Is it any wonder? (Summer soundtrack #7)

After a few years on hiatus, Keane has new music out, which is reason to dance in the streets on a hot summer's day. The new song, "The Way I Feel," sounds great, but I still consider "Is It Any Wonder?," a gem from 2006 (13 years ago!), to be peak Keane.

It's because (Summer soundtrack #6)

"I'm Not in Love" by 10cc is perhaps in my personal top ten--nay, my top five--of favorite songs of all time. It is the perfect love song, lyrically, sonically (is that a word?), emotionally, and atmospherically, and why there's not an internet radio station dedicated to playing it non-stop, 24 hours a day, I will never understand.

By chance, I was in Alley Cats, an excellent record shop in Orillia, Ontario, earlier this week when this was played over the sound system. And even now, nearly 45 years later, the song still gives me a chill.

In town on business, I had fun explaining to a younger colleague that this was the original version, that other versions she was aware of were (in my opinion) pale imitations. She knew versions that I did not (a live version by Robert Smith and The Cure apparently), and I knew versions that she did not (Olive's somewhat drum-and-bass version from 2000, to me a major disappointment from a group I had adored up to that moment), but we both agreed that the song, no matter who recorded it, is ethereal, lovely, and poignant.

Why I didn't buy the vinyl then and there, I do not understand. I do have a CD version from The Very Best of 10cc, but here's one occasion when I can agree with hipster audiophiles: The warmth and intimacy of the vinyl cannot be denied.

A mellow tune for summer, but even a long, hot summer requires its slow jams.

* * *

Here's a short BBC TV documentary about how the song was made.

Wow. Just wow. It seems incredible that someone would make this much effort--especially in an era when multi-tracking was new and tape-looping was novel and rare--to create "just a pop song." But indeed 10cc did, as did ABBA, as did the Beatles, as did Giorgio Moroder, and did many other greats (by my estimation at least).

This article, cited in Wikipedia has more backstory about how the song came about, particularly lyrically, spawning from a complaint by band member and lead singer Eric Stewart's wife that he didn't tell her he loved her often enough.

Pfft. Typical man. Can't say the words but can feel all the emotion. In time, he can find a way to tell the world the way he feels. And maybe eventually even you.

Nonetheless, with the end result being the exquisiteness that is "I'm Not in Love," I'd say Mr. Stewart finally and sufficiently got his point across.

Queer theory

I for one am looking forward to his theory as to why he's such a douchebag.

Bishop explains: You're gay because your mom had anal while she was pregnant with you.
🤔https://t.co/FCNJyFQzlL

— Q. Allan Brocka (@allanbrocka) July 26, 2019

Death of pie

Muskoka berry pie from the Mariposa Market,
Orillia, Ontario

Scene from a murder, 3 AM.

In the pink (Summer soundtrack #5)

It's OK, Duran Duran, your secret's safe with me: You basically ... let's be kind and say "co-opted" ... late '70s Roxy Music's style, sound, wardrobe, and lyrical content for your first, I dunno, five or six albums. But I forgive you.

This past Sunday, I went shopping, mainly for shoes but for other clothes as well. In my never-ending quest to get outside of my own self-induced ruts, I went into a store I normally don't visit: Le Château, a Montréal-based clothing store chair that has locations in Toronto and across Le Canada. What drew me in was this beautiful soft pink suit--not unlike something Bryan Ferry would've worn in 1979 or Simon Le Bon in 1983. And while I coveted it, I realized, too, that at 57, this is a dream best left to the past.

To tell the truth, I couldn't have worn it in the past either because I'd have been way too self-conscious. Not because of the pink color per se, although I do not look particularly appealing in pastels. But let's face it: I was never a pretty man, not in an '80s blond highlights, triangle-shaped face, androgynous features, Patrick Nagel print kind of way.

It was likely a painful realization at the time. But now? Well, now I seem content with some comfortable shoes, stretchy-waist cotton trousers, and checked and plaid easy-care shirts. The mighty have fallen, perhaps, but the mighty are a heckuva lot more comfortable than they were throughout much of the 1970s, the '80s, the '90s, the '00s, and probably even last week.

Twin screw steel steam cruisers

RMS Oceanic (1870). Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

So in getting ready for another trip to Argentina in a month's time (aka Down Argentine Way Round 2), I've been re-reading Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. Which is a bit funny in that I should have re-read this a year ago when I was actually going to Patagonia. Instead, this time I'm going to Buenos Aires and Argentina's Andean northwest (Salta, Jujuy, Purmamarca, Tilcara, Humahuaca, etc.).

I'll skip the critique of the book, for the most part. There are parts I remember reading way back when (mid-'80s), and there are parts I don't remember at all. (Which leads me to think that perhaps I never finished the book?) In some of the narrative, Chatwin comes across as very, "oh look at me, a Brit traveling the world, and passing judgment on the odd unfortunates I meet." To be expected perhaps, but we can't all be as woke as we are today. (Heavy sarcasm.)

But other parts, specifically the history of seafaring around Cape Horn, including that of a family relation of humble origin who rose to the rank of captain for a New Zealand shipping line, have been oddly fascinating.

In one part of the story, the engine fails on a ship his great-uncle (I think) is commandeering. It is a hybrid vessel: A steamship but one that has sails, which, after the engine fails, allows them to limp slowly toward Cape Horn with the hope of arriving eventually in port at Punta Arenas, Chile. But they have to be careful as they move to the cape for fear of catching a current that will set them adrift in the South Atlantic--not to mention the worry over smashing into the rocky coast of southern South America.
 
Chatwin remarks that the ship had no radio. According to my quick research at 3 am Sunday, ship-to-shore communication apparently didn't exist until the last few years of the 1890s, thanks to the pioneering "wireless telegraphy" inventions of Guglielmo Marconi. Further, such communication wasn't in common use until the early part of the 20th century. Thus there was no way to communicate what was happening on board, even as the ship moved closer and closer to shore.

Chatwin also mentions that another ship around the time had broken a propeller and, as a result, had been set adrift in the South Atlantic for four months before it was discovered. (This event served as the basis for Falk, a novella written by Joseph Conrad, which I'm now trying to track down for a hopefully quick read.)

While 125 or so years ago now seems like a long time ago, when Chatwin was writing his book, the events had taken place less than a hundred years before.

My points here are probably rather mundane:

• We're not as old, advanced, or as conscious as we think we are. 
• A lot has happened in the last century or two, so no wonder sometimes we feel like we're enduring cultural whiplash, a harsh and frightful spin on a carnival ride that is designed to thrill but ends up hurting as much as it satisfies. 
• These events put into perspective any flight delays we may have or any gastrointestinal illness we may have caught on board a cruise ship. 

Not that the latter aren't frustrating, awful, and even occasionally life-threatening, but the problems we experience now somewhat pale in comparison to never knowing if you are going to make it home despite "modern" (then steamship) technology at your disposal.

Maybe our ancestors were just a lot more used to risk and danger then. Maybe in some respects and in their own way they were braver, smarter, cleverer than us, even if they didn't know the same things we know now. Maybe this will make me less anxious about taking the small risks I take in life, which, while significant to me, seem quite tame. And that's OK. I'm a relatively tame guy.

Maybe, too, pondering what my ancestors endured and how I have benefited from it will make me whine less about the momentary discomforts of modern life.

But I doubt it.

Jock itch for the brain (Summer soundtrack #4)

Ah la la la la la kill me now please.

The thing is, I despise this song, at least lyrically--it's sexist, braggadocious bullshit. And yet "Sweat" by Jamaican reggae shame band Inner Circle has been stuck in my head for the better part of a week now.

So I'm adding this song to my summer soundtrack if for no other reason than it'll remind me that summer isn't always easy-breezy Cover Girl. No, sometimes it's crappy reggae reminding you that Hell is other people's music, trying to enjoy summer in the city, and in doing so, sweating so profusely that you end up with the worst case of jock itch you've ever had in your adult life.

Not that this happened to anyone I know, of course.

In praise of termites

A chainsaw artist has unveiled a sculpture of First Lady and Glamour Model Melania Trump in her home town in Slovenia. (Yes, she's an immigrant--but a genius!)

I dunno. Melania looks a little wooden.

But at the same time, amazingly lifelike.

Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.

Blue jeans sur la plage (Summer soundtrack #3)

From Québec avec summer amour, Les Hou-Lops (or, if you prefer, Les Têtes Blanches, which appears to have been an alternate name for the group), performing their non-iTunes available hit from 1965 or so, "Blue jeans sur la plage."

Poker face

Ivanka playing poker #UnwantedIvanka.

(Author's note: Not my work, sadly, so whoever did this, you are my hero/ine!)

A fistful of dollars

Headline from PBS News Hour, July 1, 2019

Ripped from the headlines: "Trump lashes out at N.Y. governor and attorney general over business probes."

Bummer.

I think everybody should just get off President Trump's ass, at least for a little while.

I mean, come on, after last week's deep and extensive probing in Japan by Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-Un, Mohammad bin Salman al Saud, and countless others, I'm sure our Butt Boy in Chief is just plain worn out. No wonder he's so riled up!