prematurely grey

It came on the iTunes list in the search for “can’t you,” as in “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.” Of course, I’d been thinking about the song for days, so it grabbed my attention. We only have the original, really 80s sounding version from his first album, which sounds more like the Beaver Brown Band than what we’ve all come to know as the Large Band. It’s less than rocking and pretty much completely embarassing. If I were Lyle, I might try to recall it. I guess that’s the effect of making the version on “Live in Texas” (pronounced with a short i by most DJs in Austin–kind of an in-joke, but one that I seem to remember Lyle promoting himself when it came out) a single. Nobody remembers the Starship version anymore, so it’s shocking when you hear it.”You Can’t Resist It” brings up several interesting issues that I think will play out in the next several posts. (Yes, I am very behind once again and racing to catch up before school is out and I am forced to share my computer with the girls–an issue that will no doubt become the bedrock of mid-December’s SOTDs.) Since I am pressed for time (hey, those teachers expect those Christmas presents this year), I am going to impose one of my infamous timed writing deadlines on the next few posts.

BTW, John is lost in South Pole songs right now, so there’s really little fear that what I hear right now will influence what I write about 11 days ago. So there’s that.

Here are the issues (oh wait, I have to set the timer. First I have to decide on a reasonable amount of time–I feel like I only have 5 minutes, that 10 would cut things short, that 15 is more than I can spare–how about 12 minutes? 12 minutes it is–be right back.) (Amazingly enough, it is 12 minutes of 10, so twelve is a magic number here.)

Issue #1: The idea of the subconscious song. OK, this is another one of those mother issues. You’re rolling your eyes, I know. Maybe I should change the name of the blog to Lize’s Mother Issues. Yuck. Well, my mother is a great believer that the song that’s in your head is a message from your subconscious. I have tended to dismiss this theory based on the fact that my mother believes that everything in the universe is pretty much a message from your subconscious. I guess I’ve just substituted God for the subconscious, or made my subconscious into my God. Either way, I’ve shied away from this theory because it treads too closely to my mother’s vision of the universe. However, she does seem to be pretty much on the mark with most of her cosmology, so I’ve got to give it a chance.

Bottom line: after the Road to Nowhere episode, I came to some sort of epiphany about SOTD. Took a little time to get the whole picture (or make up the whole picture–take your pick–I’m trying to leave more room for you agnostics and beloved atheists out there), but “You can’t resist it, when it happens to you” going through your head over and over couldn’t be more clear.

Issue #2: The iTunes issue. I have a real problem with thinking that God operates through iTunes. In fact, I cannot believe that God would ever consider acting through iTunes. So, SOTDs that come through iTunes are the ones that I choose. Ruth wrote an incredible comment on this problem of who makes SOTD, me or God, that has been both comforting and revelatory. She brings up the possibility of co-creating with God. More later–I’m on a timer here.

Issue #3: The live performance. I tend to prefer original studio recordings. Recorded live performances are not my thing. I cast them into the Chris pile–B-sides, alternative versions, live performances–they’re all kind of anti-radio, hence anti-God in my mind. OK, Chris is not anti-God. Let me say this again. Chris is not anti-God. Chris does not find God/experience God the way I do. That is true. But just because he likes live recordings doesn’t mean he hates God.

The irony here, which I will claim over the next several posts is in fact not ironic but evidence of the complexity of divinity, is that there are already live performances on the SOTD list. (Time’s up–fuck the timer, I’m not stopping–this is my world and the timer just lives here.) Clearly, I am not so biased against recorded performances that I exclude them categorically. The obvious entree into my listening pleasure is if I’ve heard it on the radio. “You Can’t Resist It” is the most extreme example of this tendency. I hate the studio version. I can say this with complete honesty. I’ve listened to it a few times since it came on that Saturday morning and I still can’t stand it. I just listened to it again. It sucks. Which brings me to the last issue I’ll address in this post.

Issue #4: All the music that we can’s listen to because it’s still on a CD that’s in one of the boxes of CDs that were supposed to be housed in our custom-designed, super-sweet, cherry red, no I can’t bring myself to call it a media cabinet, replacement for the twin towers of CD shelving that we lived with for four ugly years. This is clearly a sore spot. It’s a sore spot between Chris and me because I am unfair. I am an unfair woman who blames him for the cursed blessings of new technology. Every single one of them. Chris is to blame for every problem I have with Microsoft, our phones (don’t get me started), the wires, the boxes of cables that we have to store in our garage, Blogger, setting the clock in my car. You name it, it’s his fault.

Now this is a heavy load to bear, the decline of Western civilization due to the increased frequency of technological innovation and its subsequent requirements that all your best laid plans be scrapped and new equipment be purchased, wired/cabled/jimmied in, and your wife educated in the use of this new technology when she really should be making dinner, coming up with some sort of plan of attack for Christmas, or writing a treatise that will open the door to a new spiritual path for those who didn’t really give a shit about religion in the first place.

Let’s bring it back to the song. “Live in Texas,” with the good version of “You Can’t Resist It” is in one of the boxes full of CDs that are hidden somewhere in this house. I can’t even remember where I’ve squirreled them. their existence makes me so mad. If (and this is a rather large assumption) I could find the CD, which has crossed my mind more than once since that Saturday two Saturdays ago, I could listen to the song in the way God intended it to be heard. The great fiddle and cello solos, the a cappella ending, and all would be right with the world. However, if I were to find the CD, I would probably end up inserting into my CD drive in my computer rather than put it in the DVD/CD player in the stereo in the aforementioned sweet cabinet of power. I certainly would not burn it and then put it on the AudioTron. No, the AudioTron seems to have gone the way of the CR-1A 2 Head Cassette Deck–still in the tower, but never turned on. But I wonder if “Live in Texas” might be on that AudioTron already–there’s a chance it might be. I’ll be right back.

We’ll never know. I just went over there and tried to turn it on by pushing a button. Nothing. Then I picked upour insanely complicated remote. “Atron” is one of the selections off “Main.” Selected Atron and tried to power it up. Nothing. So even if “Live in Texas” is on the AudioTron, it doesn’t matter, It’s as if that sweet early period of digitized music has evaporated.

Now, if I were to find the CD and put in in my computer and not just play it over Living Room Airtunes, but import it and have it in my Library on iTunes, Chris would still not have it. As I don’t have the David Bowie and Seu Jorge that he played the other morning and which would be great at this very moment (Bush is giving a speech and I can’t handle listening to Big Brother just now). No, we don’t share music anymore. It’s his Library versus my Library. Generally, his Library wins. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any Van Halen on there anyway, so who gives a shit?

Amanda my step-sister wrote me that she’d read everything but thought I could cut the last sentence (which last sentence I haven’t had the heart to figure out). Now I’m all freaked out about what to write as a last sentence. Should I include one of my codas, or are they all lame? Now you readers have become not only part of the selection process, you seem to have entered the self-editing business as well. Oh, now I know what I should write.

Issue #5: see previous paragraph.