We Sang Every Song That Driver Knew: More America

Because I've been mulling over American songs this past week, I thought I'd share two more classics of the genre.

Incidentally, they are both in that strange category of "posthumous number one singles" which always bear an undeniable poignancy. (Particularly when you think about the actual content of both of these songs. Personally, I've heard both of them so much over my life that I almost can't hear them anymore. But when I give the same attention to these songs as I would to an entirely new-to-me song, I hear them again for what they are. [Glorious.])

(Previously: Arlo Guthrie, "City of New Orleans"; Kenny Rogers, "The Gambler")

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The song: Janis Joplin, "Me and Bobby McGee"; 1971


The song: Otis Redding, "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay"; 1968

Yrs,
AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com

You Never Count Your Money When You're Sittin at the Table: Our Country

Hello all.

It's been a long time since I posted an entry here, which I will largely blame on the fact that I have been doing too much reading and watching too much TV -- and THAT I will largely blame on the fact that, as I occasionally need to do for my own health, I have been endeavoring to turn outward.

The TV show I have been watching is The West Wing, which is the most impressively-written TV show I have ever experienced.

It makes me think a lot about what it means to be an American, because everyone on that show is so unflinchingly patriotic AND educated AND liberal, and that's not something you see a lot of these days.

Being that I am also educated and liberal, and also patriotic, it's therapeutic for me in many ways. Thinking of myself as patriotic feels a little strange, to be honest with you. But the fact of the matter is, I spend so much of my time thinking about the ups and downs of American culture, and you just don't spend that much time thinking about what you don't love.

On my father's side I am extremely American, in the sense that I could join the Daughters of the American Revolution if I really wanted to (I've never understood why I would want to). On my mother's side I am also extremely American, in the sense that her family were immigrants.

But I grew up in Oregon, which is as distant from the East Coast as the East Coast is from Europe, so the particular events and iconography of American-ness slipped my notice a bit.

So the other night when my episode of The West Wing panned out on a shot of the Oval Office, I found myself thinking it was a beautiful place to symbolize the heart of our country -- a place that just looks like a very genteel person's living room. Particularly when compared with the grandness and circumstance of many of Europe's still-existing monarchies (another interest of mine), it's refreshingly direct.

It's all got me thinking about what the essence of American-ness is, and it's (you will be completely unsurprised to learn) been hard to pin down. So I have turned. . .to song.

(Previously: "City of New Orleans" on Election Day)

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The song: Kenny Rogers, "The Gambler"; 1978

Find me an American who does not know this song.

"The secret to surviving is knowing what to throw away and knowing what to keep." For all its camp factor, you could say this song about is about independence of mind and self-determination.

I'll drink to that!

Yrs,
AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com

And I Can't Pretend That That Doesn't Mean A Thing To Me: "#Beautiful"

Like I said in this post with this Sam Cooke song, some songs are to get the party started and some are to keep an existing party going. Cruising songs, one might say.

This is in the latter category and I just love it. It sounds like misty water-colored memories and also like right the fuck now. It makes me want to find a mint-green convertible and drive away in it.


The song: Mariah Carey ft. Miguel, "#Beautiful"; 2013

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I'll even forgive the silly use of the hashtag there (there is no reason for a hashtag in that title other than to be "hip" and "current") because I find the absurdity of it somewhat beautiful in and of itself.

I think I might be obsessed with beauty and absurdity, because everything and everybody I love is one or the other or both. I can think of worse fixations.

(By the way, this song is technically a Mariah Carey song featuring Miguel, but I think it sounds like him and he's the one who's really carrying it [no disrespect intended to Mimi]. If you're unfamiliar with Miguel, he's a singer and songwriter with a real knack for writing intelligent love songs. Two more of my favorites: "Adorn", and "Sure Thing".)

Please enjoy. I do.

Yrs,
AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com

Baby Are You Down Down Down Down Down: Summer

Summer is the best time for pop music.

In fact I would even venture to say that it is THE time for pop music, and pop music at all other times of the year is just trying to recreate the feeling of summer.

I should clarify my terms: in this case I mean "pop music" as in the stuff of the current day (and oh what a day it is currently).

I've thought about why summer is the best time for pop music and I think it's because summer is the season of the body, while winter is the season of the mind. Summer weather, whether it be pleasant or terribly terribly humid (my own kryptonite), irretrievably reminds us that we are physical beings and that those physical beings need attention and care.

So that's why summer is the season of pop: because you're not supposed to think, you're just supposed to move.

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I've said before that I don't think there should be such a thing as a guilty pleasure song, but let me tell you about this thing I do. Sometimes I say something that even I think is too extreme for how I actually feel, but I just say it and hope my reasons will fill in behind it. That works occasionally but other times, mleh.

So yes, I understand why people have guilty pleasure songs but for me personally I can't hide what songs I like because otherwise what am I even doing here?

That's why I'm going to tell you today about one of my favorites in a genre that, for all of us, is extremely personal by design: the songs we work out to.

I am intrigued by this genre because it's one of the few that has no infusion of ego. It's private, and meant to motivate you at a vulnerable time, and meant to be sheerly enjoyable. So I think you can tell a lot about someone by what they like to listen to when they work out, and I've never been less than charmed by this knowledge of another person.

Here's one of mine:


The song: Jay Sean ft. Lil Wayne, "Down"; 2009

You have to admit it is catchy as hell.

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Other things I like about this song:

1. Lil Wayne: Like many rappers, Lil Wayne looks super tough but is, I suspect, about as actually tough as a toasting marshmallow. And his verse on this is so short and weird that it's hard to even process that it's him before it's over. My favorite lines: "got me look like baby Cupid shootin' arrows from above" (see previous point about toughness) and "And honestly I'm down like that economy" (which, points for topicality I suppose? but not many points for clarity, WAYNE.)

2. It's all about wanting to actually do things and having an adventurous spirit. Which is something I have struggled with in the past, but that I increasingly see is probably one of the most important ingredients of a happy life. This revelation was really hammered home for me when I caught Up on TV over the weekend. But then AFTER I watched Up I did go out and ended up being whistled at at 2 in the morning by a biker gang which is just one of those things that I never knew how much I wanted to happen to me until it happened to me. So, lesson learned, Pixar. Lesson learned. And when I work out I see it as training for the general adventure that is life, hence the connection to exercise with this song.

Makes sense? Does this topic intrigue you as well? I always welcome comments and stories over e-mail.

I hope it is beautifully summery where you are too.

Yrs,
AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com

So I'm Back To The Velvet Underground: Communication

Music is a form of communication that is sometimes direct and sometimes ineffable as heck. For instance, this particular song has been for the last few months something I listen to when I want to feel like myself again, after not feeling like myself. (Which is a distressing feeling as I am sure you understand.)

And it always works. So imagine my surprise to find out that Stevie Nicks actually wrote this song to remind HERSELF about herself, in the aftermath of mega-fame with Fleetwood Mac. "So I'm back to the Velvet Underground" -- her favorite used clothing store -- "back to the floor that I love" -- she used to keep her mattress directly on the floor -- "to a room with some lace and paper flowers" -- the way she decorated -- "back to the gypsy that I was."

And I pinky-swear that I only knew that background just now, today, long after I decided this was the song to listen to when I felt shaken-up and wanted to feel like Amy Wilson.

Isn't that kind of incredible? There is something encoded in this song beyond what the words actually say and beyond what the music actually sounds like. And that's what makes music something we can use to express to others what we can't figure out how to express.

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The song: Fleetwood Mac, "Gypsy"; 1982

I just want to make a quick sidebar here about Stevie Nicks, the person, because I happen to admire and respect her a lot. And so do many of the women of my acquaintance -- there is something about her that seems to speak to us.

Which makes me wonder why Stevie Nicks is the butt of quite so many jokes as she is. I understand that I wasn't alive when she was in her full prominence, so maybe there is something I am missing. But in my perception, her main crimes seem to be that she dresses kinda flamboyantly, she uses grandiose allusions to nature and magic in her lyrics, and she seems to lack a certain amount of self-awareness.

To which I say, so what? That's rock n' roll, baby. Or at least the kind of rock n' roll that I want to hear.

But I'll go ahead and say the word I am thinking, which is sexism. Sexism is the force that reveres David Bowie for wearing skintight leggings and reviles Stevie Nicks for wearing lace sleeves. Sexism is the force that assumes that an artist like Katy Perry can't possibly be the architect of her own aesthetic, and of her own success. (See also: "At the Movies with Amy Wilson: Katy Perry Part of Me 3D") Sexism is the force that makes a list of the 100 Greatest Guitarists Of All Time and puts two women on it, and neither higher than 75th place. (Bonnie Raitt - 89; Joni Mitchell - 75. Which offends me deeply. DEEPLY!)

(And actually this force is a certain prominent rock magazine but I will not defile this blog by naming it here.)

Sexism in music, and music criticism, is a real thorn in my boot. It's something that I hope to address on an ongoing basis, with a light touch naturally, and mostly by Being The Change That I Wish To See -- which in my case involves posting here the music that I like, and that touches me, and not worrying that it is too "silly" or "girly".

Because why is it even still possible to use "too girly" as an insult? I ask you.

(Previous Fleetwood Mac: Rumours

Previous Stevie Nicks: "Leather and Lace")

Yrs,
AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com

I Know A Place: "I'll Take You There"

I love soul music.

For many reasons. It's historically and culturally interesting (as I learned indelibly when I visited the Stax Records Museum in Memphis). It's a truly American art form (and I am very interested in those). It's emotional and interpersonal (like me). It's filled with strong personalities and sassy ladies (like country music, another one of my great passions).

But mostly, I love soul music because it's fun and it makes me want to dance.

And I'd never really liked this song but I've gained a new appreciation for it recently because I've realized just how magical and charming the phrase "I'll take you there" really is. That is, if you have any sort of lust for life at all, but I am sure you do if you love soul music.

Let's go!

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The song: The Staples Singers, "I'll Take You There"; 1972

Previous Staples Singers: "Let's Do It Again"

Yrs,
AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com

I'm Just Trying To Find A Decent Melody: For the Anxious

There is a particular topic that I want to start writing about more often.

Want is maybe not the right word. I mean something more along the lines of "don't really want to at all, but feel I should in order to stay true to my own personal values" (but that doesn't condense well). 

In this case the personal value is authenticity. 

And the topic is mental illness.

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Usually I write very quickly. Too quickly for my own good in many cases. What translates as confidence in professional and public writing often seems aggressive in a personal context. 

But yes, as people who follow me on Twitter can attest, I've often compared the way I look and feel while writing to the Phantom of the Opera. With the same hunched posture, same "don't look at me I am a TORTURED MONSTER!" sort of attitude, many fewer candelabras, and a slightly less intense desire to kidnap people and bring them back to my lair.

(I do have sort of a real Thing for interesting lamps, so I suppose that's my equivalent of the candelabra thing.)

Although I know this to be true about myself, I'd have a hard time with anyone trying to describe me this way because of how closely it adhers to the archetype of the "crazy creative" mind. It's not so much being called "crazy". . .it's more my desire to not associate anything mystical or special to the quality. I think anyone who knows what it really feels like will say the same.

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I just want to pause a moment here and say that I feel very lucky to have this venue in which to explain myself, and to have experienced an audience that's been incredibly sympathetic and kind. Wonders of the modern world.

Also to say that this is one thing I am writing very slowly.

There are so many things I want to say about mental illness, and very many things holding me back. A reluctance to be personally vulnerable is certainly one of them, but I also sometimes wonder if it's even worth trying to write about it or if the territory has already been too well-covered. (Which is something I have been sensitive about ever since my junior year of college, when a manuscript of mine was returned from an award committee with the feedback that Jewish identity narratives have had their time already. Which is probably true, and I should get over it, but I gotta tell you it was a real slap in the face.)

But I'll keep slogging away at figuring it out. Every piece of writing is just a draft.

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Whew. Well, I think I've got it left in me to talk about what I came here to talk about: the nature of obsession. 

More precisely, the nature of being an obsessive person. It's my experience that what separates a really scary obsessive person from just your garden variety lovably neurotic obsessive person is the ability to diversify your obsessions.

I certainly know this has been the case for me, which is why at the age of 25 I have a mind like a REALLY cluttered attic and am seriously considering renting additional storage space somehow. I just have this really relentless desire to acquire knowledge, and I realize that sounds like what the kids are calling a "humblebrag" but what I mean to emphasize here is the word relentless. Sometimes I would really like it to relent.

But it doesn't, and that's what makes me an obsessive person. That's all it ever is. Just too much of a (maybe good, maybe neutral) thing. 

This quality of mine doesn't usually scare me, because it's just the way I live. But I know that it does scare other people occasionally. The word "obsessive" in itself is an insult, not to mention the many associations of Fatal Attraction and Misery that come with it when you happen to be a woman, as I am (in case you hadn't realized). 

That's why I've learned to conceal it in my general life. Not because I am ashamed, but because it's not a good feeling to scare people. 

And if you'll let me indulge my melodramatic side for a moment plz plz, even the Phantom of the Opera wears a mask. 

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The song: U2, "Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of"; 2002

Yrs,

AW

inbedwithamywilson@gmail.com