Act II: A Homecoming

Twenty-five years in the making . . . and worth every second of the wait. Agnetha Fältskog may never be the most dynamic performer on stage, but it still seems like a major victory to see her on performing again after all these years, keeping current, in good voice, and looking serene and happy. It's a long way from the more fragile- and dissatisfied-seeming Agnetha of nine years ago, when she released the wonderful My Colouring Book.

Maybe this is my cue and my clue: There are indeed second acts in life, maybe even third and fourth ones. Thanks, Agnetha, for showing us (or even just me) the way with charm, grace, and humility.

I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of . . . an inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!

It's a mystery to me why I haven't been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yet. It's only 2 hours up the road in Cleveland, but I've become too Pennsylvanian in outlook and now consider Ohio a foreign country, apparently one requiring an invitation or a visa to visit.

Pittsburghers, for the record, love to hate Cleveland (and Philadelphia and Baltimore and practically any other city with a rival team, whether a worthy adversary or not), so whenever I suggest to someone that we should make the quick trek to the city on the lake, it never gets much of a reaction. Other than a silence meaning "no."

But hey, Pittsburgh! Cleveland has an airport that offers more non-stop flights, for less than you do. Cleveland still has a Saks Fifth Avenue and had a Nordstrom long before you did. Cleveland has a waterfront, one with some parkland, so that you can actually see the water, rather than one being hidden from view by a train running alongside of it, blocking all access.

Just saying.

And, again, Cleveland has the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, while we have, what is it? Oh yeah. The Western Pennsylvania Sports Hall of Fame. It staggers the mind, really.

Say what you will, whiny white boys: "They let Madonna in, and Donna Summer in, and ABBA in, so it's not really rock-and-roll." Good lord. I feel like I've been hearing that argument for 50 years. Yeah, it's popular music, maybe not "classic" (barf) rock-and-roll. Gotcha. However, I still find your definition of rock-and-roll unnecessarily limiting.

Free your mind, the rest will follow: Listen in particular to Benny Andersson's explanation about ABBA's musical heritage, a very European musical heritage, one that is decidedly different than that of American and British rock-and-roll. It's an intriguing musical lineage, involving rock, classical music, pop, German schmaltz, French chanson, and a host of other influences. You don't have to call it rock-and-roll, but it is something quite powerful, well-crafted, clever, and catchy. As Frida notes in her portion of the acceptance speech, the members haven't performed together as a group since 1982--and yet, 28 years later, they are still recognized for their artistry and popularity, enough to warrant acknowledgement by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Nope, it doesn't mean they're rock-and-roll. It doesn't even mean they're good, as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is no guarantor of quality, the Good Pop Music Seal of Approval.

However, I do think it means that ABBA "arrived," ABBA made it, despite the odds and the odd derision. I'm glad to hear Benny explain their music and their sound so well. I'm pleased to see the Swedish Third Way applied to music. I'm happy that ABBA is still with us (and with me) all these years later.

Abba-salute-ly

Funny how life goes. I've been in an ABBA mood of late, listening to various versions of "Like an Angel Passing through My Room" (Frida's, Madonna's, Nina Hagen's) and watching some ABBA specials on HuluPlus--and subsequently getting ticked off at the slap-dash, simplistic pop criticism doled out by the clue-challenged journo-hacks hired to "explain" ABBA to the masses.

Grrrrrrr.tumblr.com, as it were. But we'll get to that diatribe eventually.

Instead, today we are here to celebrate ABBA, more specifically, Agnetha Fältskog--she of the soprano, blonde hair, plaintive voice, and almond eyes--who, suddenly, after nine years, is on the verge of releasing a new solo album, entitled A, due out in May.

"When You Really Loved Someone" is the lead single, dropped today, along with the video. See above.

Well, of course, I love it. I suspect that I am genetically predisposed to.

Musically, it seems spot-on--contemporary but age-appropriate, a big, booming heart-acher of a love-lost song. No rappers were used or abused in the making of this tune. Not once does Agnetha reference a moment in which she looked across the dancefloor and met someone's gaze and immediately fell in love at first disco beat. (Oh, yes, Kylie Minogue, I went there.)

Lyrically, I was a little suspicious at first. Gary Barlow? The earnest one from Take That? I just don't know about that.

But there was nothing to fear. If "When You Really Loved Someone" is proof, he, Jörgen Elofsson, and Peter Nordahl have done Agnetha proud with a beautiful, lush, romantic, heartbreak of a song, which gives me much hope for the album. Agnetha is often at her best when she sings about the torment of love, longing, and loss. Cue "S.O.S.," "The Winner Takes It All," and "The Day Before You Came."

Let's go deeper and reveal a little more than I'm normally comfortable sharing: It's a song that has kept me on the edge of sadness all day long, at work, in the car, in therapy, at home. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to Saturday's viewing of the Peter Haneke film, Amour, then the pressure of  trying to hold my emotions in check during the dinner afterwards. Maybe it was due to seeing Agnetha perform again after so many years away--or the fact that someone who was an important part of my childhood is now much older, and in truth, only 11 years older than me. Possibly it's my own fear over aging, death, stagnation, and missed opportunities. I should be married. I should have bought a house. I should have a more satisfying job. I should be more creative. I should be fluent in French and Spanish and Afrikaans and Swedish. And I should be doing all of these things elsewhere, probably in Europe.

While we shouldn't underestimate any of these--and they all lead back to one another, eventually--there's probably even more to the story: A couple of "anniversary" moments on the horizon and, oh yes, the flaming out of yet another relationship mere weeks ago.

These days, I don't believe I'm normally that emotional or this sensitive, although my therapist, family, a few friends, some ex-boyfriends, and a frustrated boss or two might beg to differ. I haven't always, but I try now not to be overly sensitive, romantic, emotional, or melancholic. Why?  Because I don't need to be, and I don't want to be. And because, in this thing we call culture, those feelings are so uncool.

Yet they are part of who I am, as true and vulnerable as my love for an ABBA song, even a silly, jolly one like "Mamma Mia" or "Honey, Honey."

Let's put aside for a moment how others see me and how I project myself because gods know whether I can make any sense out of it: During one recent 12-hour period, I had one friend tell me that he could never imagine my getting angry or out of sorts about anything and another friend tell me that when she first met me, she wouldn't have wanted to run into me in a dark alley, as I came across so brooding and forbidding.

Instead, I think underneath both of those facades is the emotional me that I pay a therapist biweekly to help me own up to and deal with more honestly. That me has been squelched too often in an attempt to please everyone and protect me from others. It's what I've always done to cope. It's just that as time goes by, I feel much less inclined to keep up the pretense.

Lately, to my and my favorite mental health professional's credit, I've done a better job this go-around not pretending like everything's alright with me, I'm doing fine, don't worry about me, I'm dancing as fast as I can! That's the standard-issue me. This time, I've at least said out loud that I'm hurting. I've shed some tears over it. I've been angry, sad, and remorseful. And I'll admit it: I've even felt relief and some happiness over the change in my relationship status--from "involved/complicated" to "single (again)."

Sometimes I can't help but think, if he and I could only go back to last September, who we were then, everything would be fine. But that would mean going back to who we were last November, December, and January, and sporadic moments at other times now and ten years ago. And that I have no desire to do.

So for now there's love and there's loss and there's defeat. And there's freedom and there's joy and there's tranquility.

It may take some time to sort it all out. Until then, I've got Agnetha to lend me some comfort. As goofy as it may sound, she and ABBA have always been there for me, celebrating the joy and commiserating over the sorrow. And there's no shame in that.