peevish mama

Nanook of the North has a pet phrase about a person’s love language, meaning, in short, the things that make us feel loved or the things we do to show love. Every one has a different love language and the dialects vary infinitely depending on the subject and object. When Doctor Dash empties the dishwasher, he’s speaking my love language. When I cook for friends, I’m speaking my love language. When eight of my rowdiest loveliest chicas pick me up at my house in a giant white limo stocked to the rafters with champagne and hip hop and take me to my favorite restaurant (Bar la Grassa) and then my favorite dance hole (Bunkers) and love me up and give me funny cards and a tiara and the cooooolest leather and gold necklace and jump in/dive in/cannonball in and fully revel with me, all because I’m turning 40 in a few weeks, then those girls are speaking my love language – yelling my love language.

They thought about what I love, they plotted and planned and then busted it out like NOBODY’S business. At one point, sitting at the head of this table of smart hilarious beauties, I truly felt like my head was going to pop off and roll across the floor until stopped by the foot of a waiter, still grinning and cackling. I could melt and swoon and cry. These women, beautiful mothers and party girls both, taking life by the scruff of the neck and singing Give it to Me, Baby! (who doesn’t love a little Rick James?)

Lady Homeslice, Naughty Cop, Lunchlady Rocker Chic, Hot Breeches, Pretty Young Thing, Birdy and sniff, sniff, Nanook and Crackerjack, you get me – you got me – you took me to the moon and back. Thank you, sisters. Thank you for partying me up like ganstahs, like rock stars, like FULL ON RIOTOUS MAMAS. My heart is full, my hangover is gone, and I feel loved. I hear you. I hear you loud and clear!

And let it be written: As of the July 9, 2010 WE STILL GOT IT!

What do the three, er, people pictured have in common besides being singers and fame whores to varying degrees? In the last couple days it has dawned on me that they are all inextricably bound together in Devil Baby’s mind. At best, she’s getting them confused. At even better, she thinks they’re the same person.

The funny thing about a baby mind tangle, is that you kind of want to leave it alone, it’s so cute. A few weeks ago we were all talking about Michael Jackson and how he died, which led to a discussion of how Elvis died. Supergirl added the tidbit about his having died on the toilet, the ignominy of which Dash tried to temper with the clarification that he was probably throwing up as opposed to pooping. As is the case with most familial conversations, they just sort of meander along, and I don’t really pay too much attention to whom is actually paying attention. It turns out that Devil Baby is always paying attention. She also tends to speak in non-sequitors from time to time, so I don’t know if I even responded when later she asked So, the chipmunk died in the toilet?

A couple nights ago we tuned into American Idol. This is the first season to which we’ve payed attention and it’s because Saint James and Supergirl are interested. After the Olympics, I must admit it’s kind of nice to have an excuse to plop on the couch with the kids and watch TV. Adam Lambert was the special guest slash mentor and the theme for the singers was Elvis tunes. We watched. We groaned. We listened to the judges and piped in with our two cents’ worth. We went to bed. The next day I was driving Devil Baby home from pre-school when she started in from the car seat behind me: I really did NOT know Elvis was a Lambert! If only.

Our ensuing conversation went as such:

Me: Do you know who Elvis is?

Devil Baby: He’s a chipmunk.

Me: But what about the singer?

DB: He IS a singer.

Me: What about the singer we saw on American Idol last night?

DB: Mo-om, he’s ELVIS LAMBERT.

Me: So he’s not dead.

DB: He’s not dead.

Me: So who died on the toilet?

DB: (guffaws) Oh, dat chipmunk was so sick.

according to Erykah Badu. I love this. I love her.

Photo by B Fresh Photography

Dash and I took Supergirl and Saint James to see the Black Eyed Peas last night and hooooooo Fergie, patron saintess of bootilicious booty-antics, was it ever a spectacle! I realize that every shred of live music we go see ends up on this blog drenched in hyperbole with a cherry on top.* I was trying to describe the experience to Lady Shutterbug this afternoon and I prefaced my panting phone swoon with the excuse that I’m a junky for anything that gets my adrenaline pumping. I think I excused myself because I’m starting to feel a tad abashed about falling head over heels for every single damn concert I go to. I’m a total lightweight, a rube, an easy mark and I would be a terrible music reviewer – Aack! Luuuuuuved these mo fos! They played coconuts and whistled but ohmyGod they rocked me Amadeus! Wooohoo! Woooo! Ya, Rolling Stone, you can just forget about hiring Peevish Mama. I suck at music reviews because nothing gets me all jacked up like loud live music and any shred of objectivity and respectability go right out the window as soon as those first strains go in my ears and down through my guts to my toes and back up again and settle in my ass, which remains a fiery bucking blur for the duration and usually the better part of the next day too.** That’s not really true, but it’s sort of true. It’s a bit of a curse, really. That’s not really true either. It’s a gift. Well, that’s not true. Some might say it’s a weapon. Yes, that’s it, my ass is a double edged sword – and no one, not even I, knows for sure whether it is to be used for good or evil. The base in my chest (Nanook calls it the defib – as in the doctor pulls the stethescope from his ears and gravely intones: “M’am, I’m afraid you have hip hop heart”), the crush of bodies, the flying sweat, the screaming and the music, the sweet, sweet music, go straight to the pleasure center in my brain and for those hours, there is no where, NO WHERE on earth I would rather be.

So all of this is just crazy talk for: take everything I say with a grain (or five hundred) of salt. Except that I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that the show was over the top, off the hook and full-on proof that the Peas are SUPERSTAHS for a reason. Dash and I don’t really like to see bands in large venues anymore, but anything we missed in terms of immediacy and flying spittle, was more than compensated for with visual and auditory bling and general high style technical wizardry. There were lasers and robots and huge flashing screens and shiny costumes and synthesized voices and break dancing and such a sustained eruption of confetti that the entire Xcel Energy Center looked pixilated. At one point, Taboo was singing and flying over the crowd on a motorcycle and I questioned whether it had been wise to expose Saint James’ and Supergirl to this as their first concert experience; what could possibly measure up?

Apropos of the costumes, I would like someone to follow me around with Fergie’s wind machine. And a few of her futuristic bodysuits would be nice too. And if I could get those freaky android flygirls to dance around me all the time, well, I guess I would like that quite a bit. She’s hot. And I hear from my friends who were down on the floor in the mad pulsing fray, that she had a wee bruise on her buttock. How sweet! How human of her! See, she may look like a sexy sci-fi space diva but she gets bruises on her ass just like the rest of us.

The Black Eyed Peas may be larger than life and everywhere you look, but the truth remains that they can still sing. And dance. Their music is nothing if not rumpshakin’ musical crack. It’s catchy as shit. Wil.i.am busted out a little DJ set in the middle of the show which was truly one of the most enjoyable 20 minutes in my life, and as he rapped and scatted over Nirvana, the Chili Peppers, Estelle, Journey, The Eurythmics and more, I’m not gonna lie and say I wasn’t dying, DYING to be down in the mosh pit with Crackerjack, Nanook and the hubbies.

But a glance to my left at Saint James, his baseball hat on sideways, pumping his little fist in the air, drinking in every second and not missing a beat, more than made up for my stadium seats. He was ripe for the experience. He swayed his arms with the crowd, yelled, danced, clapped, held up my lit phone, and basically took in the concert with touching wide-eyed sincerity and genuine excitement. Dash said he had as much fun watching Saint James watch the concert, as actually watching the concert.*** And I couldn’t agree more. Your first concert is a big deal, something you never forget and I was hell bent on being privy to theirs. Happily, it was a great one . . . but, then again, aren’t they all? What was your first concert? Tell me about it in the comments section.****

*Case in point, a few months ago Dash and I went to see Zero 7 with Tartare when she was in for a visit and despite fond memories of Epic from my crazy Snoop Dog night with Crackerjack, the show was kind of drag – experimental, dissonant and a bit bizarre (with fleeting moments of total coolness). One of the female lead singers was totally cheesing me out too – she was trying way too hard to be the husky voiced sexy nature girl and I wasn’t buying her hair-in-the-face crooning. I spent the whole time muttering under my breath and quashing the impulse to flick a hair elastic at her stupid freckle face so she could put her mane up. In fact she irritated me so much that I ended up swooning, scaring the bejeezus out of Tartare when I actually slid onto the floor in the public restroom – previously unheard behavior for a germaphobe like myself. So, ya, I hated the band and then I fainted. Can you blame me for not blogging about that? But I had fully intended to, because I had a two lucid thoughts worth exploring when I was on the bathroom floor of Epic: 1. Maybe my meat-eating ways were poisoning me and causing me to pass out at concerts; and 2. It was unbecoming and unseemly for a mother of three to be on the floor of a nightclub bathroom, whatever the reason.  

**Sometimes I really can’t seem to stop dancing and I start to wonder whether I might have a tumor.

***We bought tix for the BEP for Saint James and Supegirl as their main Christmas gift and I cannot say enough about the shift away from the material gift toward the experiential gift. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I am. On Christmas Eve they opened up cans of black eyed peas that I had wrapped and put under the tree while Dash queued up I Gotta Feeling and they’ve had all these months to look forward to the big night. The anticipation, the delayed gratification and mostly, the memories are so much better than another lego set. 

**** Query whether it is perhaps time to reign it in when one’s blog post has footnotes.

Got my ass rocked off last night, which is always a good thing, but particularly so when you weren’t necessarily expecting to get your ass rocked off. An unexpected, revelatory, surprise ass rocking is the very very best kind. And when steely banjos and flying cellos are involved, well, then you just stand back on your heels and go, Shit, man. Who knew? Pipes knew, that’s who. That’s why he jumped on tickets for himself, Sassy Jewels, Ten Gallon, Gigi, and us as soon as they went for sale months ago. And, oh blessed Bertha, I am so glad he did!

Having given I and Love and You a few listen-throughs, I was expecting a soulful, bluegrassy, folksy show. I was not expecting to get my ass rocked off. I went in kind of blind, happy to ride along in the backseat of someone else’s idea for the night; Pipes is to be trusted in these matters. I got my first inkling that we might be in for something special during the opener: The Low Anthem. I left my group for a little scouting mission to see how far up we might be able to get and suddenly found myself in the hot pulsing belly of First Ave, totally enthralled but what I can only describe as thrashing hillbillies. They were very hairy (of head, not of body) and they were on fire, playing bluegrass like they were all hopped up on meth (which they weren’t. At least I don’t think they were). We only caught the end of their set, but it was frenetic and exhilarating, wild and raw. Speed bluegrass is not the kind of music I would necessarily listen to on my own, but so goes the magic of live music. When there’s that kind of energy and musicianship raging in front of your eyes, pummeling your rib cage, hell, it’s really hard not to get caught up. I was practically panting when I found my friends again.

When the Avett Brothers came on, First Ave exploded. They were ridiculously good. Ree. Dick. U. Lous. Now I get it. NOW I GET IT! I get why they’ve been sold out for  months. They were beyond sweet and gracious with the adoring crowd – obviously jacked up to be performing. North Carolina boys happy to be in Minnesota for a night. The brothers are beautiful song writers first and foremost, but man can they sing. The eldest, Scott, has a superhero voice – it’s shot through with gold streaks, completely unique and seemingly indefatigable – like an alloy of a man’s voice and a precious metal. After two hours of some serious singing, he sounded as fresh as a daisy – like I said, a friggin’ superhero. His brother, Seth, has the dulcet, pretty voice, the perfect sound to wrap under and over and all around his brother’s. Mmm. Wrap me up in that blanket anytime. Like sexy overgrown leprechauns, they jumped around, played a bunch of different instruments, tore through song after song – their talent and musicality was staggering – as was their energy. There’s a reedy blue grassy vein through all of it, but often they teetered into punk and the next song would have a total Buddy Holly feel to it and then, just as deftly, they’d woo us into a smoky honky tonk shack – all with a cool, sharp edge. It was just an amazing, amazing show, and now, listening to their album again, I realize it’s all in there – beautiful song writing with deep roots in country, folk, blues and rock served up in a completely modern, clean, brilliant way. It was good. Really good. Lucky fucking us.

Do you guys know her? She first appeared on my radar screen last year when I was reading some stuff about South by Southwest, but digging deeper in the last weeks I’ve come to the conclusion that she is totally swoonworthy. In fact, I think I may have a bit of a girl crush. She’s amazing. Take a look here. Credited with inventing cybersoul, she really is a futuristic diva.  At the same time, she’s sort of retro. She reminds me of Santigold but where Santi steps back to the eighties, Janelle Monae is all about the fifties – she takes me back to an era of buttoned up glamour and supper clubs. She’s a little Eartha Kitt, Sam Cooke, Buddy Holly, Lauren Hill, Grace Jones and Jane Jetson. Totally original. She’s androgynous, freaky and robotic, yet manages to be sultry, feminine and completely badass. She’s been signed by Puffy on his Bad Boy label, so you know she’s going places. Keep your eyes and ears peeled.

And I’m tickled pink about it. Actually, he doesn’t call her a nemesis. His term is rival. A piano rival to be specific. I only just got wind of this rival a couple days ago, but he talks about her with the blasé resignation of a life long fact. As in, oh ya, my piano rival, yawn. Who knew you could even have a piano rival? I mean, piano is not typically a competitive undertaking; it just doesn’t seem to have the requisite head-to-headness for rivalry. Plus the students only see each other twice a year at recitals. But what do I know? From what I have been able glean, her name is Sasha, she is his age, she goes to another school and they have been plonking through the piano books neck-in-neck. I think his teacher has been stoking the rivalry and it’s a genius manoever because he’s been practicing a ton lately without reminders. The other day I took a seat to listen for a little while and he muttered Amy says I’m ahead of my rival as he tried to sight read a Christmas tune. Well done, Teach! Well done!

And you know what’s even better than bestowing him with his very own rival? His teacher has them playing a duet in the upcoming recital! Hoooweee, are sparks gonna fly at that nursing home! Watch out, old folks, the rivals are laying down their weapons and coming together for the love of music for one night only! Don’t miss this spectacular, unforgettable showdown. It’s a performance of a lifetime! Talk about drama. I am all a’dither.

I can just picture how it’s gonna go down and I can’t wait. The air is thick with tension. A florescent light flickers casting a sickly glow over the large hall where the residents of the nursing home have been brought for a holiday concert. Two skinny nine year olds glare at each other from across the room. At a nod from their teacher they begin to approach the piano, their eyes narrowed and their piano books tucked in the crook of their arms, matching each other step for step like two gunslingers. Agitated whispers ripple through the room like an electrical current. An old woman gasps in the corner. When they reach the piano they pause, breaking their focus to look over the crowd. A roomful of elderly people stare back at them, mouths agape. The rivals look at each other again and then turn to take in the tiny expanse of the bench. Each sighs a small unperceptible sigh before sliding in and sitting shoulder to shoulder. Their blond heads bob in unison as they silently count together one and two and . . . 

Last week was a great week for music here in my peevish little world. Doctor Dash had the week off, so we threw sleep caution to the wind and ended up with tickies to see Federico Aubele at the Varsity Theatre on Tuesday night and Snoop Dogg at Epic on Thursday night. 

We’ve been listening to Federico Aubele for a long time. He’s Argentine, como yo, and his music is cool, sexy, smooth, ambient, complex and lovely. Total make-out music; it would also be great yoga music. We swooped into the theater and contentedly settled into a couple seats with a perfect view of the stage. How easy is this city? There is really no excuse not to go see music. Getting tickets is a breeze, parking is a breeze, finding a perfect spot is a breeze. There’s minimal hassle when your city is small but mighty. But I digress.

Aubele’s opener was a Spanish charmer, DePedro, with a beautiful voice and an incredible stylistic range. The young buck from Madrid crooned us like a Latin lover and deftly funked us up like a dirty soul papi, all with nothing more than a beautiful Spanish guitar. He sang in Spanish and his voice was over-the-top-my-cup-of-tea: a little rasp a little smooth a lotta sexy. At one point I leaned over to Dash and whispered that I was gonna make this guy famous – seriously, he needs to be discovered, and who better than me, right? You may not know this about me, but I discover people all the time. I’ve got quite an eye, especially for models. Unfortunately, all the cool photo shoots, the meteoritic rises to fame, the sold out shows, the screaming fans, that all happens in my head. But it doesn’t make it any less real, amigos. It was a pity DePedro was playing to a nearly empty room as he really deserved a throng of screaming girls. I can only hope he found at least one friendly ambassador of Minnesota to show him a good time after the show.

Federico took the stage in a hip black suit and his inimitable fro and I couldn’t help but think he had a total Beck vibe. Like Beck, there’s not a lot of excess motion and emotion, which, in the end packs a greater punch. His side kick was a willowy Nico-esque woman who seemed to be making a game of seeing how slight her sinuous movements could be while she backed him up with the voice of a sweet angel with a naughty secret. What can I say? It was super sexy, the music was gorgeous, sort of washing over you like a warm caress. Aubele was charming and had a fetching way of stopping every so often to explain what inspired the next song. You got the music, and you also got the little stories behind the music, which is arguably the best part and why we go to see live music. The artist, what they’re wearing, what they drink on stage, what they say between songs, who they have on stage with them, it all gives you a glimpse into the stories behind the music, and Aubele’s were quirky, tender, thoughtful and romantic. 

                                                                  B Fresh Photography.

And then Snoop. Where to begin? I suppose with the big bad bummer that Doctor Dash heroically bowed out to stay home with a feverish Saint James so I could go bust a move with my girl Crackerjack. Ivory Tickler and Sweet Jessamine surprised us and met us there, as did two dudes from New York whom we had briefly chatted with at the 112 Eatery bar where we had a bite before the show. They knew we were in the motherhood business right off the bat, so there was no shadiness (Chief Big Voice, I can see you rolling your eyes), although one of them seemed to forget that as the night wore on and, annoyingly, had us both playing some serious D when really we just wanted to be dancing and enjoying the show. There’s a fine line between busting out your best big bootied hip hop ho moves and busting out your best crouching tiger hidden dragon defense moves. Both were required on Thursday night, and not just for NY guy – there was a lot of love in that crowd. Nevertheless, it was a great concert with Devin the Dude opening, then a killer set by Red Man and Method Man that really got things pumpin and jumpin (quite literally) and finally the one and only Snoop, who is one amazing little showman. He’s a superstar for a reason and he was ON, baby. The way these guys rap, that super quick mind mouth connection, the hooks, the humor, the stories, never fail to knock me on my bucket. It was a blurry, wild night, with lots of beers and blunts being passed around and that’s all I’m going to say about that. Crackerjack and I laughed and danced our asses off, getting our fix of that full-on base reverb in the ribcage (the other huge reason to see live music). There was even a surprise pop-in by Lady of Rage whom I had forgotten about until I saw these City Pages pics. She was great – a powerful mama working it out with a formidable voice and the words to match. I need to hear more from her.

I’ve been asked whether there were unsavory characters at the show, whether it was a tough crowd, and you know what? No. For better or worse, Snoop and Red Man and Method Man now have people like me as fans. Moms who earlier in the day were frantically searching for over-sized doilies at Michaels for the annual teacher lunch. I didn’t exactly see a ton of other people like me and Crackerjack, but I’d say it was a 50/50 black white crowd, a wide range of ages (everyone performing was our age), and a happy bunch (with the exception of a couple of tough chicks who didn’t like Crackerjack dancing in their business). I’m done wondering whether Snoop would be amused or depressed by the likes of us doing it up in the crowd. He was lucky to have us. We had a great time and so did everyone around us – kickin’ it old school, fo shizzle, ma nizzle.

Take one.

On one end of the beach is a girl. She’s running with a huge smile on her face, her braces catching the light of the sun, the green rubber bands in her mouth strained to capacity. She’s wearing a plaid kilt, navy and dark green with thin lines of red and yellow, and an oversized white oxford shirt, tucked in only at the front. On her feet she wears knee socks pushed all the way down and loafers with one penny tucked in on heads, one on tails. The girl believes this to be a clever way of beating the odds of life. Under one sock around her ankle is a thick band of multicolored woven friendship bracelets. Months later when she grows tired of them she will cut them off and sew them to the pocket of her jean jacket. She is sporting a formidable lion’s mane of dark permed curls, scrunched to perfection, redolent of Vidal Sassoon styling mousse, bouncin’ and behavin’ as if they have a life of their own. She wears dangly earrings and a gold class ring bearing the Sacred Heart of Jesus, but is otherwise unadorned, save a scrunchy around her wrist. Her face is tan and line free. Everything is either a joke or a drama.

A woman is running toward the girl, if you can even call it running because she hasn’t done any cardio in ages and is a bit winded. Also, she’s wearing tall boots and skinny jeans, neither of which is particularly conducive to the long gazelle-like strides of the girl. No matter, thinks the woman, she’ll get to me eventually, running’s no good for my joints anyway. She watches the girl’s knock-kneed gait, her flailing arms, and wonders when she lost the unselfconsciousness, the joy of pounding the earth with the soles of her feet. Probably on this day, the day that sports died. The woman has gobs of gold jewelry stacked on her wrists and around her neck, some of it real, most of it faux, all of it gaining a certain je ne sais quois by virtue of being piled on in a more-is-more-mish-mosh, or so she thinks. One of the few perks of growing older, she believes, is the freedom to over do it with the jewelry and fur. Subtle, be damned, she thinks as she feebly slogs through the sand. Understated be damned. The woman’s hair is straightish, her future husband having extracted a vow in 1992 that she would never again perm her hair. Her face is no longer tan, no longer line free. Everything is still a joke or a drama, only less so. Or maybe more so.

There is no way to be sure anymore.

One thing and one thing only has brought the girl and the woman to the beach and set them on a collision course for each other: Jay Z’s Young Forever featuring Mr. Hudson.

CUUUUUT! That’s a wrap!

Holy buckets, Jay Z! This song is just TOOOO much! Do you know how much I used to love Alphaville? Do you have any idea how much I had to finagle to get Sister Church (her real name, no joke) to agree to let us sing this for our class ring ceremony Junior year?  Do you know that she made us replace “are you gonna drop the bomb or not” with “are you gonna sing the song or not”? Do you know that we stood in the chapel in our blue blazers and plaid skirts, our arms around each other, singing our hearts out in a teary crescendo until we were all sobbing in a florid display of adolescent group-think copy cat feminine hysteria? No, seriously, it’s true. This kind of stuff happens all the time at Catholic all-girls’ schools. Apparently, we wanted to be forever young, really really bad.

Listen, Jay Z, you better believe I’ve been trying to figure out my fascination with hip hop because, frankly, it’s vaguely unbecoming for a mother of three to drive around in her minivan with heavy base shaking the bumpers, my childrens’ heads, barely visible through the tinted windows nodding in rhythm to some seriously unsavory tunes like a bunch of bored hoods. I actually considered that I might be doing it out of peevishness. That I might be doing it because I like to imagine Lil’ Wayne standing on a corner and the look on his mug when I drive by with a little Mrs. Officer on deck. What’s that you say? Lil’ Wayne is totally down with Minnesota housewives? Good to know. I suspected this went beyond peevishness anyway. 

With this song, you helped me figure it out. Sweet Jay, you have managed to take the addled, melodramatic, swelling synthesizers of my teens, the anthem to long drawn out sighs, daydreaming and feverish journal writing and mash them up with your song (a doozy, by the way, well done). In a genius bit of alchemy, every thing I love about hip hop rose to the top like thick beautiful cream: First of all, it’s collaborative and creative. I love that artists are constantly showing up on each other’s tracks. It actually seems like the norm and I’d love to know how it happens. Do you guys text each other? Dude, I think you introduced me to Santigold with Brooklyn (Go Hard). I love that sampling is one of the building blocks of hip hop – there is nothing like decontextualizing something to give it a brand new shiny veneer, new legs, new life. I love that it’s about beats not tears, stories not drama (for me anyway). And sometimes it’s just about a party, unobscured hedonism. I love that it’s quick and dirty: the fastest way to a good time, to shakin’ my booty, to a laugh and a drink.

When I was a teen, the emotions were big and sweeping and all my synth pop seemed tailored made to wrap me up in a big blanket of ennui, all the better to wallow in. I’m done navel gazing. Now, I’m looking for a little relief from the monotony of emptying the dishwasher, of that umpteenth drive to soccer, of that mountain of clean laundry that needs to be folded. If a song makes me dance in my kitchen with my kids, makes me laugh, makes me blush, makes me lunge at the pause button so my kid doesn’t hear the rest of it, then that song is doing exactly what it needs to be doing for me.

So let’s dance in style, let’s dance for a while. Thanks for the memories, Jay.

I’m not sure why I’m so obsessed with Saint James’ musical maturation, but I am. It’s fascinating to me. Maybe it’s because I was such a late bloomer when it came to music (and admittedly fairly regressive considering the tunes that are passing my ears these days). Or maybe I’m just obsessed with Saint James. He’s just so darn cute – exactly the kind of boy I would have had a crush on in fourth grade: the cute, smart, quiet one. 

The other day I went to pick him up at school and was scanning the school yard, doing a Where’s Waldo of shaggy haired dishwater blond boys, when I spotted him with a little clump of older kids huddled around an iPod. Two of the boys each had one earbud in his ear and the rest were standing by with heads bent toward the ground, listening by osmosis, I suppose. Being the fiendish mother I am, I stopped in my tracks, bit my lip and feeling all gushy and mushy, decided to give him a few more minutes to listen. Or maybe I was giving myself a few more minutes to watch. I never did find out what they were listening to, but wouldn’t I like to know! (You see? Even though I’m a total crazy mother, I’m savvy enough to control myself so he has no idea I’m a crazy mother!)

A few days later I was putzing around the kitchen, Saint James on his perch at the laptop, when I hear a little She Wolf. Aaahh, Shakira! What’s not to love? That girl taps into my basest and most hoochie Latina impulses, the ones that were basically eradicated by virtue of growing up in snowy Michigan as the first born daughter of Argentine parents who had no tolerance for hoochiness. I happened to glance over and realized he was watching the video, not listening on iTunes as I had assumed. I watched for a couple seconds from a distance and Ay caramba sweet sabrosa Maria Magdalena Madre de hoochiness! does Shakira have it going on in this video! I thought I was familiar with her pelvic gifts, but she takes it to a whole other level with the cage and the skin colored leotard. She does this move where she starts on her stomach, holy shit, and ohmyGod you’llknowitwhenyouseeit!

In the past, I’ve been rather blithe about censoring music. I don’t believe in it, mostly because I choose to assume most of it goes over their heads, and when it no longer goes over their heads, then hopefully they’re old enough to understand that it’s entertainment, that it’s part of a whole, that it may represent someone’s truth, but doesn’t have to be their truth. As a prolifically profane person, I take the position that all words should be loved, regardless of what they are and how they are strung together (not true for words of hate and racism, but true for my sweet, sweet cussin’).

But visuals? Visuals are a whole other ball of wax. Watching Shakira gyrate around in her cage, my first impulse was to leap across the kitchen, landing on my side with my chin in my hand in a perfect breakdance denouement, the laptop shutting with a soft click under my deftly placed ass. But I couldn’t. That would embarrass him, maybe make him feel guilty about checking out this Shakira he keeps hearing on the radio. I’m the one who has been encouraging him to explore, after all. Furthermore, if we lived in Argentina (or Brazil, Uruguay or most places in Europe, for that matter), he’d see the likes of Shakira shaking their moneymakers in commercials for everything from yogurt to snow tires. After all, she’s just singing and dancing. Cough, cough. In the few seconds that I stood frozen like a deer in Shakira’s headlights, he clicked out of the video. Had he seen enough? Had it made him uncomfortable? Had it bored him? Had it scared him? I felt like I needed to address it somehow, someway, so that he wouldn’t be left holding a big bag of confusion. So I cleared my throat and plunged right in:

Me: Well! Well! Wooowee! Wow! Some of those South American ladies sure do know how to shake their bootays! Phew! My goodness!

Saint James: . . .

Me: Holy moly! Um. Guacamole. Ya, they have a whole other way of dressing and dancing! Don’tcha think? They are something else. Some of those. Uh. Ladies. Woowie.

Saint James: . . . 

Me: Um, ya. So, ya. I think that everyone’s used to the ladies acting a little crazy down there. Like it’s no big deal to dance so, like, hubba hubba. Er. 

Saint James: . . .

Me: Wooh. That dance is a little much, but I really do like Shakira. She’s got a great voice. She’s from Brazil!

Saint James: Columbia.

Me: . . .

We’ve been on a bit of a music tear lately, although all these late night trips to First Ave make us seem a lot cooler than we are. Doctor Dash and I have devised a bit of a system for the old/infirm/lazy. We call First Ave during the day to find out what time the main act is coming on (tip: they know exactly what time by around 4 o’clock) and swoop in about ten minutes prior to grab drinks and shimmy as close to the stage as possible, avoiding wild looking boys with flailing arms whenever possible. I like to dance as much as the next person, but I know how to do so without cracking any noses, which I’m not sure can be said for everyone. 

A couple weeks ago we went to see Atmosphere and although Doctor Dash had predicted a testosterone filled environment (a warning to me upon seeing me emerge resplendent in lipstick and bling), I was a bit taken aback by the energy in that place before they came on. For the first time, as a bevy of young bucks bounced in place and loosened their taught neck muscles like boxers spoiling for a fight, I thought to myself, Jesus, this might get rough. Maybe I really am too old for this business. It didn’t help that the start time was super late, giving everyone plenty of time to get drunk and rowdy – pumped, if you will. Not a huge fan of pumped. Nevertheless, if you don’t know Atmosphere and like hip hop, they are totally worth checking out. They are white, they are local (went to Washburn High School) and they can and do turn it out for their fans. Big time. They put on an amazing show and as Slug tore through song after song, rapping a white hot streak (his lung capacity is truly astonishing), I started to understand the crowd. They knew all the words, shouting them out with fists in the air, veins bulging at their necks. They were there to pay homage to one bad ass Minnesota boy with some serious street cred. Slug’s partner in crime, Ant, spun beats of gold from his tables clad in a silky white shirt, slicked back hair, fu manchu stache and impenetrable expression, looking a bit like Steven Segal. I will say that the free flowing marijuana eventually took the edge off the jumpy crowd as did Slug’s near constant banter and appreciation. Maybe it makes me a high maintenance audience member, but I love to be loved up. I think we have a really smart, rich, complex music scene here in Minneapolis (of which I am a poser who knows but a teensy fraction) and it’s nice to get some props. You could tell he was fired up to be there, playing in his hometown in one of the best places to hear music on earth. Slug raps about everything from hockey hair to a girl who is like a drug to Lyndale Avenue to killing his boss. It is quite raw and quite beautiful. The next day I felt drained, sort of battered and buffeted by the whole experience. It’s taken all these many days to digest that concert and I think it was one of those shows where the performers put out so much emotion and energy, that you can’t help but do the same – absorbing and then sending back the love, the angst, and the anger. They were gooooood, so good that next time I go, I just might find myself feeling, um, pumped.

Two nights ago, one of my Babe-O-Matics, Shady, flew in from Chicago to join us for Arctic Monkeys. A departure from our recent hip hoppyness, Arctic Monkeys was Dash’s idea, but I LOVED it. In contrast to Atmosphere, who are around our age, Arctic Monkeys are YOUNG. They look so young, in fact, with their floppy ringlets of hair, that it’s almost impossible to believe that they’re as talented as they are, that they rock the way they do. I think the three front men are so innocent that they don’t realize they’re supposed to feel sheepish about looking just like each other. They look like a picture in a hair styling textbook illustrating the different ways hair can part. But no matter – they’re completely adorable. The lead singer, Alex Turner, is an unbelievable vocalist. His voice goes everywhere, but it’s so facile, so slippery – he runs it with no effort, no straining, no sweat. Unbelievable. And super sexy, like a young Mick Jagger but not as peacocky. As it turns out, however, I do have an age threshold for unseemly chops licking and I located it on Saturday night. Just a wittle baby. And the drummer, Matt Helders, well, what can I say? Dash, Shady and I were all in love with the drummer. He and his lovable little fro just powered every song like a mad charging bull, pulling the rest of the band behind him. Screaming. Breakneck. Breathless. Uh mazing. Thoroughly satisfying, totally impressive, those boys have got some serious rock chops.

And now, at the risk of neglecting our children and our friends, I think we’re going to take a little break from our nocturnal musical adventures. Although I am loving Solid Gold, and I hear they’re coming soon . . .

My college girls and I used to call ourselves the Babe-O-Matics, and lest you think we took ourselves seriously, please know that it was all in jest. Mostly. Back in the day, I had inherited a tape player called the Invert-O-Matic (my dad has always been a gadget guy and this was pure seventies cutting edge stuff) which, no joke, would eject the tape, flip it over, suck it back in and play the other side. Someone covered the “Invert” with “Babe” and that’s all she wrote. I don’t remember exactly when we became the Babe-O-Matics – it feels like we just always were. And as it turns out, I think we always will be. We may no longer be running around Southbend, Indiana dressed like grungy man-girls in big Levis, flannel shirts, Birkenstocks and boots, but Babe-os we remain.

I’ve been sitting on this post for a few days – it doesn’t seem to be writing itself, as usually happens when the emotions are bigger than the words. Earlier this summer, I had intended to write about the bookend stop in Chicago on our way back from Michigan and I never did. The words sort of eluded me to describe how much fun we had overnight at Sunny’s* house in Wilamette with her hubby, Tax Man Italiano, and their four kids. Our other roommate, Shady** came in from the city for the night and we slipped right back into our old mischief, feasting, drinking, and gabbing to excess – only now we were surrounded by a gaggle of kids and a couple of indulgent husbands who seem to understand implicitly that if there was ever a night to step up and get the kids to bed and let us talk, it was then. Late night, sitting on Sunny’s porch, drinking those last beers we would regret in the morning, it struck me that after college, I was far too cavalier about the Babe-os spreading out around the country. Nothing seemed permanent back then. Nothing seemed of consequence.  We all had things we needed to do, and I figured they would always be as close to me as they were on that sad day we all drove away from our little blue house on St. Peter’s Street for the last time – weeping, desolate, inconsolable in the knowledge that we would never have that kind of fun again. 

Looking at my girls over the flickering candles on that porch, my heart caught in my throat. We could be doing all of this together. Instead, we live parallel lives in different cities, only catching up for a few golden hours every year. Shady goes to a lot of the same concerts we go to when they hit Chicago – she was at Beck and at De La Soul. What a partner in crime she would be if we lived in the same place! And Sunny’s kids and my kids paired off and scampered away like they see each other every day. Sunny and I could be sitting at the pool together, at the beach together, cobbling dinners together out of cheese and crackers and wine. I married someone who knew me way back when – back when I was young and fun and didn’t have a care in the world. I know how much humor and patience and leeway and pleasure you draw out of that pot of memories, that book of characters and references. It’s huge. Embarrassingly, I think I might have blubbered something about missing out on my Ya Ya sisterhood, but Sunny and Shady understood. When six girls spend a whole Halloween night tied together disguised as a drain hair shark, on mushrooms, well, it adds a whole other dimension to your relationship. 

We could be doing all of this together.

But we’re not. And as bittersweet as seeing each other may be, it’s also completely restorative, satisfying and necessary. To laugh like that, to be understood and accepted like that, fills us up and lets us glide on through until the next time. We all have other wonderful friends where we live, sisters, the ladies you count on. But what we Babe-os had remains utterly apart – maybe because we’ve always lived apart – it’s locked away in time, but breathtakingly accessible. All we have to do to tap into that, is put ourselves into the same room. So we do.

On Saturday three of us flew to Saint Louis to surprise Dolly*** for her 40th birthday party. She had no idea we were coming. Her lovely sisters and hubby, Soul Daddy, masterfully kept it under wraps. Tartare had flown from Seattle to meet up with Shady and Sunny in Chicago and they flew in together. When I looked up from my phone to see the three of them striding toward me in the St. Louis airport, looking all foxy and smiley, my heart did a little jump. All together! For a party! For Dolly! It was just too good. 

The surprise was perfect. We didn’t jump out of a cake. We simply walked down the street and as we approached we could hear Dolly’s daughter, Mimi, yelling Moooom, come outside! So of course, there was shrieking. Of course there were hugs and laughter. Dolly was grinning ear to ear, as was the adorable Soul Daddy. Operation Babe-O-Matic was a success.

The Babe-os were in da haaayouse and Dolly’s relaxing afternoon had just morphed into something else entirely. We chatted, drank in their three adorable kids, oohed and aahed around the house, soaking up the wall colors, the pictures, the stuff of our dear friend’s day-to-day life. We felt lucky to be sitting in her kitchen, even for a couple hours, to have our hands on the counter top where her kids color, where they spill cereal, where Dolly rolls out pies, where Soul Daddy chops and puts out cheese and olives. We Babe-os take nothing for granted, least of all time in each other’s homes. It’s just too rare. And even back in college, back when all we really cared about was the next great party, we were all about nesting, making our dorm rooms and then the house on St. Peter’s Street sweet little homes to relish, share, and make memories in. Some things never change.

A lot of things never change.

After a little adventure to Dolly’s favorite nail salon for manis and pedis, a quick beer, and that festive, oh so fun, getting ready time when we chatted and cackled and checked out eachothers’ lotions and potions, outfits and jewelry, we were off like the wind to Dolly’s bash. We knew it was going to be great because it was at the house Dolly grew up in, now owned by her sister, the lovely Maisie and her family. We had already celebrated Dolly and Soul Daddy’s wedding at that house, not to mention various stops to and fro Mardi Gras throughout the years. This family knows how to fling open their doors, hug you close and throw down for a really good time. There were pretty lights strung up in the yard, cocktail tables with candles, delicious food and bevvies, jello shots in every flavor, and tons of party people who all love Dolly.

We knew it was going to be fun. What we didn’t know, is that we were going to spend the next nine hours in a magical musical pleasure fest! Soul Daddy’s old band set up in the garage due to some threatening sprinkles, which, luckily, never ended up getting much footing and began a night of amazing music. Lordy, did we dance! Soul Daddy sang and we all swooned. Dolly sang and we swooned some more. Our girl! As the night tore on in a mad blur fueled by beer and restorative stops to the food table, all of Dolly’s sibs took a turn, and then her uncle and then her cousins and before we knew it, the night had devolved into a beautiful crazy hootenanny. It was great. And if you went inside, you had their exquisitely woven playlist to contend with. I have fuzzy memories of lurching around, dancing to So Lonely, screaming the words while gnawing on a chicken wing. It was a buh uh uh uh laaasst!!!

Just like the old days, the Babe-os would fan out at a party, flitting around, talking to everyone, only to find each other again in a riotous explosion of cheers and hugs and laughter, feeling like you were home again after a crazy odyssey. This would happen, and did happen on Saturday, multiple times a night, all night long. We may have lived together, but we were always happiest to see each other. 

A lot of things never change.

Tartare, Sunny, Shady and Dolly, you are my heart. Happy birthday Dolly. I love you rockin’ Babe-o-matics.

*Because of love of, disposition, outlook, and Coppertone always at the ready.

**Because why mess with a good nickname?

***Because she has a love for Dolly Parton, not because she looks like Dolly Parton.

One minute I’m navigating back to school night, standing in line in the school gym, clutching myriad forms and checks, and sweating about getting my kid the band instrument choice he wants. The next minute I’m in the middle of a thumping sweaty rumpus at First Ave, right up close to the stage, crackin’ out my best, getting my hip hop on courtesy of these fine fellows. Dash and I went with Nanook, Gear Daddy, Crackerjack and Renaissance Man (happy birthday RM, fellow Virgo and lover of eighties new wave, good birthday, wouldn’tchasay?).

On this evening of all things back-to-school, the smell of hallways, chalk, and gymnasiums still fresh in my nose, we got SCHOOLED. We got old schooled, we got new schooled, we got knick knock paddywacked give the dog a bone, this old girl came rollin home. These professors of hip hop put on a great show. It’s the 20 Years High and Rising Tour, marking 20 years since their first and biggest album, 3 Feet High and Rising, dropped (see how I did that? I got the lingo, bitches) and they put on a show that emphatically said: we are still here, mother fuckers and thank YOU for still being here, mother fuckers! They went easy on the goof, heavy on the heavy, and scratched all the right spots with their genius rapping, sampling, scratching, and happy mahem inducing antics. It was really cool to watch a hip hop show backed by a smokin’ ten piece band (the Rhythm Roots Allstars) who really stood on their own but, combined with De La Soul, just amped it up to a whole other level. There were crazy bongo explosions (seriously, like three or four guys on bongos – awesome) and a full horn section affectionately introduced as Ghetto Brass (which made me chuckle given my afternoon of instrument wrangling with Saint James) and who floored us with a little Stevie Wonder: a bright, shiny, clear your sinuses, Sir Duke. Beautiful. Truly.

I’m not a professional, I don’t take notes, I don’t have the vocabulary or the knowledge base to really talk about music in a meaningful way but most importantly, I don’t want to miss anything. More and more, I’m finding that if I think about how I’m going to blog about something, it really takes me out of the moment, so I try not to do that. Ever. Consequently, I’m left with little more than ringing ears, a huge grin on my mug, sore muscles, and the vague notion that in addition to hopping us up on some good hard hip hop, these sampling geniuses tantalized us with a little Gorillaz, a little Steely Dan, a little Beastie Boys (Hey Ladies!!!), a little MJ, for sure some Run DMC. I know there was more, but I have a mind of swiss cheese.

And not for nothing, the last twenty years have been kind to De La Soul. They look great and they sound great. It was nice to be at a show watching guys our age working it out, and working it out really really well. It was an 18+ show, so there were plenty of babies in the audience to be sure. We even ran into Matt who works at the pool snack bar and knows to give us a heavy pour on the vino blancos, and bless his heart he was totally cool, casual and refreshingly not surprised to be running into a couple of pool mommies at the show. Every now and again they’d pan a big bright spotlight over the crowd going nuts and I amused myself imagining what Posdnuos would think of our little group dancing all dirty and freaky with our yoga arms up in the air and silly smiles plastered on our, ahem, super duper dewey and youthful looking faces. Every time I go to see live music I have a little age dysmorphia conversation in my head for a few seconds: Jeez, these people look like toddlers, ooh, hey, that one looks like a grown up St. James, cute! I should feel really old, but I don’t feel really old, what is wrong with me that I don’t feel really old? Fuck it, step aside slightly stinky, disaffected little one and watch a mama strut her stuff, WOOOHOOOO! 

Sigh. It’s true. It’s really really true. So my take away from last night?

Mirror mirror on the wall.

Tell me mirror what is wrong?

Nothing child, keep keeping on.

And on and on and on and on.*

*OK, so I took some liberties with the last two lines. Sue me.

Do you recognize this man? He is Hasidic Jew rapper reggae dancehall boy genius – Matisyahu. At the risk of sounding like a musical experience hyperbolizer, I will tell you that he put on a thoroughly soul satisfying, gut wrenching, sweaty crush of a show last night at First Ave.

I, for one, was on fire. I, for one, was ready to jump the fence. Good bye baby Jesus. Hello my sweet little juju bean.

We had thrown together a little light summer din and drinks on the patio for six or seven of our besty couples for a pre-show fest. I made Duddy’s (aka: Chief Big Voice) Latin Pork Pernil recipe and set out yummy fixins for tacos, including a little lime chipotle crema that is so delicious it could double as a nourishing facial mask should you wish to wake up as a bit of a Salma Hayek. And cilantro in everything of course – my favorite, coddled, golden child herb – cilantro can do no wrong in my eyes. The beers and vino blancos were going down cool and fast and, of course, there can be no patio revelry without the squat-bottled goodness of Señor Patrón. At nine thirty we piled into a couple cars and left in a flurry of rustling tickets and high spirited cackles (ok, maybe that was just me).

I must admit that for a long time, I poo-pooed Matisyahu. I thought the Hasidic Jew thing seemed gimmicky and I didn’t give him a shot until Tartare and her hubby Meester Panqueques put him on our iTunes before heading back to Seattle when they visited for Thanksgiving. I started listening. I started liking. A lot. Many a dinner has been prepared in the company of my silver tongued, honey toned, deeply soulful, peacefully bad-ass new friend.

I was jacked up for this show and Matisyahu did not disappoint. In fact, not in a million years did I consider that I would be swooning within the first minutes of watching him croon and beatbox in his hoodie. The guy’s got something. Aside from that angular, lankiness I’m drawn to like a moth to flame, he’s got a beautiful voice. A beautiful, pure voice, which actually matters more than you’d think in rap – to me, anyway. Like, I love Jay Z, he’s a great rapper and he’s got a good thing going with my girl Beyoncé and I love that they jet ski at Cannes in white bathing suits, but he just doesn’t have a pretty voice. No disrespect. Just iswhatitis.

And if the face, the voice, the lightening-quick blast of words, and the warm reggae dipped in cool hip hop weren’t enough, it turns out they’re a bit of a jam band. They rock. Hard. His guitarist was a superstar and had a white knuckled grip on my entrails every time he went off on his wizardly solos. Seriously, people, someone hand me a fan because I think I may faint. 

And if all that weren’t enough, local boy Yoni, joined him for a few songs and he ripped it up. Watching him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that at last, the chubby Jewish kid who carried his debate team to the championships, was getting a whole new day in the sun. He was incredible. That wit and those words could have landed him in law school, but instead it landed him in a whole lot of First Ave love last night.

The vibe was the happiest and mellowest I’ve ever experienced. First Ave is always great, everyone’s always psyched to be there, but honestly, not to sound hokey, last night was different. I didn’t really get a chance to survey the crowd as I was too busy busting out my finest moves, but any time I tried to get a little closer to the stage, people parted like the Red Sea. Normally you get elbows and an unyielding wide legged stance, but last night the crowd was fluid and happy. Oh holy Moses, was I feeling the love! At one point, I turned around to Doctor Dash, my hand on my heart and yelled This is really moving me! Like really really!  He just nodded at me indulgently, as I tend to get carried away in these situations. But that’s what makes me so lovable, right Dash?

Having said that, I would be running for the hills at the first whiff of sappy spirituality. I take my religion and my music separately, thank you very much, and never the twain shall meet. But maybe I don’t reject the idea of music carrying a spiritual message so much as the idea of crap music that’s simply there to carry the message. And not for nothing, those Christians who sway with their eyes closed and their arms up at mega Christian rock concerts give me the total creeps. Matisyahu manages to be uplifting, inspiring and spiritual, yes, admittedly, he is – but his music stands on its own and it has enough hard edges and darkness to fully satisfy. 

And I am fully satisfied. The music, the dancing, the drinking and my friends filled up my canteen and I am feeling good today. Really really good. I’m telling you, that boy has got something. He goes far, he goes deep, and he couldn’t possibly be more lovely.

Yesterday was such an odd day – it was the quintessential, hot, sunny summer day in the Midwest replete with a comfortingly familiar level of humidity and mosquito action. We swam, we idled around home, we face painted, we rode our bikes and I even broke out the Deep Woods OFF for the first time this season. It was a good day. It was a regular day. And in the midst of my morning, I find out Farrah Fawcett died, which is sad, but she was sick and it was no great surprise. I always loved Farrah in that sad sort of way a little Argentine girl living in Michigan would. She was the ideal, and I, with my dark hair, big feet, long legs and funny name, was most definitely not. Before a family vacation, I even got my hair cut so that it would “feather,” having no clue that you needed a curling iron to do it. Not to mention that my hair was so thick and heavy that it would have required mad skilz, copious amounts of hair spray and a head immobilizer for me to pull off a feathered do. Instead my hair fell around my face like Cousin It until my mom got so exasperated she bought a barrette from a Disney World gift shop to pin it away from my face. Michigan in the seventies was not a place you wanted to be different. It was a time before Benneton ads, J Lo, Beyoncé, and High School Musical. Little girls swoon when they find out my name now, but back then, Gabriela was odd and ugly – just like me. Revisiting those youthful cringes and tinges upon hearing of Farrah’s death, while not entirely surprising, amounted to more than plenty melancholy nostalgia for a hot June day.

I screamed and practically jumped out of my skin when I read that Michael Jackson had died. Michael Jackson is dead. Not that he was the picture of vitality, by any stretch, but still – it just doesn’t seem possible! Talk about a tragic life spiral. I’ve always been a fan, but like most people, had sort of let him go as he got weirder and whiter – as he finally succeeded in erasing all traces of the beautiful black boy he had once been. He was so talented that it somehow made his erratic behavior and freaky looks all that much more distasteful. It just became easier to ignore him than to try to understand what was going on chez Neverland. Oh, but what a cool little kid he was, what a voice, what a dancer! And to die at fifty, alone, and hidden away in that big weird house, living out a fantasy most certainly gone awry. Tragic. Check this out, though. The footage from Harlem is breathtaking and I could watch that all day. Hopefully he’s watching from wherever he is and has found whatever he was looking for. Good bye MJ.

And good bye beautiful Farrah.