I can’t remember the last time a song made me cry, but toward the end of Mike Acerbo’s evocative, engrossing CD, THE SEARCH, it happens. “Robbie” chronicles Acerbo’s soul-kept memories of his childhood best friend, who drowned in the Delaware river when he was in his early teens. But the images this poet evokes bear neither a scintilla of schmaltz nor a hint of histrionic melodrama.  No, he allows his memories speak for themselves in the simplest of fragments, both heartbreaking and tragic. His pain is palpable, as you ache alongside his longing. Yet, even when describing the indescribable, his pen whispers in heart-wrenching profundity:

“Oh, the water flooded you…there were angels on air…
Had I known your fire would simmer in that river, shimmering…sparkling stars up to the sky…
I would have fought with every angel…”

The rest of this gorgeous self-released album isn’t so saddled with tears. THE SEARCH is about just that, as he sojourns his soul and the ghosts that linger, and the fantastical world he inhabits, for answers sometimes – and sometimes not – found. I’m reluctant to use “fairytale” to describe these pieces because they strike such a cathartic and emotional innate chord in Acerbo, and the listener, that these are more “truth tales”.

From the fanciful carnival feast of “Blueberry Moon” (“I take a stroll there’s a blueberry moon peering above the treetops…”), to the quiet devastation at the intangibility of his “Mother”, who passed away from breast cancer when he was only 14 (“…keep the candle burning through the window pain so that I may find my way again to your embrace…it held me near, hold me near again…where is your embrace…?”); from the questionable nature of love itself – is it a “Fairytale Love” (“…you rode in on your horse of gold, swept me away, we were bold…”) or is the very idea of love a fairy tale (“…this is not real…this is not real…”)? – to the dark forces sometimes winning the war between light and despair in the breathtaking “Trilby” (“…her lips scarred and torn from a  thousand misplaces kisses…she’s been dancing with so many men, none of them would love her and that little girl is a stone woman now…”); from the irony of the country-tinged sound waves of the exhilarating “Where The River Meets The Sea” juxtaposed with its escapist, almost ironic, lyricism (“…I’m sitting here upstream next to a fading fire, thinking about my life and knowing there’s got to be a better place…”) to the often psychologically manipulating terrain of unrequited love in “Like The Tide” (“…I am the nothing that you see, when you look into my eyes…I am the empty well you’ve drunk dry, you are like the tide…”) – track after track Acerbo bares his soul with mystical stories layered in intricate imagery and truth – some dark, some tinged in hope, some reticent – each all-too human.

While each song is a monument in itself, this collection is really fully realized as a whole, from the start of the voyage until the finish. The album ends with “The Night Light” and the cautionary hope that perhaps love isn’t really a pipe dream, that despite those battles with the aforementioned darkest forces, it can bloom into fruition (“…I can feel the heart of the masses, I can see the tired eyes and hear the hatred…if you grasp it, we ain’t gonna make it…don’t you know that the night light in your hands baby, is a fire that will lead you to my darkened heart…”) – maybe all one needs to accomplish this is to detoxify  the soul of such influences.

If Acerbo’s voice sometimes struggles to keep up with the glorious melodies he writes, or sounds strained, or if a few tracks get mired in the layered production, it’s those imperfections that make such songs like the brilliant “Beast”  (the other side of the mirror, so to speak, to Stevie Nicks’ classic “Beauty And The Beast”, with the viewpoint of the beast himself) ring true; he’s not overtly concerned with sounding pretty (though he mostly does), he merely needs to tell his stories. And we sit there, enraptured by his pen, swirling in sonic paintings that are so ineffaceable – and even archetypal – they become tattoos to your soul. (It would be remiss of me not to mention Acerbo’s extraordinary band – their vast taut musicality never loses focus and at times, on varying cuts, actually reign Acerbo’s vocal flippancy back on track.)

From the images of castles, forests, dreams, witches and beasts, to the swooping melodic cadences, to the vulnerability-masqueraded-as-fortitude, the muses of Acerbo’s past might appear to be obvious. But appearances can be deceiving, for his is a singular pen, and when such muses are perceptible, he never stoops to mimicry, rather he heralds their aesthete, learning from the masters while forging his own unique identity as a dazzling modern troubadour for the still-new millennium.

And that he does so with some of the most haunting, ravishing and indelible melodies is merely icing.

My grade: A

Order (and sample) THE SEARCH via CD BABY, BandCamp, and iTunes.

Here’s the full music video to the album’s first single, “Trilby”:

Sorry, I ain’t buying Wendy Williams’ spurious bullshit. Making Whitney’s death all about her is tacky enough, but this is the woman who was relentless on outing Houston and her best friend Robyn as lesbians back in her radio days. She’s been an interminable bully for years – to Whitney and various other celebrities – when (and why?!?) have people started taking this category 5 phony seriously? Her tears are about as authentic as the hair on her ginormous head.

To flirt with rescue when one has no intention of being saved...

“The” voice – unmistakable, unparalleled, almost extraterrestrial – has been silenced. We do not know why, yet, and it’s a fool who’ll assume before the cause is revealed, but in everyone’s heart we think we know. Whatever the cause, one of the great magical voices in pop music, Whitney Houston, is now gone.

Her superhuman vocal athleticism was incontestable, but never overshadowed the intricacy of her delivery. Beneath the bombast of her version of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You”, for example, you hear the vulnerability of Parton’s lyricism – Houston didn’t allow the pomposity and over-production to deter the song’s bittersweet delicacy, even when belting the modulated chorus to unnecessary crescendos. In another #1 hit, “Didn’t We Almost Have It All”, you can practically hear the tears in her defiant assertion. In the best – and even the worst – of her catalog, her Herculean gifts were always obvious.

(Lest I’m accused, I won’t play revisionist – I was never a fan of Houston’s music at its beginning. It wasn’t until her fourth album, MY LOVE IS YOUR LOVE, that I connected to her innate persona. Houston found a groove befitting her natural gifts – it burst with a mixture of kinetic energy, and finally, clarity. She finally delivered on the soul she owed – and that we craved – for years.)

It’s also a fool who’ll try to discuss Houston without mentioning those damned demons. Her voice, once a wonder of the world, had sadly deteriorated over the past decade or so due to that years-long decline into the abyss of self-destruction. Her lucidity gone, her range limited, by the time her last CD, 2009s “comeback” I LOOK TO YOU, was released, her once absolute voice had dissipated into an unfocussed grasp – sad for a singer whose mightiest gift was that of vocal command.

I’ve often been accused of cold heartedness  when I voice my low sympathy levels for addiction deaths and received a lot of flack over the years in my belief that if addiction is a disease – and I’m not stating it’s not – it is the only disease that is curable by the addict. I still believe that.

But it makes it no less heart-wrenching for all the victims, including the self-inflicted.

As the world mourns the death of a musical legend, I can only sit here and bow my head. Not again, not again.

]]> http://mynewboyfriend.com/2012/02/12/legacy-rip-whitney-houston/feed/ 0 jeffreychrist Whitney Houston http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/12/31/well-take-a-cup-of-kindness/ http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/12/31/well-take-a-cup-of-kindness/#comments Sat, 31 Dec 2011 23:04:17 +0000 jeffreychrist http://mynewboyfriend.com/?p=3375 ]]>

When George Baily gave up all hope, Clarence, an angel-in-waiting, needed to show him that his life had more meaning that he could ever have fathomed. How, as mere mortals, was George (and all of us, actually) able to grasp the profundity that every being effects/affects every other being he/we come in contact with? Stephen Sondheim touched upon that message too, in the song “No One Is Alone”,  from INTO THE WOODS: “You move just a finger, say the slightest word…something’s bound to linger…be heard…you are not alone…” (that show touches me on a deeper level than any other of his masterpieces – and that’s saying a lot coming from a self-proclaimed Sondheimite.)

2011 was too rough a year for too many people I love, so my hope is for a 2012 that is filled with promise and peace and prosperity – mentally, monetarily too, but most importantly, soulfully. I know these are clichés, but clichés are clichés for a reason – because they are borne of truth.

The power of intestinal fortitudinous is mighty. It’s a fundamental, natural gift we all born with, and it lives within the caverns of our deepest souls. It is revitalized in need, during our darkest times, resurrected right on the cusp of us giving up. But we never give up – it won’t allow us to. For we are the captains of our own souls and the creators of our own fates…we survive.

But we also need to be the people that we can actually look into the mirror at…and be more than that reflection, not less.

Happy 2012. Bring it on.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to mind? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne…

For auld lang syne, my dear, 
For auld lang syne. 
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne…

]]> http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/12/31/well-take-a-cup-of-kindness/feed/ 1 jeffreychrist Screen shot 2011-12-31 at 4.23.05 PM http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/12/30/music-box-music-report-card-my-favorite-cds-of-2011/ http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/12/30/music-box-music-report-card-my-favorite-cds-of-2011/#comments Sat, 31 Dec 2011 00:40:38 +0000 jeffreychrist http://mynewboyfriend.wordpress.com/?p=3328 ]]> (Hey, I’m my own worst editor, so beware my pontificating. If you wanna edit me pro bono, I’m all ears. Call me.)

Though my lack of writing of late has more to do with my ADD than it does with any laziness to share my opinion (something I rarely have any problem with), it’s hard writing about music sometimes. I’ve been writing my Musical Report Card for decades in some capacity – every year, I write a Best and Worst list, something I’ve been doing for all those years. I used to post reviews on Amazon; during the early Aughts, I would send out my Musical Report Card to a distribution list with hundreds of names on it; I would post the MRC on my now-defunct Myspace blog too, and during the prehistoric, pre-Internet years, I had little outlet other than to print the occasional article in my school newspaper. Yet, lately, my thoughts are stunted. I’ll listen to a CD I love, yet words and thoughts sometimes fail to converge with the actual pen and paper. I do jot down thoughts randomly, but more often than not, they’re within the limits of a 140 character tweet or a Facebook post. And I don’t have an explanation for such.

What’s the point of writing if you’re not going to share, no matter how often you set those thoughts to text or how short the scroll? And, if you have your own blog you apparently love, why squander your opines by allowing  your words to sit on your desktop as a word document?

So, what better way to divulge my tastes than to join the countless other “Best & Worst of the Year” chicaneries that the rest of the blogosphere and printed world do? I’m always loath to use the term “best” and/or “worst”, though I do it often. Taste is subjective, and my tastes buds are no more or less superior to yours (I mean, unless you like Katy Perry. Than mine are more superior, clearly). So, let’s just call this list what it really is – my favorite CDs of these past twelve months.

However, I won’t limit myself to a ‘ten’ or a ‘dozen’ or even a ‘baker’s dozen’ (as I usually do). And these are in no real particular order, really. Perhaps the first three or four are in preference (they are my most listened to albums on my iTunes chart), but as the list progresses, I just relish the incandescent moments that 2011 has nourished my soul with. Beware my pontification.

Perusing the lyrics of fellow Odd Future members’ solo works, one has to wonder how Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean coalesce in the same universe, let alone that Rap collective. “I’m stabbing any blogging faggot hipster with a pitchfork” Tyler sermonizes on “Yonkers”, from his latest CD, GOBLIN, whose title cut assures, “I’m not homophobic, faggot”. (there are plenty more “fags”, “faggots” and “dykes” polluting the CD). Ocean, on the other end of the musical, well, ocean, muses, “I believe that marriage isn’t between a man and woman but between love and love…” The apparent incongruent beliefs between two members of the same group are astounding – but while I’m completely oblivious to Odd Future’s artistic output, with what I’ve heard of their solo works, Tyler is Jackie Collins to Ocean’s Ernest Hemingway. Pissed at Def Jam’s obvious lack of interest (fear?) in releasing nostalgia/ULTRA, Ocean took to his Tumblr account last February and posted this exhilarating opus himself. Amazing word of mouth tempted Def Jam to announce an “official” release for this past summer, but thankfully that didn’t happen – from the apocalyptic Coldplay revision that’ll make you weep, to his improving the Eagles classic, albeit, intolerable, “Hotel California” as the most profound dissection of marriage and divorce I’ve heard in years (the next time I actually hear the guitar refrain on classic Rock radio, I’ll think of Ocean) to invoking Stanley Kubrik (Nicole Kidman via EYES WIDE SHUT)  and writing the best dentist/sex song since Lonnie Johnson’s “Toothache Blues”, from his reworking  MGMT’s “Electric Feel” as a tearful ode to his father – this “unofficial” work of art cements the uncleared samples intact and his genius lyricism blooms under his own terms.

Getting soft as I slowly sludge toward middle age, my natural aversion to ‘quirk’ seems to – on a whim of its own – dissipate most randomly. I realized this months ago while absorbing the tUnE-yArDs’ w h o k i l l,  an outré of anomalous sounds, Afro-Pop rhythms, and Merrill Garbus’ remarkable vox voicing daftly brilliant, sometimes cryptic lyrics in dexterous wordplay, juxtaposed and intertwined within unwonted rhythmic cadences. What appears an overwhelming fragmentation of various soundscapes on initial listen morphs into a deeply and beautifully cacophonous yet cohesive whole. Gargus is a true heteroclite in the best sense of the word and what separates her opus from the typical hipster oeuvre is, for all its seeming chichi-ness, there’s no preconceived pretentiousness about this collection – it’s pure congenital joy. True, I might have no idea what it all means, but I had a helluva time trying to figure it all out. And will continue to do so.

It would be easy to proclaim that the neophyte chanteuse of 2008s 19 had “passed the audition” if that collection were even merely subpar – it wasn’t; despite its Brit-soul clichés, it was her supernal instrument that elevated it beyond mediocrity. But what a difference a few years makes. I’m loath to use an overused cliché like “concept”, but Adele’s 21 is the break-up album of this century, an astonishing collection with a musical and lyrical depth that seems to gainsay her youth. The wisdom of the content alone sears the soul, from the guttural gospel stomp of the nouveau-classic “Rolling In The Deep” to the shattering “Someone Like You”, which laser-beams straight into your heart and decimates it on contact (dole out a little extra for the deluxe edition – the live version will scorch your heart apart until you’re weeping in the dark), the emotional range of “Turning Tables” and “Take It All” to the country-tinged heartbreak of “Don’t You Remember”. That she’s able to transcend genres – from gospel to country to rock to soul – is testament to her power, and because of that soaring gift (the “voice of God”, according to Beyonce), very little sounds like filler or fodder, even the loungey arrangement on the Cure’s “Lovesong”. A revelation.

Van Hunt’s excellent Grammy-nominated debut was released during the over-saturation of neo-soul releases that defined the early aughts, but he refused to be shackled into that wheelhouse for too long. With each sequential release, he announces that he’s infinitely more than meets the eye – or ears. WHAT WERE YOU HOPIN FOR? explodes with a concoction of shimmery sounds, punk overtures, sweet psychedelic soul melodies, and hard rock conventions, resulting in a non-conformist artist finally finding his own id. His anonymity is a crime.

Not so committed that I take real-life couple Chuck Cleaver and Lisa Walker’s lyrics as autobiography, but reading lines from Wussy’s STRAWBERRY like “You removed the ampersand from in between your name and mine…” and “Does he cross all your T’s, does he dot all your I’s, does he tell you more believable lies?” conjure enough guttural devastation that I can’t help but think of the two greatest couples-in-turmoil albums of all time, Richard and Linda Thompson’s SHOOT OUT THE LIGHTS and Fleetwood Mac’s RUMOURS. Am I totally being selfish if I’m thrilled at the prospective art if they’re soon-to-be-exes? This is Wussy’s fifth great album in a row. How often can any band stake that claim?

The music’s harder than on the triumphant THE WAY I SEE IT, and like that neo-classic, Raphael Saadiq’s STONE ROLLIN’ is never hook-deficient. Once again stitching together indelible grooves, Philly Soul, Motown, Stax, rockabilly, rhythm and blues, nothing sounds or feels pastiche.  And if it’s less the traditionalist archetype than the predecessor, as one friend suggested, well, that’s the problem with a preceding musical piece of heaven-on-earth: duplication anticipation. Either/or, it’s not for Saadiq’s lack of intestinal fortitude or his one-man-band aesthetic but rather maybe a more precluded notion of song in lieu of musical fluidity. But, hey, for what that’s worth, I’ve danced to no other music harder this year.

If anyone tells you that there’s anything derivative about Foster the People’s debut album, tell them to get over their highfalutin selves. Foster – and TORCHES – isn’t out to change the world, and only the tin-eared would deny the delicious, significant sing along melodies and contagious choruses.  Teetering on the edge between dance music and experimentation, they craft the hookiest treat for the ears in recent memory.

Will we ever know (or fully comprehend) the impetus behind Eef Barzelay’s bizarre spelunking of the Journey catalog? I mean, fucking JOURNEY?!?! Weren’t they, like, the worst band of the 1980s? Okay, so not really (hello, Whitesnake!) But it makes sense in this GLEE realm we live in – it is GLEE, after all (and to some extent, THE SOPRANOS), that is to “blame” for their resurrection. Bizarre as it might appear to be, it not only works, CLEM SNIDE’S JOURNEY is awe-inspiring. This gorgeous EP provides a case-by-case testimony that, under all the histrionic vocal sonics and musical bombast, perhaps Steve Perry and company were tunesmiths of the highest caliber.  And they prove it all under 30 minutes. Hey, I never doubted Eef for a minute. Okay, for a minute. Or two.

You can keep Ne-Yo. You can have Usher and Trey Songz. And for all I care, you can throw Chris Brown in the garbage deposit he no doubt bathes in (I wouldn’t wish him on my enemies.) When I want to hear valid R&B, I throw on Anthony Hamilton. That voice, a hot-and-bothered potion of sex-god masculinity and romantic vulnerability, has never been creamier than on his exemplary latest, BACK TO LOVE, with a voice still as rich as marshmallows dipped in honey. Far and away, this is the best Soul release of this year. And last. Hell, probably next.

Miranda Lambert didn’t need the Pistol Annies. As the greatest country artist to emerge from any reality-based TV show (she came in as second runner up on the now-defunct NASHVILLE STAR), she’s released four albums of dynamite, and one certified country classic (her second release, 2007s CRAZY EX-GIRLFRIEND) and has become a megastar. But with HELL ON HEELS, Lambert, Ashley Monroe and Angaleena Presley combine their collective talents to form a semi-supergroup, with an emphasis on luxurious and taut harmonies with an emphasis on smart lyricism.

Of course Mary Black’s STORIES FROM THE STEEPLES is magical – that’s par for the course. But how is it that her voice is actually richer than it was when I first fell in total love with her back in 1985? Is it wisdom with age? Perhaps. But it’s also an artist with a new appreciation of her art. After six long years away, I’m infatuated once again by the stories she embodies and delighted to revel in her sumptuousness. Welcome back, Mary.

Sadly, Poly Styrene’s solo album, GENERATION INDIGO, was released a day after her death back on April 25th, nearly three decades after her only other solo debut TRANSLUCENCE, and we suddenly realize what we have when it’s no longer here. Dosed in dub-step, reggae, lite-punk, dance-pop, synth-rock, her vocals tinge between effusive and determined (the album was recorded before her breast cancer was diagnosed), coalescing with her political leanings, her naive musings, and undaunted humanity.

Perhaps too ambitious, Fucked Up’s DAVID COMES TO LIFE (David being David Eliade, the “quasi-full time manager/promoter” of the band, and also their inspiration. Sweet.) goes beyond mere punk opera or concept album. While their fan base is hard at work, I’m sure, at  making a concrete correlation between David-as-man man and David-as-concept-album, what matters to the Fucked Up novice (read: me)  is the stunning benchmark of striking, melodic steadfastness of lead singer Damian Abraham with the dense, layered, and also beautiful songcraft.  Because, let’s face it, without the harmonious overflow, Abraham would be indistinguishable from many a hardcore howler.  Though, what a howler he is.

I won’t be a revisionist – I’ve had fun mocking Lady Gaga at every whim over the years, and while my admiration grew from jovial disdain to admiration back in 2010 (I wrote about it earlier this year), musically I still wasn’t satisfied. Until BORN THIS WAY. I’m happy that the pre-proclaimed promise of the “Greatest album of this decade!” (oh, Stephanie…) wasn’t even close. What it was was – and is – an anthology of rousing mini-pop operas – fast, furious, funny, heartfelt – from a colossally famous performance artist devoted not only to humanitarian causes and equality, but adjoins that uber stardom, humility and earthiness with a heretofore unseen allegiance to her fans (proving she’s the antithesis of the artist she’s often compared to, Madonna). That the songcraft is finally top tier is merely icing. Plus, it contains the best  HONKY CHATEAU B-side (“You And I”) that Elton John never wrote.

The tales on Fountain Of Wayne’s SKY FULL OF HOLES aren’t necessarily archetypal – whether the one about the father who escapes his routine life, and racing his own mortality, by imagining himself an action hero, or the fallen soldier saying goodbye to his love from beyond the grave, or two childhood friends who fail again and again at business adventures, or a guy writing his gal a road song even though he doesn’t sound like Steve Perry. But they are deeply resonant. “Stacey’s Mom” wasn’t a one-shot, folks – they’ve got nothing to prove, two excellent albums later.

Duncan Sheik morphed from 1990’s one-hit-wonder (the ubiquitous “Barely Breathing”) into a Tony/Grammy-winning Broadway darling (the groundbreaking SPRING AWAKENING), but with COVER 80s, Sheik personalizes his synth-pop 45rpm collection to deliver a strangely alluring and unlikely intriguing experience. Some monster hits (e.g. Thompson Twins’ “Hold Me Now”, Tears For Fears’ “Shout”), some obscure enough (The Blue Nile’s “Stay”, Japan’s “Gentlemen Take Poloroids”), he renders these tracks not as unrecognizable (too often the bane of covers) but strips them sparingly and imbues many with a peculiar dichotomy of breezy gloom, almost a sweet darkness, sometimes altering their distinct melodies to showcase that at the core of the heavily polished, synthesized exteriors of the superficially upbeat ditties often lie lyrics that belie such arrangements. None of this isn’t to imply that COVERS 80’s is a dank experience – it’s not – it’s a starkly lovely summation from a long-underrated artist.  Helping out with vocal flourishes are Holly Brook (AKA Skylar Gray) and Rachael Yamagata, who add to the ethereality as a whole.

There were so many other tasty treats my ears feasted on this year, any one of which I could have written in fuller detail in lieu of any of the above. Some examples: Brad Paisley’s THIS IS COUNTRY MUSIC is the follow-up to his masterpiece, AMERICAN SATURDAY NIGHT and “suffers” the same “problem” as the aforementioned Raphael Saadiq – you can’t always repeat a magnum opus. And Paisley, like Saadiq, doesn’t even care to try, which doesn’t discount the man’s talent for hooks and a new-traditionalist voice for the ages; Fleet Foxes HELPLESSNESS BLUES procures the title as angelic folk rock anti-heroes and all the iridescent harmonious beauty that entails – be forewarned, though – the text nearly promises to weigh it (way) down; Chris Cornell’s live/acoustic SONGBOOK proves that, besides being my first Rock N Roll love/crush, he remains one of the great singers of the Rock N Roll era, a voice that can not be denied, an underrated force of nature parallelled by few; in a succession of great releases since her late 90s comeback, Marianne Faithfull’s HORSES AND HIGH HEELS, demonstrates the wondrous actress behind the songs – always immersing herself within the lyrics, embodying the soul of each; Garland Jeffreys THE KING OF IN BETWEEN,  a great comeback where he exhibits, miraculously at 67, the best album of his long, criminally overlooked career; Tom Waits’ BAD AS ME doesn’t coast on his métier but rather embellishes an already artistic resurrection with his most rocking – and confident – set of  tunes since signing to Anti- over a decade ago; and who would’ve thought that, at 70, Paul Simon, would gift us with SO BEAUTIFUL OR SO WHAT his most contemplative and important work since GRACELAND? The star of the show on The Civil Wars’ BARTON HOLLOW is the intricate delicacy of John Paul White and Joy Williams’ harmonies, never flourishing the personal lyrics unnecessarily with overt twang or pomposity. It’ll leave you breathless.

And an honorable mention has to go to the following, which I’m sure will illicit snickers, laughs and derision. Bring it on, because how serious (or not) you take William Shatner’s SEEKING MAJOR TOM is how serious (or not) you take William Shatner. And I take him as serious (or not) as any Beat Poet from the 60s of Def Poetry Jam of recent times. His spoken word performance art has gathered a cult following since his TRANSFORMED MAN was unearthed thanks to the great/awful GOLDEN THROATS series back in the early 90s, and further into the hipster hierarchy thanks to Ben Folds, who recorded an album with him called HAS BEEN almost a decade ago. SEEKING MAJOR TOM, is indeed bloated by its own excesses – at twenty tracks, it could benefit a trimming (e.g. cutting the inexcusably awful “Iron Man” and out-of-place campy “Bohemian Rhapsody”, which almost reduces Shatner’s objective to a too-easy farce). And remaking his own remake of Elton John’s “Rocket Man” (the genesis of Shatner’s cultism) as low-key lament, reclining his own original blustering approach, negates (perhaps intentionally) that cult. But by the time Sheryl Crow’s haunting cover of K.I.A.’s “Mrs. Major Tom” midway, which imbues David Bowie’s fictional title character with an unexpected humanity and stops you in your emotional tracks, you’re not only rooting for his safe return, you’re doing so with a tear in your eye and cheer a silent cheer when he finally makes it home.

What do Bon Iver, David Cook, Owl City and Limp Bizkit have in common? They’re not on this list. There on that  other one I’ll write this week (or next). You know, the Pretty Shitty list, AKA, the “Worst”. I’ll be posting it in the coming days or so. If I feel up to task revisiting the horrors.

Even as an unapologetic non-believer in myths and fairies and tall-tales (you know, religion), I’ve always adored Christmas and all that it entails – the principle of the holiday, the spirit of love and compassion and the conceptual peace-on-Earth-good-will-toward-men. Naïve, perhaps, maybe even foolish; some might proclaim (as I’ve done so very often) that reality dictates it is not love that makes the world go round, but money, greed, hate and intolerance. And, more often than not, they are masqueraded in the religious dogma that, ironically – and speciously – enough, they allege opposition to.

But it is not – and never was, for me – the religious doctrine of its mythology, rather the ideal of the season, and I never let that aforementioned reality imbue my unabashed immersion of Christmastime and the power that rescinds that reality.

Sorta like Linus explains…

Specifically, his last paragraph.

For me, Christmas is my partner. Christmas is my family. Christmas is my friends. Christmas is believing, if even for a nanosecond, that perhaps love – and not hate – makes the world go round, or at least our love makes our worlds go round – those of us fortunate enough to have love, family and friends.

**********

Many, many years ago, once upon a time when I was a wannabe songwriter and self-proclaimed poet, I wrote this little poem below, and while the innate message is of hope and love, this Christmas poem was crafted during my dark ages – a period in my life I look back upon only in abstract awe that I actually ever survived. Perhaps those stories are better left hidden within the storehouses of my soul. But whatever demons resurrected in my lifetime, I, again, never let them deter my adoration of the holiday spirit.

What has made my heart smile over the years is knowing that friends I cherish love this poem. Especially those with children. After copyrighting it years ago, I hand-wrote it (ah, the lost art of the handwritten word!) inside the Christmas cards I sent that year and the response was lovely and surprising. It was such a simple thing – it actually rhymed! – yet, throughout the following years friends told me they actually read it to their children! How can my soul not gleam at the thought that my unsophisticated words of optimism in darkness would bring such light to others? I was honored and deeply humbled. As I still am.

And, as uncomplicated as it might be, it is how I feel throughout the holidays…and I share it here because if it can possibly put the smallest smile on a face, then it’s worth sharing. It’s not a monumental work of staggering genius. It is not of epic proportions. It’s totally unsophisticated and sanguine. But it, simply, is. And I wish for all who read this – friends, family, strangers – the most magical of holidays. Set asunder your beliefs or non-beliefs, whatever your religious or non-religious persuasions. Forgo the animosity you might imbibe in a world you might find indifferent. Even for a scintilla of a moment, will it hurt for anyone to just…believe?

Christmas Angel
(a holiday dream…)

Where is the snow at Christmastime?
Where are the songs that I sing in rhyme?
They’re inside your heart and they ring in time
Open your soul…let your soul shine

Christmas angel
Sing to me
Meadowlark
Don’t abandon me
Santa Claus
I need you now
Don’t want the Grinch
Coming around

So I dance in the flight of the snow-white dove
As I swallow the flakes as they land on my tongue
And I carol all night to the ivory and pine
With chestnuts afire…an intervention divine?
While the children playing with the snowman, pleased
Creating snow angels at the trunks of the trees
And I thank you, Christmas angel, for bringing me here
Even ol’ Mr. Scrooge full of holiday cheer

Christmas angel
Sings to me
Meadowlark
Lets me fly on her wing
And Santa Claus has come to town
I knew he’d never let me down
He never ever lets me down

@1996 SageSong Musings

Believe it or not, I never saw the Broadway show the film is based on, which was wildly entertaining, according to my friends who actually did see it and whose opinions matter to me. It sounds like pure camp-heaven, so eventually I’ll get off my highfalutin horse and stroll on over to the Helen Hayes Theater to have a good ol’ time.

As fantastic as the show sounds, and appears to be, there are some major hurdles in the trailer for the film version of ROCK OF AGES.

For one, Russell Brand and Julianne Hough are in it. And it’s directed by the not-always reliable Adam Shankman, so strike one, two and, well, two-and-a-half by fiat.

Secondly, Alec Baldwin and Paul Giamatti are great comic actors, but when actors are blatantly winking at the viewer, it sorta negates the camp appeal it’s aiming for (I like my camp unintentional).

Thirdly, the soundtrack consists of the best/worst music from the cheesiest era in Rock N Roll history, the mighty 80s, e.g. Journey, Whitesnake, Quiet Riot, Styx etc. But, actually, this might work in its favor, as tit’s performed as, again, camp , which, if you think about it, is the only way one can perform Journey, Whitesnake, Quiet Riot, Styx etc. “seriously”.)

Lastly, the trailer is pretty dreadful:

See.  Yet, I can’t muster a reasonable rationale as to why I can’t wait to see it. I never (okay, rarely) judge a film by its trailer, but there’s something intriguing about this wreckage that compels me to want to see it.

Oh, and P.S. While nothing will ever make me believe he’s anything other than a raving lunatic,I’m about to say something I’ve never ever said – even at the height of his fame – Tom Cruise look friggin’ hot! I know, it’s my evergreen lust for dirty, long-haired rockers. Even the faux ones.

It’s hard to believe that, as a native New Yorker, it’s been over 3 decades since my first – and last – visit to the Statue Of Liberty. It was during a 4th grade class trip, years before it was closed (from 1984 – 1986) for a much needed face-and-body lift. As someone who’s loath to tourist attractions, I’ve avoided revisiting. Now, it’s set to close again this week for further multimillion dollar (re)construction. (After the September 11 attacks in 2001, it was closed for reasons of safety and security; the pedestal reopened in 2004 and the statue in 2009, with limits on the number of visitors allowed to ascend to the crown.)

There are no elaborate celebratory plans to commemorate this 125th birthday milestone, so I decided to pay tribute myself by posting the celestial Patti LaBelle (accompanied by the late, great Billy Preston on organ) saluting Lady Liberty in a great 1986 July 4th concert that aired to fête the 1986 re-opening, which coincided with her 100th birthday. It’s an other-worldly gospel performance so joyful it almost made this atheist a god-fearing believer! (I said almost!)

Happy Birthday Lady Liberty. I promise to visit you soon, that is, once you’re available for company…

…and a big thank you, again, to my dear, beautiful friend Donna Falcone – in my counltess moves in my life, I’ve lost hundreds of photos – and when I reached out to her, she was kind enough to send me the two pictures of George that are in this post. Thank you again, Donna…for allowing me to display George’s timelessness…

*****

Encomium 9/11: George Merkouris

The loss was staggering, and so much has been saturating our lives since that day 2 years ago. So, I wanted to pay tribute to the only FDR graduate I personally knew [or know of] who perished on that diabolical day. If you, too, know someone who was ripped from our lives, or knew who George Merkouris was, please, join me in our sojourn back…

I hadn’t seen George in almost 20 years. He graduated in 1983, I, in 1985, but what I learned from him resounds within the storehouse of my soul even today. He held me as a friend at a time I felt socially awkward. He was the most popular person in his class, “Mr. FDR”. As popular and well known as I was, it was still hard being a gay teenager, especially in the early 80s. Some knew and loved me anyway, and I felt protected by those forces. George was one of those friends who told me he did not care – and that I should not care – his exact words were “one day the world will catch up…” How profound. We performed in 3 Sings together, and the International Festival of the Arts, where his enchanting twin sister, Anna, was one of the choreographers. One of the wonders of my high-school life was being a part of Senior Sing even though I was a Junior. George was one of those who argued on my behalf, stating since I was an “Honorary Senior” [actually being voted that later that year by the Senior powers-that-be] I deserved to be part of their Sing.

I still think of one of the funniest experiences we shared together. George and I did a mutual friend of ours (the magical Lenore Pavlakos) a favor and performed, outside FDR, a dance routine from “Cats” for the late Marie Haney’s dance studio. During one of our countless, strenuous rehearsals, we had to simulate a ‘cat fight’ and one of the moves required George to flip me over his shoulder and I had to land in a Russian split behind him. Well, needless to say the first time wasn’t a success, and I smashed my head on the floor. What could one do? Well, George laughed his proverbial ass off! So, with his infectious laugh so damned addictive, I had no choice but to stay on the floor, writhing in pain, stars swirling around the outside of my head, laughing my proverbial ass off as well. Of course he was concerned, but it was a sight to behold! How can one NOT laugh?

Once he graduated in 1983, I saw him a few times until I graduated in 1985. Every so often I would see him in the streets and he’d give me one of those enormous George bear hugs, letting me know that his life was good – he would never let us part until I let him know that, yes, my life was good too.

Naturally my infatuation with George lasted for all the years in high school. Gay or straight, I would say that most people had some sort of crush on this luminous, wacky, intelligent, hilarious, reflective, insanely funny, beautiful, wise man…a man whose smile would spill a cascade of dancing quivers down one’s spine. And, oh, what a dancer!I used to call him a ‘Greek Guido’, because of his dancing and overpowering proclivity toward that crowd of young men. He’d laugh at my remark, because he knew that I knew he was a chameleon and that it didn’t matter what class of people, or what race of students, or what gender – he glowed! Everyone called him “Friend”. And he liked that. It was effortless for one to love him.

****

It was Jimmy Falcone who called me up months later to tell me that he found out that George was one of the victims. And sadness permeated so prodigiously within that I wept again. I spelunked my closets and re-discovered photos from all those years ago…look at George dancing next to me in Junior Sing [yes, I was Junior at the time, too – another long story], in Lenore’s great dance number…and there we all are, in an ensemble (everyone agreed that that year, the Junior Sing DESERVED to win! We didn’t…). I wish I could find photos from Senior Sing. And of our International Festival of the Arts.

I’ve wept for the strangers, I’ve grieved for the thousands and their families, I’ve been tormented by the horror of that day…but, now, there was a thread…an inherent connection that further changes time, and I had to mourn, again, this time for my old friend George. Years and years pass, but admiration and love always linger.

The stories are endless; the tales too scopic to scroll here…the flux of emotions run the gamut from joy to tears to fury to bittersweet memories. So, here’s to you, George Merkouris – stolen from us by evil, you’re dancing on the other side…your goodness resonates through so many lives even today and I know, that I never forgot you, and I never will…

*****

About a year after I wrote this, I learned another friend from High School, George Llanes, had too perished, two days before his birthday. George and I would bump into each other all the time in the years, post-High School. He was a wonderful soul, a fine poet, and “father” to Mae Mae, his pug. Another good soul, lost from Earth. Here’s his NY Times obituary:

*****

]]> http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/09/11/encomium-911-george-merkouris-3/feed/ 2 jeffreychrist Screen shot 2011-09-11 at 12.17.19 AM http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/09/10/man-i-miss-them/ http://mynewboyfriend.com/2011/09/10/man-i-miss-them/#comments Sat, 10 Sep 2011 18:28:26 +0000 jeffreychrist http://mynewboyfriend.com/?p=3202 ]]>

From 1969 to 2001, the Twin Towers made countless cameos in Hollywood films. Sometimes featured prominently in the foreground, sometimes lurking in the distance. This montage celebrates the towers’ all-too-short film career with songs that capture the passing decades. Man, I miss them…” Dan Meth