandy had been slowly falling in love with it. When I realized this, I wanted it back. Enter the Charger. And so, Wincing The Night Away fits some of the crucial criteria: It represents a piece of 2007. It spent a good bit of time in heavy rotation. And it is, more or less, a solid album.

It doesn't, however, place higher on the list because it's not Oh, Inverted World. That sounds bad, especially since Chutes Too Narrow falls between the two. But I have to say, I love The Shins. I've seen them live twice and they did not disappoint. And yet… what is clearly good music has a habit of not sticking. That is, I would liken both Chutes and Wincing to a good sugar rush. In the moment, they're exactly what I crave but, a few hours later, I've forgotten about the rush and find myself snacking on something else.

"Sleeping Lessons," "Australia," and "Phantom Limb" are, regardless of my not-so-kind words most excellent songs. Yeah, it's a good album.

7. Andrew Bird – Armchair Apocrypha

Okay, this one's higher on the list than maybe it deserves (based on my criteria). I usually include one like it every year: A great album that I didn't really listen to as much as some of the others. What can I say? Despite the failings of old standby's (Wilco and The Shins), I listened to them more than I did this little gem.

"Fiery Crash" made it on to almost every mix I made this year. "Scythian Empires" is a morsel of orchestrated beauty. And, come on, the last track merits mentioning by title alone: "Yawn at the Apocalypse." All in all, this is a solid, cohesive album. And, I have to admit that Armchair makes the top ten because of my egregious overlooking of Micah P. Hinson's Micah P. Hinson and the Opera Circuit last year.

6. Iron & Wine – The Shepherd's Dog

Brian has been (not so) subtly pushing Iron & Wine on me for years. I downloaded the Woman King – Ep because of Brian. I purchased the Calexico and Iron & Wine Ep, In The Reins, because of Brian. I downloaded "The Trapeze Artist" at Brian's urging.

But…

No one can dispute the artistry of Sam Beam's music. Like Sufjan Stevens, he's carefully crafted a unique sound and he's dogmatically stuck by it. It might be that devotion that's kept Iron & Wine out of my top ten (until now).

There. Do you hear it? There's an armchair critic shouting from the bleachers "It all sounds the same!" And it does. But is that a bad thing? There is no doubt in my mind that an Iron & Wine song should be included on any and all mixes.

But can that sound be sustained for an entire album without straining one's patience? The answer for me now is, yes. The Shepherd's Dog is brilliant. On this album, if one listens closely, one can hear a multitude of subtle textures and finally realize, no, it does not all sound the same. Beam's voice and the hushed mixing of his songs disguise—for the initiate—a wealth of beauty beneath.

In the face of this estimation, why isn't this album higher on the list? Well, here again, like Sufjan, one can only take so much. Driving back from D.C. several weeks ago, I was starting to fade. I couldn't find the right thing to listen to to keep me awake. I popped Shepherd's Dog into the player, but after one song, I had to move to something else (that something else wound up being my number one pick for this year…). In this way, I will liken Shepherd's Dog to a Jim Jarmusch film. You've got to be fully awake and fully attentive to really appreciate it.

5. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky

In my head note, I mentioned the idea that most of my lists for the past five years have been collections of the same artists, their positions only slightly shuffled. There's something to be said about a band (or artist) that can consistently produce worthwhile music. One hit wonders are fine for blips and bops; give me a band that I can grow old with. Wilco is one of those. I will buy anything they put out. As such, everything they put out is good. Music critics (and even a significant portion of Wilco fans) will be quick to point out that Yankee Hotel Foxtrot represents the pinnacle, that everything since has been consistent but not necessarily genius. Take this excerpt from Rob Mitchum's review of Sky Blue Sky, for instance, "An album of unapologetic straightforwardness, Sky Blue Sky nakedly exposes the dad-rock gene Wilco has always carried but courageously attempted to disguise. Never has the band sounded more passive, from the direct and domestic nature of Tweedy's lyrics, to the soft-rock-plus-solos format (already hinted at on Ghost's "At Least That's What You Said" and "Hell Is Chrome") that most of its songs adhere to."

But… in a year where some of the best music was not so straightforward, the "dad-rock" of Sky Blue Sky was comforting. Yeah, many of the tracks descend into guitar masturbation, but masturbation isn't always a bad thing… I guess I'm at "dad" age and so I like this album. I will add that I liked it immediately (even as I noted its flaws) and, as such, stepped away from it pretty quickly. Coming back to it (even before I started thinking about my list), I remembered how instantly likable it is. This is not to say that it gets better with age (theme of the list this year: age), but that it is something worth coming back to.

4. Modest Mouse – We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank

Like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, this album would be higher on the list if not for its flaws. Unlike Spoon, though, those "flaws" could be with me and not the album. Bottom line: I’m an old fart who can't sustain—er, for the entire album. The sequencing is spot on. It comes on strong. The first track is reminiscent of the carnivalesque that so intrigued me on Good News. The lead in energy of "March Into The Sea" is ramped up with "Dashboard." Think of a car approaching the red line—when that pedal goes down even further, you cross over the line. Scary and exhilarating.

One cannot sustain that kind of energy for long, so "Fire It Up" pulls us back down. Then we're back up again. Then down again. And then… the best song of the year: "Missed the Boat." Where Neon Bible stretches the collective mood of the world over an entire album (more on that further up the list), this song brilliantly sums up the current state of the union. There's even that subtle push of James Mercer singing backup on the chorus. There are several classic Isaac Brock moments ("that good God dam"; "shake shake shake") and in the end we feel better, even though we've "truly missed the boat."

And then… What can I say? At track six I've gotten everything out of the album I need. The strengths of the best tracks on this album strangle out the others.

Or I'm just too damn old to keep listening…

THE TOP THREE

In many respects, the top three albums on my list have nothing in common. The lullaby gone wrong darkness of Neon Bible is the antithesis of the sweet ditties that populate Cease To Begin. The southern-tinged rock of Cease to Begin is geographically removed from the almost (and I use this reference sparingly) eighties pop gloss of The Boxer.

3. Band of Horses – Cease To Begin

When "Is There A Ghost" showed up on Band of Horses's Myspace page, I added it to my profile. Yeah, it's good. And, echoing back to Wilco, Band of Horses is good for what ails this old man.

That's a substantial part of what this album means to me: For all the other music and mayhem in my life, Band of Horses is a solid bit of nostalgia. Their tunes are reminiscent of the good, honest rock and roll of my youth. Where Wilco's masturbatory guitar work is pleasing to my ears, Band of Horses reminds me of why the electric guitar is quite possibly the greatest of all human inventions.

Band of Horses strips all irony from the phrase, "Rock on, dude."

And that's not all. There's a sweetness to Cease To Begin that's missing from the two other albums in my top three. "No One's Gonna Love You" is an honest love song that manages to transcend indie rock irony to a place of pure authenticity.

My only real complaint is one of gentle passing: I would have liked a few more rockers. The crescendo of "Is There A Ghost" starts the album off nicely, and that build pays off in "Ode to LRC," my absolute favorite track from the album. In fact, the line "The world is such a wonderful place," when delivered, is the one of the most authentic affirmations of existence I've heard in a good long while. It's an interesting counterpoint to the gloom of Neon Bible (more on that below).

"No One's Gonna Love You" turns it down nicely. From there, though, the album only really turns back up for "Islands On The Coast." "The General Specific" has a nice rollicking gate, but it doesn't rock. "Cigarettes, Wedding Bands" rocks, but lacks the energy of "Ode to LRC" and "Is There A Ghost."

In the end, though, Cease To Begin clearly belongs in the top three.

2. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

When this album came out earlier this year, I had immediate mixed feelings. I was excited and looking forward to its release. There was a cloud of mystery and intrigue. Websites were put up. Myspace pages had leaked songs under fake band names. Arcade Fire tested the waters, using a Web 2.0 strategy to shape and mould its newest release.

New release? Funeral was released in 2004. Neon Bible, then, was three years in gestating, or at least there was a pause, a build up, maybe even a strategy.

Then it was here. I ordered it through Amazon.com and got the limited edition with all the extra junk. (At present, because the cd itself is in a non-descript plastic sleeve, I can't find it.)

I popped the disc in and… disco.

No, wait a minute.

"Black Mirror" opens the album and sets an ominous tone. The mix is a kind of sonic storm cloud swirl. Win Butler's voice slips in with lyrics to reflect the tone: "I walked down to the ocean / after waking from a nightmare / no moon no pale reflection…" The song builds ever so slightly to the first chorus, ever swirling, ever winding up until shots ring out—in French—and then cue strings.

Then we cut to "Keep the Car Running," an up-tempo, guitar and mandolin fronted swing. The tone is carried forward by the lyrics, but the airy arrangement contrasts in a compelling way. Much like other songs mentioned on this list, this one has made many mixes—especially the ones I've designed for running (har)!

With these first two tracks, the album's overall effect is established. Good songs that you might find on pop radio (if not for their biting lyrics) mixed with tonal oddities and darker instrumentation.

Earlier, I mentioned being disappointed by Interpol's performance on Letterman. Well, I was fortunate to catch (in high definition, no less) Arcade Fire's Austin City Limits performance. Every shaking bit of that performance is a revelation. What these guys (and girls) are doing is not only unique but enlightening. Hard working evangelists. Every bit of that Austin City Limits performance smacks of church revival. This poor soul has been saved.

Highlights from the album: The organ driven "Intervention." The heartbreaking gallop of "(Antichrist Television Blues)."

In the end, it may not be the best album of the year, but it resonates with (or actually sets) the tone of the year. We are on the cusp of apocalypse and the Arcade Fire will march us right into it, hurdy-gurdy and all…

1. The National – The Boxer

Okay, to steal a phrase from Pitchfork, this one's a "grower." I'd read about it. I'd listened to bits on emusic and decided to give it a try. And, at first, it looked like this album was going to go the way of so many of my other emusic downloads.

Then something magical happened. I found myself running bits of "Fake Empire" over and over again in my head. I went back to the album and fell in love. Of all the albums on my list this year, this one probably got the most play. It was there for me as I navigated the wedding season ("Apartment Story"'s "I getting tied / I'm forgetting why" a connecting line). It was there for me when I was driving back from Asheville with a horrible hangover after seeing The Smashing Pumpkins (thanks, Brian).

In many ways, The Boxer filled the Eric Bachmann void for me this year. Not sure that connection holds water (lyrics and vocals), but when I needed something that was not satisfied by the darkness of Neon Bible, or the honesty of Cease To Begin, I turned to The Boxer.

The rhythm section is out front, driving most of the tracks with an urgency ("Brainy"). I mentioned earlier that the album has an "eighties" quality. This could be a result of the fact that the album doesn't rely on guitar (what was I just saying about guitar?!), but on a kind of polished, almost synth-flecked tone. Don't mistake me. Rather, I might suggest that The Boxer encapsulates all the best qualities of eighties music and repackages them with a new-millennium sensibility. In the cracks, I hear the best qualities of The Cure and U2.

Anyway, where many of the albums on this list have a stellar track or two, this album rarely hits a sour note. At the top, though, are "Fake Empire," "Squalor Victoria," "Slow Show," and "Apartment Story."

Yeah, this is number one for the year.

Honorable Mentions and Other Awards

The "Mandy Gets Credit For This One" Award

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova – Once (Music from the Motion Picture)

Okay, let me fess up about this one. I had it in my top ten. Number six, to be exact. However, in chiseling down my list, I was one album over the even ten. The more I thought about it, the more I figured I could pull this one out of the top ten and give it its own category, its own mention. The wife may still kill me for not putting it in the top ten…

Hands down, this is a great album.

It's a complete package (a little sweetness, a little bitterness, a little house party acoustic jam, a little electronica), and it has that "albumness" that is so hard to find in this our single-download-driven ipodia.

But it is, afterall, a soundtrack. Its existence is tied to the film. It also contains songs that were previously released (in slightly different versions) on last year's The Swell Season. In the end, if you question my sincerity (and reasoning), then check out my review of the show Mandy and I saw in D.C. (A Swell Show: The Swell Season at the Lincoln Theatre).

Honorable Mentions

Steve Earle – Washington Square Serenade

Check out "City of Immigrants" and "Oxycontin Blues."

Ted Leo & The Pharmicists – Living With The Living

Hardest working man in rock? "Sons of Cain" and "Who Do You Love?" are highlights for me.

That Great Song I didn't Write Award

Feist – "1234"

Man, I saw her perform this song on Letterman and it was great. There in the background, too, was a "who's who" of indie rock (the guys from The National, Mates of State, some of The New Pornographers, to name a few). Went out and bought the album. Eh. Then I come to find out that the catchy tune that brought me to the album was written by someone else. Aw, nuts.

Good But Not Great

Bruce Springsteen – Magic

Bright Eyes - Cassadaga

They Might Be Giants – The Else

Ryan Adams – Easy Tiger

Beirut – The Flying Club Cup

New Pornographers - Challengers

Just Couldn't Get There

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – Some Loud Thunder

I really did try to like this one. But there was something that turned me off. Not sure what it was. Maybe it was the production?

emusic Overlooks

White Rabbits – Fort Nightly

The Broken West – I Can't Go On I'll Go On

Works of Heartbreaking Disappointment

matt pond PA – Last Light

This one really hurt. Pond writes some great tunes, but this one…

Bloc Party – A Weekend In The City

Okay, so maybe I wasn't heartbroken, but I have no idea where this one was coming from. Maybe you have to be British… Or like Brett Easton Ellis…

The Fiery Furnaces Award

Of Montreal – Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?

It never fails. Damn you Pitchfork!

Missed The Boat Completely

Rogue Wave – Asleep At Heaven's Gate

I haven't read all of Brian's comments yet, but I did a quick once-over of his list—just to make sure I didn't forget anything. Lo and behold! I completely missed this one! I remember seeing on the upcoming releases, but… damn, I need to get this one.

Saving for 2008 even though it's downloadable now

Radiohead – In Rainbows

I was going to start this whole thing by saying something like "This should be number one, but I’m going to wait for an 'official' release." I haven't listened to it yet, and as much as I've succumbed to the download, I want this one to be a hard copy purchase. So, look for its appearance next year.

Until then…

A Swell Show: The Swell Season at the Lincoln Theatre

First, let me apologize: I've been meaning to post for quite some time, but haven't.

The wife and I drove up to D.C. a few weeks ago to see The Swell Season. Months prior, we went with some friends to see Waitress (see my blog here: My Name Is Not Earl) and caught the trailer for Once. That small bit was so addictive that Mandy bought the soundtrack and put it into heavy rotation. We vowed to see the film if/when it came anywhere near us. Sure enough, long after it opened other places, it came to Greensboro. We went. I think we were the only ones in the theatre.

Suffice to say, the film is excellent. Thematically, it doesn't stray too far into the wild—it's a classic story. Two people meet, kind of fall in love, and then go their separate ways—much like Before Sunrise. What makes Once so damn engaging, though, is the music. The music is so integral to the story that I would make the case that it is the true protagonist of the film. We root as much for the music as we do for Glen and Marketa (not actually named in the film). The music has to find an audience—and it does, through the help of honest lovers (and I don't just mean Glen and Marketa; everyone who hears the music becomes an agent of its creation).

But that's the movie. As it turns out, Glen Hansard (front man for the Frames) and Marketa Irglova made an album prior to making Once. That album, titled The Swell Season, inspired the film (a blend of fact and fiction) and many of the tracks from the original album made it to the film. Through the wonders of Myspace, Mandy connected to The Swell Season's site—and found out that Glen and Marketa were touring. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the closest they were going to come to Greensboro was D.C. Having spent our anniversary in D.C. last May, we both thought it best to try for the D.C. show.

I got tickets and reserved a room at the AppHouse (benefits of being an alumnus!).

It's not an exaggeration to say that the show is in my current top five best shows.

Let me back up and give a few details:

1. The AppHouse is a $1.35 Metro ride from the Lincoln Theatre.
2. Having spent the previous night out late (well, late for us) with my Aunt Bebe, we decided to sleep in. By the time we had lunch it was about 1pm.
3. Late lunch and residual sickness (I was afraid we wouldn't even make it to the show because Mandy had been sick all week) led to a nap before the show.
4. The idea was to make the trip down to the theatre a couple hours before the show, find some place to eat, and then go to the show.
5. We found out (internet) that there is an Ethiopian restaurant across the street from the theatre. That was going to be our destination.
6. We emerged from the Metro at about 6pm.
7. There was already a line outside the theatre.
8. The reason a line mattered: Tickets were general admission. And unlike some other general admission shows, the theatre has seats. Those at the front of the line had first pick (free for all, actually).
9. Luckily (or unluckily), there was a Quizno's by the station.
10. I horked down a meatball sub in less than five minutes (during which we lost probably about ten spots in the line), and we bolted across the street.
11. It was cold.
12. They opened the doors right at 7pm.
13. Our waiting paid off.
14. And now I'll stop with the numbering…

While we didn't get front row center, we got front row to the right side of the stage (stage left). Unless we had gotten to the theatre before six, there's no way we could have gotten any better seats.

The semi-bad news: We weren't sure if there would be an opening act. Since we were dependent upon the Metro, we kind of hoped there wouldn't be an opening act.

There was an opening act: Martha Wainwright.

She wasn't bad, but… Opening acts are always a question mark. My friend Brian Candler and I have had long conversations about the function of the opening act. Does the opening act intentionally suck in order to prime the audience for the main act? Does the promoter pick like-minded artists to better package the experience? Does the club shuffle in local bands to fill the void? Does the main act pick the opener in an effort to get some friends heard? More often than not, many openers fall short of being really good. Granted, I have gone just to see opening acts (I went to see Eric Bachmann, not the Delgados), and I've been turned on to a few of them (Mates of State, The Standard), but for the most part…

Martha Wainwright falls into (I think) the like-minded category. She was a one woman show. Acoustic guitar and soft/loud arrangements. I will say two things (positives): she can play a mean guitar and she is definitely intense. Beyond that? I often have this thought while listening to opening acts: "I think I really like this… no, wait. I think I’m being taken advantage of. This isn't as good as I think it is…" With Martha, I kept swinging back and forth between really liking her and hoping she would just finish. I think she was just a little too intense for her own good. Intensity without honesty? Was she simply trying too hard? Or was I missing something? Mandy admitted (the next day in the car on the way home) that she decided she didn't like her. I'm still on the fence.

Okay, so off went Martha (she would later come out during the encore to join Glen and Marketa). There was the usual waiting period between the two acts. And then…

What confusion I had about Martha's sincerity cleared out of me with the first chord struck on Glen's worn out Takamine. We really couldn't have asked for better seats. The sound mix was excellent, and the cloud of incense smoke rising from behind the musicians was intoxicating. I read review elsewhere that said there was more than incense in the air up in the balcony…

Highlights from the show: Glen's haunting and full, open, bleeding heart on "Leave"; Glen's growl and swagger through Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks"; everything that put Marketa upfront; the sweet "Star, Star"; the rollicking cover of "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere."

Let me say a bit about those Glen moments. One of the things that he's clearly good at is the crescendo—from soft and plaintive to full-on, guitar shredding and scream-singing. This was best felt on his solo rendition of "Leave." Glen clearly knows the pain of lost love—the agony of still loving someone who no longer loves you. I don't think I've ever heard a song that so captures that mixture of borderline despair and hopeless yearning.

Interestingly enough, what further endeared me to Glen was his stage banter. As I get older, I become increasingly attracted to the storytelling inherent in music. I long to hear, too, that the people whose music I so respect can back it up with solid, honest wit and wisdom. It was listening to 70's Tom Waits bootlegs that really got me hooked on stage patter. Waits was a storyteller, and his stage banter was never just "Thank you" and "This is off my first album." He carefully rehearsed his bits like a comedian. From bootleg to bootleg you can hear subtle variations and additions—a honing of the storytelling craft.

While I don't think Glen rehearses his bits, he is obviously comfortable on stage, and has something to say. In D.C., he waxed philosophic about beer at one point, coming close to my ruminations in Belly Up, Pint Down. Mandy turned to me at that point, shook her head and half rolled her eyes. But here again, Glen's banter (and by extension, Marketa's) illustrated that key point: What makes the music so good is honest storytelling.

A good summation of this point comes with "Star, Star." You can listen to a performance of "Star, Star" on NPR's World Café Next (Click here). It's a sweet Frames number but, in the middle, it veers into "Pure Imagination" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Glen recites a phrase from the movie ("It's all yours Charlie. The whole chocolate factory. I'm giving it to you. You've won.") and everything falls into place. This sentiment encapsulates the transcendence that comes at the end of a really good story. Having made the journey (sat and watched/listened) you've grown with the artist. The argument of Willy Wonka is that the audience is Charlie. We've won. Otherwise, we're down in the bowels of the factory getting the blueberry juice squeezed out of us…

With "Star, Star," Glen brought the audience to that point and gave us the chocolate factory.

Then there's the honest musicianship. Until Glen said he was going to play a Van Morrison song, I hadn't really pondered the connection. Best Irish songwriter, Glen said, and I thought, "Perfect." Then he launched, on his own, into "Astral Weeks." Oh man, was it good. A few bars into the song, he down-tuned without missing a beat and I could feel the tune sink deeper into my gut. Anyone who can do that, well…

That was the point in the show where I crossed over. "Astral Weeks" brought me through to the other side.

Years ago, I came to a realization about skiing: All the trouble that went into getting to the mountain. All the time spent putting on gear and riding ski lifts. All the money, effort, and time expended always outweighed the actual time spent skiing. But it was all worth it for that one run. That one perfect run where everything came together and clicked. Nothing else mattered before or after that one run. That's how I felt about Glen's version of "Astral Weeks."

On to Marketa…

There's something quite mesmerizing about a tiny woman with a big, beat up guitar, performing beautiful tunes like an old pro. When she sat down for one number (one of the best of the evening), the stage manager (who joined in on electric guitar for the Bob Dylan cover) came out to re-adjust the mic stand with little success. She kept playing and singing un-phased—and yeah, great stuff.

The best performance from Marketa was her rendition of "All The Way Down," a song that Glen sings on the Once soundtrack. It was far more haunting to hear Marketa sing "You have broken me all the way down." What would have otherwise fallen in line with Glen's "Leave" thematically, took on overtones of domestic abuse. Haunting, indeed, and sublime.

Wait. Don't mistake that. I've often been transfixed amidst the connotations of "sublime." Terrible beauty. Beauty in the face of horror. Tragedy best at its worst. I am certainly not condoning domestic abuse—but the warmth that Marketa's voice brought to the song doubled the tragedy—and deepened the song for me. While Glen brought me through to the other side with "Astral Weeks," Marketa took me to another place—one no less moving (is there a contradiction here? o well).

And that's where I'm headed with this. Ultimately, what made this show so damn good was that it had a little bit of everything. From whimsy (a song about a dog), to heartbreak ("Leave"), to the sublime ("All the way down"), to glimmers of hope ("Falling Slowly"), to musical revelation ("Astral Weeks"), to good old swingin' ditties (Michelle Shocked's "Fog Town" and Dylan's ""You Ain't Goin' Nowhere"). We got the complete package. I can think of few other better ways to spend an evening.

Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" was the show capper. And it was a perfect end note. I've downloaded the track from the I’m Not There soundtrack, and while it doesn't have the same immediacy of the live performance, it's a good indicator of the show's energy.

Anyway, that's about all I have to say about that…