I Have a Secret Heart

Feist

C’mon, secret heart, tell her how you feel.
I love this song. Feist makes me want to fall backward onto my bed and hug a pillow and Ron Sexsmith is an awesome songwriter. Elvis Costello says so.

Not That Tambourine Man

Last night, I took the boys to Tae Kwon Do and we went for pizza afterwards. Sitting in the pizzeria downtown, we sat and talked about their day. During a lull, when Miles and Jack were chewing and the large group at the next table had cleared out, I noticed that Miles and I were both nodding our heads to the same beat coming through the speakers over our heads.

I smiled, “Oh, this is a gooood song!” My shoulders, torso and neck moved on their own, jerking around with the music. I picked up an imaginary tambourine and started playing.

Miles promptly tossed his crust onto the plate and did the Egyptian.

Look! Scary Gary Numan!

Eat Cake.

For the third anniversary of Madeline in the Mirror I’ll be giving you some of my favorite things.

First up, Cake‘s Short Skirt, Long Jacket, one of my favorite songs. As Miles points out, there’s no real “singing” in the “song.” Doesn’t matter. Listen to the MP3 here.

I’ve been dancing around my house to these guys since, well, since roughly 1996. But this morning I had a serious Cake itch to scratch. The bass, the horns and the cabasa (THE CABASA!) are awesome, but dig the lyrics:

I want a girl who gets up early
I want a girl who stays up late
I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity
Who uses a machete to cut through red tape
With fingernails that shine like justice
And a voice that is dark like tinted glass
She is fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
She’s touring the facility
And picking up slack

“Uses a machete to cut through red tape.” Hells, yeah.

Damn Sony BMG and their DRM, but you have to see the video; linkable but not embeddable. Hah!

Xanadu

Aw, don’t tell me you didn’t spend hours transfixed by the movie poster at the rink on Saturdays. I do not miss the rollerskates, nor do I miss the legwarmers or the midnight-blue satin blouses some of those guys are wearing. I do miss Olivia Newton John’s shoulders. And Andy Gibb’s smile. Also, finding this video has renewed my love for the Electric Light Orchestra.

It’s like candy, baby.

No Snow in Africa, Revisited

So, with the recent remarks left by commenters about my attitudes regarding Christmas, I felt like just letting you all know, you know, that I don’t hate Christmas. In fact, Christmas makes me sort of gooey and emo inside. I just don’t appreciate when it’s assumed that I am Christian. That’s it, basically.

Also, I really dig the music. I just don’t think it’s necessary for radio stations to start their “all Christmas, all the time” format on October first. The music, though, man.

Last year I linked the video of Bing and Bowie singing The Little Drummer Boy in a post prompted by my choking up while listening to Band Aid’s “Do They Know it’s Christmas?”

So, you know, relax already. And hit play on the next hummayzing thing I’m gonna show you.

You’re welcome.

Hey, Julie

For all my independence and self-reliance, sometimes I really want to be this girl.

Incurably Romantic. Or Something.

Hah!

Listen

Can’t get this song out of my head.

I mean, gah.

“We’ll design a clever disguise/Or retreat to the bottom of the sea/We were destined to live out our lives/Underwater, you and me.”

Somebody pass me my EmoCon name tag.

Not New, Just That Dude in Red Trousers = Yum.

The White Cliffs of What?

I’ve been playing with Pandora.com for a few weeks because a) I need much music and b) I’m poor. Also, I’ve started using it in massage sessions with clients.

Yesterday Lilith, my 59-year-old client was here for her weekly appointment. I normally use my R. Carlos Nakai station for massage (Check it out! Native American flutes! Fucking universal Zen, man!), but for Lilith I switched.

Because Lilith likes Enya.

Which is fine, but the words distract me, and even the Celtic ones do (Thanks, ear for obscure languages.).

So, I’m working away and the station is playing Enya and songs by artists like Enya and it’s all very full and synthesized and dreamy wa-wa-wa.

Then the key changes and it’s straightforward and mellow and Shenandoah, I loved your daughter and I’m thinking, shit, this is not Enya, and it doesn’t sound like Enya, but my, what a clear, lovely voice.

The voice. I know it. I know I’ve heard it.

Lilith remarks on it, “Who is that?” she queries.

“I’m not sure, but it sounds like Connie Dover,” I postulate.

“I don’t know how you can keep all that music straight in your head. You’re like my son Michael. You remember everything.”

We finish the massage and I go to check the Previously Played.

I am so badass.