Association of Music

For some reason or another, I have been talking or thinking a lot about association. Specifically musical association.

So this is me, shuffling through iTunes for 10 songs. We'll see what happens.

Eric Church - Springsteen

Rebekah Pitts. Hands down my first thought on this one. I see her when this came on the radio in the kitchen. Pausing in the middle of the aisle (probably blocking whoever was walking around trying to work) arms outstretched, red hair swinging, telling us all to appreciate it.  Then we walked around the kitchen and sung it at the top of our lungs. 

Also appropriate first song because of this line, "Funny how a melody/ sounds like a memory."

Need to Breathe - Signature of Divine

My first thought is Jackie Burch Barré. She was one of my first blogs to follow and she was one that first got me wheels turning as to how much sharing music can communicate with friends. This song was one of the first that she put at the end of a blog for "What I'm listening to." I can hear here fantastic rolling laughter that comes way more often that it arguably should.

Natalie Grant - Our Hope Endures:

Charissa, my sister, introduced this song to me. I remember the darkness that she shared it in, and the inspiration it gave. I remember sitting around the old desktop in the hallway, waiting for the you tube video to load on our dial-up and then I listened to it multiple times afterwards. 

Phil Wickham - You're Beautiful 

The memory is standing in-between my brother and sister-in-law in their church in Denver, CO. Standing under the strand of bare lightbulbs and singing this song. It then stayed in my head, and I later bought it and listened to it for the entire last thirty minutes of my flight home. I hear it and see those lightbulbs, and I see the landscape of Georgia stretched out underneath me. 

Audio Adrenaline - Big House

 When I hear this song, I am suddenly standing into a middle field in Northern Georgia, surrounded by nearly a hundred campers and staff. We yell it at the top of our lungs, and dance to the motions of having a big house, and a big table, and playing "SOCK WAR (you're OUT!)".  I can see the faces, lit up with adrenaline post game, everyone of us out of breath, but still we sing. 

Amos Lee - Windows are Rolled Down

The person that comes for this song is Ben Helton. I see Ben sitting in the recliner across the staff lounge while people are lined up on the couch, waiting for one of us to make a decision on where we're going to eat. Ben has his eyebrows up, sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward in urgency, talking over the other conversations, asking me to look up just one more song on youtube. This one, "an almost perfect driving song".

  

Augustana - Boston

This one makes me think of my college roommate, Megan. She spent her undergrad years at Gordon College in Boston. I think of all the times we sat around the house trying to stay focused on school work and failing. We'd take a break, pick a song and dance, laugh and sing our way back to whatever paper, essay, book, or quiz that required our attention.  I can clearly see her "let's get down to business face" cracking as the laughter pushed its way out of her eyes, and the corner of her smile. 

Boyce Avenue - Perfect

Another camp memory. This one of dance class. I can see Angela and Rachel working on the choreography in the lodge during staff week. Walking back to the infirmary to check on them and finding one laughing on the floor by the computer, and one up brainstorming possibilities  I can see all the little faces they taught the dance to, and see their giddy joy every time they told me about how ready they were for a performance.

Regina Spektor - Hero

This song makes me think of the movie 500 Days of Summer and all the fun hours spent with Katlyn, Thomas and Owen just chilling on couches and watching this movie more than once in a summer. While never functioning above basic level and fighting over Strong Rock Blankets still I would usually end up in a ball on the floor because I just didn't want to move after the session at camp.

Mumford & Sons - Lover of the Light

Any Mumford presently pulls an image of Taylor Wade because the last time I extensively listened to it we were driving back from Lucas and Jen's wedding and he kept coming up with random facts about the band because Promise, his roommate is apparently a big fan, so much so that he has accurately called the next popular singles for the past three years. This one I think was one. We drove and sang, and I watched the passing lights of the towns, and peered through the coming fog and rain, and ever so often mentioned my niece and how cute she was, eliciting a predictable shake of his head (but I know he was smiling on the inside - she's so cute how could you not?).

I plan on finsihing up the Thank(mas) series in the coming days

with Christmas, parts 4 and 5, 

and Family, part 2(maybe 3).

Stay tuned.

The Release of Pent-up Air From Your Lungs

Today I was looking through my old files on my computer and was pleasantly surprised by a completed work (I have a bad habit). It makes me feel sentimental about school, or my current lack thereof.

I sigh.

The blinking cursor mocks me as it sits marking the beginning of what is supposed to be a short story. 

First person. 3-10 pages. Double spaced. Times New Roman. 12 point font. 

The specifics are rolling over and over in my head. My index finger taps lightly up and down on the “j” key. My eyes drift towards my hands, willing them to start thinking for my brain and type their own story. 

Hmmm. 

There is a faded scribbling of a pen on the back of my left hand reminding me to buy stamps, read the Aristotle essay, email my professor, call my sister, and write a story. I scratch the back of my head then my forehead, then my leg. The wall next to me is white, with an odd brown stain that was there when we moved in. I never thought to wonder where it came from. Maybe I could write about that. 

My fingers start moving along the white keys. 

“Harold and I didn’t notice the stain when we first moved in. I wish we had. It would have been nice to have known the story so we could have been better prepared.” 

2 years of writers
block- abridged.

I stop and hit my head lightly on the keyboard a couple times. A random collection of letters and symbols appear after the final period. I delete them and then the rest of the writing. Better prepared for what? Something gory? Something sad? Something hilarious? How melodramatic was that opening? And why in the world was Harold the first name I picked? The cursor starts to mock me again. 

My stomach grumbles. 

Food will help. 

I get up and walk to the kitchen. I open the fridge and stare into it blankly for nearly three minutes before letting out a frustrated sigh and closing the door. I go to the cupboard and grab a bowl and some cereal. I go to get the milk out of the fridge. We're out. Of course. I grab a pen off the counter and add “buy milk” to the back of my hand. I think about pouring orange juice on the cereal, but then think better of it. I dump the corn flakes back in their box and grab a bag of chips and the carton of juice and head back to the computer. I finish the bag and wipe my hands on my sweatpants. 

I glance at the clock. 7:83 PM. 

We need a new clock. 

I pick up my cell phone. 7:43PM. 

I start biting the inside of my lip. 

I move the mouse to the bottom of the screen and open the internet. It takes twelve minutes to answer my emails and facebook post. I watch a video Elijah posted about a father telling his son that monsters are real and that he and mommy had a deal with the monster that if he goes to sleep and doesn’t make a peep the monster won’t get him. I laugh out loud, even though it was not that funny.  Maybe I could write a children’s story. 

“There once was a magical unicorn named Matilda. She had and evil uncle Bruce who was a bear. A black bear. Fact: Bears eat Beets. Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.” 

I laugh again to myself, but figure the joke will be lost on most kids, which is a real shame. Besides, Bruce and Matilda? I am really off my game. Maybe I could write a story about people with out names. I could call them “Thing 1” and “Thing 2” and “Thing 3” and so forth. But no, darn Dr. Seuss went and monopolized that market. 

My head stats hurting so I get up to get some water. As I sit down I stare at the cup. Water makes me think of the ocean, which makes me think of Shia Le Beouf, because once we watched his TV show while we were at the beach. I begin to wonder if his new movie is out. I pull the internet back up and search for it. 

I watch the trailer and three subsequent suggested trailers. I figure while I am online, I’ll check facebook again. Nothing new, but I look through my old teacher’s photo album from her family vacation. I feel slightly like a stalker, but it's entertaining. 

Now it is eleven minutes past nine. My eyes are starting to droop and I do not have one word down. 

I blow my cheeks full of air so they expanded like a blow fish, then let them out like I got punched in the face. 

I realize how ridiculous I must look, and tell myself this, out loud. Then I began to wonder so I pull up the web camera on my computer and take a picture of my bored, brainless self. The shutter clicks and the picture adds itself to the saved shots from last week's eight-page research paper and February's Beowulf debacle.

My mom used to tell me that movement helped you think. I crack my knuckles. 

I doesn’t work. 

I stretch my legs out.

Nothing.

I stand up.

Nada. 

I do a handstand against the wall. The blood rushes to my head. I flip back down. 

My brain is blank. 

I throw a few punches at the air. I draw a flower on my wrist with a sharpie. I eat some cheese. I dance to an annoying song. I buy the annoying song on iTunes. I try to come up with a good name. Irene. Phillip. Gladys. Cherry. Frank. 

I try a yoga pose. I try Aristotle. I try just sitting. I eat some chocolate. I close my eyes

It hits me.

I walk back to the computer still forming the idea in my head. I lick the chocolate off my thumb and stretch all ten fingers before gently placing them on their proper keys. I feel my mouth curve into a smile as my fingers begin to move. 

“I sigh...”

by Priscilla Gray

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Through a Rose Colored Glass (La Vie en Rose)

The upbeat staccato notes dance out of the end of the trumpet, as the man on the other end puffs his cheeks in and out, pushing air through the shiny brass tubes. His eyes open wide and eyebrows dancing up and down with the effort.

Behind him the graceful fingers of a pianist cavort over the worn ivory keys. Her shoulders move up and down with the beat brought by the drummer at the back of the stage, who closes his eyes and feels the beat tapping out of the end of his sticks.

A tubist, clarinetist, and guitar player take up the rest of the stage. Each lost in their own instrument. 

It's the people out in the smoky hall in front of the stage who get to really appreciate how the instruments come together. 

In the dark corner booth, a man with the dark mustache and suit sits, his ice melting into the scotch in his cut glass tumbler, leaving yet another watermark on the scarred table. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, the well pressed crease centered down the side of each. He seems unmoved by the beat of the music that fills the hall from its baseboard to rafters, but every once in a while the tune wins and the careful observer is rewarded with a subtle tap of his foot. He sits with a pen poised over the paper on the table and every few minutes he jots something down, careful to avoid the upper corner of the paper that had the misfortune to fall in a previous customer's fresh watermark. His free hand periodically goes up to his mouth as he takes a long breath through a thick brown cigar, then sends a ring of smoke into dimly lit air. He keeps his eyes trained on the band, rarely distracted by the mass of movement between his table and the stage.

At least a dozen couples move around the rough hewn wooden floor that has been made smooth by the movement of hundreds of feet over the years. The thick heeled pumps, spinning around the shiny black and white wingtips, both moving too quick to really see how scuffed the toes are from their constant movement. Above the shoes skirts twirl up and down, confused by the repeated change of direction as their owners spin in and out against the pin stripe vests of their partners. Above the swishing skirts, you can catch glimpses of exhilarated and white smiles, jumping out from flushed faces that contrast nicely against the pleased, and confidently demure, grins on the faces above the pinstripes. 

Laughter breaks over the top of the band, emerging from a cluster of tables pushed against the wall where a group of dancers take a much needed break. A girl whose carefully placed curls are starting to come loose around her face jokingly swings her tired feet up onto the lap of her partner, pleading exhaustion. As the band starts up a new song he holds his hands out to her, inviting her to return to the throb of their whirling compadres. Her smile doesn't leave her face as she wearily shakes her head, and sneaks a swig out of her friend's glass. Unfazed, her clean shaven partner doesn't budge his invitation, and she lets out another laugh before standing and leading him on to the dance floor instead. 

On the stage the trumpeter lowers his instrument and steps up to the microphone. As he opens his mouth a smooth, low, gravely strain of words escapes over the room. A faint impromptu cheer rises from the crowd as he makes his announcement. 

"Sisters and Brothers, this is Reverend Satchmo getting ready to beat out this mellow sermon for you. My text this evening is 'When the Saints Go Marching'. Here come Brother Higgenbottom down the aisle with his trombone. Blow it boy."*

From the back of the stage another man has emerged with the announced instrument. He lets loose his string of notes as the trumpeter taps his foot against the stage, waiting for his cue to start singing. As the song progresses so does the swinging and stepping on the center of the floor. 

The night is begging to go on forever, and yet the band begins to wind down with a slow melody that showcases the slow pluck of the guitar and the dancing fingers of the pianist across the high octaves of the keyboard. The trumpeter lets them play alone for two counts of eight before letting the main melody emerge from the wide end of his instrument. After a full minute he drops the trumpet to his side and reaches for the glass of water on the old wooden stool next to the microphone. He lets the last few gulps slide down his throat before clearing it softly as the piano and guitar hold the mood. He takes hold of the old silver microphone, looks towards the ceiling then drops his swaying head, eyes closed, and begins:

"Hold me close and hold me fast 

The magic spell you cast 

This is la vie en rose 

When you kiss me heaven sighs 

And tho I close my eyes 

I see la vie en rose 

When you press me to your heart 

I'm in a world apart 

A world where roses bloom 

And when you speak...angels sing from above 

Everyday words seem...to turn into love songs 

Give your heart and soul to me 

And life will always be 

La vie en rose"*

Slowly, as the band escalates through the end of the song, the couples reluctantly pull on their coats, and wrap scarves around their necks. The girl with the curls has pushed the fallen ringlets inside her felt beret, and linked her arm through her persistent partner's, the remnants of her exhilarated smile still flitting across her face. They stroll out the door under a full moon that cuts through the late night haze hanging above the Chicago harbor, and the club falls into an exhausted silence.

The band begins to pack up their instruments amidst scattered compliments to each other's playing.  The man in the mustache approaches the stage and introduces himself as a reporter for the Times, doing an article. He sits with the trumpeter on the edge of the stage and begins by asking him about his music.

The trumpeter lets out a rumbling chuckle, and shakes his head.

"There is two kinds of music, the good, and the bad. I play the good kind."*

The reporter nods as he scratches notes on his water stained piece of paper. He continues to ask questions and scribble the answers for a few minutes before Louis, exhausted from the night of playing, shakes his head and breaks into his famous smile that seems to take up the entire lower half of his face. Happy wrinkles escape the corners of his eyes as he reaches out and sets calloused fingers in front of the mustached man's pen. He takes a deep breath before summing up the article as he sees fit:

"What we play is life."*

 *All real Louis Armstrong quotes.