Lit Review: ONE LAST STOP

Or, won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

*WARNING: SPOILERS*

I’d heard quite a bit about Casey McQuiston’s new novel, including an interview with McQuiston herself, by the time a college friend cosplayed on Instagram as pragmatic heroine (or heroic pragmatist) August Landry. Her personal endorsement tipped the scales from Hopeful Read into Must Read. I was already singing the title to the tune of Ariana Grande’s “One Last Time.” Needless to say, it only got better from there.

We follow 23-year-old August in her move out from under her mother’s wing in New Orleans to Brooklyn, where she hopes for yet another fresh start in school and a life apart from the case her mother has spent their whole lives trying to crack: the disappearance of August’s uncle. As she adjusts to a demanding job at an old-school pancake house, a building full of wacky characters, and a rocky commute, her daily life—and relationship to all of the above—is derailed (pun intended) when she encounters Jane Su on the Q train. Jane is August’s tall butch leather-jacketed dream girl, and she crops up on August’s train…all the time. This is good news for August (or would be, if she weren’t terrified of love) but bad news for Jane. Turns out she’s stuck in time, having been displaced from the ‘70s by an electrical mishap (more of an event, really), and has no idea who she is or how to get back to where she once belonged.

Enter August and her years of dissecting hopeless mysteries. Over a span of months, she and Jane bond within the confines of the train Jane is physically unable to leave. August helps Jane piece together key components of her identity, her situation, and the various lives she has led in various cities. It isn’t only August’s problem-solving skills, but her own story, that clue Jane in—might it have something to do with someone in August’s life who vanished in the ‘70s??

Oh yeah, and they have sex. Tastefully written, dimension-straddling, very sexy sex.

McQuiston’s love of New York is a historian’s love: she superimposes her geographical biography onto August and approaches the city from a state of wonderment. The cause, it is determined, of Jane’s displacement was the blackout of summer ’77, which I had read enough Talking Heads lore to suspect. As Jane’s story filled out with dates and places, I eagerly awaited a mention of the blackout and attendant musical atmosphere; and the irony that her break with space-time occurs just shy of Talking Heads’ official debut frustrated my nerdy heart a little. But knowing Jane was a CBGB girl, and would have been tuned in to the cool places to be, gave me all the more reason to stick by her and made her all the more likely to win me over.

And she is winsome. Indeed she and August make a winsome pair—they have trouble expressing their feelings but find answers in each other to the questions in themselves. The dynamic between them is where McQuiston’s voice shines most, if one accepts the premise that it shines more in some areas than others. Because their relationship takes place wholly on the train, it would be easy for the narrative to become repetitive and subsequently boring; but both characters and readers are in the capable hands of an author who renders each encounter distinct and switches things up. A party thrown by August’s accountant/drag queen neighbor transfers onto the Q to include Jane; August totes a midnight picnic on board in her first conscious attempt to seduce Jane; they make a habit of crossing between cars via the adrenaline-rush-inducing emergency exits. I’m calling it now—a movie happens within five years.

One of my favorite things about the narrative is how bound up August’s ragtag group of roommates become in her story—how positively integral, in fact. So many romances relegate friends, living-space-partners, et al. to the sidelines once the love interest arrives. If, that is, those people don’t evaporate entirely. But the psychic Niko, cynical Wes, and funny, brilliant, multi-talented, uncontainable Myla only figure more prominently after Jane enters the picture. (Can you tell Myla is my favorite? The others are perfectly wonderful, but man, she’s something else.) They all have fleshed-out backstories and something to offer, as do August’s coworkers at Pancake Billy’s House of Pancakes and even, ultimately, her faraway mother. The many strands weave together satisfyingly, if a bit romantic-comedically (rom-commily?). But it is basically a modern-day rom-com, so what did you expect?

I do mean modern-day: it’s set in an alternate 2020, one not ravaged by plague and isolation. What a time to have potentially been alive.

Even so, the August/Jane romance is the gravitational center of the narrative. I won’t reveal whether the gang succeed in replacing Jane in time, but suffice it to say she leaves her permanent touch on all their lives. Per her limitation, she and August often communicate by requesting songs on the radio (McQuiston’s inclusion of “I Know There’s an Answer” from none other than The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds did NOT give me a minor meltdown why do you ask). She forges quick friendships with the queer community August falls into via her roommates, demonstrating the inter-generational kinship people can find along their self-discovery journey. August becomes more comfortable openly manifesting those parts of herself. And the more they learn about each other and themselves, the more fulfilling and well-rounded their attraction grows. It absorbed me: it was an intoxicating read.

McQuiston calls it an “Unbury Your Gays” story, subverting a tired trope, refreshing to say the least; but what impressed me above and beyond is how grounded and believable it manages to stay. It’s science fiction/magical realism, yet it rings truer than some stories supposedly set in our world as is. Representation-wise, it’s commendable—Niko is a Puerto Rican trans man in a relationship with Myla; Wes and Isaiah (the accountant, whose drag alter ego is named Annie Depressant) have been dancing around a mutual crush for years; and August is a bisexual cis girl who has her first female partner in Jane, a Chinese-American lesbian—and perhaps it’s because of the New York setting that it feels plausible. Certain reads come to mind whose array of identities feels either tokenized or so contrived that it seems to exist suspended in an ideal world where everyone is not only accepted but celebrated by everyone else exactly as they are. McQuiston’s characters know that the most radical acceptance and celebration start with themselves and each other, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she based the environment on what she has seen around her.

There’s so much more I want to say that I won’t. In sum, could not recommend more highly. Fans of romance novels especially, I think, will sense the step forward this novel symbolizes in the literary timeline. And despite one of the primary characters being a transplant from half a century ago, it’s packed with millennial humor. It will also remind you that every month is (or should be) Pride Month.

If nothing else, it might convince you to go out and befriend a psychic. They might be more legit than you give them credit for.

Dedicated to Ellie. You’re doing the Lord’s work.

Image: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2021

‘The Beatle-Making Prince of Pop’

In which I celebrate an essential queer Virgo

Guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. May I introduce to you the one, the only, the Julius Caesar of his era—Brian Epstein.

I’d originally planned this post for September because his birthday is the day before mine. After all, it’s high time the rest of you accepted that Virgo is simply the superior sign. But then I decided Pride Month would be an equally, if not more, appropriate time.

Amazingly already the *third* Brian I have lauded on the blog (see here and here), this one discovered the Beatles and, from the sum of their parts, created the Fab Four. In managing them from 1962-7, he fashioned the impossibly clean-cut look that launched them to stardom, fooling the world into thinking they were respectable. He made them.

He was Jewish and gay, the latter illegal in the UK until the year he died, the former none too popular with Liverpool’s Irish-Catholic-transplant-descendant community. Although his story is melancholy, it also gives the impression of a shrewd and dedicated person who found a way to make an incredible impact on the world.

A Liverpool native, he grew up under the weight of the expectation that he would go to work for his family’s furniture shop; they were pretty well off because of it, and did not belong to the working class of the city’s most famous sons. By the time he was sixteen he wanted to study fashion and join the industry, but his father would have none of it. So he reluctantly fulfilled that expectation. Eventually the family branched out into music, and Brian’s management of their NEMS record shop made it a regionally popular establishment. It brought him into contact with another local, Peter Brown, who would be part of the Beatles’ circle for a long time. It also gave him the idea to go into business managing pop groups.

He encountered the band playing the Cavern Club in late 1961, jeans-and-leather-jacket-clad. Their stint in Hamburg had cemented a performance philosophy of being as outrageous and noisy as possible, but he saw promise. As an article from the London Review of Books notes in its coverage of three (!!!) new Beatles histories, Brian knew what it was like to live a coded life, and he knew his scrappy charges would have to learn to live one as well if they hoped for major success. To that end, he created the dress code that not only matched the pristine harmonies of their new self-written songs—and maybe smoothed over the rougher edges of their personalities—but influenced the entire roster of acts who constituted the British Invasion. It wouldn’t take long for his instincts to prove visionary.

His sexuality was an open secret among his friends. He kept different apartments, one of which he lent to John and Cynthia Lennon (at whose wedding he had served as best man) during her pregnancy. The band, and the tight-knit group forming around them, were very protective of Brian. They ribbed him affectionately about his lifestyle—John maybe a little more bitingly, which must surprise exactly no one—but homophobia was not tolerated, and any hanger-on who made a joke that could even be remotely cast in that light was promptly dismissed. Brian and John notoriously took a holiday to Barcelona in 1963, about which rumors of an affair continue to swirl. And while I could totally understand that happening, I think it’s more likely a suggestion blown out of proportion.

For obvious reasons, though, he hid his queerness from the public; it didn’t surface until quite a few years posthumously. He died in August 1967, aged thirty-two, from an overdose of barbiturates (a dangerously easy substance to abuse at the time, from all I’ve read) combined with alcohol. The title of this post comes from the Daily Mirror headline announcing his death. There is a lot of speculation that, in addition to other stressors on his life, he was troubled that the band whose live act he had helped create had dispensed with that live act, leaving him with no discernible purpose. His death affected them deeply, the emotional trauma compounding the other stressors that would plague them in the last portion of their joint career, as well as driving them to make some questionable financial decisions. They felt they had lost the glue that held them together, and in a way, they had.

I consider him as inspirational as ever. He lit on a good venue for his talents and made a difference—if not the one he’d dreamed of making in his youth, then certainly one that will ensure he is never forgotten. He was afforded certain opportunities that many LGBTQ+ people of that generation were denied, and he did not waste them. He was allowed to be more than a label, and he refused to let labels define him.

What I understand and try to emphasize more and more as I get older and my relationship to the Beatles deepens is this: Yes, the members themselves were extraordinary. But their place at the top of the pop-music pantheon—hell, their attaining a platform at all—is due just as much to the fact that they had the right people around them and with them. George Martin was one, growing in importance as his collaborators’ career progressed, his classical-influenced production sensibilities expanding their horizons. “Eppy,” whose presence was felt at a crucial level from the very beginning, was another.

That said, I’ve never understood the ‘fifth Beatle’ debate. Why do there need to be five? Is there some mystical fifth slot in every band demanding to be filled? Four is an even number, and the four of them are plenty!

Image: from The Guardian

Brunette on Blonde on Blonde

In which I record the stats

So amidst all the Pet Sounds ballyhoo I forgot that I should also commemorate the 55th anniversary of the release of the album I literally just called my favorite of Dylan’s. Which happens to be today.

Among other reasons (its sense of humor, its drum parts), it’s my favorite because it has 14 tracks—a little unhinged given the length of some of them, but it means there’s always something to rediscover. Here’s an overview of what it means to me, in data.

Age at which I first encountered the record in full: 15

Age at which I got more into it than is probably healthy: 16

Age at which I will stop enjoying it and/or it will stop reminding me of that time in my life: TBD

Season with which I associate it: Summer (what a stretch)

Time of day with which I associate it: Late night (11 p.m.-4 a.m.)

Song I knew best going in: “I Want You”

Song that surprised me: “One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)”

Song that is so underrated it is a Crime(TM): “Absolutely Sweet Marie”

Songs I’ve had fun listening to recently: “Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine),” “Obviously Five Believers”

Song I love covering on the ukulele: “Just Like a Woman”

Song I’ve referenced most often, usually in contexts where the reference goes unappreciated: “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat”

Song that never ever gets old: “4th Time Around”

Song with the best backstory: also “4th Time Around”

Song that proved this guy was the only one who stood a chance of outwitting John Lennon: “4th! Time! Around!!!!”

Song with the most impressive breath control: “Pledging My Time” (very long harmonica notes)

Song I mistook for something else at first: “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35”

Song where he is actually not even trying and it still sounds great: “Temporary Like Achilles”

Song whose arrangement I love most for some reason even though instrumentally speaking all the songs are basically the same: “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again”

Song with the best title: “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again” again

Song that I definitely do not know all the words to, which annoys me because I have essentially mastered all his other lyrics of this era, but doesn’t annoy me enough to induce me to do anything about it: “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands”

Song that has elicited the widest range of reactions from me over time: “Visions of Johanna”

Times I’ve promised myself to shut up about this record and about Dylan: 56+

Times I’ve kept that promise: ?????????

Image: released 20 June 1966 on Columbia Records

An Update

In which I, um, update you

Hey all. I’m low on energy this week tbh—Berlin is in the middle of a heat wave—so while I get other stuff together I thought I’d link you to the latest episode of the pod. Recording-wise, we’ve reached our halfway point, a couple weeks ahead of release schedule, and I’m pretty thrilled at how it’s going.

(You know the ‘how it started/how it’s going’ meme? To quote another meme, they’re the same picture.)

So if there is also a heat wave where you live, take a load off and have a listen. And even if you don’t tune in right away, check back in a month from now. I already predict losing my mind a little on at least one of those episodes.

Keep an eye out next week for special Pride content!

Love—Cecilia

Update within an update: Reason is our newest platform!

Lit Review: POP SONG

In which I jump on a brand-new book!

“No one could have predicted Gigliotti would be drawn to a title like this,” alien scholars at the inter-terrestrial conference will quip years later, eliciting a chuckle from the panel crowd, after humanity is gone and the only remains of literature are this blog and a beat-up copy of Tina Fey’s Bossypants. Don’t ask how I know this.

I spotted Larissa Pham’s Pop Song: Adventures in Art and Intimacy among a stack of books in a photo taken by a writer I follow on Twitter, and yes, the title alone caught my eye. I searched it and knew I had to read it; two pages into the second essay I knew I loved it. (And not only because its publication date was just over a month ago, the collection new enough to reference the pandemic—rarely do I feel so hip.)

So far there was no indication of music playing more than a walk-on role in the narratives. The first essay was called “On Running.” I, too, run. Certain pop songs surface amidst the Art of the subtitle: but it’s visual art, much of it belonging to the category dubbed ‘modern,’ and Pham’s response to it, that takes center stage. Having studied art at Yale and immersed herself in opportunities and ways of creating through people she met there, she is understandably and uniquely predisposed to meditate on the impact of a museum visit, an installation, a single work.

As a so-called fan of modern visual art myself, though often not feeling in a position to appreciate it down to its molecular elements, I was by turns comforted, affirmed, and blown away by her observations. I learned about artists I had never heard of (Cerith Wyn Evans, Louise Bourgeois, James Turrell) and learned more about artists I had heard of (Agnes Martin, John Baldessari, Roy DeCarava). These artist biographies and works and stories are bound up in Pham’s travels: a painting studio in Provence, a chaotic daily existence in New York, a writing retreat in Taos, a vacation to Mexico City, a sponsored art festival in Shanghai. It is nice to have places, and dates, and things, to match names to.

Dates especially. She chronicles her own life and development with specific years and months, years and months whose significance overlaps for me, because I am a few years younger than she is and was also grappling with difficult cusp-of-maturity truths at those times. I’m still trying to divest myself of the compulsive comparisons—they never do any good—but I felt close to her for some of the desires that took hold of us at similar ages, some of the things we got involved in, some of the things that befell us, some of the things we fell for.

The Intimacy half of the subtitle was distinctly more foreign. Yet she renders her intimate experiences comprehensible to someone with a pretty short record. In her accounts of dating, sex, BDSM, I could scarcely wrap my head around the layer upon layer of complications she was confronted with while her personhood was still forming. Desire was difficult enough for me. What one-of-a-kind suffering did it mean for her?

And my heart ached for her at points, though it never broke. Because she is not broken. A broken person could not write, for her parting line, “I opened the door.”

Art and intimacy always make sense together, the way I see it. I learned early on to approach intimacy through shared encounters of art. (Why yes, I do spend time in museums fantasizing about my fellow museum-goers. How could such a setting not be deeply romantic?) Reading someone from a different background, with different training, whose approach was nonetheless similar, stirred me up. I was struck by her descriptions of other art forms besides visual, how she uses the act of writing to “pull a sieve through the disorganized world.” She refers to a “hierarchy” of fine arts in the midst of expressing a wish to be a musician. I never thought to rank these practices in any definitive way; at the end of her story I’m even less inclined to. I think Pham disproves her own idea by discussing nightclub dancing with the same reverence she gives photography and drawing. You do the art that speaks to you, through you. Every medium deserves to be celebrated, platformed, and taken seriously—that is, legitimately and joyfully.

She relies on small word-motifs (Wortmotif, I guess the people in my immediate vicinity would say) to bind the essays together, to justify their collection: the “hot liquid” sensation of getting lost in love, the “blue place” of distance, the “dark vessels” that can be both person and object, presence and absence. Her writer’s words are shot through with an artist’s impulse. It all made me wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like to study art. Like, for a grade. Like, for a job.

The titles she gives her essays are also intentional, which sounds perfectly obvious, but it’s wonderful to draw out the significance of each as it goes on. “Blue” dwells on travel and movement; but it was not lost on me, a Joni Mitchell devotee, that Pham later analyzes “A Case of You” (albeit not Joni’s version), which appears on the album Blue. At one time, Joni considered herself a painter first.

The rest of her words, ordered in the way they are, wield their own pull. After reading “It’s too much; I’m too much” in the essay “Crush,” I had to pause, regroup, recoup. The specific situation she was talking about almost didn’t matter. Great nonfiction—maybe great writing in general—both reveals the author to you and reveals you to yourself. In this respect Pham has given me much more than I bargained for.

I was amused and unsettled to stumble upon a second scene this year depicting a pivotal trip to New Mexico, the first being the adventure out of ‘civilized’ bounds in Brave New World. Different genres; different characters; not entirely different motivations; universal conclusions. If for no other reason—and there are many other reasons—read this book for the sheer magnetism of location.

Oh, and I have to shout out her uncanny shout-out to Caroline Polachek, whom she describes listening to as she writes. Funnily enough, I rediscovered a track of hers a few weeks ago and have welcomed her into my workday, too.

Image: Catapult Books edition, 2021

Nothing Alike But Very Alike

In which I really might take this analysis business too far

Okay friends. I was listening to music this week—as, you know, I do—and something occurred to me that I think has something to it. Either that or it will evidence an overstimulated brain whose sleep schedule this week has been erratic. Maybe the coffee my flatmate has been making is stronger than I realize??

Anyway. You already know Dylan’s been on my mind (mama you been on my mind? stop). As a matter of fact, in a turn of self-skepticism that surprised even me, no sooner had I opined that Blonde on Blonde was my favorite record than I got suckered into Highway 61 Revisited. As if the universe were asking, “You really wanna make that call? You really wanna commit?”

Blonde on Blonde’s acronym is literally BOB. What do you WANT from me.

Seriously, though, I was drawn back to its predecessor like a fly to…to…vinegar. Because that’s what it is, acidic and acerbic and ready to take no prisoners. I don’t know if I consciously knew this about myself until relatively recently, but I love a mean song. Not a violent one necessarily (unless it’s by a woman—flip that table, girl), just one that reads you, that says you can drop the act I see right through you or hey guess what guys this thing isn’t as great as you all think. And H61R is full of those attitudes. Pretty impressive, as there’s only nine songs.

Then I also had one foot outside the Dylansphere. And once I noticed the debt that the one owes the other I couldn’t un-notice it. So here it is: “Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind is the “Like a Rolling Stone” of our generation.

(Whose generation, Cecilia? The song came out in your infancy. Well, tell that to the group of baby millennials/elder Gen Z singing along word for word when one of us chose it at karaoke a few years ago. Leave me aloneeeeeee.)

I don’t mean that the late-‘90s gem has had the same impact or carries the same cultural weight or whatever. I mean that the wholes may have turned out very differently but the sums of their parts share surprising commonalities.

Their highly disparate texts explore a uniting theme, specifically that of an idle, privileged girl who gets into trouble because of (or to escape from) her sheer aimlessness. Stephan Jenkins, for all intents and purposes the personification of the entity that is Third Eye Blind, renders this girl a recurring character throughout their debut album—another single, “Losing a Whole Year,” which happens to be the opening track, states:

Rich daddy left you with a parachute

Your voice sounds like money and your face is cute

But your daddy left you with no love

You touch everything with a velvet glove

And now you wanna try a life of sin…

Always copping my truths

I kinda get the feeling like I’m being used

By track 3, “Semi-Charmed Life,” the girl bonds with the narrator almost solely through their use of crystal meth. Ironically, Jenkins’ major inspiration was Lou Reed, the song an alleged response to “Walk on the Wild Side” (the “do-do-do’s” are the most explicit reference). In discussing the song he has said that he intended it as a cautionary tale. That mood doesn’t exactly translate when you listen. Herein lies the biggest difference from “Like a Rolling Stone”: the narrator is in this situation with the girl instead of criticizing her from afar; and while he recognizes the danger of their addiction (“and when the plane came in she said she was crashing…we tripped on the urge to feel alive / but now I’m struggling to survive”) he is either unable or unwilling to try to get out of it, and it falls to her to take action:

She said, “I want something else

To get me through this semi-charmed kind of life…

I’m not listening when you say goodbye”

The problem is intimate—and the narrator seems pretty apathetic, in fact content to continue their destructive routine. Jenkins gets a little too smug for his own good on “she comes round and she goes down on me” (not to mention “and I make her smile, like a drug for you”). But then it really isn’t far removed from Dylan’s “don’t the sun look good going down over the sea / but don’t my gal look fine when she’s coming after me” elsewhere on H61R. Slightly more subtle, perhaps. Neither catalogue is known for portraying women as practical beings with wants and needs of their own.

That said, Dylan at least has never written a line like “how do I get back there to / the place where I fell asleep inside you.” Asfhszfjskghnklsfjt.

(The line “I believe in the sand beneath my toes” has definite “Mr. Tambourine Man” energy. See, I’m not making this up.)

The gap between the lyrical content is closed somewhat by the singers’ delivery. Very, uh, energetic. (The way Jenkins shouts “come on like a freak show takes the stage” is what got me on board during my first listen.) The verses are almost spoken-word-esque, full of internal rhyming—and, especially in Jenkins’ case, rhythmic hip-hop-influenced word-painting—and leading to highly singable choruses. Nor are their musical choices alien to one another, even if again they sound nothing alike. Not many chords (five in Dylan’s case, three in Jenkins’), heavy on the V (Roman numeral, the leading chord back to the root). It’s good pop songwriting that lets listeners feel like they know what’s going on.

Meanwhile, just as “Like a Rolling Stone” begins with a single drum kick that Springsteen famously described as “like somebody’d kicked open the door to your mind,” “Semi-Charmed Life” ends with the same thing. (There is a drum fill at the top, but the final stroke is a better comparison.) And if for Dylan the drum is a door kicked open, for Jenkins it’s a door slammed shut. Both pretty effective if you ask me.

I think this is how the Comp Lit kids do?!

Anyhow, I hope some song from some era is stuck in your head by now. Sorry not sorry. I’m switching to tea and going to bed.

Image: Third Eye Blind’s eponymous debut album, released March 1997

Happy birthday, Bob!

In which I count a love minus zero

On Monday the greatest lyrical poet of his generation turned 80. I’m going to eschew songwriter, although (or perhaps because) plenty call him that unhesitatingly—many artists of that generation, male and female, produced songs and/or albums that could justify their bid for the title. But his mastery of imagistic wordplay and world-building is of such status and stature that I say lyrical poet. Plus he’s a Nobel laureate in literature, so.

I feel very cliché for loving Bob Dylan. I feel cliché for the fact that the first song to make me go holy shit what else can this guy do was “Positively 4th Street,” and that the one whose lyrics I race through in my head for a mental-acuity checkup is “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding),” and that the one that sends me into a strange trance every time is “Ballad of a Thin Man.” I feel cliché for having fallen for him at fifteen, because it ostensibly gave me a reason to feel superior to my peers, because I was taught (as we all are) to casually despise teenage girls and belittle everything they love. Let’s face it, had I been born in 1950 I would be the most basic bitch alive. I am in no position whatsoever to judge, as he reminds me even when his lyrics aren’t actively slashing me to ribbons.

I don’t feel nearly so cliché for loving the Beatles, which on the surface makes no sense to me, but there must be a reason. Maybe it’s because the Beatles as a united entity have not existed for half a century now, whereas Dylan has never stopped being an entity, and a high-profile one at that.

I feel a little cliché for calling “Visions of Johanna” my favorite song, albeit not enough to be ashamed. (The full story is going in the memoir.) I feel less cliché for calling Blonde on Blonde my favorite record since it’s often made to exemplify excess, the shtick taken too far, past the balanced act of Highway 61 Revisited. I don’t care if it goes too far; I think it’s perfect. And even though it features the aforementioned song, my favorite track on the album is “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again.” How does this add up?

But then cooler kids than I profess a love of Dylan and get away with it, so I guess I should go easy on myself.

I always joke that he spent the first five years of his career trying to be famous and the next fifty-five years trying not to be. With all the buzz around this date, it’s safe to say he hasn’t exactly made strides toward fading into obscurity or whatever it is he wants to do. Which is just better news for the rest of us.

Happy day, Robert. I know nothing annoys you more, but we love you!!!

P.S. in case you guys didn’t catch it last year, this gem merited some kind of award in and of itself. THAT is the correct way to do quarantine. ⭐️

Image: my estimate is early ‘66 but I can’t trace the source, shout it out in the comments if you know

I Feel Fine (Or Not)

In which I pull apart a Weltanschauung

*CW: suicide ideation*

German coming along, is it? LOL I learned that word years ago from The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee.

Good weekend, all. This is not a Beatles post; sorry to anyone who may feel misled. Today I’m wondering whether, or when, to say you’re fine if you’re not.

I talked a while back about the inherent limitations of asking how someone is doing, especially in English; that was a discussion of semantics, whereas this is a meditation on…emotics? (Nobody submit that to the OED, I’m going straight to Urban Dictionary.)

Recently I was prompted to remember a teacher at my old primary school. I was never in his class, but we all knew him. His sunny disposition was renowned throughout the building. Whenever you asked how he was doing, his invariable reply was “outstanding.”

An admirable approach; there’s much to be said for it. I would bet that he was not doing outstanding one hundred percent of the time—although he biked to and from school, which jacks up endorphin levels—but he certainly lifted others’ spirits, and probably his own, by saying so. At least one person was okay, or so the message went. In fact, you got the sense that if he was okay, the world was okay. The mystery, in my mind, is whether he managed to speak himself beyond a temporary mood-booster into a permanent sense of happiness.

I’m not saying you can be permanently happy. Life has its highs and lows, and you will inevitably experience corresponding emotions, and they will affect your worldview. Some highs or lows will last longer than others. But can you convince yourself that you are happy? Or trick your brain into thinking you are?

Let me lead you to where you likely guessed this was going: this approach, for the most part, has not served me. I’ve always had a pretty optimistic outlook (and been fortunate enough to live a life that supports that outlook), but I can tell when a ‘good’ mood is strained or disingenuous, and it doesn’t sit well. It feels like toxic positivity. I can’t manifest cheer if something is wrong. I can’t use a blanket word like outstanding and make it so. No amount of convincing or trickery can persuade me; these tactics usually make the situation worse.

And not for lack of trying. In late college I did go around saying “great!” when people asked, which only served to highlight in my own mind that I was anything but. I was overworking myself in efforts to wrap up my studies a semester early; I had the loosest of plans for what to do next; I took the stress out on my body, which felt more like a war zone than a home. The disconnect was glaring—I thought there must be someone itching to call me on my dishonesty with them and with myself. “Can’t you see how not great I am?” I wanted to shout. But I didn’t know how to do that, how to admit that I was carrying more than I could hold. The world at large was not great by any means either, and the stream of bad news didn’t help. It reached the point where, at the tail end of a frosty November, I experienced my first and only tangible suicide ideation. I was lucky to have a support system to rely on, with whom I could securely share these thoughts, and once I had the space to look back at the darkness and hopelessness and terrifying anxiety of that former state of mind I vowed to do whatever I could to keep from ending up in that place again.

What I can do most consistently is express my feelings openly and honestly. Not being melodramatic or excessive about it, but (for example) informing people when I’m not in the best of moods as a frame of reference for how I might behave toward them that day, or asking a trusted someone to help me put a problem into perspective. Just, you know, not resorting to the knee-jerk reaction of “great!” if that isn’t in fact true. And—mutually exclusive—foregoing the intrinsic impulse to appear chipper. Nice. Non-confrontational. I hardly enjoy confrontation; but I’ve learned that you can’t always be true to yourself or say what you really mean without causing some upset along the way.

Now, I don’t mean to suggest that you not think before you speak, or antagonize people for no reason, or spill the contents of your brain to anyone who will listen. This sounds straightforward but can prove hard to resist in the heat of the moment: I’ve had times where I was definitely inclined to react in anger or defensiveness but knew in hindsight that doing so wouldn’t have helped my case. I mean that if there’s something on your mind or in your heart that cannot be kept to yourself, whether for reasons of principle or safety, you have the right to take up the space you need to put it out there. That goes for all your interactions with everyone. Sometimes these things might not make you very popular, but you need to be willing to assess—and, if called for, take—that risk. For what it’s worth, I tend to regret the things I left unsaid more than the things I said. And the fact is that if you don’t speak up, the chances decrease of your getting what you need, whether that be material resources or respect/decency/support.

But I’m also not going to pretend this isn’t gendered. “Outstanding” was a voluntary choice for that male teacher (and probably not a difficult choice, him being a white man with a full-time job) when there is much less flexibility for women and modes of female self-expression. The aforementioned risk skews higher for us across the board. We are under external and internal pressure to be not only liked but likable, to make ourselves generally palatable and inoffensive, until the line between what is genuine and what is performed blurs within our own consciousness. Merely expressing ourselves as we feel necessary can, in certain contexts, be enough to vilify us; a woman getting what she needs is all too often painted as selfish, and selfish all too often equated with evil. A woman whose emotions get the better of her even once is haunted by the incident long afterward, especially if she is in the public eye. Saying something with the chance of it not being popular comes with extra ramifications. We frequently hazard being branded as dislikable at best and being dismissed from the situation or cut off from people at worst; thus we frequently opt for silence, and settle for alienation from ourselves. And then a silent woman who declines to engage is called cold or a bitch. Hence why so many women alive today confront inherited rules about what makes a ‘lady,’ about what a lady ought to be instead of what she can be or chooses to be. As if all that weren’t enough, these concerns divide women across race and class and lock us in conflict with one another instead of unifying us against common adversaries. Each generation has their own ways of challenging and subverting the narrative, and still the sea change has yet to be fully accomplished.

Well, if I’m going to be a bitch, I’d like to be an authentic bitch.

As for my teacher’s method, I used to wonder if I was doing it wrong or not trying hard enough. But I don’t think so. I think what’s good for the gander simply can’t be assumed to be good for the goose.

The irony that tops all? I am happier for it. Acknowledging whatever unhappiness I detect frees me up to experience happiness. Being more generous with my expressions has allowed me to tap into what I need (time alone, time with friends, a return to a hobby) and sit with unpleasant or unwelcome feelings. I continue to be blessed with wonderful people who share in my burdens as I share in theirs. Because I have been authentic with them, they know that they can be authentic with me, that I am a ‘safe’ person who will handle their worries and struggles with care. I can take stock of myself and of how much I feel able to give them—and, as a result, I have more to give.

Over the course of the harrowing psychological journey that has been this pandemic, when asked how I am doing, the phrases I’ve gravitated toward are “I could be worse” and “I’ve been worse,” because both are true. I don’t unleash the complexities of what I may be feeling at any given moment on an unsuspecting small-talk partner, nor do I claim to be dandy when I’m not. It’s a comfortable grey space that accentuates the greyness of that space.

And, you know, sometimes even this year I am just plain doing well. Sometimes I have an energetic day, or am in a bright mood for a minor or nonexistent reason, or got a good night’s sleep. If I say I’m doing well, you can count on it being more or less accurate.

I’d like to stress that I speak to my experience. If you find it easiest to say you’re outstanding, or great, or even fine, when it doesn’t fully reflect your state of being, please absolutely feel empowered to say that. Do what’s good for you, to quote an album I just celebrated, or you’re not good for anybody. It doesn’t happen to be the most effective strategy for me, and I doubt I’m alone in that.

What I remind people—and often have to remind myself—at this particular standstill in human history is that no one is where they thought they’d be or anywhere near as happy as they hoped. Give yourself a break. Having self-compassion will make things more bearable in the long run. This is a universal predicament, and, like everything else, it won’t last forever.

By the way, I hope that teacher really is doing outstanding. He deserves to.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline in the US is 1-800-273-8255. Resources in the UK and Europe are listed at www.suicide.org.

Why TURNSTILES Made Billy Joel Great

In which I say goodbye to Hollywood

Today marks the 45th anniversary of the release of Billy Joel’s fourth studio album. This boils down to convenience; it simply gives me a chronological excuse to talk about something I’ve wanted to talk about for some time now. Mostly because I don’t hear anyone else doing it.

Maybe I’m not looking in the right places. Far be it from me to call myself a scholar of the Bard of Long Island.* But given that people will (justifiably) analyze The Stranger until they’re blue in the face, I figured I’d transfer a byte of that energy to its immediate predecessor, which I wasn’t exposed to until much later, and which is in many ways equally strong.

Only eight tracks, and not a weak one among them. I don’t go crazy for “New York State of Mind”—chalk it up to too many second-rate covers (except this one and, of course, Babs, who helped him go mainstream)—but nor would I call it a bad song. From the Spector-esque glory of “Say Goodbye to Hollywood” to the keyboard-sweeping range of “Miami 2017,” it’s basically all killer no filler.

Come to think of it, Joel does not make records with lots of tracks. He takes musical ideas and follows them through to their endpoint. This results in many of the songs being quite long, compensating for length in time as opposed to quantity. I think he is one of the artists who helped usher out the era of people couching their singles among two-minute throwaway tracks to reach a total of 14 (thanks, Capitol) and usher in an era of greater democracy for what constituted ‘radio-friendly’ or a proper LP.

For me, the album happened slowly and then completely. I listened to it at intervals—particularly over the past year as a sonic background for work—and realized one day that I knew all the words. Although the first song I knew to be a Turnstiles song was “Summer, Highland Falls,” which I learned because my dad needed me to sing it as part of a presentation he was giving. Long story.

“All You Wanna Do is Dance“ struck a big chord last fall, when all I wanted to do was dance. Some projects were stressing me out and I decided not to think about them until I absolutely had to. The line “you don’t want to deal with the future / you don’t want to make any plans” seemed to me to sum up the entire COVID-ravaged world. “James,” meanwhile, is as beautiful a tune as he’s ever written—a statement that may not be impartial, as it holds specific connotations for me. It’s also a suitable precursor to the next year’s ballad, “Vienna,” which if you ask me is his greatest song, full stop.

It is a Power Move that “Prelude/Angry Young Man” has the word “prelude” in its title and is not the album opener. No way could he have pulled that off a couple years prior. I love the journey it takes us on. This one too has a weirdly COVID-relevant line: “I found that just surviving was a noble fight.”

“I’ve Loved These Days” is the last one I got to know, and I was like, wait a minute, this is an incredible song. It’s like any number of those Grand ‘70s Nostalgia songs, except it isn’t like any of them at all because it doesn’t drown us in sentiment. It sounds instrumentally full, but there’s a hollowness just underneath. “I don’t know why I even care,” the narrator admits. The Marvin Hamlisches of the world were not writing those feelings into their songs. Love you tho, Marv.

I did hear “Miami 2017” a lot as a youngster, when the date seemed impossibly far-off, so the fact that we are now four years past it is a whole different level of crazy. And the Mafia haven’t taken over Mexico yet, to my knowledge. But that chord progression is Good Stuff. The rise and fall of the orchestration? Never gets old. This one must be a real stunner live.

But my favorite at the end of the day might almost definitely be “Say Goodbye to Hollywood.” I just, I can’t. The melody sounds like it was preordained by God. Whoever arranged the strings deserves an award. Go listen. I mean, it’s in C fucking major. Using the simplest of tools to create something incomparable.

No less notably, I really like the cover photograph. It reflects the artistic essence of the man: someone who will play wherever he is needed, surrounded by a ragtag cast of everyday characters thrown together in an urban setting as spirited as it is grungy, deriving their transient glamour merely from their appearance in the songs. You may be a nobody, but if Billy Joel writes a line about you, you may just be a somebody.

My dad and I used to debate whether Joel was the best of the ‘bad’ songwriters or the worst of the ‘good’ songwriters. Now I know this album, I reject both of those categories. He could have just been the Piano Man, ridiculously lucky on one isolated occasion, but putting together a collection of songs like this one proved that he was only getting started. I don’t think he straddles any kind of middle zone. I think he is simply a good songwriter.

*Not my intellectual property. But I ain’t citing no sources.

Image: released 19 May 1976, Family Productions/Columbia (photograph taken in Astor Place subway station)

An exciting new project…

In which I unveil another (ad)venture

It’s been a little while in the works—really just a couple months—and now I get to announce that I am one-half of a brand-new podcast!

(Possibly the only podcast dedicated solely to The Beach Boys??)

In this limited series the Connecticut Half-Wit and I dissect the classic album Pet Sounds from beginning to end. So far we’ve gone on a lot of tangents, too, so there’s plenty of bonus content. If you enjoy what I do on the blog, chances are you’ll dig this.

It drops Sunday 16 May, precisely 55 years since the album’s release. You can hear the trailer now on Spotify, Google Podcasts, Amazon Music/Audible, Anchor, and a bunch of other platforms. Distribution on Apple is still pending, but with any luck it will be there soon too.

Oh, and use the hashtag #PodSoundsPodcast to interact. Can’t wait for you to hear it!

I knew my past thoughts would come back to haunt me…

Update: we’re now on Apple too!!

Image: the work of the immaculate @sarahnhixsonart