Here are two entities I love, and if we are going to continue together like this for the remainder of a year of Thank You, it is best to understand and accept my unwavering adoration for:
1) Alanis Morissette; and
2) live concerts.
I love Alanis Morissette for her unconditional honesty and for the courage it takes to invite people into your journey, to watch you fall and rise and fall and rise and fall and rise. I love Alanis Morissette fans who know, intimately, her music beyond 1995's Jagged Little Pill. I love those fans who acknowledge her evolution as they acknowledge their own and therefore do not continually refer to her -- narrowly, so narrowly -- as an "angry chick rocker," as if anger were not normal in a whole spread fan bouquet of humanness.
I love the permission I feel to be equally and embarrassingly honest about my own revolutions. These confessions -- for that is what they are; and you, my priest -- are never attractive and always lit harshly by flourescence. I love that when I listen to Alanis Morissette I feel tunnels self-excavate into the core of me, where all of my truthiest truths wait to be called to turn. I love that albums like Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie and Feast on Scraps inspire me to write more courageously, because the darkness in me will validate the darkness in you and create some kind of magic laser show that turns all of it into light and light and light.
And so, in summary, it is best that you know that I love Alanis Morissette, that I find her wise and gracious and real.
Which brings me to adored entity Number Two, which is live concerts. I attended Alanis's Flavors of Entanglement Tour stop in Chicago on Thursday, and it was really friggin' awesome, if you don't mind my saying without eloquence.
Even if it had not been Alanis, there is something about a live concert that fills me, absolutely full up, with Joy. It is Joy. I know it is Joy, because it is pure and focused. I think it is the miracle of thousands of people united in their respect and celebration of one individual who digests the love and transmits it back -- through concentrated energy, which is waves and waves of sound. And we are all -- every single one of us -- swaying to the same frequencies, and we are loving it, and we are clapping and united, and we are singing in unison and dancing and loving our neighbors. We are loving our neighbors.
And I am sure that if we really wanted to get simple and peel back the convoluted layers of mess that weigh us down, that pollute the beauty of who we were meant to be, that all it would really take to spread peace on earth, is a friggin' awesome concert.
Rock.
Showing posts with label rock and roll. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rock and roll. Show all posts
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Pony by Barbara Quinn
Rock and roll is alive and well on the Jersey Shore. In Asbury Park, The Stone Pony still hosts some of the finest music being played. I am fortunate to be walking distance from this venerable rock hall for many consider The Pony to be the greatest rock hall ever. It’s been going strong since the seventies and fans continue to make the pilgrimage to the bleak brick building that holds the heart of rock ‘n roll.
The Pony is a living rock museum. It’s filled with signed guitars hanging on the walls, including one from Springsteen. The posters of the venerable musicians who’ve played cover the walls, tickets and flyers sit under the glass of the small tables. The place is a dark cavern with multiple bars and every age of patron, all with the same thing in mind: to hear the best play.
I went to a Southside Johnny concert at the Pony a few days back. Southside’s concerts are a tradition around the 4th of July. The band plays on the outdoor summer stage. Behind the crowd are the Asbury Park boardwalk, and the crashing ocean whose cool breeze blows over the shoulder to shoulder fans while night slowly descends. The grills are cooking the famed Windmill hot dogs and the bars are serving up every type of drink. People are smiling and swaying to the music. It’s an infectious, upbeat atmosphere.
Before the concert Southside Johnny appeared at the gallery across the street where he autographed memorabilia. I bought a CD, got his autograph, shook his hand and have added the disc to my collection, happy to have met one of the originators of SOAP: the Sound of Asbury Park.
Long live The Stone Pony!
The Pony is a living rock museum. It’s filled with signed guitars hanging on the walls, including one from Springsteen. The posters of the venerable musicians who’ve played cover the walls, tickets and flyers sit under the glass of the small tables. The place is a dark cavern with multiple bars and every age of patron, all with the same thing in mind: to hear the best play.
I went to a Southside Johnny concert at the Pony a few days back. Southside’s concerts are a tradition around the 4th of July. The band plays on the outdoor summer stage. Behind the crowd are the Asbury Park boardwalk, and the crashing ocean whose cool breeze blows over the shoulder to shoulder fans while night slowly descends. The grills are cooking the famed Windmill hot dogs and the bars are serving up every type of drink. People are smiling and swaying to the music. It’s an infectious, upbeat atmosphere.
Before the concert Southside Johnny appeared at the gallery across the street where he autographed memorabilia. I bought a CD, got his autograph, shook his hand and have added the disc to my collection, happy to have met one of the originators of SOAP: the Sound of Asbury Park.
Long live The Stone Pony!
Friday, February 1, 2008
I'm Free by Barbara Quinn
As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them. John F. Kennedy
In Tom Stoppard’s play, Rock and Roll, a character talks about how in his native land he had to apply for permission to move from one part of the country to another. That’s a totally unacceptable idea to residents of the U.S where we have an unfettered right to travel wherever and whenever we wish.
That play made me recall the time my husband lost a textbook and I accompanied him to retrieve it. We arrived at a dark and sprawling old house in the Berkeley hills. The book finder answered the door and invited us in. We said no, but he insisted we enter. Inside, all the curtains were closed, and streams of smiling young people filtered past us into the living room. Though their grins were broad, their eyes were dull, and I felt the urge to scowl and flee. The fellow asked if we would stay for lunch and we declined. Then he told us that we had arrived at a good time. Prior to lunch there was a sing-along. If we joined in, he would return the book right after.
I looked up and saw a portrait of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon on the wall. Ohmigod. We were in a Moonie abode.
We linked arms with the singing, grinning, young people. I pasted a smile on my face, swayed side to side, and belted several choruses of “You are My Sunshine.” Meanwhile I prayed that we would get the book back and leave without being pressured to join the sunny cult. These aren't Jim Jones Kool-Aid afficionados, and this isn't Guyana. At the end of the singing, the group headed to the dining room. We hung back. The book finder again asked us to join him for lunch. When we said no, the young man fetched the book and said we should come back anytime.
I was extremely grateful to see the door open. The sun shone brighter than ever. Oh, sweet air.
I was sensitive to losing my freedom that day, probably because I remembered a wrongful confinement in Mexico by the police. That too turned out fine. Being able to go wherever you want, whenever you want, is a priceless gift that I rarely acknowledge in this land of the free. I am grateful for freedom, and for all who not only protect us, but for those who take part in the political process, because your votes do count toward our future freedom.
In Tom Stoppard’s play, Rock and Roll, a character talks about how in his native land he had to apply for permission to move from one part of the country to another. That’s a totally unacceptable idea to residents of the U.S where we have an unfettered right to travel wherever and whenever we wish.
That play made me recall the time my husband lost a textbook and I accompanied him to retrieve it. We arrived at a dark and sprawling old house in the Berkeley hills. The book finder answered the door and invited us in. We said no, but he insisted we enter. Inside, all the curtains were closed, and streams of smiling young people filtered past us into the living room. Though their grins were broad, their eyes were dull, and I felt the urge to scowl and flee. The fellow asked if we would stay for lunch and we declined. Then he told us that we had arrived at a good time. Prior to lunch there was a sing-along. If we joined in, he would return the book right after.
I looked up and saw a portrait of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon on the wall. Ohmigod. We were in a Moonie abode.
We linked arms with the singing, grinning, young people. I pasted a smile on my face, swayed side to side, and belted several choruses of “You are My Sunshine.” Meanwhile I prayed that we would get the book back and leave without being pressured to join the sunny cult. These aren't Jim Jones Kool-Aid afficionados, and this isn't Guyana. At the end of the singing, the group headed to the dining room. We hung back. The book finder again asked us to join him for lunch. When we said no, the young man fetched the book and said we should come back anytime.
I was extremely grateful to see the door open. The sun shone brighter than ever. Oh, sweet air.
I was sensitive to losing my freedom that day, probably because I remembered a wrongful confinement in Mexico by the police. That too turned out fine. Being able to go wherever you want, whenever you want, is a priceless gift that I rarely acknowledge in this land of the free. I am grateful for freedom, and for all who not only protect us, but for those who take part in the political process, because your votes do count toward our future freedom.
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