.
for those into any of the following: the OC, Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, music/pop culture and/or Zach Braff.
CLICKHERETOREAD
Interesting (and long) analysis of the journey of the song "Halleluja." A Leonard Cohen song originally performed quite a bit differently than the covered version you probably heard first on the OC or Scrubs or one of the other 24 movies or tv shows it has since graced with its presence.
It talks about 'emotional shorthand' and how this song is used in modern films and tv shows in a way that a woman with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead was used in silent films...whenever someone is in a really heart wrenching situation that may only be fully realized through music that already has that connotation. scratch that...it already has that definition.
it speaks of cliches and how sometimes they work and sometimes they don't. and sometimes, maybe even in the case of the Fall Out Boy cover, that you need to get a bunch of cliches together and have a celebration...and it just might work.
it also discusses the indie rock boom that the author claims was sparked by the OC, basically stating that this show (and others like it) introduce mass audiences to things that would have probably never caught their attention otherwise. stating that 'music is not an activity but an accompaniment--not something you listened to but something you watched other people listening to. In other words, it's lifestyle music.'
after my move out of St. Louis and into a bigger city, with more people, more 'lifestyle choices' to make, this last portion of the article was particularly interesting. when you expand your horizons and experiences by such a wide margin, suddenly it becomes glaringly obvious how much you truly have to just do your own thing...for fear of getting swallowed up with the crowd, or more devastatingly, begin to watch other people listening to music. or reading books, or seeing movies, or visiting museums, or anything else that you could be doing yourself.
at any rate, it made for some interesting reading and helped me realize yet another thing i love about this city: the celebration of cliches i walk amongst every day on the street.
don't think i don't know i am one them.
The Cohen Version (The Original)
VS
The OC Version (Jeff Buckley)
And, of course, the Marissa Cooper death scene.
.
3.17.2009
3.09.2009
THE WALL
.
it was a rainy, desolate weekend.
there was a break from the frigid temps and sporadic snow flurries. friday saw record high temps for early March (almost 70) but the wind was outrageous. i embarked on a 3+ mile walk around the city and was blown (literally) across the sidewalks. the wind felt nice for a change; it didn't sting against my face.
at one point, i stopped and watched as trash swirled up into the streets, then settled to the ground again. a storm was coming.
on saturday, the rain came...more often a downpour than a drizzle. i woke in a somber mood and never snapped out of it. i left early morning for my personal assistant position, only to realize halfway there, after checking e-mail on my phone, that she canceled for the day.
at 2pm, when i climbed into bed for a nap before my night shift, i heard thunder in the distance. it was then i realized that it would have been my dad's 59th birthday that day. i set my phone to silent, pulled the covers over my head and slept.
my shift at the restaurant that night was slow. my somber mood still lingered. a little before closing time, a father and daughter came in for dessert. he was in his late 40's, tall and thin, his dark hair framed with gray. she was around 11 years old, with long, unruly, wavy dark blond hair. they looked eerily familiar.
they ordered - one cheesecake for his birthday; two forks. as they ate the dessert, he brought his daughters attention to the radio.
"ok...rock-n-roll history for the last bite of cheesecake. name the artist," he said, poking her in the arm with his fork.
"Daaad," she said, rolling her eyes.
"just give it a shot. this album, The Wall, spent time on the charts in my day."
she struggled with it for a few minutes, sighed and rolled her eyes again. "i don't know, Dad. just tell me."
"two words...first word starts with a P..."
"pink floyd!" she yelled. he smiled and pushed the cheesecake in her direction.
as he left to use the restroom, i watched the little girl. she could have been me. i pictured myself 11 years old again, tapping her on the shoulder and giving her all my life lessons. i would tell her that the last time i saw my father, i rolled my eyes at him. i would tell her that i still wondered if it hurt his feelings. i would tell her that i don't know if i will ever stop wondering.
my plans after work that night were canceled, and i was happy to go straight home. i didn't feel like looking at people, or the rain.
most of all, i didn't feel like seeing the trash in the street, now soaking wet and helplessly plastered to all of the concrete walls of the city.
.
it was a rainy, desolate weekend.
there was a break from the frigid temps and sporadic snow flurries. friday saw record high temps for early March (almost 70) but the wind was outrageous. i embarked on a 3+ mile walk around the city and was blown (literally) across the sidewalks. the wind felt nice for a change; it didn't sting against my face.
at one point, i stopped and watched as trash swirled up into the streets, then settled to the ground again. a storm was coming.
on saturday, the rain came...more often a downpour than a drizzle. i woke in a somber mood and never snapped out of it. i left early morning for my personal assistant position, only to realize halfway there, after checking e-mail on my phone, that she canceled for the day.
at 2pm, when i climbed into bed for a nap before my night shift, i heard thunder in the distance. it was then i realized that it would have been my dad's 59th birthday that day. i set my phone to silent, pulled the covers over my head and slept.
my shift at the restaurant that night was slow. my somber mood still lingered. a little before closing time, a father and daughter came in for dessert. he was in his late 40's, tall and thin, his dark hair framed with gray. she was around 11 years old, with long, unruly, wavy dark blond hair. they looked eerily familiar.
they ordered - one cheesecake for his birthday; two forks. as they ate the dessert, he brought his daughters attention to the radio.
"ok...rock-n-roll history for the last bite of cheesecake. name the artist," he said, poking her in the arm with his fork.
"Daaad," she said, rolling her eyes.
"just give it a shot. this album, The Wall, spent time on the charts in my day."
she struggled with it for a few minutes, sighed and rolled her eyes again. "i don't know, Dad. just tell me."
"two words...first word starts with a P..."
"pink floyd!" she yelled. he smiled and pushed the cheesecake in her direction.
as he left to use the restroom, i watched the little girl. she could have been me. i pictured myself 11 years old again, tapping her on the shoulder and giving her all my life lessons. i would tell her that the last time i saw my father, i rolled my eyes at him. i would tell her that i still wondered if it hurt his feelings. i would tell her that i don't know if i will ever stop wondering.
my plans after work that night were canceled, and i was happy to go straight home. i didn't feel like looking at people, or the rain.
most of all, i didn't feel like seeing the trash in the street, now soaking wet and helplessly plastered to all of the concrete walls of the city.
.
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