The idiota on the colina

And now for some Sergio Mendes-meets-The Beatles with "The Fool on the Hill."

Again, there are perhaps no deeper meanings in why I love this song and much of Sergio Mendes's early records, at least the ones that were available in the US. Maybe we should just blame it on (or credit it to) the bossa nova, '60s Latin exotica, beautiful voices, expert jazz musicianship, nostalgia, and, sure, my neighbor Suzy sharing her bossa nova records with my family all those years ago.

And perhaps that's the most significant thing this record and this sound represent, the opening of my little American mind (at the ripe age of 3 or 4 or so) to the world around me, a point of view that I've always tried to embrace as much as money, time, and opportunity would allow.

A case in point: At various times so far this year, I had already hoped to visit Mexico City, North Carolina, Montreal, Senegal, and either South Africa or Argentina. I even applied for a job in Egypt earlier in the year and actually had a video conference interview with the search committee. Imagine little ol' me from North Cackalacky swanning about with the Pharoahs!

How dare this little bastard virus disrupt our lives so thoroughly? I'm throwing down the gauntlet and setting a post-COVID 19 goal: To keep traveling, to travel even more, once (and here's hoping it does) life returns to normal.

Yes, I will embrace my role as the fool on the hill, the fool on the veld, the fool on the pampas, the fool on the desert plain, in all its various meanings.

Springtime and Suzy

A fan-made video for "Spring" by the British trio, Saint Etienne, from their debut album, Fox Base Alpha, one of my Top 10 albums. There are too many songs to select from this album and from Saint Etienne's long career (active 30 years now and still going strong).

There's no real deep thoughts or significant moments in my life surrounding this song or this album, although, released in 1990, it did feel as though it heralded a new era in music, at least British pop, after all the years of Stock-Aitken-Waterman and the "Sound of a Bright, Young Britain." To me a SAW production was always a bit like candy: Delicious in and of itself but not necessarily satisfying or soul nourishing. (Author's note: I love candy.) But that may depend on the person and the pop. Who am I to say your pop doesn't fill you up?

Instead, this song and this album are just joyous, lovely music to listen to, "Spring" and another song, "Nothing Can Stop Us Now" (later covered by, but dumbfoundingly released as a B-side, by Kylie Minogue) being particularly good examples of what Saint Etienne did then and still does now to a degree--a melding of Burt Bacharach and '60s pop songwriting with contemporary production. If I were more critical, I'd say that sometimes the results on this album could be too precious and arch, but I think the group figured that out early and moved on to making solid, beautiful, catchy, and even danceable pop songs.

I guess if anything this album prompted me to return to the music of childhood (The Supremes, Dionne Warwick, Dusty Springfield, Petula Clark, even Nancy Sinatra) and appreciate it for its specialness and innocence. And in the midst of a global pandemic, a little more innocence and joy in the world are definitely welcome in my world.

* * *



Oh look! A proper video for Saint Etienne's "Nothing Can Stop Us Now." On Kylie Minogue's version, the vocals are stronger, the enunciation better, but this certainly has the same feel (even if, in this video, the lips don't always match the music).

So, on second thought, maybe there are more memories connected to this song and this album, than I originally realized. I suddenly think of Suzy, the swingin' '60s daughter of one of our next-door neighbors growing up. Susy (or Susie or Suzie, I honestly don't know) seemed exotic: Divorced with a young son, older than me, dating a soldier (I have a vague sense that he was an officer in the US Marines), Susy must have seemed scandalous to some in conservative Eastern North Carolina. She drove a red convertible--a Stingray! And she listened to bossa nova records!

I think we've established that my life has been one long, fitful affair with the exotic, the international. It is perhaps because, deep down, I feel so un-exotic, so un-international. I have tried to remedy that through travel, through choices in music and literature, by dating people of different backgrounds (whether intentionally or not but sometimes quite intentionally I am ashamed to admit), by "living abroad" in totally un-exotic Canada. (It seemed like a bold choice at the time, although Montreal would have likely been a better, if more financially crushing [50%+ income tax rate!] option.) Maybe my fascination, dare I say boyhood crush on Suzy? is one place where that began--along with my Dad's "exotic" travels in the war-obliterated Pacific and post-war China and Japan.

So a big ol' obrigado to Suzy, whose last name I can't remember either, and those wonderful bossa nova records of hers. I remember riding around in her Stingray, I remember those bossa nova horns on the records she gave us (really, Suzy, why were you giving these away?), and I remember her giving us a lot of recordings of musicals, which, surprisingly, had absolutely no effect on me because I have never been that type of gay.

Nice try, Suzy. But I give you credit for knowing your fanbase long before your fanbase knew himself.

Everybody lambada!

It's "Brazil Week" (or if you prefer, "Semana do Brasil") in Favela Montag. I'll do anything to get over the cold and the snow this winter.

We're 10 inches above normal (and not in any way that would be fun) in snowfall so far, although I've seen worse winters here, even ones that weren't dubbed "Snowmageddon," which occurred a couple years back. Still, it's snow. It's ice. It's cold. And my sitting two hours under an air vent in a class on snow-shoeing will not make me warm to the idea of winter. Nope. Pretty much over it. Very much ready to move on. San Francisco, you've got me. Hell, St. Pete, you've got me. Not choosy at this point.

But until my slow boat to China Beach comes in view, I'm going to think samba and bossa nova and anything else that puts me in a better frame and allows me to continue to practice cognitive "disco-nance."

So here's the first part of many: Brazilian composer and performer Marcos Valle singing an updated version of one of his classics, "Samba do Verão" or "Summer Samba," also known in English by the title "So Nice," because yeah, a summer samba would be so nice right about now--and truth be told, I don't like summer much better than I do winter. Desperate times, desperate measures, however.



Funnily enough, this week there was an article on the NPR website about Marcos Valle and his musical legacy. I admit to not knowing who he was right off but, instead, knowing several of his songs, including "Samba do Verão" and "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)." But no matter, we're connected now.

Now to cheapen the moment: I seem to have a thing for Latin men with blond hair. That cool Teutonic Bauhaus and Mercedes precision of decades gone by mixed with the earthy jungle-toned riot of the New World Order.

See? I told you it would be cheap. And did I mention stupid and offensive? Oh well. Consider them bonuses.

Generally, I loathe it when people (OK, specifically, gay men) go off about how hot some guy is or how Muscle Mary of the Formidable Form is just his type. Sweetie darling, *everybody's* your type. But I do have a point in mentioning this, albeit a cryptic one. It's not about lust. It's about loss.

I can remember one of my earliest crushes, as a 17-year-old in college before I came out to myself let alone the world: This blond Ecuadorian exchange student, who was about the loveliest, most clueless (or not) man I'd seen up to that point. He is probably now back in Quito or Guayaquil with a family of five (three with his wife, two with his mistress) and is none-the-wiser about my unrequited love. And me, I'm in Pittsburgh, getting over the flu and the death of a sweet little dream I had for a brief while.

History has a way of repeating like a fish oil capsule. Let's just say I have realized this little Blond Icon-venus Truth far too late in life after making a fool of myself too many times at home and abroad. But especially in the here and now at home. Which impels me to go abroad, even if just in my mind.

Because, suddenly, this continent doesn't feel big enough for the both of us.