"When the Saints Go Marching In" to my #AtheistEar

I have been wracking my brains all month, trying to think of the ultimate "Halloween hymn" to talk about today, and it hit me: for all that Halloween has been (literally) demonized by evangelical Christians, the actual Christian holiday - All Hallows' Day, or All Saints' Day - already has an almost universally recognized theme:





(Lyrics available here...as if you needed them!)

 This version is by two of the most New Orleans-ian of New Orleans artists: Dirty Dozen Brass Band with a guest appearance by Trombone Shorty. The video is a bit sea-sickness-inducing, but the audio isn't bad, and the band is phenomenal under any conditions.

As a kid, I picked up on unspoken levels of discomfort whenever this song was brought up in my rural, white, evangelical church or around my family. On one hand, this song expresses the same sentiment as "I'll Fly Away" does:

O when the saints go marching in,
O when the saints go marching in,
O Lord, I want to be in that number
when the saints go marching in.

As a Southern Baptist kid, I noticed that two lines of questions would lead to uncomfortable conversations: "What exactly are 'saints' supposed to be?" and "This song is so exciting; why don't we sing it more often?"

According to what I was taught by adults in my Southern Baptist church, "Saints" refers to anyone who has accepted Jesus as their savior. It's just a word for those who are Saved in the Baptist sense of the word. What I didn't learn until years later was that the catholic churches had developed their own mythology around the idea of "saints" which Baptists considered to be non-Biblical, and therefore, evil.

(As an atheist, whenever I run across the stories about these Catholic saints, I marvel at what horrible people they were, and at the way their horribleness was turned into mythology... but that's fodder for another series of posts.)

In high school, I began dating a girl who was Catholic, and I got to learn all over again from my church how Baptists are supposed to feel about Catholics - while at the same time I had my girlfriend as a resource for sorting out Baptist myth from Catholic reality. Baptists told me that Catholics prayed to dead people; my girlfriend explained about the Catholic concept of "intercessory prayer." Baptists told me that Catholic "saints" were not usually Saved, and therefore were actually un-redeemed and not truly Christian - which meant they were, in fact, following Satan. My girlfriend balked at that twisted logic coming from people who reject orthodoxy.

And yes, there were Bible verses about false prophets produced as "clobber texts" on both sides, which were meant to prove that one side or the other was Right(eous), but only served to confuse the issue. Looking back at all of this controversy as an atheist, I recognize that I was stuck in an impossible position between groups that were in violent disagreement over bullshit.

Each side believed they were right, and by maintaining their disagreement, they were making themselves part of a tradition that dated back to the First Century, and a schism that developed between the earliest Christians; a schism between those who believe in orthodoxy, and those who believe in personal revelation. In other words, it was the religious equivalent of arguing over the superiority of Star Wars vs. Star Trek - and no one wins an argument like that.

As to my other question - "Why don't we sing this exciting song more often?" - that turns out to have a very simple explanation that no one wants to admit out loud: Race.

The very similar song, "I'll Fly Away," was written by a man named Albert E. Brumley in 1929. It was one of those songs recorded by dozens of groups and performed frequently on the AM radio stations which grew up across the Dust Bowl in the 1930s. In contrast, "When the Saints..." was not credited to a composer; instead, it was included in our Baptist Hymnals as a Negro spiritual.

Of course, as written, there is nothing in the text of "When the Saints..." that is overtly controversial. "When the sun refuse to shine/I want to be in that number" and "When they crown Him Lord of all/I want to be in that number" are essentially the other two verses of the song. The implicit core desire expressed by the lyrics are a yearning to be included. I think that was the source of discomfort that no one wanted to discuss, because the origin of the Southern Baptists is rooted firmly in exclusion. They split from their Northern brothers before the Civil War in a disagreement over whether black pastors could be ordained as missionaries.

Growing up in a post-Civil Rights era version of the Southern Baptist church, I was surrounded by adults who had not yet figured out where their traditional beliefs fit in America's new political reality. And hearing "When the Saints Go Marching In" apparently reminded them, even if it was on a remote, subconscious level, that they belonged to a community built on excluding fellow saints... saints who wanted nothing more than to be included in that number.

By their nature, Baptists occupy an uncomfortable eschatology. (They try to believe literally in what the most allegorical of books says about the End of Times; so that leads to a lot of cognitive dissonance.) The core of their belief system is inherently prone to heresy, which they can't combat, because they consider personal revelation and conscience to be the basis of spiritual salvation. That means that their own core beliefs don't allow for an "authority" in the church to determine who is or is not a "real, true Christian." They do claim to follow the literal, inerrant text of the Bible, but as I pointed out above, that doesn't allow them to authoritatively resolve even the most central and basic arguments stemming back to the earliest Christian churches. And that means that they have no foundational, scriptural basis for excluding anyone who claims to have come to their faith through personal revelation.

In other words, anyone who says they are a saint, is a saint. That causes a problem for Baptists who don't want to count someone as a saint. Rather than deal with the discomfort of including people they have long worked to exclude, they have a history of projecting their discomfort on the music itself.

"When the Saints..." is a very deeply black song. Being a negro spiritual, it was forged in a community of oral history by people who were being deprived of inclusion in humanity itself. As simple as the text is, it speaks very powerfully of people who want a promise fulfilled - the promise that if they work hard and follow the rules, they will someday be free. It's morbid to consider now how many of them only had death to look forward to. And whether white evangelicals want to admit it or not, this song is a painful reminder of their historic role in maintaining the system that put those people into that forge.

Sadly, I've seen how the discomfort from that painful reminder gets transformed into a reason to continue to exclude. They don't want to be called racists... but they can't seem to square inclusion with the things they do and teach.

White evangelical culture has a long history of demonizing black culture - and pretending that this has nothing to do with race. Consider the example of Sketch Erickson, as the Slacktivist describes here. Then watch that Dirty Dozen/Trombone Shorty performance again, and connect the cultural dots. I think now that the awkward relationship my church family had with this particular song had a lot to do with where they drew their personal line between what is divine and what is not.

And demonizing is what Halloween is all about, isn't it?

This was always the most uncomfortable time of year for my church community. On one hand, you have the unavoidable historic fact that All Hallows' Eve is a Christian feast day... for the wrong kinds of Christians. On the other hand, you have the celebration of evil spirits being glorified in the secular culture, especially when it uses that historically black music.

As modern Americans, we weren't supposed to believe in evil spirits anymore, which always added to the confusion. (I'm still confused by the logic that Christians use that, "There are real witches ... real because they believe in magic, even though I don't, because magic isn't real.")

So our churches would attempt to reclaim the holiday by refusing to have Halloween celebrations, and instead have Harvest Night, or some similarly innocuous sounding alternative... which accidentally imitated the pagan festivals they were trying to distance themselves from in the first place.

As an atheist adult, I look at this holiday with a mix of amusement and pity. I feel bad for the people who work themselves into a frenzy over the "Satanic" nature of the holiday - which seems pointless, considering there is no Satan. And I feel some sense of schadenfreude that the people who are most worked up over the whole thing are battling demons of their own making.

But mostly, I feel like dwelling on the afterlife is a huge waste of time and energy - especially if we can't swallow our pride and address the schisms that we've created for ourselves out of all of these misinterpreted myths.

Lb4Lb#11 - The Trouble With Hippies

I was not a "child of the '60's" by any stretch of the imagination.

My exposure to the 1960s was solely through the filter of my very straight-laced parents and their record collection: Dean Martin, The Monkees, Glen Campbell, Cher, Peter, Paul and Mary, and... Leonard Nimoy. Yes. THAT Leonard Nimoy. The Way I Feel (you should find the LP some time and check it out). We had a couple of Beatles records, but as I later discovered, they fell out of favor after John Lennon's remark about being "bigger than Jesus" - and that copy of Rubber Soul was as close as I got to "counter-culture" until high school.
Thinking positivity
If you wanna be with me
I'll take you to the promised land
Come on baby take my hand
Stop Draggin AroundOf course, I did grow up in the 1980s, and nostalgia for "flower power" was all the rage. I missed a lot of that because our family lived out in the sticks, and we didn't have a VCR until 1989 - so while my friends were into the Vietnam-era war pics and Cheech & Chong, I was mostly sitting home, not a part of the whole scene.

Not that I wanted any part of it - that silly hippy-dippy drug culture stuff was for sinners. I was deep into my church and considered myself above all of that nonsense. I saw myself as above it all, and I resisted "temptation" like a good boy.
I've been lost in the name of love
And we kill our brothers daily in the name of god
We'd better chill before we take on some tribulation
And if we realized
Then we'd make a little love
now sing
What The Fuck Are We SayingPuberty changes things. That is an intentional understatement.

It was easy to dismiss the New Age philosophy and all of the political talk of the 1960s with the benefit of hindsight (and lots of coaching from Grandpa and my church family), but hormones bring home a truth that is hard to ignore. Feeling my body take over my mind in so many ways made me understand that "control" is not simply a matter of following rules. I began to recognize that the things people feel are real to them - and unless you've felt what they feel, you can't judge them.
My mama said
That it's good to be fruitful
But my mama said
Don't take more than a mouthful
And my mama said
That it's good to be natural
And my mama said
That it's good to be factual
Always On The RunAfter I started questioning my principles, I was freed to explore things that I had always disdained. Music was the most exciting area to explore, because it felt both defiant and safe; I could try out crazy ideas without necessarily DOING crazy things. I could listen to stories and feelings and see places and pieces of history that had passed me by while I was trying to fit the world inside my Bible.

Some things are easier to get into than others, though, and a lot of the really revolutionary, underground, and radical stuff from the Summer of Love and the early 1970s still shocked my sensibilities. I couldn't get into Lennon's politically charged anthems, I couldn't grasp Jimi's wild guitar work, and I really had no idea what to make of Zeppelin. There were singles that I liked, but there was so much out there - and much of it was so FAR out there - that I couldn't figure out where to start.

And there was another wrinkle to this musical blockage.

A white Southern Baptist kid never feels comfortable with certain things. What it is they are uncomfortable with will vary, but for me, it is Soul music. It's not that I don't like it, but rather that I become self-conciously hyper-aware while I am listening to it that I am an awkward white kid, and that something deeply sexual is happening that I should probably not be exposed to. Much of the Sixties vibe revolves around an exploration of Soul. Sometimes it's more Blues, sometimes it's covered up by the bombast of Rock; but underneath it all is the sexually charged subtext of black people and their freedom from the Puritanical roots that my ancestors instilled in their descendants.
So many tears I've cried
So much pain inside
Baby it ain't over 'til it's over
So many years we've tried
And kept our love alive
'Cause Baby it ain't over 'til it's over
It Ain't Over Til It's OverAll of which brings me to my point: why Mama Said is such an important album to me. With all of these many paragraphs of prologue, you might be expecting something deep, but like the counter-culture, and hippies, and free love and drugs, there's really not much beneath the surface.

There is an important thing inside all of us that sets limits. For people like me, those limits can sometimes be deeply ingrained, almost like a moat, and it takes something special to bridge the gap to the other side. Lenny's sophomore album made these things safe for me.

That was all I needed.
You say you can't trust me
Have you tried?
You say you don't love me
That's a lie
There are so many so many rainbows
That we were to climb
But baby baby why can't we survive?
We've got to get our heads untangled
And free our state of mind
The Difference Is WhyLenny's music is not deep - the lyrics border on vapid, and the rhymes are sometimes forced to the point of ridiculousness. The music has been widely criticized as being derivative of Hendrix and Zeppelin, and there's no doubt that this is true.

But.

For a white suburban Southern Baptist kid intimidated by his sexuality and the wide world he was facing, Mama Said gave me a place to relate and unwind. It didn't matter that this guy was singing - in falsetto! - about sex, because it was relatively harmless. (At least compared to Prince.) And it didn't matter that the guitars were only a little loud (courtesy of Slash), because these songs rocked! It felt to me like what it was for Lenny: a celebration of a lot of really good things.

The trouble with hippies is that they tend to be shallow and frivolous. But somehow, the magic of this album was that it didn't have to be deep or important. It wanders through Fields of Joy, and if you learn to relax, you will find that the limits you set for yourself don't have to be shattered to be softened. You don't have to destroy yourself to grow. You can just take it as it comes.

And there's really nothing wrong with that at all.

Fully-clothed Gentlemen

I have maintained for 17 years (give or take) that Steven Page is the finest male pop vocalist around, so when I learned that he was leaving Barenaked Ladies, I felt some concern for what might happen to the band. 

Despite their racy name, the five fully clothed Canadian goofs had a unique, wholesome, and geeky charm that grabbed me from my first listen to Gordon in 1992. They could be dangerous, but it was okay because it was absurd. And even though absurd wasn't cool yet, it served them well. Best of all, while the music was obviously all about them, it was also about me.

I got into the classroom but my knowledge was gone
I guess I should have studied 'stead of watchin' "Wrath of Khan"
-Grade 9Unlike most pop acts, you could tell these guys thought their popularity was a big mistake. It had to be a joke, right? Five overweight nerds with a joke name? But they weren't a joke or a mistake; they were earnest musicians who had a mile-wide silly streak - who else could pull off a Star Trek reference on their first album?

And when they began to realize that it was real, and no joke, they weren't afraid to transition into real song-writing, sometimes leaving me breathless when I realized that there was no ready joke buried in the raw emotion of certain songs. And like my own transition from high school to adulthood, I found it easy to follow them wherever they went - even though there were some dark moments hiding under the bed.
And you said...
What'd you think that I was gonna do,
Try to make you love me as much as I love you?
How could you be so low?
You arrogant man,
What do you think that I am?
My heart will be fine
Just stop wasting my time
-Break Your HeartThis dark-edged but upbeat chemistry carried them through the brilliant Stunt andMaroon, and left them sounding baffled, happy, and a little bit tired on their back-to-back independent releases,Barenaked Ladies Are Me and Barenaked Ladies Are Men (the "BLAM" albums). I didn't know anything then, but I suspected they were feeling the strain of prolonged existence - a theme that Steve's songs had hinted at since the beginning.
A party at a friend's
Toronto's coolest scene
I thought I'd bring a tape
To show them where I'd been
And listen for a while
The lyrics made them smile
They said that it was fine
Although it's not the style
I said it wasn't me
- Running Out Of InkWhat made this such a great band went beyond the song-writing - which could be a varied mixture of tender, witty, acerbic, sentimental, or naughty. There was a mixed-up collaborative feel to the songs that extended into their famous live improv work, and found its way back into the studio somehow. Whatever else you could say about them, The Ladies were there for a good time, and that's what they were good at providing. Everyone seemed to be having fun.
"A is for attitude I can't help but wield
A is for arrogance; emotional shield
A is for acting, A is for abhorrently
A is for asshole, which is what I am, how rude of me.
I owe you an apology I'm sorry"
- AIf you know them, you don't need me to tell you this, but that chemistry came from combining 5 distinctly different and intensely creative personalities into one unit. We're not talking about Lennon/McCartney level collaboration, but you could tell each member did their own thing, brought it into the studio, and took turns going "Yeah, I like that! Want me to do THIS?"
I thought that Alcohol was just for those with
nothing else to do
I thought that drinking just to get drunk
was a waste of precious booze
But now I know that there's a time
and there's a place where I can choose
To walk the fine line between
self-control and self-abuse
-AlcoholIt's probably no secret why Steve left the band. After a drug bust in 2008, his lifestyle appeared to be veering into the self-indulgent and self-destructive. I don't know the details - whether he wanted to leave, or the rest of the band wanted him to leave; whether he needed to get away to get better, or what - but it's not hard to see the effects that years of continued adulation, success, and hard work can have on a group like this. They went farther than they ever expected they would, did more good work than any of us had a right to expect them to do, and delivered on the promise to keep getting along and to keep the ride running.

It's no wonder if they got tired.
She got a new apartment it's out on the escarpment
And in her glove compartment are my songs
She hasn't even heard them since she found out what the words meant
She decided she preferred them all wrong
Kind of like the last time with a bunch of really fast times
If we're living in the past time soon gone
-Testing 1,2,3And that is why I worried. I was afraid that I would miss the voice of Steve in the mix. Maybe it was hard for him to play the role, but the dark edge of his wit, and the honesty of his voice combined with the levity of the group to create great pop music. I knew that without the more upbeat influence of his friends, his solo work would probably not satisfy me, but I held out hope that they would be able to make something enjoyable even without him.
But I'm warning you, don't ever do
those crazy, messed up things that you do
If you ever do
I promise you I'll be the first to crucify you
Now it's time to prove that you've come back here
To Rebuild
- Call And AnswerIf you've come this far up memory lane with me, you may have noticed - I haven't mentioned anything about the new album. I intended to. I was bracing myself for having to write down in words what I thought and felt listening to it; but I decided that what I had to say would be unfair. There were some comments in my head, using words like "lassitude" and "lackluster"... but to aim them at people who have been so good to me over the years just seemed mean and pointless.

You might go ahead and check out All In Good Time; you might even find something there to enjoy. You might also like Steve's The Vanity Project. But all I heard was the voices that weren't there.

I hope they'll come back someday and rebuild.

My Farewell

I said I would write something. Usually that means words, in some order, meant to evoke something. I guess in this case, it still does, just not in the form I expected.

This is rough, because I wrote and recorded it when I got home from work tonight. Emlyn called at work this afternoon to let me know that Karen passed away in her sleep last night without ever waking up. After 16 years, it is a kind of release for everyone - the kind we dread. It never feels right, whether the one being released is 102 or, like Karen, 37. But in her way, Karen has Always Been Free.

So that's what I wrote.


(For those who may miss it, the words "Always Been Free" are a link to a song.)

Reunions

The Class of 1989/90 Reunion was in February, but I guess I never hit "Publish Post" on this. 'Bout time!

I was pretty surprised that Michelle was willing to drive all the way out to my parents' house to practice our songs for the Reunion. Even in high school - that can't have been 20 years ago already, can it? - we lived pretty far off the beaten path, but after I left for the Air Force, mom and dad bought property even further out, nearly to Wickenburg, and added a good 25 miles to their already lengthy commutes.

But Michelle said she was used to driving all over the Valley of the Sun for her job, and didn't mind. So there we were, playing music and talking about old times and recent times, and about our apprehensions of the Reunion itself. Would we remember the people who showed up? Would they remember us? Fondly? Would our best friends be there, or would they be stuck in far-flung corners of the world?

We needn't have worried.

Even 10 years ago, documenting this would have been more difficult; putting memories down in a blog or sharing pictures on Facebook would have been either unheard of, or at least uncommon. But now, roaming through a hotel ballroom full of not-so-distant strangers is a matter of recognition more than anything; how much do they resemble their profile picture? And can you read their nametag in the dim light? Most of the ice-breaking has already happened online, after all.

So, for me at least, the evening was a stream of people who looked a lot like the parents of the kids I knew in high school, walking around, being happy to see each other. They seemed to enjoy our singing, even though the PA system we had wasn't quite up to the task of filling the room, and they seemed to appreciate our effort.

I'm still not very good at capturing details, of course. I can't tell you who all I talked to - I could try, but I would forget too many names at this point - and I can't tell you who we talked about and caught up on. I can tell you there were a few missing who are no longer with us, and a few I never would have expected to make it this far (and I'm glad you did!), and I can tell you that the overall impression I had was a joyful one.

In a lot of ways, we haven't changed. The patterns of who talked to whom, who got silly-drunk and who withdrew early, the inevitable comparisons of work/hobbies, family, successes and failures; that all stays the same. But because perspectives have shifted, I saw something reassuring in all of it. I saw a truth unfold at my 20 year high school reunion that I barely dared hope would be true all those years ago.

We really are "okay".

Everyone I Love Is Here

We all cruise along through life at various levels of awareness. Some of us are acutely aware of every nuance of every situation, and some are clueless about the signals they send out and that they receive in return. I've always leaned more toward the latter category. A couple of weeks ago, I discovered that my world was not working the way I thought it was.

When your world is suddenly not where you expected, you start looking around for it. It's a painful and scary experience, not knowing what's real and what's just a self-imposed delusion, but I'm lucky, because I have people around me who aren't afraid to tell me the truth. They anchor me, and help me fix the problems I create.

And in the midst of all of this, there's music. (As if you expected me to write about travel or architecture...)

One dangerous, yet thrilling, thing about a personal crisis is the new meaning that old familiar songs take on. Suddenly, So Much To Say has a depth I never recognized before; the sassy humor of Ben Folds becomes a defiant rallying cry in Philosophy.

Because the emotions can be so volatile and unpredictable, I actually avoid most of my music during times like these. A few years ago, a line from Cool, Cool River hit me so hard, I had to pull to the side of an English fen road and weep while tractors and little, annoyed cars swerved around me. This week, though, I found a special gift in my collection. The Finn Brothers Everyone Is Here, a 2004 CD I picked up at the library last year.What does it mean when
you promise someone
no matter how hard
or whatever may come

It means that I won't give in,
Won't give in...
Won't give in...
'Cause everyone I love is here,
Say it once, and disappear.
- Won't Give InThey have my number; the heart of my problem and the solution wrapped together in less than a stanza. But they go further, too, and in six lines, they manage to describe the root of what I'm feeling:Homesick
For the people that I live with
Homesick
For the spirit I'm missing
Homesick
For the country that I'm living in
- HomesickThe hardest problems to see are the ones that are right in front of you. The missed opportunities to show, not tell, someone how you feel. The conclusions they draw when they compare your actions to your words. I've been so busy wallowing in my own Homesickness, I haven't seen what has been happening in my own best friend's heart.
I've never had the time before
Leaving things where they fell
I was going door to door
Always thinking I was somewhere else

You saw me
And what I could be
And now I know what love is for
It's the only thing sets you free
Must be the luckiest man alive
- Luckiest Man AliveSo now I know all of this. I know what I've done wrong, and how to fix it. I know I'm better off than it seems, and how to make it better. But life is hard, and the road ahead is treacherous. There are no guarantees, only faith in each other.

What am I going to do about it?And I will take my chances
'Cos anything can happen
Don't believe it's over
'Cos anything can happen
- Anything Can HappenThat thought cuts both ways; if anything can happen, that means good or bad. But she deserves my faith; and she's hurting, too. She feels guilty for hurting me, but she had to hurt me to get my attention. I don't imagine it's easy to watch someone grapple with a pain that you think you caused, even if you know that it's no one's fault. It's too easy to waste energy blaming yourself. Fortunately, there's some wisdom here for her, too:
All the mud in this town
All the dirt in this world
None of it sticks on you
(You shake it off)
Cause you're better than that
And you don't need it
No, you don't believe it
- Nothing Wrong With YouIn case there is any doubt about it, the Brothers will say it for me: "I walk along with you/There's nothing wrong with you."

There are a lot of things in this world that are insurmountable. Most people don't come back from the dead, and very few can fly or shoot heat beams from their eyes. But there is no reason to give up, not when there is love like ours in the world, and musicians to remind us.A chance is made
A chance is lost
I carry myself to the edge of the earth.
- Won't Give In

Lb4Lb#5: But We're Okay, We're Fine

I wanna clear my head,
I wanna drink that sun,
I'm gonna love you good and strong
While our love is good and young.
- Get Out The MapNormally, this "lb4lb" thing is about an album (or two) that particularly moved me in some way. Nothing is as frustrating as buying an entire CD that only has one or two tracks that you really like on it; and few things are as satisfying as finding a collection of songs that flow together and keep you coming back for the whole set.

But THIS time, I want to talk about a "lb4lb" career.

The best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life, after all.
- Closer to fineFolk music doesn't get paid the respect it deserves, partly because folk fans pay it FAR too much respect. It's an art form based on intimacy, and the fandom associated with other genres simply spoils the effect.

Nothing kills the joy of listening to Peter Paul and Mary like hearing someone blather on about the symbolism of Puff The Magic Dragon. (I know it's a work of subtle genius, man, you don't need to explain why!) Nothing makes a noble Woody Guthrie protest song more boring than hearing about how noble and historic it is.

(That's not to say covering folk isn't a great idea. Billy Bragg and Wilco paid a fine tribute to Woody with Mermaid Avenue and Mermaid Avenue Vol. 2; and Bruce Springsteen didPete Seeger proud with We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions.)

Folk is at its best when it is left alone; a troubadour with an instrument. A guitar, three chords, and the Truth. And a little bit of history.

All the shiny little trinkets of temptation
(make new friends)
Something new instead of something old
(but keep the old)
All you gotta do is scratch beneath the surface
(but remember what is gold)
And it's fools gold
- Power Of TwoThey've played with Michael Stipe of R.E.M. They toured with The B-52's bassist, Sara Lee. Stephen King set part of a novel around one of their concerts. They sell out tours around the world.

But, there is no reason on earth why the Indigo Girls should be so damned popular. They don't get airplay. They aren't "pretty". Their songs are arguably "all the same" (unless you're actually listening to them). If you're looking at surfaces, theirs is dusty, and someone has written, "Best Buy is that way" in the dust to help move you on.

Scratch beneath that surface, though... you see denim. You feel the calluses on your fingertips. You might smell some weed smoke. But you'll hear those voices. You'll look up to see two women with guitars, and you will swear they are angels giving you something that will change your life.

My friend tanner she says you know
Me and jesus were of the same heart
The only thing that keeps us distant
Is that I keep fuckin up
- Shame On YouI don't really know many facts about Amy Ray and Emily Saliers; I heard they were Christians, I heard they were lesbians. I heard they used to be a couple, and I heard...

I heard the music.

That's all that matters, in the end. There is nothing I can say as a fan that will matter, or make a difference to you. But if you listen to that music, those words.

It took a long time to
become the thing I am to you.
And you won't tear it apart
without a fight, without a heart.
- Become YouThey are tough, honest, beautiful. You won't care about every song on every album; at least, not at first. But they will speak to you, and you will feel something; and it will be like the realization that part of you was asleep. Something you didn't know was hurting will be soothed.

When we get a little distance some things get clearer
Give em the space our hearts grow nearer
I ran as hard as I could and still ended up here
but it's alright
- It's Alright

Lb4Lb #2: The Rhythm of the Saints

Some stories are magical, meant to be sung
Song from the mouth of the river
When the world was young
And all of these spirit voices rule the night
-Spirit VoicesIt is hard for me to be moved by poetry. I'm just a little too cynical, and a little too leery of pretty words and images. I find beauty in the broken and the deformed things (see the first Lb4Lb review for proof of that), and tend not to be easily impressed by the flowery or the openly sentimental.

So when I tell you that an album is unapologetically beautiful, deeply moving, and still complex and fascinating after nearly twenty years on my "play often" list, you have to know it is full of powerful stuff.

Soon our fortunes will be made, my darling
And we will leave this loathsome little town
- ProofI discovered Paul Simon's world famous Graceland album near the end of my high school days, and literally wore my first cassette copy out in my car stereo before I graduated.

There was some controversy at the time about the U.S. embargo against apartheid, but it was Graceland that got me heavily into African music about then. I was so in love with the music on that album, I went and sought out every artist related to it I could find: Los Lobos, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, C.J. Chenier, Bakithi Kumalo (who played that wicked 2-measure bass solo on You Can Call Me Al), and eventually the classic compilation, The Indestructible Beat of Soweto - Volume One.

When I found out about the The Rhythm Of The Saints, I couldn't wait to hear it. I scoured the used record shops for a copy, because there was no way I could afford it new, and finally, about a year after it came out, I did hear it... and went back to Graceland.

She says ''Maybe these emotions are
As near to love as love will ever be''
So I agree...
- She Moves OnOkay, so it wasn't an immediate "hit" with me. I liked the rat-a-tat-tat of The Obvious Child and the frenetic guitar work of Proof enough to play it on occasion, and even got to know some of the words well enough to sing along. My best friend loved the soaring Portugese vocals Naná Vasconcelos provided on Spirit Voices enough to go root out his album, Rain Dance, but at the time, I only thought it was a pretty song.

I was immune to the poetry.

Who says: Hard times?
I'm used to them
The speeding planet burns
I'm used to that
My life's so common it disappears
And sometimes even music
Cannot substitute for tears
- The Cool, Cool RiverIt was only after a period of about ten years that I began to realize how often I was turning to this album when I had hard times. That line about my life being so common, and music substituting for tears... that captured me. Pretty words mean nothing, but THAT - that struck me to the core of my being.

We had a lot of fun
We had a lot of money
We had a little son and we thought we'd call him Sonny
Sonny gets married and moves away
Sonny has a baby and bills to pay
Sonny gets sunnier
Day by day by day by day
- The Obvious ChildThe ton-of-bricks moment, the moment I realized how deeply this album had hooked me, was when I found myself paging through my yearbook, telling my daughter about the people under the funny haircuts. My god, some of them have died! Some have fled from themselves... and I have certainly struggled from there to get here. And these songs somehow knew before I did, how my life would play out.

That is the work of genius.

These pretty songs, with the flowing rhythms, the lush arrangements, sweet vocals, and the slippery, dancing lyrics; they are not just beautiful: they are beauty. There is no "off note", no track that is not worth plumbing for every word and note. If you are caught singing along to this album while stopped at a traffic light, there is no line that will cause you to feel embarrassed; it is that good.

These stories are magical, indeed, and were meant to be sung again and again. Aloud. In front of strangers.

I know the reason I
Feel so blessed
My heart still splashes
Inside my chest...
- She Moves OnPretty words can betray you, mere skill amounts to cleverness, and cleverness wears thin. But these songs are a constant, brilliant reminder of the magical ingredient that keeps this heart splashing: joy. "The cross is in the ballpark", he sings, but it means nothing without that joy. And that really should be Obvious, child.

Roughing It Up

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a cuckoo bird,
Interrupting his cry...

Winter Camp; the main reason for joining Cub Scouts in the first place. I've been alternately dreading and looking forward to it for months. Looking forward to the parts that I know will be fun; hiking, games, good food, and playing some guitar with folks. Dreading, because despite my cheerful disposition, I'm still a cynic at heart, and I'm pretty sure I know what it will be like: a dozen or so increasingly cranky adults surrounded by increasingly smelly and insolent children. And do you know something? I really hate being cynical, sometimes. So, I brace myself, hold my nose, and dive in. We're going to have fun, kids.

They are out of school, they are sleep deprived, and they outnumber us. Behold - the Cuckoo Birds.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came an avalanche,
Interrupting his cry...

Trouble and woe seem to pile on all at once, sometimes. My lovely bride seemed to be coming down with something ominous; snow threatened to lay siege during the weekend; our car began flashing random lights -- but only out the corner of my eye. I did NOT want to cancel this trip, but there were rumblings and creakings. Then we were off, and we made it, and dove into the tumult of the cabin.

Behold -- the Avalanche; of boys, sleeping bags, and a cacophonous Friday night in the woods.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a grizzly bear,
Interrupting his cry...

I am here to make sure - as Cubmaster Terry keeps reminding us - that the Cub Scouts have fun, stay safe, and learn something. I'm not complaining about my lot; the group of adults in general is pretty good about keeping the kids out of trouble, making sure we are "two deep" (no adult is ever to be left alone with any number of children... even their own children), and making sure food-prep and clean up happens. If anything, I feel like I'm not completely pulling my weight. I keep showing up to the kitchen after everything is already cooked; I don't quite make it back from escorting a group to the bathroom in time to clear the tables; I don't know how to do most of the crafty stuff.

This leaves "playground monitor" as my fall-back duty - which, in its most common form, means bellowing at the kids who insist on pushing, shoving, and whacking each other with sticks to quit it. Behold, I am the Grizzly Bear. Grr, grr.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a Saint Bernard,
Interrupting his cry...

We are all fortunate to have a real, honest to goodness, professional medic along. Saturday afternoon, the boys simply couldn't hold back on their more violent tendencies, and two had to be carried in within half an hour of each other. Nothing serious; a minor head wound and a twisted ankle. But it gave Fred a chance to break out his kit, and justify dragging it up to Northern Maryland for the weekend. Fortunately, it didn't take much more than that to get across to the kids the danger of not listening to the Grizzly Bears.

Butterfly bandages, an ice-pack, and a few developing colds means a job well done by the Saint Bernard. *pant, pant*

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a Jersey Cow,
Interrupting his cry...

One thing was not lacking in any way: the food. There was plenty, and it was good. Mr. Harvey, with the assistance of his son, Harvey Jr., has been the camp cook for 13 years. If what they say -- you shouldn't trust a skinny cook -- is true, then Mr. Harvey is one of the most trustworthy cooks I've ever run across. Everyone was full and content, with nary a case of food poisoning in the bunch.

Behold, the Great Provider of nourishment: the Jersey Cow. (Or, in our case, the Bull.)

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a milking maid,
Interrupting his cry...

Among the scouts were a small group of siblings; mainly little sisters who were old enough to come along for the weekend. My own little princess came, and immediately found a soulmate of the same age to spend the weekend with. But what to do when all of the adults are spread amongst the other camp activities? Enter the sweet-sixteen-year-old daughter of the Committee Chairperson, young Katie. Someone to watch over the little ones, who were given their own room (no boys allowed), and to run interference (because a "No Boys Allowed" sign is like smearing honey around an ant hill) when the boys decided to storm the "castle".

Behold, the intrepid babysitting skills of our Milking Maid.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came Her Father,
Interrupting his cry...

I confess, I was not looking forward to a second night on the floor, with only a thin layer of foam between my bulk and the concrete & linoleum floor. The symphonic snoring of the first night hadn't bothered me, once the boys around us had settled down and stopped trying to keep each other awake. It was comical, but almost soothing, in a snorty, bandsaw-on-metal sort of way. Very rhythmic, and tidal. But my back was acting up after Friday's relatively brief night, and I wasn't looking forward to the certain agony facing me Sunday. All I could do was try to stay loose, and tough it out. After all, I was committed to being the Entertainment at the Saturday night campfire.

The younger of my boys, the Tiger Cub, woke Saturday morning with a cough, and I tried to keep an eye on him throughout the day. Had to hold him in a chair by the fire and convince him to take a nap at one point. Grew too tired to use subjects in sentences.

When he woke up, he asked to go home, so I told him that we would after dinner and the campfire ceremony. I think in the end, Pain is the Vengeful Father's gift to us all... reminding us that there are consequences to every action.

It worked out well enough. My back protested the extra exertions as I loaded the car, but I kept telling it, "Better to do it tonight than wait until morning!" It grudgingly agreed. I was loading the car between acts; dinner, load sleeping bags; cleanup, load suitcase (yeah, suitcase... the duffel has the tent in it); perform, load guitar. I felt guilty about bugging out the night before and leaving the bulk of the cleaning duties for the Sunday morning survivors, so I did some extra sweeping up and took a couple of bags of trash out to the dumpster.

By the time I was called up to perform, I was more than a little nervous. I wasn't sure the crowd would respond to my silly song; they saw the guitar, and started calling out requests. "Pantera!" "Play some Brad Paisley!" "Don't you know any good songs?" I resisted doing a Pete Townsend on the 10-year-old heckler in the front row. But Harvey Jr. and Katie joined me as I started my main attraction...

Oooooooooohhhh.... an Austrian went yodeling....

...and they loved it! They were entranced! I was a HIT!

Alright, so that was all I had, but that was all I needed. They called for volunteers for jokes and stories, any other songs. We laughed, and sang, and it wasn't lame! What a relief.

Still, I needed to get the little ones home. There were some definite snuffles coming... maybe worse. But at least I went out with a...

Yodel-ee-yah, Kee-kee-yah,
Yodel-ee-yah cuckoo, cuckoo!
Swish,
Grrr,
*Pant, pant*
Squirt, squirt,
*smooch, smooch*
BANG!

In October

A couple of years ago, someone I miss very much asked me to describe autumn in Arizona. I tried to do what he asked, and this is what came out. (All of my original musical references have been linked; with my apologies and appreciation to all of the artists.)

Legal warning: all persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

---------------------------------------------------
In October

There was a band in the late 1980's who took their name from a US spy plane, and they put out a spare, black & white album with spare, black & white songs full of dust and spindly trees. The sky I'm looking at is a full color version of the album cover, minus the pale, blurred Irish faces. The only blurred face within miles is mine.

I'm getting into a white Datsun hatchback with automatic transmission, which I'm not far from discovering it wasn't meant to have. I'm going off to school, and the music of that Irish band is pouring from my speakers. I'm trying to sing along - I am, after all, a vocal major - but I can't duplicate the delicate pain in that voice. It galls me, because I feel so superior to the androgynous man-boy singing the words. I am so certain I could write that song myself! The jealousy burns in me, and it will be years before I can deal with the fact that it is jealousy. I will never write a song like that. I will barely manage to sing it without my voice cracking.

But I will understand it.

After school, I will head to her house. She is still in high school, but now I am not, which means our relationship is now barely legal. I doubt her parents would tolerate me chasing after their daughter if I hadn't been there almost every day for almost four years. Everyone pretends that we are not lovers. Everyone knows we are.

But this time it's not the same. There has been someone else, and I'm enough of a fool - an honest and honorable one, I think - to tell her. I haven't "done the deed", but at our age, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that she herself was only the third or fourth female to show me any kind of romantic interest, or that I am vulnerable to the very idea that a fifth would come along. How do you explain that, when you are too young to understand it yourself?

So we sit in the Arizona room - a screened in patio area with lurid green astro-turf and wicker furniture - and she smokes cigarettes in defiance of her parents. Her mother sits stoically on the other side of the glass door, watching Oprah, and her father flits about through the kitchen, occasionally pulling out a show tune from the bench of the piano and playing it. He will play a song - "Stranger in Paradise" or "Lara's Theme" - once, and then put it away and go out to his car and leave. Two years later, she will be away at college when her sister finds what is hidden inside the piano.

We don't say much, because we know said sister is listening from her bedroom. She sits behind the screen quietly, with her stereo playing a bizarre mixture of 80's power ballads and this new kind of gritty metal music coming from Seattle. We don't want to corrupt her.

After stilted conversations about schoolwork and making half-hearted plans for the weekend, we get into my car. I have a predictable selection: Paul Simon's "Graceland",Peter Gabriel's "So" and "Us", Harry Connick, Jr.'s "When Harry Met Sally…" soundtrack, and "The Phantom of the Opera". There may be a leftover from summer, like the B-52's, and some Billy Joel, but she's gotten sick of those from driving around with me.

We drive to the new park they built in the canal. It only floods in late August and early September, if it floods at all. It is now October, and everyone feels pretty safe at the playground and on the volleyball court. It is, however, a little chilled, since the sun is blocked early down in the bottom of the canal. People are wearing sweat pants instead of shorts, and the cyclists are wearing thin windbreakers. The usual twenty to thirty degree drop in temperature at this time of year has given all of the children runny noses, and they play listlessly on the shiny new monkey bars, swings, slides, and merry-go-rounds.

We sit on the decorative river rocks that line the steep sides of the canal above the bike path. We are just under the bridge, and the traffic roaring by keeps anyone from eavesdropping. As though anyone would want to hear such whining and pleading. She doesn't. I take her to her house, and take a circuitous route home.

I end up at the park north of where they're going to build the new freeway. It will circle the whole city, they say. I don't believe it. By the time they finish it, the city will have grown around it like the belly of a fat man spilling out of his belt. I've even read articles asking for another loop even further out. You see the pattern, even if you're only a community college music student with no future.

The sun goes down slowly when you sit on top of a mountain. Even a worn and stooped hill like the one I'm on towers over the valley. If I was facing south, I could see all the way to South Mountain, where all of the radio and TV towers are. Facing east, I could see Camelback Mountain, sticking up from where it is pinched between extravagant wealth in Scottsdale and hopeless poverty in Sunnyslope. Driving around that one sorry hill is like driving from "Dallas" to "Sanford & Son" with a commercial break in between.

I am facing west, though. That's the direction I want to go. There is nothing out there, once you get past my house and the city where only the elderly live. Who named it "Youngtown", anyway? I hear that Irish band singing in my head again, and my mouth fills with a gust of dusty wind. Only two weeks ago it would have burned from baking in the harsh sun all day, but now it is slightly damp, and full of spores and pollen. No one could blame me for having to wipe my eyes and nose, and hurrying back to my car.

At home I call my friend, to see what he's up to. He's bored, and wants to go somewhere - how does west sound tonight? I am ready to agree even before he offers gas money, and I grab some supplies on the way out the door. Supplies are two sodas, and a few of mom's cookies.

We head west from his place, taking Bell Road through Sun City - which is Youngtown with a different mayor. We follow it until it becomes a dirt lined track, and then a dead end. We turn south until we find another major road. We are blaring Queen through the town of Buckeye, and stopping at the Circle K for more snacks for us and the car. We decide to head for Wickenburg, in the other direction. We've switched to Pogues, and we spit and curse along with the singer for twenty miles before the tape runs out. In the silence I tell him about her, and what I've done.

"Stop," he says, and I stop. He gets out of the car, in the dark, with the wind whipping across the flat land by the quiet road. He walks back up the road the way we came, and I get out, too. "Stay there," he orders, and I do. The car is off the road on the side, with the lights off, and I walk around it, looking up at the stars through the streaming wind-tears. I find Orion, and the Big Dipper, before I give up on keeping warm in a denim jacket and get back in the car.

When he comes back, I have James Taylor's Greatest Hits in. We ride in melancholy to Wickenburg, which is dark and empty with the hour and the wind. We feel empty, which could be some kind of hunger, and we turn around again, heading home. He wishes for the hundredth time that we were old enough to buy, and I agree. It won't be long.

I drop him off, and head back to my parent's house. It is too late, and there are words when I come in. It starts cordially - no one wants to offend anyone else. But, the words can all mean something else, and all three of us are wondering what I'm going to do, and how I'm going to do it. I can't stay a child forever. But I'm not a child. Which is why I should… But how can I when… I can feel my eyes glazing over, and I have a vision of squares talking in parallel about circles. I laugh. It is misconstrued, and I go off to bed.

I lie staring at the ceiling. The wind is still gusting, but tomorrow there will be more of the endless, cold sun. It loses some of its color along with the heat. The cold is only relative, but I think I can feel it, even though I've never lived through what some would call a "real" winter. Forty degrees is cold enough for me, and that's at least two months and twenty degrees away.

I think about something my friend said, while Shane Macgowan sang about whiskey and gutters. He marveled at my relationship. He said it gave him hope, and he hoped we would last forever. I tried not to tell him, but he could tell from my face. It broke his heart more than it did mine. It was why he had made me stop.

Years go by, with or without those you love. After a while, the songs are all that make sense. Their words aren't forgotten, though your own are. All you have left are images and temperatures, smells and sounds. They mingle with the memories, and the soundtracks take over the dialogue until you almost forget who did what to whom.

At least no matter how cold it gets, there is the sunshine, and the temptation to stay inside and pretend that it's warm.

------------------

Since I never mentioned U2's Joshua Tree album by name in the text, I thought I should do here. I resisted linking the line Under the Bridge in the text. You're welcome.

The Horrors; the Horrors

Originally posted Thursday, May 24, 2007

Our hands were clasped, and we gazed deeply into each others' eyes. We had run out of breath, our hearts were thudding with the passion of the moment. We heard music, and we were compelled at that moment to kiss.

We were barely sixteen, and a kiss like that seems like it lasts forever. But it didn't. We heard the crash of a door slamming open behind us, and we whirled around to face the one who had discovered us...

* * * * * * * * *

On the twenty-third day of the month of September, in the middle year of a decade not too long before our own, a young man was chosen to be the heroic lead in his high school's musical production of Little Shop of Horrors. In case you aren't familiar with this show, the "heroic lead" is not exactly heroic; he's more of a poorly dressed, awkward geek/dork/loser. And I was typecast in the role.

I'm not complaining; after all these years, I still love the part. I can still sing it, and could probably remember much of the dialogue. No, it was a blast, and I loved it. The whole cast did: Rick Marcus as the sadistic dentist; Keith channeling Levi Stubbs as the voice of the man-eating Plant; Paxton as Mr. Mushnik. Stacie, Julie, and... I don't remember our other girl, but Stacie could remind me... as the Brooklyn Greek chorus. And don't forget the band, tighter than any metaphor I could use in a high school setting.

But you may have noticed I didn't mention my female lead, yet. And that is because Alison, my girlfriend's best friend, was cast in the role of Audrey. Let us pause for a moment while you get all of your Jerry Springer associations out of your system, and talk about my high school romantic life.

If you recall an earlier blog entitled "The Monkee", you will have a good idea of what my love life was like during freshman year. Sophomore year looked to be a little better, as one of my choir mates seemed to take an interest in me. As thick-headed as I was, she eventually convinced me that I felt the same way, and we began an awkward, but very sweet, young relationship.

Along with this new girlfriend came something I had never had before, having grown up outside of the school district and attended a small church: a circle of social acquaintances. Suddenly, I was spending time outside of school with people my own age... and I liked it. But I came to notice that I wasn't nearly as into the relationship as the girlfriend was, and this presented a problem, since all of my new found friends were actually her friends.

What to do? I did what any socially awkward boy in my situation would probably do: I acted like a jerk. But this didn't seem to work. All it did was bring out the "concerned friend" in everyone around me, cautioning me that I wouldn't want to lose Her - the One Good Thing In My Life.

And then came the play. Being cast opposite Alison was no big deal to me, at first. I hadn't really read the play that closely. So, imagine my utter shock when I learned that we would have to kiss at the end of our big duet.

"You mean, we have to like, lean real close and just pretend, right?" I asked.

"No," said our no-nonsense director, "you are going to put your lips together and kiss for the last two measures of the song."

Everybody indulged in an "aw, cute" moment as Alison and I glanced at each other in horror. Everybody thought they knew why we were so floored, but I don't think they realized that the real problem was that I had not yet kissed my own girlfriend. Yeah, yeah, sweet sixteen and all that... I had a horrible choice to make. I had to move my relationship (which I didn't really want to be in) to a new level of intimacy that I didn't want to move to, or get my first kiss on a stage in front of who-knew-how-many people.

Alison was not enjoying the situation too much, either. You couldn't even call it a proper love triangle; I don't think it would even make a polygon. But in the end, I either summoned up courage, or I caved in to pressure (depending on how you look at it), and I kissed my first girlfriend after school one afternoon before play rehearsal.

It's hard to describe the weeks leading up to the show. My new found social status was building, and my budding romance was booming, and yet underneath it all, I was growing more and more unhappy about it all. I couldn't break up with this girl; after all, she was incredibly sweet, and loved by all. Not only that, but her life seemed to be a scary mess compared to the idyllic boyhood full of Star Wars men and long, solitary bike rides through the desert that I had grown up with.

It seemed every time I worked up the nerve to tell her that I thought we should end it, something would happen; her mother lost a job, her grandmother died, her alcoholic father came back to live with them... one thing after another for months on end. The only real escape for me was the play, where I was part of a team, doing something that we were increasingly proud of.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Which brings us to the dress rehearsal.

If you've never been in a theatrical production, you can't imagine the value of doing a "real" run-through, just to shake out all of the bugs. This is where the mistakes become apparent, and fixes can be made before opening night. For Alison and I, this was the moment of The Kiss. And for numerous reasons that I came to loathe later, our director had decided to make it an "open dress rehearsal". She wanted as many people as possible to come and watch, to see how we would handle the pressure of an actual performance.

How would you handle a "first kiss" in front of a jury of your bored peers?

We sang our hearts out, and we built that final note. Our hands were clasped, and we gazed deeply into each others' eyes. We had run out of breath, our hearts were thudding with the passion of the moment. We heard music, and we were compelled at that moment to kiss.

We were barely sixteen, and a kiss like that seems like it lasts forever. But it didn't. We heard the crash of a door slamming open behind us, and we whirled around to face the one who had discovered us... Mr. Mushnik.

Remember what I said about "bugs" in the production? Here was one: Mr. Mushnik's mustache. Paxton had insisted all along that he could grow a mustache for the production. He stopped shaving, I'll grant you, but after six weeks of rehearsal, he had only the barest whisper of hair fuzzing the vermilion of his lip. His lower lip. And so, come the night of dress rehearsal, Paxton showed up with a false mustache, and a bottle of spirit gum.

The spirit gum worked great through the first act, but after our big number, Mushnik & Son, perspiration overtook inspiration. What Alison and I did not know as we stood locked at the lip during the finale of "Suddenly, Seymour", was that Paxton had gone in search of an alternate solution to the false mustache. Thus, when he crashed through the door, startling our hero and heroine in love's stolen embrace, we whirled to find Paxton standing before us... with a "Charlie Brown" zigzag drawn on his upper lip in brown dry erase marker.

Alison was lucky; her part called for her to run offstage in tears, which she apparently found very easy to do. I, on the other hand, had to face Mr. Mushnik and look "scared", when what I really wanted to do was drop to the stage and roll around in gales of trouser-soiling laughter.

It gets worse.

Paxton's next bit of dialogue leads to the "ah-ha" moment, where Mr. Mushnik accuses Seymour of doing in the dentist, and cries "...I found THIS!" as he pulls the dentist's blood-soaked smock from a nearby trash barrel.

Instead, Paxton cried "...I found THIS!".... and frowned into the trash barrel for a moment before saying, "I must have left it in the other barrel," and dashing backstage to find his prop.

And there I stood, onstage, every emotion my hormone-riddled body could evoke, fighting for it's chance to surface. The music kept vamping -- a four-bar repeat of the "Oh, dear" music -- and I started to make stuff up.

I have no idea what I said. Something like, "Oh, dear! Oh, me!/What can it be?/What kind of evidence could he have on me?" Like Shel Silverstein on Tin Pan Alley. I was actually told by some kids who were there that when they saw the official version of the show later that week, they were disappointed that part wasn't in there again!

But the point is that, like all awkward moments, this one passed. I kept my head, somehow, and managed to survive it. The show, the kissing, the inevitable break-up... as difficult as it seemed at the time, all of it eventually worked out. Sure, it could have gone better, but then, it was all a kind of dress rehearsal, wasn't it? I like to think I did better in the "Real Show" because of it.

And the moral of the story, of course, is one that anyone with an ounce of common sense will tell you without going through all of the pain and agony: if you can't grow it yourself, you're better off without a mustache.