Termagant Tuesday

Termagant Tuesday: “Don’t Panic,” The Quintet of the Hot Club of San Francisco

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So, get this, Tune Sharks.  I have to figure out how to pack for an almost three-week-long trip that will involve three stops, three states, three entirely different climates, two conferences, one week-long meeting, and…a rodeo.

HOW DO I PACK FOR THAT.

Beyond that ridiculous question, how do I ready my house for that absence?  Do I really have to eat all of my yogurt?  How about my granola?  Do I have to Lysol my baseboards or can I just do my countertops?  What about moths?  What about the ghost who opens my cabinets – should I duct tape them closed?  Can ghosts peel off duct tape?  What about the slight gap between my air conditioner and the world outside?  Should I plug that with socks?  Will I have enough socks left over after I pack my rodeo socks?  Do I even own rodeo socks? What the hell are rodeo socks?  Do hotels have dry cleaning or will I have to bring every suit I own?  And when did I lose the international traveller part of myself for whom a 19-day trip would be child’s play?  But seriously – moths?

Balls.

Termagant Tuesday: “Glow Worm,” The Mills Brothers

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Okay, so, first of all, sorry this is so late.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, you should know that I’m typing this with nine fingers.  No, not because I was born with a hideous deformity, but because my boyfriend throws frisbees at about 94 miles an hour and I caught it funny.  So my pinky finger is splinted.

Now that we’ve got the pity part out of the way – doesn’t it suck that summer is (apparently) officially over?  It sucks.  Notwithstanding the insane heat, blah blah blah, but man.  Summer nights.  What do we get with summer nights?  GOW WORMS!

Wait.  Dammit.  Nine fingers.  GLOW WORMS.  There we go.  Glow worms!  Fireflies!  I spent the long weekend at a cabin by a river and I saw plenty of little lightening bugs zooming around at night while my friends and I were out looking at the stars.  This seems an appropriate song to close out (more or less – don’t worry, it will still be hot in November, thanks global warming) the summer.

In addition to loving this song, I also love the Mills Brothers, so today, because of that, and because I am so horribly tardy (what did you find to listen to?!), have a two-fer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFFgD0xgi-M

Termagant Tuesday: “Rockhouse,” Ray Charles

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Making it happen.  That’s what we do here at the Tune-Up.  We make things happen.  We also use our powers of analysis, persuasion, and charm to convince others that no only do we know what’s up, but that others should follow our lead.  And, we drink cocktails on city rooftops.  Thought leaders, thing-happen-makers, cocktail-drinkers.  How very soignée.

WALK-UP WEEK! Termagant Tuesday: “Blues Walk,” Lou Donaldson

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNR7822K_40

 

There are a lot of different kinds of ballplayers.  There are the players who are just so amazed to be getting paid to follow their passion that they come across as happy all the time.  Then there are the ones who come across as spoiled little brats, who are more concerned with preserving their badass self-image than they are creating such an image through making consistent contact with the ball.  Bryce Harper, outfielder for the Washington Nationals, is such a player. Harper is good, don’t get me wrong.  But the man can throw a tantrum better than a four-year-old.  If he strikes out, he’s been known to throw his helmet on the ground and jump up and down.  Bless his little $900,000-a-year cotton socks.  “Blues Walk” is a raised-chin, eyes-narrowed, stare-you-down, “see if I care because I’m just that good” kind of a jazz song.  You do you, Harper.

Termagant Tuesday: “Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing),” Benny Goodman

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhyhP_5VfKM

Oh it is so on right now.  Your plucky heroine is in full battle rattle* today (St. John’s knit sheath, 4″ snakeskin stilettos, graduated pearl necklace, eat it*).  I have a long-overdue throw-down with a local self-styled tough** and I’ve been waiting a mighty long time.  Yankette Smash!

*Yes, I know that’s a dated and lame phrase.

**Hey, Glass House, don’t you judge how I pump myself up.  At least it’s not Cheetos and Tang.

***I am fully aware this is one of those moments that Me In Twenty Years will look back on, and with a knowing chuckle, mutter, “God, I was so dramatic when I was a kid.”  Shut up, MITY.  No one cares.

DAD WEEK! Termagant Tuesday: “Dr. Jazz,” George Lewis

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You’re 24 years old and recently back from the Western Front. There’s a stable life waiting for you at dad’s dry good’s store in Peoria. But you can’t help thinking about your weekend furlough that summer in Paris. And you’ve heard that Chicago is where things are, how shall I put this, happening.

A guy you meet at a Cubs game points out Al Capone sitting in his box near 3rd base and then invites you to join you at a “speakeasy” that serves beer and even liquor. There will be women Single, unmarried women! You knock on an unmarked door, say a random password, and a guy lets you in. You enter a dark room filled with dancing, drinking, flirting, dice, and Lord knows what else. On a small stage George Lewis and his group are playing Dr. Jazz. A girl walks over and asks you to buy her a drink. This is clearly no place for a small-town boy. And (to borrow from Mark Twain) you don’t remain one for long.

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At least until Elvis, jazz is what 20 century urban America sounded like. The unquestioned authority of melody (the lead) over harmony (back-up) in the hymns and barbershop quartets that echoed the hierarchy of pastoral America yielded to the exuberance and spontaneity that mirrored the unscripted cacophony of urban life. (Elvis, Dylan, The Ramones, and their offspring redefined urban music, even as jazz retreated to “listening clubs” and outdoor jazz “festivals.”

In George Lewis’s hands, the clarinet and trumpet, the two loudest instruments, push the piano (that staple of hymn sings) and even melody itself to the side and toss melodic fragments back and forth to each other. This is the music of chance encounters and deals quickly made, of pedestrians dodging streetcars, of guys and dolls.

I especially love how the intensity ratchets up after George Lewis sings the chorus: with a few blasts, the trumpet impatiently reasserts itself beforethe downbeat, the clarinet responds by hitting its highest note possible and “pouring out its soul in such an ecstasy” (sorry, Keats/Nightingale; I can’t myself), and the drummer seems to want to know how hard he can bang away without having to buy a replacement drum set.

Eventually of course, the lights go back on, people file out (to greet the dawn?), and our young friend heads home. Probably alone. But he’ll be back, and next time he’ll know the password.

Termagant Tuesday: “Go Daddy-O,” Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

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July 22nd.  Blessed day that the Lord hath made.  A day that will live in infamy.  (“Get to the point.”  Oh.  Right.  Sorry.)  Today is my last day in the office before I go on vacation.  I’m sure you’re all beside yourselves with happiness – not because you’re nice people, which you probably are, but because you’re thinking, “God almighty, when will she shut up about vacation already?”  Well, the time is now, Tune-Up fans.  The time.  Is.  Now.

BUT.

There is another reason today should be marked in your daily planner.  Today is the anniversary of the birth the greatest sporter of Dockers, boat shoes, and t-shirts that say “WORDS on a SHIRT” (Snacks on a Plane jokes, anyone?) there ever was.  My esteemed father.  E.F. is currently swanning around abroad, sending risible emails filled with observations about the oddities of Renaissance Italian art and how beer significantly improves one’s experience at the opera.  So please, raise your glasses in salute of world traveler extraordinare, the Frenchman in shorts, and greatest father of all time – my Dad.  Go, Daddy-O!

Termagant Tuesday: “La Paloma Azul,” Dave Brubeck

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In a number of months, after the weather turns cold again and the darkness of winter is creeping closer and closer, I’m going to thatched-roof, one-room hut on the beach, at the southernmost tip of Baja California in Mexico.  My thatched-roof, one-room hut is in the absolute middle of nowhere.  I will wake up, open the screen door, step out onto the beach, and walk down to the ocean for a swim.  Then I might read in the shade.  I might nap.  I might take a walk.  I might have a beer in the evening.  That’s all there is to do, and I will do this for an entire week.  Until that week starts, I will listen to this song and imagine myself there.

 

Hola, Baja.

Hola, Baja.

 

Termagant Tuesday: “The Ritz Roll and Rock,” Fred Astaire

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These days it’s just about all I can do to keep pace.  Everything is moving just a little bit too fast.  But I’m still tap-dancing as best as I know how.  No one else mastered the art of this better than Fred Astaire.