Category Archives: Melancholy

Melancholy Music, Part II

 

 

 

 

Melancholy Music, Maybe. Part II

We’re still talking about/listening to great melancholy songs. One thing that quickly struck me as I began assembling this second part of the list was the number of native Texans (or, at least, songwriters with strong ties to Texas). Why? Who knows…

Which Kris Kristofferson song to choose? The man’s written a bunch of ‘em. Of course, looking back on his acting career, I’d be melancholy, too. How about “Sunday Morning Coming Down”?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYvkhDMU5Mg

Rodney Crowell is one of our best living songwriters. Like Kristofferson, he’s most comfortable singing about loss and love and a fragile kind of hope that never quite gives way to despair – “Ashes by Now.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvVSLIXFJWM

Featured on that last video is Emmylou Harris. Crowell used to be her band leader. He wrote “Ashes by Now” and the heartbreakingly lovely “Till I Again Control Again.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMR4ZU1noI4

Some songs are so old that their roots are lost in the mists of time. “Texas Rangers” is a re-written version of an ancient English ballad, filled with intriguing anachronisms. Michael Martin Murphey sings it like it was meant to be sung, a cappella, with just a hint of drone in the background.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-dYzh_ZA8A

Roseanne Cash released a number of wonderful albums, mostly produced by her husband (and native Texan) Rodney Crowell. Even her happy songs sound a little wistful. “Seven Year Ache” is one of my favorites. Her dad, Johnny Cash, knew his way around a melancholy song, too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrUs_FWqj9s

Townes Van Zandt was a tortured genius, tormented and demon-wracked. And he wrote some of the most achingly beautiful songs of melancholy ever recorded, including “Tecumseh Valley.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_rq5GsZHd0Y

Another Texan, equally acclaimed and – fortunately for music-lovers everywhere – still with us, Guy Clark has an extraordinary catalogue of original and soul-searching songs. Which one to choose? How about the quiet desperate sadness of “Desperados Waiting for a Train”?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbB5TRLF9mo

I’ll be forever grateful for Mike Korpi and Walt Wilkins for introducing me to Itasca native Sam Baker, the heir to Townes and Guy. Nearly killed by a “Shining Path” bomb in Peru, Sam taught himself to play guitar left-handed and has proceeded to write some of the most haunting songs in the English language in recent years, including “Waves” and “Baseball.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivJva71KaL0

Though not from Texas, John Prine is the only person with three songs on my list, “Angel from Montgomery,” “Sam Stone” and “Paradise.” He’d be considered one of our greatest living songwriters if he never wrote anything but these three. Fortunately, he’s written many, many more equally dour, sardonic, utterly beguiling masterpieces as well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVZmSEpuJtg

Speaking of “Angel from Montgomery,” I first saw Bonnie Raitt back in the early ‘80s and have been a fan ever since. But I’m not sure she ever recorded a more beautifully dejected song than “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nW9Cu6GYqxo

One more American singer/songwriter of note – Tom Rush has been doing this sort of thing a very long time. He’s probably best-known for his leaving home song, “No Regrets,” but I’ve always loved the sad and lovely “Merrimack County.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yS6pMotQma0

Emotionally and stylistically, the Irish seem to have the most in common with Texans, at least when it comes to music. Perhaps because so many Texans are of Irish descent. Or, as G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “For the great Gaels of Ireland/Are the men that God made mad/For all their wars are merry/And all their songs are sad.” Sounds like most Texas songwriters to me!

Regardless, I’d have to say that Maura O’Connell’s version of Tom Waits’ “Broken Bicycles” is one of the most serenely melancholy songs I’ve ever heard. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a Youtube video of her performing the song, so here’s Wait’s original:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eF-HAAUY45c

This one could just as easily ended up in my list of over-exposed songs of melancholy, but Sinead O’Connor’s version of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” holds up over repeated listenings and viewings. The stark, honest simplicity of the performance, coupled with the longing and loss in the words, are nearly unparalleled when it comes to MTV-styled videos.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iUiTQvT0W_0

Not surprising, there are a number of artists from the U.K. on my list. (Of course, my Irish friends would say that they’re melancholy because of the Brits!)

Here’s one that you may not remember: Dream Academy, “Life in a Northern Town.” When the music of ‘80s was good, it was very good. And when it was bad, well … This is one of the good ‘uns.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O17MA58P-QY

Dave Mason used to be one of my favorite artists, both when he was with Traffic and as a solo performer. He was/is also an under-rated songwriter. “Shouldn’t Have Took More Than You Gave” is Mason at his melancholic best.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xj2h0LSTY3U

My two favorite songs by the Stones are their bleakest and most melancholy, “No Expectations” and “Wild Horses.” “Wild Horses” is about addiction. Though I’d always known and liked the song, I didn’t really get “No Expectations” until MSNBC played it under a montage of scenes of the aftermath of Katrina. The lyrics are chillingly descriptive – and the somber music matches the mood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rIqBeMZAMc

I surprised that only a handful of the many, many great soul/R&B songs I love can be classified as melancholy. Here are three of them:

The Temptations’ “Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me)” has an added layer of regret over and above the lyrics and music – this is the last song with the original lineup, before egos and health issues tore the group apart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5Z9-QCmZyw

I never get tired of hearing Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes sing “If You Don’t Love Me by Now.” Teddy Pendergrass at his prime. An aching, stop/start melody line. And sublimely resigned harmonies. Perfect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxOZ6gifTjA

And one of my earliest all-time faves: Brook Benton’s moody, mystical, just on the edge of despair reading of “Rainy Night in Georgia.” Some of the most melancholy guitar licks ever pressed to wax. I can remember being a teen-ager and driving around the Piney Woods of East Texas listening to this song as if it were yesterday. It transports me every time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDRbF80NKDU

Finally, the four melancholy songs that still hit me at a visceral level whenever I hear them. They are here because they embody the best, most insightful lyrics and most utterly haunting melodies of a truly great song of melancholy and loss. These are bittersweet, autumnal songs of regret … but always leavened with a hint of hope.

I’m not sure I can narrow down the music of Loreena McKennitt to just two songs – all of them are infused with a gorgeous Celtic fatalism and transcendent beauty. “Lady of Shalott” and “The Bonny Swans” are just two of many …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsNJuhBfbPg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MU_Tn-HxULM

The forever underrated Beth Nielsen Chapman (who happens to have been born in Harlingen, Texas), has written hits for a lot of other artists. But nothing, to my ears, as heart-wrenchingly beautiful as “Sand and Water,” written after the loss of her husband to cancer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_G6lIpWQXhw

And finally, I don’t know this song always devastates me. It just does. It’s like a fatal attraction. It sends me careening in melancholy every time I hear it, but I keep going back: Simply Red, “Holding Back the Years.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yG07WSu7Q9w

And, as before, I’d welcome/cherish YOUR favorite melancholy songs!

 

 

Melancholy, Maybe. Part I

Blue, here is a shell for you.

Inside, you’ll hear a sigh

A foggy lullaby

There is your song from me – Joni Mitchell, “Blue”

 Ever feel a little blue, a little melancholy sometimes? Pensive, perhaps? We all do. This is not depression, just being a bit wistful. It is a sweet sadness on a gloriously cool and overcast day.

 I like a good melancholy song. I don’t want a sad song, a song about the loss of a child (Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven”) or a song about pain and suffering (Midnight Oil’s “Beds are Burning”). Nor am I looking for labored sentimentality, songs that determinedly play on the emotions (anything by Toby Keith). No, sometimes I want a pensive song about life’s bittersweet moments.

There are some great ones out there, of course. The trouble is, some of the best melancholy songs lose some of their power when they’re heard too often. To wit:

 Dan Fogelberg, “Same Old Lang Syne,” REM, “Losing My Religion,” U2 “New Years Day,” Jerry Jeff Walker, “Mr. Bojangles,” Gilbert O’Sullivan, “Alone Again, Naturally,” The Who, “Behind Blue Eyes,” Al Stewart, “Year of the Cat,” Janis Ian, “17” and “Luka, ” B.B. King, “The Thrill is Gone,” Harry Chapin, “Cats in the Cradle,” the Beatles, “Yesterday” and many, many others.

 A few more just on the cusp of being overly familiar: Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” and Dire Straits’ “Brothers in Arms” (both suggested by Alan Nelson), Don Henley’s “Heart of the Matter,” John Lennon’s “Mother,” Moby’s “Natural Blues” and Ray LaMontagne’s “Beg, Steal or Borrow.”

And there are other artists who have recorded so many melancholy songs that it would be hard to pick just one: Bob Dylan, the Band, the Civil Wars, Kate Bush, Elliott Smith, Nick Drake, Big Star and, of course, many more.

Since I’m making the rules here, I get to pick what goes on the list. For instance, in my mind, Neil Young has recorded his share of these kinds of songs, but two of the most famous/notorious, “Needle and the Damage Done” and “Tonight’s the Night,” (both about losing a friend) are more harrowing than melancholy. Bruce Springsteen’s entire Nebraska album is lonesome and desolately beautiful – but not necessarily melancholy.

When I mentioned this idea to Van (in hopes of getting a song from the metal side of music), he immediately suggested two CDs by the Norwegian group Ulver, Kveldssanger and Shadows of the Sun. I listened to both over a period of several days and fell in love with their glorious, mournful waves of sound.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3PRUmS012I

The other music he mentioned was a song that was already on my list, Jimmy Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross,” which Van said he wanted played at his funeral … 70 years from now. I promised I’d do my best.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGeCeK85sUg

 Mary’s first choice was Joni Mitchell’s aptly named “Blue.” Like some of the artists listed above, you could create an entire blog around her best, most introspective songs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5782PQO5is

I also drew from the vast repertoire of classical music. Some of the world’s greatest symphonies have melancholic movements. I eventually narrowed it down to two. The first is Erik Satie’s moody and memorable tone poem, “Gymnopedie #1”. I love the version by Sky, but I first heard it by, of all people, Blood, Sweat and Tears as “Variations on a Theme by Erik Satie.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-Xm7s9eGxU

The second is a song cycle I was first introduced to in Peter Weir’s moving The Year of Living Dangerously, Strauss’ “Four Last Songs,” as performed by Kirsten Flagstad. This is the music Linda Hunt’s character listens to as Indonesia lurches inevitably towards chaos. I couldn’t find a performance by Flagstad on YouTube, but here is a nice version by Renee Fleming.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppoqUVlKkBU

Part II is the rest of my list and it includes a LOT of Texas singer/songwriters. Maybe it is the weather, maybe it is the politics, maybe it is the land, but Texans dominate the list. See you then.

On Grief

As I’ve mention, I have had a number of significant milestones in the past year and a half. I’ve moved twice (including the most recent one where I left what had been my home since 1979). I’ve finished the largest book of my career. But few milestones compare to the passing of your parents.

My father suffered mightily from Parkinson’s Disease and seemed to lose interest in life following of my mother’s death 18 months ago. I was in San Antonio when the call came from my sister Danni to come to Waco. Now. Mary and I rushed back and I arrived in time to share his last few minutes. The days/weeks that followed saw a different kind of grief than that which accompanied my mom’s passing. I handle loss differently at different times, it seems. Perhaps you do, too.

One recent Sunday in Waco I saw examples of how people cope with the death of a loved one. There is a strip mall on Valley Mills Drive, just past Franklin Avenue but before West Waco Drive. At the entrance is a grouping of crosses, marking the tragic death of a carload of young people some years before. At the crosses, several people stood, apparently sharing a private service of some kind. Oblivious to the noise of the busy street, they huddled by the small white crosses. Perhaps they sang, perhaps they prayed. I couldn’t see as I drove past.

Later that same day, as I drove up 25th Street, I saw a single cross. It was across the street from Reicher High School and it is often adorned with flowers. What I hadn’t noticed before was the small bench beside it. A man sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, hands on his head, staring at the cross. I finished my business (it was at my parent’s house, near Lake Shore Drive) and I returned the same way. The man was still there, this time with his right hand on his chin, still staring at the solitary white cross.

In both cases, people chose a specific way to remember … and grieve … that worked for them.

In the August 24, 2012 edition of the Waco Tribune-Herald, I turned – as readers of previous blogs know I often do – to the obituary page. Three of the obituary photographs featured the deceased with their pets. Rick Quaintance posed with his little dog, which looked like Toto from the Wizard of Oz. Sandra K. Smith was pictured hugging her little dog, some kind of spaniel.

But the most intriguing photo was placed by the family of Johnny L. Chapple.  Chapple was, judging by the picture, a formidable-looking man – broad-shouldered, bald, and with a long, sandy-colored beard. He is shown with a stern look, almost a glare. He’s also tenderly holding a Boston Terrier, though the Terrier is actually in the foreground. Among Chapple’s accomplishment was listed his work with Boston Terrier Rescue of Houston. In fact, in lieu of flowers, the family asked that donations be made to Boston Terrier Rescue of Greater Houston.

I suspect that it gives Chapple’s family and friends a real sense of peace making those donations. Doing so also, I suspect, helps them deal with their grief.

What we do when someone we love is taken from us is an intensely personal experience. I really haven’t found any one-size-fits-all approach on how people handle, internalize, express and/or cope with that kind of loss. I’ve discovered that my grief for the passing of my parents (and for the passing of many – too many – good friends) in the past few years is much different than what I would have anticipated. Perhaps it is the “reporter” in me. I was trained to observe first, analyze later. But then, my friends and family’s memories of me indicate I was that always that way as a kid. I’ve found that I keep most of it inside.

I also believe grief will express itself … eventually. Somehow and someway – and usually in an unexpected moment. I wasn’t able to attend the funeral of my beloved grandmother Allie Owens (I was in the hospital with a bad back at the time). But I don’t think I actually really grieved her death until a few weeks later when I was at the funeral Jim Hudson’s wonderful mother. This delayed reaction has happened to me before and it will no doubt happen again.

Mary has helped me see that when we get blue, we’re sometimes reacting to the anniversary of some kind of loss, perhaps an anniversary that we may not even be consciously aware of at the time. It’s only in retrospect that we see that our bodies are/were reacting to a memory.

How long it takes someone to “get past” the death of a loved one (or even a favorite pet) is strictly up to them. It’s not my place to judge. In fact, I think maturity (and hard knocks – which may be the same thing) have taught me that it’s not my place to judge someone else on MOST occasions. Besides, it’s just not my job. There’s Somebody far better equipped for that particular chore.

They say funerals are for the living … the dead are long past caring. Mom and dad are together. Johnny L. Chapple is playing with a pack of bounding Boston Terriers. Grandmother Allie is young and pain-free and funny and feisty and beautiful, surrounded by her family and friends.

Milestones and anniversaries mount as I get older, whether I am always aware of them or not. I want to tell the people I love that I love them NOW so that when the time comes and I’m the one standing  by a roadside cross or sitting by a tombstone or an even holding an urn of ashes, it is with a sense of … peace. They knew I loved them on earth because I repeatedly showed them and told them so while they were here.

Then when I’m standing or sitting there, I’m just reaffirming that love… not regretting opportunities lost.

I grieve, for you
You leave, me
So hard to move on
Still loving what’s gone
They say life carries on
Carries on and on and on and on

– “I Grieve” by Peter Gabriel

On Letting Go

On Letting Go

 Another milestone. Last week, I moved out of the 118 North 30th Street house that has been home since early 1980. The beautiful old 1920s Arts & Crafts house has seen all of the usual things that old homes see over the decades: parties and wakes, birthdays and anniversaries, promotions and demotions, tantrums and tea parties. Our kids and grandkids romped through the house. A couple of dogs and a couple of cats, too.

I had band practice there. Many times, in fact, thanks to the patient indulgence of our wonderful neighbors. I played catch with Dan and Van in the yard. I wrote a BUNCH of books there. Mary and I danced in the lovely wood-paneled den when no one else was around. I read books and comic books. Rachel got dressed for a prom or two in the middle bedroom.

It was safe and warm and big and sprawling. It had a few familiar creaks at night, when the old oaken floors would breathe and sigh.

The laundry room was once a library, with floor to ceiling bookshelves constructed with the able help of my dad and Jim Hudson. It was there that I learned – too late – the value of “measure twice, cut once.” The library once held thousands of books and LPs. Both boys moved their bedrooms there at different times, staying up WAY too late reading comics and listening to U2 or Type O Negative.

Mary and I dressed for our wedding there. Then, years later, dressed for Rachel’s wedding as well.

We held watching parties for the Lady Bears and elections in the big den. We celebrated Mary’s Masters and Ed.D. there, too. And, at different times, when mom and dad passed, the den was big enough to hold the family where we ate Mexican barbecued chicken from the rolling taco trucks and told stories on them long into the evening.

On a couple of occasions at night, I’ve thought I heard Naomi’s paws pad across the bedroom.

The previous owners, Lt. Gov. Ben Barnes’ parents, told us the 118 N. 30th house had a ghost. A sweet, benign little ghost, a young girl. We never saw or heard her. Once, in abject desperation, after an hour of frenzied searching and fearful of missing an important meeting or something, I asked for her help in finding my lost car keys. When turned around, the keys were sitting on the stove top behind me.

Van and I drew for hours on the dining room table.

Mary wrote her dissertation in the middle bedroom.

I wrote a couple novels and a bunch of other stuff in the breezeway.

One night, I encountered a large golden possum in the backyard. He opened his mouth, lined with sharp little teeth, and hissed at me. I jumped and let him waddle off. It was like encountering something from Jurassic Park… possums are incredibly old looking. I called a humane animal removal company the next morning.

The house note has long since been paid off.

Brad Bailey stayed with us while we wrote Madman in Waco in 60 days. He brought to the house a modest but slightly disturbed woman from Fool’s Hill at the Branch Davidian compound. She had agreed to give him some information for the book in exchange for shower. Mary – bless her heart – forgave both Brad and I. Eventually.

It was in that house that Mary had the eerily prophetic dream the night before the FBI assault on the compound.

It was in that house that I stayed upon my return from my Rotary Fellowship in England. I was in the middle of a divorce and had lost my job. A great aunt loaned me the money to keep the house. And on the nights it was just Van and me, I was comforted by being there.

I was living in the 118 North 30th house when I met Mary, who lived just a couple of doors down.

There were nights when Mary and I prayed on our knees for one – and sometimes all – of our kids.

When Mary took the job in San Antonio, we moved most of the furniture out, and I stayed there during the school year. It’s a lot noisier when you’re by yourself.

It took two years to sell. We repeatedly dropped the price.

And last week, I packed up the last box. After the Guerra Brothers came and loaded up, the cleaning lady came. And when she was done, I walked out.

I’m an old military brat. We moved every two years. A house is a house. Home is where the Air Force sends us … and all of that. But I paused at the front door on the way out.

I patted the doorframe. “You’ve been a good house, old girl,” I said aloud. I don’t know why I’ve always thought of the 118 North 30th house as a “she,” but I do. I don’t know if I was speaking to the house, the little girl ghost, or the “angel” of the house.

“You’ve been a good old house,” I said again, and left.

And she was.

The Melancholia of Completion. Maybe.

“Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” — Gene Fowler (credited, but I think the quote is older still)

I have (virtually) finished my book. Six-seven years in the making, I’m (virtually) finished with Nothing But Love in God’s Water: The Influence of Black Sacred Music on the Civil Rights Movement, Volume 1. Oh, there is still the odd nit to pick. And, once I send it to the publisher (Penn State University Press), there will likely be lots of email flurries between my computer and their editors. It ended up at 83,000 words, for those of you who are interested in such things. More than a thousand footnotes. And only one or two snarky comments.

That means I am free to resume blogging, which I’ve missed. Once I started the actual writing, I put almost all of my other writing aside. Thanks to Gardner Campbell, I’d found blogging to be a helpful tool, emotionally and creatively.

As those of you who have written books, dissertations, theses, screenplays, songs, symphonies, and very, very long letters home may know, it is a curious feeling to complete something this large, something that has been a this big of a part of your life for such a long time. I’ve moved (twice!), kids have gotten married, dictatorships have (hopefully) fallen, Baylor’s athletic programs have flourished, my knees have failed me. The feeling of finishing is not really sadness, it’s not really relief. It’s just … curious. As Robert Haas once said: “It’s hell writing and it’s hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.”

I’m not so sure about that. The research (for the most part) was exciting. The writing (for the most part) was exhilarating. The rewriting (for the most part) was rewarding. The finishing? Slightly melancholy.

It’s not so much that Volume 2 is left to do, either. I haven’t discussed a deadline with Penn State. (For you blessed few who have NOT heard me rattle on about the book, Volume 1 covers the use of black sacred music as a form of protest from the American Civil War through the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Volume 2 will cover from the earliest Sit-Ins and Freedom Rides through Albany, Birmingham, Selma, Chicago and Memphis through the Poor People’s March and Resurrection City. At least it will if I live that long.) For me, the act of completion the last couple of days has been something akin to … melancholy. It is bittersweet. I’m not sad or blue, just … reflective.

Part of that may be due to devoting so much of my life to a single topic, even something as far-reaching and complex as this one. You wonder, at least I do, did I miss something along the way? What did I give up over the many weeknights, weekends, and supposed vacations I worked? Yesterday, I heard Harry Chapin’s “Cats in the Cradle” on the radio and all but broke into tears. How many times did I tell the kids “No, I’ve got to work. You go on and play.”? Once is probably too much. Sorry guys.

But what has kept me from completely wallowing in morose introspection has been my unshakeable belief that this topic matters. The longer I got involved in the interviews and research, the more convinced I became that this vast, far-reaching subject is worthy of continued study. I suppose every writer, fiction or non-fiction, thinks the same way, ultimately.

But here’s why I believe that a better understanding of the Civil Rights Movement is important today: It’s an on-going process. WAY too many people in this country of all races and creeds, of all genders and ages, still do not enjoy the full fruits of democracy. Too many poor people, too many people with differing ideas about sexuality, too many people with various physical, mental and emotional challenges do not share equally in the guarantees built into our Constitution. And when one person is denied their civil rights, we all suffer…

Is the study of the power and influence of African-American sacred music of the past 150 years still relevant? I really, really think so.

Perhaps you saw this little story, tucked away in the margins of most news sources. An African-American couple – male and female, for those of you who care about such things – sought to get married in a Baptist church in Mississippi. The congregation denied them that privilege. Even the Tea Party Republican governor was appalled: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/aug/03/mississippi-governor-wedding-ban-unfortunate

Alas, this just as easily could have happened (and probably has, we just don’t know about it) in Texas or Alabama or Illinois. This topic will never go away. In a nation that was founded with a significant portion of the population considered to be inferior, this problem is likely to always be with us, in one form or another. It’s like racism (and the other –isms) are in our national DNA somehow.

So, I’ll take a little break. I’ll wait for the edits from the Penn State University Press editor. I’ll begin to leisurely organize yet again the mountains of research I’ve accumulated for Volume 2. I’ll vow to spend more time with Mary and the kids and grandkids and friends and family. I’ll read more. I’ll email you.

And I’ll out-wait this odd little feeling of … (virtual) completion.