After a week of politically inspired gnashing of teeth and work-inspired bitterness, perhaps it's time for something musical. My go-to happy place seems to be consistently the sounds of the 1970s. Horrible fashion, dodgy color schemes, no Internet, and stuck in a small town in the back of beyond, yet I feel warm and cozy toward that era.
Pre-adulthood, pre-serious relationships, pre-money woes, pre-responsibilities. About the only things I had to worry over were getting to school on time, finishing my homework, and not looking like a fool every minute of every day in front of my classmates. Part of the foolishness was no doubt conveyed through my taste in then what was considered "not cool" (and probably gay) musical choices, such as ABBA, soul, and disco.
The best years of my life, maybe, at least if nostalgia is our benchmark. I wouldn't want to relive them, though. They were not in any sense my "glory days" in junior high and high school. Years of angst spent not knowing who I was or being able to own up to who I found attractive are not experiences I would want to relive, thanks all the same.
Instead, what I'd like to do is sink back into the "mise en scène" of the '70s, if you will--just luxuriate in the culture, the milieu, the zeitgeist. That's often what I feel nostalgic toward--not the trappings of crap style or tacky furnishings but what we were listening to at the time, what we were talking about, and what I was feeling at the time. So it's more of a me-me-me zeitgeist, but, hey, that's what you pay me for.
So this weekend's "8-track flashback" looks wistfully upon the music of Fleetwood Mac. I am by no means a "classic rock" fan and, similar to how I feel about most country music, would just as soon see it banished from the light, their aficionados forced underground, having to swap shittily recorded mixtapes of every entitled white guy and boringly middle class singer-songwriter-screamer signed to a big deal on Sunset Boulevard.
I'll see you in hell, '70s and '80s hair bands. You're in my sights, pretentious prog rockers. I'll have your heads on a platter with a sprig of parsley on the side, dear d-jays at every Middle America radio station. May the world find you stuck in a Reagan-era shame cycle, forced to just say no to anything new or fun or colorful, while your life spirit trickles down your spine and pools at your feet, in your new home: the sub-basement of a foreclosed Moral Majority McMansion, Any Suburb, USA. With liberty and Tom "Top Gun" Cruise and Melanie "Working Girl" Griffith movies for all.
In other words, welcome to the new 2014, same as the old 2004, 1994, and 1984.
Wooh. So much for steering clear of bitterness and politics. Let's move on, shall we?
* * *
And let's move on to Fleetwood Mac, circa 1975, with "Say You Love Me."
"Say You Love Me" was probably the first Mac song I appreciated at the ripe old age of what? 13? 14? For me, it was probably less about the lyrics (and for me it almost always is less about the lyrics) and more about the sound--the voice, the melody, and, yes, even the banjos. How can you not love the harmonies and happiness of this tune? I liked "Over My Head" and "Rhiannon" as well, but this is such a sprightly, poppy little thing, so evocative of that London-meets-Los Angeles folk/rock/pop/country sound that Mac had in the mid-1970s. I want to go back in time and hear it play on the radio of my parents' AMC Hornet once again. Those were the days, my friend, we thought that American Motors would never get bought out by Renault, of all enterprises, just a few years later.
* * *
When thinking about Stevie Nicks' role in the Mac, it's hard to pick a favorite from among songs. There is "Rhiannon," "Dreams," "Gypsy," and "Sara" to choose from. Along with "Landslide," "Gold Dust Woman," "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around," or "Edge of Seventeen." The wealth is overwhelming, practically poignant.
"Sara" was on the turntable a lot during college, as was the quirky "Tusk." "Rhiannon" came out when I was still trying to figure out Stevie Nicks and whether I liked her voice or not. But "Dreams" edges out the others. It reminds me of a good era in my little hometown. I think my brother Frank owned the album (or maybe it was my brother Charlie or my sister Barbara?). It spun on the turntable a lot at our house in the spring of 1977.
At least I hope we had the album and not the 8-track tape . . . fade, beep, reprise.
* * *
Fast forward to 1979 and "Tusk."
A really bold, odd choice for a single, but a brilliant one at that. More like a soundscape, the soundtrack to some frenetic, tension-filled scene on celluloid--a chase scene or a bank heist gone wrong--than a 3-minute-and-30-second pop song. And god bless 'em for that.
I could take or leave some of the songs on which Lindsey Buckingham was featured prominently. To this day, I can't hear "Don't Stop" without thinking of how it's been abused by certain politicians wanting to appeal to (read: fleece) progressives and baby-boomers (an act that really doesn't require co-opting good music), but Lindsey really added a lot to the group. Who could imagine a group performing something as lush and radio-friendly as "Over My Head" in 1975 creating something as experimental and sonic as "Tusk" in 1979? With a marching band no less.
Plus you gotta love Stevie Nicks' expert twirling of a baton in the official video. I'm sure that's a moment when the British members of the group started to rethink the whole Southern California experiment. "My god. We're in the middle of a baseball field. There's a university marching band playing. And our little 'Welsh witch' is twirling an effin' baton! How did we get so lost?"
Faust was wrong. There are plenty of things to regret.
* * *
Lindsey has always bugged me for some reason. Perhaps in part because he was and remains a very handsome, self-assured (possibly too much so) man. He was gorgeous as a '70s hippie and luscious as an '80s hipster--and, in my warped mind, he always seemed completely aware of this, which is a major turnoff for me. Not that Mr. B. would be perturbed by this confession, of course. Not that this confession is based on anything other than gut and a few TV appearances.
But ol' Bucky was a terrific musician, writer, and singer. Just maybe not a great performer.
This is an incredibly overwrought performance by both Lindsey and Stevie. But "The Chain" is a brilliant song, so all is forgiven, Lindsey. Just don't do it again, please. Again, for Chris, John, and Mick, another bell must have rung, another penny must have dropped.
* * *
I could never stand most of the Mac's '80s videos--I remember describing them in an essay I crafted for my non-fiction writing class in college as "a fine example of the symbolic wallow that is MTV" or some such.
This is the only one that I can just barely tolerate, "Little Lies" from 1987 or so. It gives me just enough mental respite and perverse fascination that I hesitate before I kick in the screen of my 30-year-old cathode ray-tubed console TV set.
And yet, I take issue with the video, nonetheless. To me it looks as if the band just happened upon a Tweeds catalog photo shoot and decided to add the leftover clothes to their own wardrobes. Just prior to the Tweeds shoot, Duran Duran had been on set making their own video--so Stevie, Lindsey, and Christine borrowed some makeup and spackled it on hurriedly before anyone could stop them.
That or the entire video was filmed as a promo for Glamour Shots. Whatever, everyone loses.
Nonetheless, while "Everywhere" from the same album, Tango in the Night, is probably my favorite Mac song ever, "Little Lies" features a wonderful mixture of all three singers--McVie, Nicks, and Buckingham.
* * *
And, finally, this is what I mean about Fleetwood Mac's dreadful, artsy-fartsy videos--
Honestly, dude, Whiskey-Tango in the night-Foxtrot. Who thought this was a good idea? Who allowed this to happen?
Personally, I think it was Stevie and Lindsey. Christine, Mick, and John on their own would never have approved this storyboard. "Let's just do it, please, so that they'll both shut up, alright?" I can hear Christine saying, while Mick and John sob silently into their sleeves.
* * *
With that, we conclude today's psychic flashback. Surprising to some that I could enjoy Fleetwood Mac so much, but it's all true.
Just be grateful I owned up to it--and opted for this nostalgia trip rather than the other one in my head this week--mid-'70s British soul with the likes of Tina Charles, Jesse Green, and Biddu on heavy rotation.
But never say never . . .
Pre-adulthood, pre-serious relationships, pre-money woes, pre-responsibilities. About the only things I had to worry over were getting to school on time, finishing my homework, and not looking like a fool every minute of every day in front of my classmates. Part of the foolishness was no doubt conveyed through my taste in then what was considered "not cool" (and probably gay) musical choices, such as ABBA, soul, and disco.
The best years of my life, maybe, at least if nostalgia is our benchmark. I wouldn't want to relive them, though. They were not in any sense my "glory days" in junior high and high school. Years of angst spent not knowing who I was or being able to own up to who I found attractive are not experiences I would want to relive, thanks all the same.
Instead, what I'd like to do is sink back into the "mise en scène" of the '70s, if you will--just luxuriate in the culture, the milieu, the zeitgeist. That's often what I feel nostalgic toward--not the trappings of crap style or tacky furnishings but what we were listening to at the time, what we were talking about, and what I was feeling at the time. So it's more of a me-me-me zeitgeist, but, hey, that's what you pay me for.
So this weekend's "8-track flashback" looks wistfully upon the music of Fleetwood Mac. I am by no means a "classic rock" fan and, similar to how I feel about most country music, would just as soon see it banished from the light, their aficionados forced underground, having to swap shittily recorded mixtapes of every entitled white guy and boringly middle class singer-songwriter-screamer signed to a big deal on Sunset Boulevard.
I'll see you in hell, '70s and '80s hair bands. You're in my sights, pretentious prog rockers. I'll have your heads on a platter with a sprig of parsley on the side, dear d-jays at every Middle America radio station. May the world find you stuck in a Reagan-era shame cycle, forced to just say no to anything new or fun or colorful, while your life spirit trickles down your spine and pools at your feet, in your new home: the sub-basement of a foreclosed Moral Majority McMansion, Any Suburb, USA. With liberty and Tom "Top Gun" Cruise and Melanie "Working Girl" Griffith movies for all.
In other words, welcome to the new 2014, same as the old 2004, 1994, and 1984.
Wooh. So much for steering clear of bitterness and politics. Let's move on, shall we?
* * *
And let's move on to Fleetwood Mac, circa 1975, with "Say You Love Me."
"Say You Love Me" was probably the first Mac song I appreciated at the ripe old age of what? 13? 14? For me, it was probably less about the lyrics (and for me it almost always is less about the lyrics) and more about the sound--the voice, the melody, and, yes, even the banjos. How can you not love the harmonies and happiness of this tune? I liked "Over My Head" and "Rhiannon" as well, but this is such a sprightly, poppy little thing, so evocative of that London-meets-Los Angeles folk/rock/pop/country sound that Mac had in the mid-1970s. I want to go back in time and hear it play on the radio of my parents' AMC Hornet once again. Those were the days, my friend, we thought that American Motors would never get bought out by Renault, of all enterprises, just a few years later.
* * *
When thinking about Stevie Nicks' role in the Mac, it's hard to pick a favorite from among songs. There is "Rhiannon," "Dreams," "Gypsy," and "Sara" to choose from. Along with "Landslide," "Gold Dust Woman," "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around," or "Edge of Seventeen." The wealth is overwhelming, practically poignant.
"Sara" was on the turntable a lot during college, as was the quirky "Tusk." "Rhiannon" came out when I was still trying to figure out Stevie Nicks and whether I liked her voice or not. But "Dreams" edges out the others. It reminds me of a good era in my little hometown. I think my brother Frank owned the album (or maybe it was my brother Charlie or my sister Barbara?). It spun on the turntable a lot at our house in the spring of 1977.
At least I hope we had the album and not the 8-track tape . . . fade, beep, reprise.
* * *
Fast forward to 1979 and "Tusk."
A really bold, odd choice for a single, but a brilliant one at that. More like a soundscape, the soundtrack to some frenetic, tension-filled scene on celluloid--a chase scene or a bank heist gone wrong--than a 3-minute-and-30-second pop song. And god bless 'em for that.
I could take or leave some of the songs on which Lindsey Buckingham was featured prominently. To this day, I can't hear "Don't Stop" without thinking of how it's been abused by certain politicians wanting to appeal to (read: fleece) progressives and baby-boomers (an act that really doesn't require co-opting good music), but Lindsey really added a lot to the group. Who could imagine a group performing something as lush and radio-friendly as "Over My Head" in 1975 creating something as experimental and sonic as "Tusk" in 1979? With a marching band no less.
Plus you gotta love Stevie Nicks' expert twirling of a baton in the official video. I'm sure that's a moment when the British members of the group started to rethink the whole Southern California experiment. "My god. We're in the middle of a baseball field. There's a university marching band playing. And our little 'Welsh witch' is twirling an effin' baton! How did we get so lost?"
Faust was wrong. There are plenty of things to regret.
* * *
Lindsey has always bugged me for some reason. Perhaps in part because he was and remains a very handsome, self-assured (possibly too much so) man. He was gorgeous as a '70s hippie and luscious as an '80s hipster--and, in my warped mind, he always seemed completely aware of this, which is a major turnoff for me. Not that Mr. B. would be perturbed by this confession, of course. Not that this confession is based on anything other than gut and a few TV appearances.
But ol' Bucky was a terrific musician, writer, and singer. Just maybe not a great performer.
This is an incredibly overwrought performance by both Lindsey and Stevie. But "The Chain" is a brilliant song, so all is forgiven, Lindsey. Just don't do it again, please. Again, for Chris, John, and Mick, another bell must have rung, another penny must have dropped.
* * *
I could never stand most of the Mac's '80s videos--I remember describing them in an essay I crafted for my non-fiction writing class in college as "a fine example of the symbolic wallow that is MTV" or some such.
This is the only one that I can just barely tolerate, "Little Lies" from 1987 or so. It gives me just enough mental respite and perverse fascination that I hesitate before I kick in the screen of my 30-year-old cathode ray-tubed console TV set.
And yet, I take issue with the video, nonetheless. To me it looks as if the band just happened upon a Tweeds catalog photo shoot and decided to add the leftover clothes to their own wardrobes. Just prior to the Tweeds shoot, Duran Duran had been on set making their own video--so Stevie, Lindsey, and Christine borrowed some makeup and spackled it on hurriedly before anyone could stop them.
That or the entire video was filmed as a promo for Glamour Shots. Whatever, everyone loses.
Nonetheless, while "Everywhere" from the same album, Tango in the Night, is probably my favorite Mac song ever, "Little Lies" features a wonderful mixture of all three singers--McVie, Nicks, and Buckingham.
* * *
And, finally, this is what I mean about Fleetwood Mac's dreadful, artsy-fartsy videos--
Honestly, dude, Whiskey-Tango in the night-Foxtrot. Who thought this was a good idea? Who allowed this to happen?
Personally, I think it was Stevie and Lindsey. Christine, Mick, and John on their own would never have approved this storyboard. "Let's just do it, please, so that they'll both shut up, alright?" I can hear Christine saying, while Mick and John sob silently into their sleeves.
* * *
With that, we conclude today's psychic flashback. Surprising to some that I could enjoy Fleetwood Mac so much, but it's all true.
Just be grateful I owned up to it--and opted for this nostalgia trip rather than the other one in my head this week--mid-'70s British soul with the likes of Tina Charles, Jesse Green, and Biddu on heavy rotation.
But never say never . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment