The Joy of Organs.

[ NOTE: Musical, not spleens. That's a post for a darker day. ]

Oh, dearest Reader (she says, with a world-weary sigh). It would seem that my New Years Resolution to write more has gone rather unfulfilled since—well, since I made it. This is due in part to the fact that I was away (in the Apple),  then with Cold,  then amping up to perform in a Bowie tribute show (this past Saturday in Woostah, for the Thin White Duke's 64th—a total blam blam had by all). Meanwhile, a friend got me hooked on crack-cocaine  Dollhouse, the most recent(ly cancelled) Joss Whedon show, about the ethics of programmable people—except with adventure & kung-fu & zexy, zexy ladies. The point is, whatever free time I had between traveling via Fung Wah & strumming out "Andy Warhol" was spent drool-headedly following the travails of Echo & co., leaving writing where it so often unfortunately lies: on the wayside of my Silly Putty brain, dear Reader. The way-far-away-side.

Anyhow. Now that I've finally cajoled myself over to these keys, I'm struck with an onslaught of things to write about—so much so that I actually began an entry titled "Things That Are Good" & proceeded to make a giant cross-genre list (from "Jhonen Vasquez" to "themed Band-Aids"), which was proving a) too long, b) too tiring, & c) using up a fair amount of topics that would make better fleshed-out posts of their own. (The Band-Aids epic is in the works as we speak.) So, with that in mind, I've chosen but one of these many bustling topics, & it goes a little something like this:

Uses of the Organ in Popular Music.

I believe I briefly mentioned this particular preference of mine a few weeks ago when commending the song "Change" by The Young Veins for its skillful deployment thereof. I just think the organ makes such a wonderfully rock 'n' roll sound—which, on the other hand, often damns it as too retro for the modern rock outfit. (Think "Light My Fire"; it was a 60s staple.) Still, I say it transcends decades—or, at least, ought to—& here's some proof:


[ EDIT: In this post's original conception, it was almost all old(er) songs, which were then replaced, in favor of championing my intended agenda—that is, getting '10s bands back to the organ trend. However, having been tut-tutingly reminded of some I eventually excised, I've decided to add them back. Because, really, they're damn good—&, one can only hope, inspiring. ]


Incense & Peppermints—Strawberry Alarm Clock.
We'll start squarely in that classic era, though, with some of my favorites there from—first of which is this bizarre nugget, the epitome of 60s-trancey. Incense & peppermints, the color of time... Giddy-wonderful.


Whiter Shade of Pale—Procol Harum.
This song always reminds me of Martin Scorcese's contribution to the New York Stories short-film trio—the one with Nick Nolte the painter & Rosanna Arquette, his assistant. Moreover, though, this is just a painfully fantastic song, primarily because of its organ's warble: rounded but shrill, soft but biting. Bitter, so bitter, but beautifully so.


She's Not There—The Zombies.
The Platonic pop song—harmonized & catchy; builds & bridges amping to a sustained trill of chorus; bubbling, upbeat, but just minor enough to retain some edge. Perfect for car-singing, city-walking, & the like.


Rock Lobster—The B-52s.
What love I have for this band. I've often told a friend, who does a flawless Fred Schneider impression, that if I could choose anyone to narrate my life, if would be him. Evidence of why, here.


In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida—Iron Butterfly.
Another movie-reminiscent track: this time, from the climactic scene of Manhunter, featuring the first (& oft-forgotten) portrayal of Hannibal Lecter, by Brian Cox instead of Mr. Hopkins. It's a really excellent movie—& an excellent song, long & dark & rambling through the Gadda-Da-Vida (or, rather, Garden of Eden, when you're not too languid & drug-tongued). Perfect soundtrack for ceiling staring, late-night hairbrush vocals—&, of course, final-battling serial killers.


You Keep Me Hanging On—The Ferris Wheel (Supremes cover).
A really profoundly excellent cover that showcases the organ with room to spare. Some say it's inferior to the Vanilla Fudge version, but personally, I prefer this less popular take. More soulful, I think. Funkier.


Raw Power (Live, Mantra Sessions, '77)—Iggy Pop (feat. David Bowie).
One of my all-time Iggy favorites, live & Bowied, punched up with an airy organ accompaniment. Mmmmmhmm. (Download the whole album HERE, thanks to brilliant & beautiful angels over at Punk Not Profit.)


Teengenerate—The Dictators.
Who ever said a punk song couldn't have a church-worthy intro? Moreover, if you aren't into the Dictators, be so, & quick. Their first album, Go Girl Crazy! was a major inspiration to the founders of Punk Magazine, who (so the story goes) first coined the term.


All the Young Dudes—Mott the Hoople.
Written by Bowie for Ian Hunter—a glam anthem if ever there was one, made all the better by its synthy augmentation. (Also: a thousand props to Nikki Luparelli & co. for ending with it on Bowie night!)


Glass Smash—The View.
I've been meaning to write about this band for an eon & a half—because I adore them, heart & soul—because Kyle Falconer's voice is perfect in every way (screamy, scratchy, super-fucking-Scottish)—&, of course, because one of their songs has a prominent organ riff.


Jonathan David—Belle & Sebastian.
Adorable & meandering—off their singles collection, Push Barman to Open Old Wounds. Like their best: sweet but never saccharine, evocative of a bike ride in summer down some endless midwest highway.


Always Crashing in the Same Car—David Bowie.
Okay, I know, Bowie overload—but at least allow me my proof that the organ works even in Eno-abstracted electronica. Also, it's my personal opinion that everyone should listen to this song more than they do.


Dreaming of You—The Coral.
Best for last, of course. Not "best song," necessarily, but definitely "best use of an organ in (my) recent memory." Quick & choppy & wonderful—unabashed showcasing of my most beloved of instruments, & there's even some brass in there. Songs like this make me dare to hope we're ever-closer to my dream of reigniting the big band craze...


Of course, I'm missing millions, I'm sure. If you can help my brain reclaim these glaring omissions, please, comment. I'll be ever-grateful.


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Chemical Dancer—The Daily Pravda.

I think it would be an understatement to say this band blew the fucking house down at the Bowie show this past Saturday. I mean, everyone was fabulous, of course of course, but this band gets extra points in my mind, for two important reasons: 1) Their lead singer (nymmed David Jackel! How excellent!) has a perfect voice for Bowie covers & therefore, bolstered by a seamless backing track, was able to fully deliver. 2) They played "Sweet Thing." (!!!) I'm sorry: I still can't get over the extent to which that made my night. Because it's always been one of my all-time favorites, ever, but I've also always felt alone in that opinion—if not entirely, then at least enough so I'd never in my wildest dreams expect someone to do a (really good) live cover. & the response of Mr. Jackel when thanked (perhaps too profusely)? "Of course." Excellently, excellently played, sirs.

So, of course intrigued (& blessed with relatives who know just enough about me come holiday season to prescribe generous amounts of iTunes), I went exploring & ended up purchasing their album & EP & even tracking down their free download from Bandcamp. (I'm one to delve—what can I say...) I'm still processing, of course, but so far I like what I hear. As of now, I've provided their album opener for your listening pleasure: just jaunty enough—guitar wailing right, beats egging on the 2-4-2-4, glammed out vocals. No organ, sure, but excellently played, indeed.

A Breakfast Crisis.

[ So, I know I promised the Bowiethon—but this post happened in real time—& I felt so strongly about it—& then I made graphics—& I think we could use a little levity 'round here, yeah? So, here it is. Bowie next. Swear to Dog. ]

In a particularly good (& therefore memorable) episode of The West Wing, Josh Lyman's ever-eager assistant Donna informs him that "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over & over & expecting different results." While I'm not sure if anyone aside from Aaron Sorkin actually defines insanity in this way,* it provides the perfect framework for a discussion I've been meaning to have with my brain for some time—but which I put off, of course, until directly confronted with it this morning.

To begin: I stayed up through woke up bright & early at 8:30 AM, perfectly primed to stretch, shower, & get in a hearty breakfast before my 10:00 class. Brimming with goodwill & cheer, I practically bounced up Broadway, waving & smiling, for all the world like a modern-day Belle greeting her small, provincial town—&, lo & behold, upon entering the dining hall, I morphed to awestruck Charlie in his Chocolate Factory: this was the fare before noon?! This glorious spread of fruit salad & frittatas!—yogurts & chicken sausage!—cereals upon cereals!—large to-go coffee cups!—&, then I saw it: the perfect, protein-filled start to my day, steaming, quietly, in the corner: Oatmeal. My eyes brimmed: it was as if the gods themselves had shone a beam of pure, distilled Glory on my day—nay, my life—with such a patently ideal offering.

So, of course, I forewent the home fries & granola, the quickly dwindling scrambled eggs, & jumped for this beautiful, brimming cauldron of— Okay, well, it looked a little like something regurgitated by a colic infant, but still! I was not about to be thwarted by mere appearance! My breakfast experience was about so much more: it was about substance & health & deliciousness—&, well, so what if it also tasted a little like something coughed up by a really, profoundly unhealthy infant... A Garbage Pail infant, who has spent a lot of time chugging Elmer's glue & sand... A mutant Garbage Pail infant with 30 phlegm glands, who has experienced turbulence coming from the planet Terrible in the galaxy of Oh My God What Is This Demon Food???

My point—exaggerated, perhaps, by recent experience—is that I hate oatmeal. I hate it with the burning passion of a thousand neutron stars. I find it utterly repugnant in every aspect—& yet, I find myself eating it, again, & again, & again. For some reason, despite all evidence to the contrary, I still, in the moment, consider oatmeal the most awesome of breakfast foods. If you were to offer me a bowl of Lucky Charms, in which the marshmallows were Mario immortality stars & the milk was unicorn tears & all the cereal pieces joined in a chorus of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" with the basso profundo of Robert Goulet—this, in exchange for some generic oatmeal, I guarantee you, I would choose the oatmeal every time. &, of course, three bites later, my day would be ruined, because I would realize, for the 8 billionth & yet somehow the first time, that I hate oatmeal.

It's eternally perplexing: for whatever reason, my brain has built up this Platonic ideal of oatmeal that just absolutely refuses to be disproved, no matter how many counterexamples I present. Now that I'm reflecting, I have only dour oatmeal memories from early years—the same three hopeful bites, followed by an unfailingly cartoonish frown. In fact, if we're talking childhood touchstones: in the musical Oliver!, there is an entire dynamic opening sequence in which a massive chorus of sympathetic orphan boys simply beg to eat anything but oatmeal—&, to top it off, young Oliver is banished from the workhouse for daring to request some more! & did I mention the mutant infant demon?!

It gets back to this idea of Sorkinesque insanity, I suppose: for whatever reason, I've developed a mental block when it comes to this puke-y breakfast cereal, & therefore decide, like Nancy returning to her Bill, that past wrongs aside, this time has got to be different. & yet, it's worse than a justification: it seems decisionless—amnesiac—like Leonard in Memento, who can't tell crazy, trash-talking Natalie from the victim he ought to protect—who, within a gap of only a few memory-lost seconds, mistakes the bruise he was provoked into giving her for the act of an enemy. It's a total brainwash, an irresistible Siren song: when approaching that steaming cauldron of snot, the only thought in my head is how much I love oatmeal, how I've always loved it, how lucky I should consider myself to have this rare chance to taste it once more... Honestly, it's important that I write this entry now, because I guarantee you that in a matter of hours, I'll be bounding back eagerly to ladle all over again.

I can't explain it—really, I can't—but I can identify plenty of other phenomena that conform to this Insanity pattern, at least in the life of Me. Here are a few:

Incense.

The only way I could think to illustrate this properly was in graph form, because this is just how I think sometimes.

Napping before class.

Because sleeping always—always—seems like such a good idea at the time. Luckily, my internal alarm clock has learned to seep into my dreams—often in the form of a plotline about the homework I should be doing—so now I don't so much nap through classes as right up until them, meaning I usually show up looking a bit disheveled, with sleep-hair & fabric grooves in my face.

Watching Law & Order: SVU.

See, even now, my lobes are whispering, like Grima Wormtongue, "But Anneliese, you love crime shows! & Law & Order is the greatest invention since fire! You should watch EVERY EPISODE, RIGHT NOW, RIGHT NOW." &, inevitably, someday, I will listen—head over to Netflix Instant & watch at least half a season—before I run into one of the countless episodes that engages in really unconscionable conservative moralizing (often revolving around crazy Elliot & his enormous, aryan family), at which I will become enraged, then despondent, realizing that there are a million, billion other things I could have been doing with my time—or, at least, a million billion better shows.

The Family Circus.

As edgy-scrumptious drug dealer Todd Gaines (played by my beloved Timothy Olyphant) articulates toward the end of Go:

Okay. You sit down to read your paper, & you're enjoying your entire two-page comics spread, right? & then there's the Family fucking Circus, bottom right-hand corner, just waiting to suck, & it ruins your whole experience.

So, why doesn't he just skip it?

I hate it, yet I'm uncontrollably drawn to it.

Preach, Todd. Preach.

* [ POST-SCRIPT: My post mortem research shows that someone besides Aaron Sorkin does, in fact, define insanity like Donna. His name is Albert Einstein. He did math or something. ]

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Change—Young Veins.

This is one of those songs that just magically ended up in my iTunes; I'm really not sure how I acquired it. However, it's pretty great: cheeky lyrics (someone should've told her that pretty ain't a job), interesting variation between chorus & verse—&, la pièce de resistence, an ORGAN, which has been massively underused in rock/pop music these past few decades.