peevish mama

Sometimes, when one goes dancing with one’s betties, and the music is really good and the beers are 2 for 1, one loses one wits – a bit – and one leaves without closing out the tab. On Thursday morning I woke with a start. Damn. I was going to have to drive back down to Clubhouse Jager to get my credit card. Big Red, Lunch Lady Rocker Chick and I had gone to Transmission for LLRC’s birthday. I can’t give any details, but fun was had.

Wednesday nights at Jager are, hands down, the happiest place to be in all of the land with DJ Jake Rudh spinning 80’s New Wave and all sorts of lovely music-heads of all ages and stripes geeking out and dancing with wild abandon. Seriously. The moves I can bust out in this environment are high school bedroom mirror material. It is the most free, chill, friendly, goofy scene. My favorites from Wednesday night: a pretty pale girl with a pompadour and a white polka dot dress who did not stop dancing for even one second – formidable!, a tall skinny Tim Burtonesque dude with plaid pants and freaky awesome moves, another tall skinny dude sporting something between a mullet and a rat tail who was way smoother than he should have been, and a foursome of pudgy, gender ambiguous, bespectacled girl/boys.

We don’t, can’t, go to this dance party every week, but once a month is turning into a doable, even dare I say, salutary occurrence. Despite the many PBRs, I wake up with enviable vim and vigor after a night of this. Except that driving back downtown to the scene of my shenanigans with my two little girls in tow to pick up my forgotten credit card seemed like a whole new kind of walk of shame. Unfortunately they don’t open until 4, so I had no choice but to wait until school got out. Damn. I picked Devil Baby and Supergirl up with Foxy Brown in the car, passed back some snacks and vaguely mentioned we had to drive downtown.

Supergirl: Wait. Why do we have to go downtown again?

Me: Forgot my credit card.

Supergirl: Where did you forget it?

Me: That place where I went dancing last night.

Supergirl: Is it a bar?

Me: Yes.

Supergirl: Was there a band?

Me: Nope. Just this great DJ.

Supergirl: How late were you there?

Me: Midnight. [small lie]

Supergirl: Was it fun?

Me: SO fun.

Supergirl: Do you want us to wait in the car?

Me: That would probably be good.

. . . a few moments pass . . .

Supergirl: You know, I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a bar.

. . .

Ten minutes later we’re all inside and I’m paying the tab, having been assured by the lovely redheaded bartender that I was NOT the only one to have forgotten my card last night. Jager looks downright homey in the light of day, with slanting sunlight and the smell of comfort food wafting out of the kitchen. I’m half tempted to stay there for an early dinner with the girls. Supergirl spins on her barstool cooly assessing the hipsters partaking in happy hour and appetizers.

Supergirl: Mom?

Me: Ya?

Supergirl: I just thought of the BEST name for my soccer team!

Me: What?

Supergirl: THE BLOODY MARY’S!

Me: . . .

We were most definitely NOT staying for dinner.

http://www.dailymotion.com/videox1gchrAnd this one’s going out to someone I know who’s in fresh like. You know, dating less than a month, seeing each other every other day, cards on the table, endless conversations, swoony kisses. Love it. So rooting for this. And seriously, is there any one on earth smoother than John Legend? Think not.

Bon Iver’s music makes me heart-achey, in the very best of ways. Last month at the Orpheum, I was expecting a stripped down acoustic rendering of those tender and soaring songs I love so much. I had a vague notion that Justin Vernon would be alone on stage, sitting on a stool with a guitar, a laptop and a crazy looking microphone – maybe something with a funnel over it, or gold chainmail, or a fluffy cotton mitten. I try not to read about shows ahead of time – I don’t want set lists or context. Wide-eyed and free of expectations works for me, and that balmy Tuesday night was no exception.

As I settled into my seat, I scanned the crowd – chockablock with bespectacled lumberjacks and their ladies. No surprises there. But the stage was set up for a band, and from the looks of it, a big one. I turned to my husband and clapped my hands. I might have even said wheee! There is nothing on this earth that I love more than being roughed up by a wall of sound – except for maybe a rockin’ male falsetto. I was definitely in the right place.

The room was practically thrumming with anticipation and frankly, unabashed fandom for the low-key and hugely talented Vernon. This wasn’t lost on him and he was almost sheepish as he took the stage in his cute Western shirt, flanked by an enormous nine-piece band. They launched into Perth and because I was seeing it with my own eyes, my ears opened to just how many instruments and voices go into Bon Iver’s textured, intricate, ethereal sound. Multiple percussionists, horns and guitars backed Vernon, sometimes singing, sometimes switching instruments mid-number, filling the songs out to their absolute richest. And his voice. That voice. Is sublime.

At times the band was rocking so hard that it begged for standing up and moving into the swell. In the next breath, Vernon would pull back and quiet would unfurl like a blanket. It was gorgeous. And like the best live shows, the feeling of having witnessed something special lingers well after the last encore and the screaming applause. I walked around for days, my thoughts straying to the show, a knot of warmth in my chest right in that spot where I felt the drums.

Complicated, variegated, moody, romantic and vulnerable, I can think of no better soundtrack for this time of year, when we turn our faces to the weakening sun and hold thoughts of winter lightly behind our backs like an old tennis ball. Give a listen to Calgary. Doesn’t it sound how right now feels?

On Wednesday night Doctor Dash and I got a sitter and went on a bike date. We rarely go to movies anymore, especially in the summer, but I had a bee in my bonnet about seeing Buck and so we did. I love documentaries and I love horses, so it was kind of a no brainer for me, but you don’t have to be a horse person to love this movie. Buck Brannaman has a heartrending backstory (which I won’t share here because you’re going to go see this movie) but manages to turn himself into a good man with an uncanny ability to see into the hearts of others. His easy, even, deft touch with horses becomes a metaphor for how we should deal with not only animals, but spouses, children, strangers. Buck comes from a place of kindness and non-judgement and that is the key: to teach, to heal, to love – you have to have an open heart. The movie is beautifully filmed and edited – just a joy to watch. And it ends with this Pearl Jam song that never fails to chills up my spine: Just Breathe.

Soul Daddy sent me a song via email a little while ago, saying simply that it was his new favorite song and he thought I might like it. He believed it was about my hometown. I was amused by his sign off: Dig. I love the ambiguity. Descriptive or imperative? I didn’t listen to the song right away because I was heading out of town and the email got buried, pushed out of sight by the volumes of emails that come my way every day. Last night I remembered all of a sudden and flew to the computer. One does not ignore a song gift from Soul Daddy. Sure enough, it’s a gem. Mayer Hawthorne grew up in Ann Arbor and says he was influenced by Detroit’s rich soul and jazz history that came to him over the radio when he was driving around with his dad. I’d say this much is clear.

Dig.

Mayer Hawthorne – A Long Time

And to listen to Soul Daddy’s radio show, Hip City, on St. Louis Public Radio Station KDHX, go here. I love to tune in when I’m cooking. I always learn something and I always find myself shakin’ it.

Photo by Steve Cohen – Metromix

It has been a while since I’ve woken up with the need to dump the contents of my heart on the floor and sort out all the pieces like legos. If you had asked me yesterday at five o’clock whether I was excited to be seeing U2, I would given you a not entirely convincing yes. I just haven’t been into U2 as much in the last few years – there has been so much other music. Somehow this show seemed like an over blown event that absolutely every one I knew was going to, and call me peevish, but I tend to not like being part of a hoo-ra-ra. If only I could hear myself. I sound like an a-hole.

But I had forgotten one thing: U2 is U2. For people our age, and those a little older and a little younger, they are, for better or worse (and today I argue for better), our defining band. I was completely unprepared for the surge of emotion as the four of them walked on that incredible stage in the softly darkening night. It turns out I have deep, latent reserves of affection for those lads and for the beautiful music they have given us through the most turbulent and raw parts of our lives: our early adolescence through our early adulthood. Not to mention the fact that Dash and I have had big love for Bono ever since we spotted him outside the Four Seasons in Boston and he held baby Saint James, said something about missing his little guy and let us take a picture. Look at these. I’m mean, come ON!

They started with ‘Even Better Than the Real Thing’ and I could have fainted. It’s hard to overstate how amazing the sound stage was, a giant claw being one of those ideas that might have sounded ridiculous on paper, yet worked as a cool and strangely unobtrusive way to frame the band and the incredible 360˚ video screen that has been all the hubbub. The acoustics were great – from where we were sitting I could feel Larry Mullin’s drums and Adam Clayton’s base pounding in my ribcage. Possibly my favorite physical sensation in life, as you know. Bono introduced the band and I kept leaning over to Dave, yelling in his ear. On Larry: (I used to have THE HUGEST crush on him!), Adam: (Ohhhhhh, I have SUCH a soft spot for him!), The Edge: (AHHHH! I LOVE THE EDGE!!!) Poor Dash. I am such a fiend. He just nods, smiles and massages his ear drum. (But he kind of looks like Bono, so . . . mmmmm . . . he’s the one I love the most, hands down.)

About half way through the show they were playing ‘Beautiful Day’ (which he dedicated to Gabby Giffords) and her husband, Commander Mark Kelly, was up on the screen in space and for a second I thought it was live and my head was going to explode. Live from SPACE?! In a touching little riff off Bowie’s Space Odyssey, Kelly said tell my wife I love her very much . . . she knows. And then Bono echoed in his inimitable wail. Seriously. I could have sobbed. There was also a beautiful moment when Somali rapper, K’Naan joined Bono on stage to sing ‘Stand by Me’ in order to raise awareness of the famine in Somalia. The thing is, U2 can get away with anything. They can be as earnest and dramatic and florid and shwooshy and tender and hopeful and outraged and uplifting and awareness raising as they want. It is literally impossible to be cynical about them or their music when seeing them live because that band, as a band, has such a lion’s heart. They swallow you whole. She never stood a chance.

And this was just about the point where the magic really started to happen.

The wind picked up, seemingly stirring 60,000 people into a palpable frenzy and I had a total Beyonce moment dancing with my dress and hair whipping around like a banshee. I actually thought: if I get struck by lightening in this moment, I will die happy. Morbid, I know, but y’all, I was ee-mo-shun-al! And then came the rain. The rain. First in teasing droplets and then in buckets – I was soaked to the skin. I could have housed goldfish in my chuck taylors. And my people, my hardy stalwart Minnesotans made me proud, pulling foul weather gear and rain ponchos out of every orifice and singing even louder. Even with the lightening, nobody left.

And this was where U2 showed us how it’s done – why they are such an iconic band. They didn’t miss a beat and charged on through the driving rain. Bono acknowledged the weather and then took it and owned it, making it a part of the show. It looked so cool on the LED screen – I just couldn’t figure out how they could still play their instruments, how their fingers didn’t slip. They were as soaked as we were. And poor Bono in his leather pants must have had the worst case of swamp ass ever. Wait, am I allowed to speculate about Bono’s swamp ass? You take the humidity, add the torrential rains and mix it with the leathah? I’m just saying. He gave no clue as to the conditions. A true professional.

Kidding aside, it felt good to let myself go back in time through their music. It felt good to dance in the rain. It felt good to hug Doctor Dash during ‘With or Without You.’ It felt good to shelve my jaded, wise-ass self for a few hours. No doubt about it, I was feeling the love. I even had an epiphany of sorts about what I need to do next in terms of my professional (non-mom) life. You never know when you’re going catch a good thought (although dancing in the open air with a smile a mile-wide is a good place to start). And today, I feel happy. All that angst about the driving and summer schlepping from a few days ago seems to have dissipated like the steam coming off the stage lights last night. U2’s songs are a really good way for me to track my life and emotional journey and dare I say, an inspiring reminder that I am truly blessed to be on this journey at all.

Sad news today. Amy Winehouse. I was pulling for that girl. She was so so very talented. It is NOT better to burn out than fade away.

And some thoughtful words from Russell Brand here.

If you happened to have watched American Idol last night, you would have seen the premier of Beyonce’s newest video. Possibly, probably, you were completely entranced. Like me. I love Beyonce – she can kind of do no wrong in my book. This song sounds very M.I.A.esque and definitely gets you wanting to put on your fringe sandals and stomp your feet in the sand. And I covet the gold chainmail dress. Oh, and the cropped black fur vest. And the jewelry. I may need a tip-o-the-finger ring soon.

The video follows in the fine tradition of “rumble” songs – like Beat It, West Side Story and Love is a Battle Field. Seriously, wait for the part when Pat Benatar takes on the pimp and shakes her skinny bosom at him like an aggressive hen. It’s awesome. I love nothing more than a choreographed dance/fight scene. I think they are hilarious and a fine alternative to taking up arms, wouldn’t you say?

This has the makings of a girl anthem. Yes, das wat I said.

I’ve decided I’m going to pull up to Supergirl’s next soccer game against one of the giant blond suburban teams and blare this song out the back of the minivan (I may also plug a fan into my cigarette lighter to get the wildly blowing hair effect and lead the girls in a pre-game war dance). I was telling my family all of this this morning while I tried out some of the moves in the kitchen and Saint James just put his head in his hands and croaked MOM, how many times have you watched this?

Only once or twice. I swear.

The weather outside sent me looking for this song and boy does this hold up after all these years. So dreamy. Can you believe it was released in 1984? Damn, we’re old. And how gorgeous is Annie Lennox?

Our school has a variety show every spring – only fifth through eighth graders are allowed to perform, but the whole school gets to watch. I’ve gone every year since I found out about it because it’s AWESOME. As is pretty typical for these types of things, the content and talent level is all over the map. But it’s always fun and sort of heartbreaking to watch these brave kids getting on a stage, in some cases at the most awkward point of their lives, to perform. Sometimes they are hammy. Sometimes they are adorable. Sometimes they are breathtaking. I always imagine the kids feel o.k. putting themselves out there because our school is a trusted little community and it warms my cockles – it really does.

Last year, I remember Crackerjack was a nervous nelly because her son was performing a song with a group of boys. She was totally the mama wringing her hands, hoping it would go ok. I remember being super blasé about it since I love all of it, always, year after year and have yet to see anything that makes me cringe.

Only this year . . . THIS YEAR, I’m singing a different tune altogether.

Saint James and his buddy, Birdie’s Boy, are doing a song and dance routine to Iyaz’ Replay. Apparently, they are singing, but since their “moves” are so complicated, they can’t stand behind a mic, so it’s more of a lip synch slash dance routine. (It’s a little known fact that lip synch slash dance routines were my speciality back in the day, so this amuses me. Only he’s in fifth grade and I was in twelfth. I know, I was so gay.) The two of them have been absolutely mum about the act, accepting no help, allowing no previews, asking for nothing (except for a pair of rapper glasses). When I suggested maybe they should hold their mics so we could hear them sing, I was totally blocked. I’m gathering this act is really more about the moves and the swaggah. Eeeep!

Needless to say, I’m fretting. It’s hard to watch your kid put himself in a position where he could potentially embarrass himself. I know he’ll be great, and even if he isn’t, it doesn’t matter because the two of them are so darn cute they could pretty much get away with anything. But yet – I fret. I am standing right in Crackerjack’s super sexy nervous wedges from last year. Right in them. And I’m sweating them all up.

Today I went to pick Saint James up from the dress rehearsal and realized they hadn’t gone yet, so when they took the stage, I ran out the side door. He has made it blatantly clear he wants to save the surprise, so I wanted to respect that. I could hear the music and see the audience, which was basically the kids in the show and a couple moms. A few girls in his class let out a little fan shriek when they came on stage and one was taping them on a small camera. I wish I had had my phone to tape the girls, taping the boys. Judging from their reaction, it can’t have been bad. In fact, it might have been good. The girlies were all smiles and giggles and clapping after they finished (no eye-rolling) and believe me, I had my x-ray vision trained on them, so I would have seen it.

Until tomorrow, Dash and I are keeping our jitters to ourselves because  Saint James seems to have zero qualms about doing this. He is cool as a cucumber. I keep pestering Dash to see if he remembers being more self-conscious as a kid, but he’s not giving up the goods. I know I would have been a little spinning top of nervous energy had I been doing a dance in front of the whole school as a ten year old.  But maybe that’s a girl thing.

We’ll see. Here’s to Saint James and Birdie’s Boy ‘breaking a leg’ as they say in showbiz, and their mamas keeping their shit together in the front row (because, you know, that’s where I plan to be!)

Until then, enjoy a little Iyaz:

Once upon a time there lived a girl who had never been to Vegas. She considered herself lucky at life, but unlucky at games of chance and was therefor uninterested in what Vegas had to offer.

And then one day she went.

She knew that going anywhere (even Siberia or Peoria) with her posse of 8 maidens would be a good time, yet she was still surprised. And. Yet. Still.

She danced so much and laughed so hard that now she wants to move to Vegas, except for the fact that she’d be dead of exhaustion within the week.

Everywhere she went, day or night, she was wrapped up in the booming soundtrack of her favorite dance tunes, except for that one lounge by that one door where the Sinatra impersonator wooed them in with “My Way” and sent them off with “Free Bird”. Sinatra and Skynyrd? Is that even possible? Is that even legal?

Part Oz, part Disney World, part heaven, part Hades, the town pulsed like some kind of organism. From time to time, it revealed bits of darkness and melancholy that made the girl turn and pause for but a moment, and then run to catch up with her friends. She marveled that a place could be so tacky and yet so gorgeous. One second she was oggling the sad sacks at the slot machines with fluoresent drinks growing warm in oversized beakers, or the showgirls making eyes at the wolves, wondering where their mothers were and the next her hands were itching to touch the art, plunge into the fountains, caress the Jurassic palm fronds – to see if they were real.

Was any of it real? She was intrigued by the poetic madness, the collective understanding, the endless, feckless revelry. What a slice of life, she kept muttering, not sure anymore if she was even saying it out loud.

But mostly, and most wonderfully, the girl felt that she and her maidens had finally met their match. As long, hard, loud, and wild as they wanted to rollick – as much as they wanted to dance and drink and laugh and carouse, Vegas rose up like a chivalrous and indulgent knight  (or cowboy) to make it happen. In this oasis of over-the-top, nothing they could do was over-the-top. There was no question of turning in early. There were dragons to be slayed. And slayed they were.

Or at least she thinks so.

Did any of that happen? Does Vegas even exist?Only one way to find out.

I am so amused. Just as I was fretting about my kids not knowing how to entertain themselves, Saint James and the neighbor boys went on a rap writing rampage. They’ve got 12 songs written and have recorded two. Of course I’m biased, but I think they’re quite good. To the extent rap is a medium for telling your story or a fantasy version of your story, I’d say this is exactly what Saint James, er, Lil’ Ziggy and his posse are doing. They have each written their share of songs, they feature each other and provide the hooks for each other. It’s all very funny and extremely cute. In his song, Mercy, Lil’ Ziggy goes through a long list of mahem caused by the boys, including letting loose, riding a moose, playing ping pong and getting a deuce, spraying graffiti on someone’s hood and stealing fire wood and then the refrain, sung in a high falsetto, imploring the cops: You see those storm clouds above, asking for bloooood, all we want it mercy. Just give us some mercy mercy mercy. Tonight Tonight.

The last verse:

Bring it down!

Officers came said we had one last chance

We don’t care, cuz it’s not fair

We’re not done, let’s have some fun

Up till three hours past one

We put foam in a jacoozi (sic) then everyone else went snoozy

We posted on youtube, got a million views

We were rude, but we don’t regret it cuz we got all the credit.

No one came to edit, they all just fed it.

See? That’s some story telling right there. No one came to edit, they all just fed it? I love that! If you don’t know my son, you’d probably be alarmed by this, but honestly, he’s a gentle guy. Last night we were lolling on his bed while Doctor Dash read the raps out loud and Saint James was just laughing and laughing. I have no doubt he knows the difference between right and wrong –  understands that there’s quite a bit of terrain between a yarn and the truth. And to me, that wild acreage is a pretty fun place to play.

It’s no secret I’m addicted to live music. The more I go, the more I want to go. It’s kind of preposterous, except that it’s not. There are very few things in this world that make me feel so alive (sorry, I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true) and so, like a rat who has figured out which pellet spits out the tasty treat, I keep going back for more. I can feel the top of my head pop open and my heart fly around the room. And I can’t wipe the grin off my face for days. That joy, that juice, it lingers and lingers. The problem (if you can call it a problem) is that we are lucky lucky lucky here in the Twin Cities. It’s so easy to go, really not much more work than going downtown for a meal -you  just wear flats. At certain times of the year it’s actually hard to choose who to see. Obviously, I can’t go every night, or even every week (nor would I want to), but I’m not going to lie, when I pass something up, my mind wanders over to that loud, sweaty space as I’m wrangling the kids to bed and I can’t help but wonder what sort of magic I’m missing out on.

This past couple months I’ve seen some gems – a trifecta of beautiful ladies and then the amazing Fitz and the Tantrums, which you knew about. I’m not going to torture you with my amateurish and annoying reviews, but to the extent that I’m going to be reading this blog when I’m an old biddy, sunning myself on a chaise lounge in Florida like a tawny lizard, I want to get it down. Just so I can say, boy oh boy, have I seen some things, Marco! Did I have some times, Marco! (Marco would be the pool boy). I want to remember, because even right now when I’m living it, sometimes it’s hard to believe.

First up. The queen. The QUEEN! Ms. Lauryn Hill. At First Ave. After all these years. We knew she was going to come on late so we had our sitter come at ten o’clock. Yawning and moaning after the kids were in bed, I was so close to letting myself fade away, but Dash and a little green tea pushed me through. Once inside, she sent out her DJ and wild horses couldn’t have dragged me out of there. Five children later, she’s as incredible as ever. Truly one of my top five shows ever. (Five is an extremely elastic number in my world, but I really mean it this time.)

Then came Dessa. Young, smart, drop dead gorgeous, girl-about-town and CEO of the Doomtree Collective. Big Red, Nanook and I became fans after she curated a hip hop series at the Guthrie and wanted to see her perform. We knew she could rap, we didn’t know she could sing. Boy, can she sing. And she’s really into collaborating, as you’ll see from this clip. We saw her at The Cedar which had partnered with the Jerome Foundation to commission local artists to create and perform new work together. Really cool. She’s brainy, wordy, sexy and funny. What’s not to love?

And last but certainly not least was Robyn, the pint size powerhouse from Sweden. Thank you to Rosalita for spearheading this adventure. And when I say adventure, I mean adventure. She, Nanook and I were instantly engulfed in the happiest, gayest First Ave crowd I’ve ever experienced. She’s a little Madonna (but with a good voice), a little Gaga (without the theatrics), a little Gwen Stefani, a little Pink. And not for nothing, Europeans have such a different sensibility with regards to what it means to be sexy. She’s as sexy as the day is long, but sexy like Bjork: smart, empowered, unique sexy. Quirky sexy. Some of our artists could take a page out of her book, fo sho. She’s a fiesty, kick-ass pixie and I could have watched her and danced with the gays all night. She is phenomenal – total electronica, 80’s pop, and it’s infectious. We got the fever and spent another happy, silly, dancy few hours at the Saloon afterwards with Rosalita’s hilarious hair posse. Top five, people!

And finally, Fitz and the Tantrums. Talk about lingering joy. They were SO GOOD. Thank you to Creeper Bud for turning me on to them and insisting that it was not an option to miss this one. I would drop everything to see them again. Only next time I suspect it won’t be at Bunkers. Lucky us. Lucky, lucky us.

Now where’s that Marco with my drink?

People, I realize posting youtube videos does not a blog make. That when you come here, you may be expecting to read some words from time to time. All I can say is that we’ve made it through some dry spells before and I can only hope we’ll do it again. We are going to see these guys tonight at a teensy place that has been the scene of many shenanigans in the past, and I am all a’dither! So very, very a’dither! They are out of L.A. and are considered Indie Soul. Again, the cross-pollination I love so much! When I watch this, I sort of pick up an 80’s new wave vibe from the lead, Michael Fitzpatrick – something about his natty dress feels old school and nostalgic to me. And see if you don’t fall in love with Noelle Skaggs. I sure hope she’s wearing something sparkly tonight!

Her name is Roxanne Tataei, she goes by Rox, she’s half Jamaican, half Iranian and a mere fresh baby twenty-two years old. She’s from South London and sister can sing. I love this girl. I love her with the piece of my heart that loves Janelle Monae, Lauryn Hill, Estelle, and Santigold. This vid is worth checking out, especially for the acid-wash-bedazzle-pocketed-high-waisted shorts.

Who knew those could be so sexy? Apparently, Rox.

Love. Her.