This is old news, but I'm feeling energetic today and in a writing mood, which is rare these days.
Today I got up, made french toast, bacon, tea, and scones; washed dishes, put things away, mailed a letter (yes, I still use paper sometimes, in fact, I use a dipping pen and parchment paper, too) and then helped my husband cut up some yellow string beans from our garden for late freezing.
Then I said, "You mind if I listen to Peter Cetera for a while?" to which my husband stammers for a moment and goes, "Uh, sure, I'm going outside anyway." (I knew he wasn't FOND of Peter's music, but I had no idea he thought being outside was preferable to ignoring it.) I'm like, cool, and open iTunes to play the first song that catches my attention: On The Line. It seems like _forever_ since I played something so good. I mean, Metallica, Lady Gaga, Richard Marx, they're all good, but... there's something insanely wonderful about returning to one's deepseated roots when it comes to familiar, intimately-known music.
I sit down to the bliss, ignoring the dishwasher sounds, and suddenly hear this horrible clash. My husband thought it would be "funny" to play Metallica in the background, and cranked his speakers to override my music.
I put "funny" in quotes because he really was trying to be funny, but I didn't think it was. I have rather strong feelings about music which is why I don't listen to much of it at home anymore. He's always watching TV, playing podcasts, or listening to his own music, and I simply cannot enjoy mine with the background noise. So when I ask for some music time, I expect to thoroughly enjoy it, and this was another example of why I cannot. I was not amused.
He quickly realized this, shut down Metallica, and crept back into his corner of a den while I whisked myself back to musical bliss. He did go outside, and came back in, so I put on my headphones. Loud. OMG. Built-in iMac speakers are decent, but nothing like my Logitech usb headphones. I forget what real music sounds like until days like today. Even my truck doesn't do this stuff justice.
So, here's the current song that has my attention: One Good Woman. I had a strong inclination to play keyboard when this came on, but then this writing bug hit me. That's what's wrong with me these days. I have no inspiration to write with. I have to be energized. I have to have this growly, yet refined, airy voice to lend emotion to my words. Without this, my words are a mere echo of things I see, no life, no real merit.
The images of the metronome still tick in my head from the music video for this song. I think back to all the wonderful posting I used to do here, all the awesome posts I'd read, the plethora of mutual inspiration and inside jokes and wonderful tips on where to find anything Peter-related. What changed? What changed??
Besides a lot of comings and goings, my life has changed. Mostly for the better, and it would be even better if I made more time for music. I started driving, got married, got a new job, bought a house, became an aunt, caught up with old friends, found family, etc etc etc... the list goes on. I have more hobbies and things to do than a writer should have, and yet I have them, and I'm happy. Insanely happy. I've watched friends having babies, did some babysitting for them, and take scads of pictures which is my only real creative outlet these days other than the occasional penned letter.
Remember the Birthday Queen, Candice, who became a friend of mine? Remember the reviews of Peter's music, and the exchanges of tapes and CDs back when information was still hard to find on the internet? Remember the days before Peter actually had a website? Heck, remember the days before Yahoo Groups, back when we were all on the Cetera List? I do. I know many people here remember the days before the Cetera List, too. I remember the days when I was in high school, researching old magazines at the library for clips of Peter's life, musical or otherwise. Anything I could find.
Mom used to tell me I'd only listen to Peter when I was depressed. I listened to him all the time! I danced to work to his tunes. I swirled and turned, and jumped in the air to the horns on Once In A Lifetime. It was exhilarating. I was in great shape. I felt happy. "He" brought me feeling, "he" brought me fire. I don't mean Peter, although it was his music that got me to that state of being where I could feel so vamped up enough to find that inspiring force, that soft, gentle, supportive hand. "He" was God, or whatever that powerful force is that I associate with Him. (Anyone who doesn't believe in God, just disregard this portion, there is no offense intended.)
So there I was, head hanging back, lightly sweating, breathing hard, tingling from toe to spine, right up my back into the top of my head, warmth and shivers emanating through my shoulders, my ribcage, my heart. My feet felt alive. My knees felt weak (seriously, they were physically weak, bad knees run in my family, but I didn't care - it made them stronger, I thought).
I had rhythm. I had soul. Now, I have trouble with one foot. I stay away from music, lest I get whisked away into its frenzy, hurting myself further. Part of me thinks that's BS, that perhaps I got hurt by NOT dancing, by driving, instead. Did I? Is it because I'm in my thirties now? Is it because of that time I went hiking and twisted my ankle a little in the slushy slippery snow? I'll never know, for sure, what caused it. But I do know that dancing in orthotics is very, very, wrong, in so many ways. It exacerbates the problem, for one, slamming my sensitive little foot onto the hard arch support, feeling it slide down and slamming my little toe onto the other side. No, no, no. I dance barefoot, now. Lost are the days of dancing down the street on hard pavement, or through the grass on the way home from work. I drive to work now, too far to walk without getting up super early. I dance barefoot in the grass when it's raining each summer. Winter comes and I hide my foot in anything warm... blankets, heating pads, fuzzy socks, under my person... anything to distract it from the tension, the pain, the cold.
One Good Woman, indeed. This has become more of a review of my recent life rather than of the song itself. I think it's because it brings back so much excitement, so much zeal. It's beautiful, yet full of energy. Starting out with that beautiful piano and simple tapping on the cymbal (I think that's what that is)... what sounds like electric bass... the softness of the synths in the background... quickly falling headfirst into a pile of lovely vocals... cascading heavily into drums, guitar, and ... pure energy. The "y" sound in "higher" is emphasized. Then it drops off again, and the first piece is reinvented with double tracking, that wonderfully perfect sound, made even more heavenly by the voice behind it. The piece shifts again, unable to restrain itself, flying away from itself. The Voice growls in its insistence that someone "gives" him a love that's taking him higher. Dropping off again, it's their time. They have it all. The piano spells out its agreement with tiny droplets of notes. Then the Voice gives it a chance to let its whims play themselves out: "You're such a sight for my poor eyes." The piano agrees: "Yes, I totally agree, that you are in love and I am in love as well, I love to play in this wonderful song. The Voice hums in accompaniment, not a duel like some instruments are fond of, but a loving embrace, an accent. The piano continues: "You embrace my sound, I see this and I love you for it, I cannot help it, you let me speak, now please go on." The Voice continues. The energy leaps forth once again, bringing every instrument together, into the wave of its life, its soul. For each and every song has a piece of someone's soul in it, and this one is no exception. The song fades out, my feet tingle once again, my butt shifts in its chair, my fingers express desire to continue dancing.
I shall post again in a moment.
~whitney
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