There are a few songs that you can honestly say are perfectly constructed. This is one of them. The interplay between the sax and the guitar is so incredibly fun I laughed out loud when I first heard it; the trumpet punctuates the melody at exactly the right time; and the tempo is just spot-on. (Also – the visual difference between the ebullient back-up singers and the staid bass guitarist is pretty hilarious.) And finally, there is the force of nature that is Sharon Jones singing the lyrics – Sharon Jones who is, by the way, battling cancer and winning. What a boss.
The Yankette would like to dedicate this song to one of her best friends, Deputy Tar Heel, and owes her lovely friend Mr. Bloomingtonian a bourbon for sending this song her way in the first place. Keep your ears open and happy Friday, y’all!
Well, I attacked Tuesday…and it attacked back. I anticipate many long nights at the office this week. Every time I’m at the office late, especially during the winter months when it gets dark early, I think of this song. Stay late at work too many times in a row, and yeah, you do begin to wonder whether you have a special relationship with that elevator that comes before all the others to take you home, or at least to street level. Evidently, others have had this thought, too. Here is a song about it from the band Stars, a wonderful group from Montreal, Canada. (None of those “but Canada is America’s hat – it’s not world music” comments.)
Oh wow, yesterday sucked. It sucked. Your plucky heroine got totally hosed, hoisted by her own damn petard. I made a judgment call that, while totally correct in spirit, was…well…a bit lacking in execution. Or planning. Or, really, on some level, logic. Then I got reamed out by my boss, and in the process of trying to explain why I chose the course of action that ultimately saw me plonked me down in the interrogation jet stream, I, obviously, stumbled just a tad over my words. Eventually, the great ship of state was righted, the rudder was realigned, and we all sailed off as happy as the little analyst clams we are. (If clams sailed. Or, for that matter, had analytical capabilities. …Leave that aside for now.) Still, I was left with a lingering “Oh the hell with this” hangover accompanied by flashbacks of cotton-mouthed, inarticulate gooberism. So, what’s a girl to do? Have a drink, take a shower, go to sleep, and in the morning, ask my equally mumbly friend Clark Terry if he’d accompany me to work. Lick ’em tomorrow, right? Right. Tuesday, à l’attaque!
Oh this is just the grooviest thing ever. Before I open up the fangirl floodgates: this is the opening chorus of the first cantata in Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. (I know, I know, it’s past Christmas.) This piece is just. So. Happy. The Monteverdi Choir is obviously of the very finest class, and the orchestra is superlative. But even more than that – holy crap, Gardiner. His direction is inspired. I will brook no dissent on the point that Sir John Eliot Gardiner is the finest conductor of this piece that ever lived. Watch his direction of the choir especially from 6:37 onwards. He sculpts the melody into a gorgeous arc of a phrase (which it already is but some choirs get a little too bogged down somehow) and then cues the basses – then the tenors! – then the altos! – then the sopranos! – until the choir is one unified, harmonious expression of joy. Even better than that is that you can tell the singers are responding to him and are having an absolute blast. I must have watched this thirty times and it never fails to make me laugh out loud with delight. I hope it has the same effect on you.
—
Jauchzet, frohlocket! auf, preiset die Tage, Shout for joy, exult, rise up, glorify the day,
Rühmet, was heute der Höchste getan! praise what today the highest has done!
Lasset das Zagen, verbannet die Klage, Abandon hesitation, banish lamentation,
Stimmet voll Jauchzen und Fröhlichkeit an! begin to sing with rejoicing and exaltation!
Dienet dem Höchsten mit herrlichen Chören, Serve the highest with glorious choirs, Laßt uns den Namen des Herrschers verehren! let us honour the name of our ruler!
I adore Steve Reich. Adore him. He is one of my top ten favorite composers, and has influenced my life enormously. This blog will feature some of his other work later on. There are, however, a fair number of people I know who don’t enjoy Steve Reich at all. (Hi, Mom. Oh hey there, third ex-boyfriend on the left.) It’s more than understandable. There isn’t a discernible melody, for starters, nor an easily explainable rhythm, which leads some to conclude that Reich’s music is pretty pointless. When I play this piece, however, some of them warm up to the idea. (Hi again, Mom. Smell you later, third ex-boyfriend on the left.) Though it keeps to the general Reich-ian aesthetic of repetitive minimalism, it’s also beautifully – and accessibly – lyrical. It sounds like Vaughan Williams’s lark when it was still young and went cruising with its best friend, before it grew up, went to Groton and Yale, got its medical degree, and became an elegant, staid, and entirely boring lark that ate a light dinner and retired early with some Tennyson poems. (Yes, yes, “Better not be at all than not be noble,” good for you.) This piece makes me feel like I just took in a lungful of fresh air on the first day of spring. Speaking of lungfuls of air, I am hoping to go for my first long training run today to prepare for the half-marathon I foolishly signed up for, and perhaps this piece will convince me it’s warmer than 20 degrees outside. Happy Saturday!
P.S. I took the photo in the video in Kiev, Ukraine. What a wacky place, Ukraine. More on that in a later post.
P.P.S. I am of course in no way maligning Groton or Yale. As they say, some of my best friends went to Groton and Yale.
Aaaahh I love this song. I love this song so much. This is in the top ten list of personal theme songs. The song’s chorus, “Ça plane pour moi,” very roughly translates into “This is working out great.” It’s possible it’s ironic. Actually, wait – it’s French. It’s highly probable it’s ironic. It sounds so upbeat in the face of so many annoying (and strange – again, it’s French) things happening to the guy – “it’s not today that the sky will fall on my head.” Damn right, Monsieur Français! This is a very good song for the day after a big night. (Editor’s note: If you really tied one on last night, perhaps wait until those ibuprofen have taken effect before pressing play on this one. It might make that headache just a touch worse.) It is also a great way to kick out the old and bring in the new. Oh hey there, 2014! Ça plane pour moi!
French lyrics followed by English translation – both the best I could do – below.
—
Wham! Bam! mon chat Splash
Git sur mon lit a bouffé
sa langue en buvant tout mon whisky
quant à moi peu dormi, vidé, brimé
J’ai dû dormir dans la gouttière
Ou j’ai eu un flash
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
En quatre couleurs
Allez hop! un matin
Une louloute est venue chez-moi
Poupée de cellophane, cheveux chinois
un sparadrap, une gueule de bois
a bu ma bière dans un grand verre en caoutchouc
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
Comme un indien dans son igloo
Ça plane pour moi! Ça plane pour moi!
Ça plane pour moi moi moi moi moi
Ça plane pour moi
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
Ça plane pour moi
Allez hop! la nana quel panard!
Quelle vibration!
de s’envoyer sur le paillasson
Limée, ruinée, vidée, comblée
You are the King of the divan!
Qu’elle me dit en passant
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
I am the King of the divan
Ça plane pour moi! Ça plane pour moi!
Ça plane pour moi moi moi moi moi
Ça plane pour moi
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
Ça plane pour moi
Allez hop! t’occupe t’inquiète
touche pas ma planète
It’s not today
Que le ciel me tombera sur la tete
et que la colle me manquera
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
Ca plane pour moi
Allez hop! ma nana s’est tirée
S’est barrée enfin c’est marre a tout casse
L’evier, le bar me laissant seul
Comme un grand connard
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
Le pied dans le plat
Ça plane pour moi! Ça plane pour moi!
Ça plane pour moi moi moi moi moi
Ça plane pour moi
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
Ça plane pour moi
Wham! Bam! my cat Splash lies on my bed with his tongue puffed out from drinking all my whisky. As for me, not enough sleep, drained, persecuted, I had to sleep in the gutter where I had a vision Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! in four colors
Let’s go! One morning a darling came to my home, a cellophane puppet with Chinese hair, a band-aid, a hangover, drank my beer in a large rubber glass Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! like an Indian in his igloo
This works for me, this works for me This works for me me me me me This work for me Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! This works for me
Let’s go! That chick, what a gas! what a vibration! to be sent to the mat filed, ruined, drained, filled You are the King of the divan! she says to me in passing Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! I am the King of the divan
This works for me, this works for me This works for me me me me me This work for me Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! This works for me
Let’s go! Don’t mind, don’t worry It doesn’t affect me It’s not today that the sky will fall on my head and the glue will fail me Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! This life’s for me
Let’s go! my chick has gone away, flew away, finally had enough, to break the sink, the bar, leaving me alone like a complete jerk Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! I’ve put my foot in it
This works for me, this works for me This works for me me me me me This work for me Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo! This works for me
No sound makes a person happier than a jazz band from New Orleans. Not the laugher of little children, not the soothing thrumming sound an ATM makes when it dispenses your money, not the person you’ve had your eye on saying “I’ve loved you for ages,” nothing. Nada. The big donut. There is an absolute riot of fantastic Louisiana and other varieties of Dixieland jazz versions of Auld Lang Syne, and your Yankette struggled mightily over which one to pick. I almost went with The Kings of Dixieland, because, well, they’re The Kings, but this version is so much rowdier and it sounds like they’re just having a ball. So let’s join them (and their singing at 03:02), shall we? Pop the champagne, crank up the volume, grab your someone, and take a spin around the room. May you and yours have the very happiest of New Years, and may 2014 bring you everything you deserve. WHO DAT!
Oh, Monday. Poor, maligned Monday. It gets such a bad rap. No matter how much you adore your job, sometimes the sound of the word Monday just makes you want to say “sod it all” and hide in the bathtub. Especially difficult to stomach is the first Monday after Christmas. Helpfully, delightful Scottish singer Paolo Nutini has written a song that puts the whole “work” jag in quite the healthy context.
Additionally appropriate for this specific Monday is the song’s self-determination theme that makes it a good one to listen to in these last days of 2013. Remember those resolutions you made in 2012? Any remaining that you can (or want to) accomplish in the next two days? Anything about your life you’ll resolve to change in 2014? (Editor’s note: HOLY CRAP 2014. I feel so old. It was fourteen years ago I rang in the 2000’s with champagne floats. Never having a champagne float again has been a fantastically easy resolution to keep.)
It’s Saturday. By now, you’re probably back from wherever you spent the holidays, or your family has finally left your house. You’ve woken up, with great relief, in your own bed, in your own living quarters, with no one to deal with and no one’s agenda to fulfill but your own. Maybe you’ll go to a yoga class wearing one of those low-cut tank tops that make your grandmother sad! Maybe you’ll build that Lego set all wrong! Maybe you’ll finally unleash your inner Caligula and diligently plow your way through the food and booze leftovers in your underwear as your blissfully ignorant parents spend their drive home discussing how great it is to see you looking so put together! Whatever you decide, today is all yours, my friend. You do you. So here’s a song to celebrate your liberation from forced happiness over dippy presents (“A ‘festive’ red and green cheese grater! Wow!”) and ossified holiday traditions that no one really enjoys but everyone keeps up because, well, it’s the holidays.
In the spirit of Christmas, this blog’s very first post – helpfully on a Thursday – will fit the season. Feast your ears on Sweelink’s ecstatic “Hodie,” which is three and a half minutes of barely controlled (for a Baroque dude) excitement about the birth of Jesus. The best part of the piece is at 2:42 when the choir sounds like it’s splitting apart in competition to see who can produce a happier “Alleluia.” It’s an absolute delight to sing, and every time you realize that you’re involuntarily dancing.
The Daily Tune-Up 