Bed-making music

I was changing Demeter's bed linens the other day, and taking off the edge of the task by playing my "Liked Songs" from Spotify on "shuffle". I have over 2000 "liked" songs now, which means I don't always recognise the tunes that turn up.

So this one came on, and when I looked it up, I discovered it's a Bob Dylan composition that's almost 30 years old.  This cover is about eight years old.  I never was much for being on top of things.

 

Shadows are falling, and I've been here all day.  It's too hot to sleep; time is running away.

Feel like my soul has turned into steel; I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal.

There's not even room enough to be anywhere.  It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Well, my sense of humanity has gone down the drain. Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain.

She wrote me a letter, and she wrote it so kind. She put down in writing what was in her mind.

I just don't see why I should even care.  It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Well, I've been to London, and I've been to gay Paree.

I've followed the river, and I got to the sea.

I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies.

I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes.

Sometimes, my burden seems more than I can bear.

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there. 

I was born here, and I'll die here, against my will.

I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still.

Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb,

I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from.

Don't even hear a murmur of a prayer.

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

- Bob Dylan - 1997

Perhaps it is time to look

A couple of years ago, Spotify sent me a song that seemed to emanate the best things about a summer evening.  Spotify sends me rather more Scandinavian music than I really asked for, so I assumed this song was Swedish.  

About a year later, I noticed it wasn't Swedish.  (I'm so observant.) It's Estonian, and performed by a folksy band called Rüüt. 

It's fair to say that what I know about Estonia could probably be scribbled in the palm of my tiny hand.  It's south of Finland and north of -- Latvia? However, a couple of King Singers' concerts alerted me to the fact that Estonia is known for song.  They have a major Song and Dance Festival in the capital city of Talinn every five summers - this year, for example - and in the intervening years, they hold Youth Song and Dance Festivals, also huge.  

So here's the song, "Mina Ja Meri", sung by a lot of very young, very blond people in 2023.  I'm following it with a translation of one of the verses; the other verses are in much the same vein.  

Perhaps it is time to look at one another

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

Tired from storms, but warmer than warm,

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

Like flowers, we turn towards the light

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

I give my heart's song into your care....

So, not so much about summer.  But it feels like summer.

What kind of music is "Pumpkin Spice", for pete's sake???

I have come to the conclusion that Spotify just makes stuff up. 

During elder daughter's last Christmas visit, she introduced me to Spotify's "Day Lists" (as opposed to "playlists" - naturally, it took me some time to pick that up).

They're often pretty nifty, based on rather random themes.  Some are simply wonderful mixtures of unusual folk-tunes, or bracing Broadway musicals, or soaring choral works, or really strange and spooky selections. 

I don't mind; it's the kind of music experience I'm looking for, in other words:  new to me, but listenable.  They often send me what they call "medieval music".  It's usually early Renaissance mixed in with Celtic folk.  As I said, they just make stuff up.

I get waaaay too many "day lists" with "Laurel Canyon" as a theme word, though.  Don't mind that type of music, but I've heard most of it, so I'm battling the algorithms again, by listening to the more-off-the-wall things in self defense.

However, what am I supposed to think when I turn on the Spotify app and am informed:  You listened to modern rock and pumpkin spice on Fridays in the afternoon.  Here's some:  father's day, labour day, jangle, heartland rock, and college.  

This was in July, by the way.  

Is it AI - or is it because Spotify is Swedish? (I think it's because they're Swedish.  I had one or two Swedes as students in my teaching days.  They were delightful enigmas.)

And then Spotify kept offering me "goblincore".  What the hell is goblincore?  A Google search seems to lead mostly to Reddit discussions.  They're not sure, either.  The playlist, which I saved, changes from day to day, and seems to be indie folk, with the occasional bit of jazz, classical music, and even British pop from the sixties.

I mean, it's fine, but what on earth, Spotify?

I'm not sure if the following video answers the goblincore question - I gather it's a spoof on "Cottagecore", something I don't quite get either, never having had a cottage - although this song may explain how people in Ottawa obtain their cottages....

   

Heads of state hyperventilating

British election today; elder daughter has probably already hit her local polling place. So-called Independence Day in the States, with the fall-out of the disasterous Trump/Biden debate, which I tried so hard to ignore - but it's everywhere. 

And today, a columnist in the Guardian, of all places, suggested the United Kingdom should be arming, because Trump was going to win in November, and he worships Vladmir Putin.

This is a catchy song. A bit depressing, but catchy. The sheriff disappeared. 

He drove in a doomed Corvette. 

Helen was in the passenger seat eating melon and spitting out the seeds, 

Feeling happy to be alone,

but still tuning a saxophone as cold as stone. 

She said: "This is what the apocalypse will look like: 

A tornado with human eyes, 

Poisoned birdbaths, and torrents of chemical rain, 

Like the heads of state hyperventilating in clouds of methane, 

Sundown on the human heart. 

And this is what the apocalypse will sound like, 

But it will be loud as a mushroom cloud. 

It will sound like 'Final Jeopardy', 

But somehow be ghostly like a glockenspiel, 

Like the testing of bombs, or the tapping of stiletto heels. 

It will sound like jazz - jazz jazz jazz - jazz on the autobahn." 

The sheriff disagreed. 

He tried to make the distinction 

Between death and extinction.

They stopped off at a place called Hamburger Heaven to grab a bite to eat, 

But Helen had no appetite; she just drank a 7 Up 

While the sheriff tapped his coffee cup to a distant beat. 

"It won't look like those old frescoes - man I don't think so. 

There will be no angels with swords - man I don't think so. 

No jubilant beings in the sky above - man I don't think so. 

And it won't look like those old movies neither. 

There will be no drag racing through the bombed out streets neither. 

No shareholders will be orbiting the earth, man, neither. 

It will be hard to recognise each other through our oxygen masks. 

The successful sons of businessmen will set their desks on fire, 

While five star generals of the free world weep in the oil-choked tide. 

It won't sound like jazz - jazz jazz jazz - jazz on the autobahn." 

 

They agreed to disagree. 

They zoomed off in a doomed Corvette. 

The sheriff couldn't recall feeling this way his entire life, 

As he drove through the principalities of unreality 

On the run with somebody else's wife, 

The heiress of Texas oil. 

'What is freedom?' he thought. 

'Is it to be empty of desire? 

Is it to find everything I've lost or have been in search of? 

Or is it to return to the things to which there is no more returning?

Does it feel like jazz - jazz jazz jazz - jazz on the autobahn?'

Music for dinosaurs

I'm not exactly hip, am I?

On the edge of December, Spotify once again released Spotify Wrapped, an algorithmic imagination of what I liked in music during the past eleven months.

In 2020, I was bemused and baffled. Last year, I don't remember paying it that much attention.  This year, though, it's pretty accurate.  I assume it's because I've got better at nudging the algorithm.  Or something.

I was also wooed by a little - I dunno, what would you call it? - reel on my phone, telling me, among other things, that my morning mood was "Poetic Empowering Confident", my evening bent was "Easygoing Tender Sentimental" (must be that "Sleep" playlist I compiled for my sleep-bar), and that I "seized the day with Lit Fancy Relaxing".  (Personally, I think Spotify should invest in some commas.)

Elder daughter and I compared profiles during our weekly Skype call.  We're both "Adventurers", according to Spotify, and we suspect that everyone gets that.

"What on earth is 'Stomp and Holler'?" I asked her. (It's supposedly one of my favourite "genres".)  She said it was American folk and country.  Apparently, I'm not the only one who has asked this question, and there's a sort of answer in this not-entirely-reassuring article. 

Still, this year's playlist is a good fit for me, which means, I suppose that next year, I'll be categorized as what?

"Complacent"?  

"Jurassic"?

Things we're all too young to know

Sometimes, when I'm journalling (or just putzing around) in the coffee shop in the morning, I really can't stand the playlist.

Most of the time, it's fine, or at least, ignorable, but when it's just damn irritating, I slip in the earbuds and listen to a few of my 1490 "liked" songs on Spotify.  (Coincidentally, that's about the same number of posts I've submitted so far on this blog.)  I put the playlist on "shuffle" and usually get a pleasant surprise, because when you have nearly 1500 liked songs, that means you won't have heard some of them in a while.

Recently, this one came up.  I stopped scribbling and listened.  

 The book of love is long and boring. No one can lift the damn thing.  It's full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing. 

But I love it when you read to me, and you can read me anything.  

The book of love has music in it;  in fact that's where music comes from. Some of it is just transcendental; some of it is just really dumb.

But I love it when you sing to me, and you can sing me anything.

The book of love is long and boring, and written very long ago. It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes, and things we're all too young to know.

But I love it when you give me things, and you ought to give me wedding rings.

Peter Gabriel and Josh Groban have performed lush, romantic versions of this song, but I must say that I prefer Stephin Merritt's dry and spare version.  After all, he wrote the damn thing.

And Andrei isn't here

I'm listening to music one morning, while going about my business, when I find myself stopping to focus.

A beautiful baritone voice sings slowly, and repetitively: There's a war going on somewhere out there -- and Andrei isn't here.  

What?  What on earth is this?

 

 The baritone is joined by a full chorus, singing in close harmony. They start adding names, and adjectives. It's clearly a cumulative song, like the songs you sing at Christmas time (Twelve Days of Christmas; Must Be Santa), in kindergarten and primary grades (I Know an Old Lady), or around the campfire.  They work as drinking songs, too.  

This one has a real drinking song vibe.

. . .Anatole is hot

Marya is old-school

Sonya is good

Natasha is young

And Andrei isn't here!

Every now and then, the chorus explains:  This is all in your programme.  You are at the opera.  You're gonna have to study up a little bit, if you want to follow the plot, 'cause it's a complicated Russian novel; everyone has nine different names, so look it up in your programme, we'd appreciate it; thanks a lot!

And I'm thinking: They got that right!

I tried reading The Brothers Kamarazov once, because I love the Parable of the Grand Inquisitor.  It's true, I couldn't keep track of anyone.  Every time they were addressed by someone different, their names changed.

The chorus breaks the cumulative bit to sing exuberantly:  Chandeliers and cavier - the war can't touch us here! before resuming, in fully layered harmony: MINOOOOOR CHARACTERS!

Okay, what is this? I wonder, finally going to the computer screen.  It's Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812, which, as it happens, I have heard of, because I've seen excerpts on television.  I thought it was about some sort of astronomer.

The chorus is reaching the end of the number, which turns out to be the "Prologue", and they sing plaintively:  What about Pierre? Rich, unhappily married Pierre?

Wait a minute.  Is this War and Peace?

It is.  A tiny bit of War and Peace.  The part where Andrei wasn't there.

Before you get impressed that I recognised it - and if you're not impressed, please don't tell me - let me assure you that this is only because, when the pandemic was really getting underway, I decided to binge-watch the 2016 television version - which does try to cover the whole novel. I mainly remember the bit about Pierre being miserable.

Intrigued, I decided to continue listening, and frankly, the Prologue is the best part.  (Rather like the fact that you can safely stop watching A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum after "Comedy Tonight".) 

Although the final few minutes, with the comet, are wistful and lilting.  Not a bad way to go out.

(The baritone is Josh Groban.)

With the classic rock and the wrecking ball

More stuff that was happening when I was otherwise occupied. 

2003? I had kids in school, was struggling to find an appropriate placing for younger daughter and her neurological differences. I wouldn't go back for the world. 

On the other hand, how many rock bands use a tuba for their bass line?

The cage it called

This is another song sent to me by Spotify. 

 I don't remember hearing it eight years ago, when it first came out, and the original rock version probably would not have caught my attention. 

 However, this stripped-down piano version had me listening. 

 And the final line stops me cold.

Burning our reserves of courage

Here's something Spotify sent me recently. I really like it. Not sure how comforting it is, but I think that's rather the point. Everybody's saying 

That it's gonna be alright 

But I can't help but wonder 

If it's gonna be on my dime 

We are the powers 

Throwing up against the tide 

Burning our reserves of courage 

And working just to make it alright 

When we know it isn't 

We know it isn't, we know it isn't 

We know it isn't, it ain't gonna turn out right 

We know it isn't, we know it isn't, oh no 

We know it isn't, that's why we gots to fight 

You and I are trying 

But we don't get to decide 

When the man comes for our paycheques 

Don't you tell me it'll be alright 

We aren't the rich ones 

Some of us will barely get by 

They buy diamond studded shoes with our taxes 

Anything to keep us divided 

You know it isn't 

We know it isn't, we know it isn't 

 

For the life and soul of the world we love 

Fight, 'cause the promise is never gonna be enough 

Watching and waiting for answers 

Hoping we might see the light 

You beat it into us like a hammer 

So don't you tell me it'll be alright 

When we know it isn't

Algorithm altercation

An old friend has been posting his response to Spotify's "Your Top Songs 2020", which purports to be one hundred of one's most-played tracks on Spotify during the last year (not counting December, of course).

I say "purports", but who am I to argue with an algorithm?  

Well, there is the small matter of "Garbage In Garbage Out".  

Not that I listen to garbage, but I often put a playlist on, then get to work on something, which means if a given track appears on a playlist -- which Spotify has generated in the belief that I'll like it -- it will get played, and racked up amongst my favourites, even if I haven't actively "liked" it.  It's more likely that I didn't dislike it enough to wipe my hands and press the "skip" button.

Nearly a quarter of the tracks on this so-called "Top Songs" list are items I haven't marked with the green heart to designate my approbation.

I don't think there's anything on the list I hate; I do recognize the tracks, for the most part.  In the "top ten", six tracks could be categorized as classical (early music, really), and of the remaining four, two are songs I do love, and the other two --- I'm okay with, but really, there's stuff way further down the list that I would think is more representative. (HAIM, Dawes, Mott the Hoople, Annie Lennox, Vampire Weekend and Mozart, if you must know.)

Of course, if you're dealing with algorithms, sometimes you do need to get hands-on.  Last Christmas, I made myself a Christmas playlist of about two hours' worth of songs that have special meaning to me, or call back specific memories.  One song I considered was the Swedish ditty "Nu är det jul igen".  My girls were fans of Arthur's Special Christmas when they were little, and it's a catchy little song.

Unfortunately, after listening to about a dozen versions on Spotify, I couldn't find one that wasn't a bit on the precious side.  After Christmas, I realized what I had wrought; I spent the next few months banning Scandinavian pop songs from my feed on Spotify, which had decided, based on my searches, that I was crazy about singers of whom I'd never heard, singing in languages I don't understand.  (My apologies to all you Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, and Finns out there; your mastery of many languages puts me to blushing shame.)

My friend, posting what amounted to an essay on Facebook (well, he is a music therapist and a professor, to boot), was perplexed to find Justin Bieber heading his list -- apparently his more recent stuff.

The trouble is, if you let any song by any artist into your Spotify feed, the algorithm will assume you must want more.  

I pray that Spotify never finds out that I rather like "What's the Name of the Game".  That's a Swedish invasion I can do without.

Some walk in the hollow

Back in the days when I had very small children and no computer, I'd huddle next to the radio speakers on cold Saturday evenings - our house was over a century old and very difficult to heat - and listen to A Prairie Home Companion, beaming over the border from the PBS feed at the University of Washington.    

One of the guests was a folk guitarist named Martin Simpson, singing a lyrical elegy on the tragedy of Icarus. I was in the habit of taping the show, and I listened and listened to this heartbreakingly beautiful song. 

Not long afterward, Martin Simpson himself was scheduled to give a concert at Camosun College, but it would be a long, dark bus ride there and back, with the complications of arranging child-care, and I lost heart. 

I also forgot, over the years, how the song went, and who the musician was, and even after I acquired a computer, I was unable to retrieve the memory. 

A few weeks ago, Spotify sent me its weekly offerings of algorithmic suggestions, and while listening to it, I recognized Martin Simpson's unmistakeable voice. Spotify also offers playlists of individual artists, so I checked the one for him. 

And there it was. Not only that, I found a YouTube recording, something that has eluded me for years. 

The song itself is the work of Welsh songwriter Anne Lister.  

I never wanted to fly high. 

I was too fond of walking 

So when you said you'd touch the sky 

I thought it was your way of talking 

And then you said you'd build some wings 

You'd found out how it could be done 

But I was doubtful of everything 

I never thought you'd reach the sun 

You were so clever with your hands 

I'd watch you for hours 

With the glue and rubber bands 

The feathers and the lace and flowers 

And the finished wings glowed so bright 

Like some bird of glory  

I began to envy you your flight 

Like some old hero's story 

You tried to get me to go with you 

You tried all ways to dare me 

But I looked at the sky so blue 

I thought the height would scare me 

But I carried your wings for you 

Up the path and to the cliff face 

Kissed you goodbye and watched your eyes 

Already bright with sunlight 

It was so grand at the start 

To watch you soaring higher 

There was a pain deep in my heart 

Your wings seemed tipped with fire 

Like some seagull or a lark 

Soaring forever 

Or some ember or a spark 

Drifting from Earth to Heaven 

Then I believed all that you'd said 

I believed all that you'd told me 

You'd do a thing no man had ever done 

You'd touch the stars to please me 

And then I saw your wide wings fail 

Saw your feathers falter 

And watched you drop like a ball of gold 

Into the wide green water 

Now some are born to fly high 

Some are born to follow 

Some are born to touch the sky 

And some walk in the hollow 

But as I watched your body fall 

I knew that really you had won 

For your grave was not the earth 

But the reflection of the sun

Does Spotify read my blog?

This showed up on my "Friday Radar" (new releases Spotify thinks I might like) today.

Algorithm arrhythmia

It's been almost three months since I decided to resurrect Spotify at the behest of elder daughter.

It's been interesting. I get two weekly playlists: one called "Discover", which are tracks that are not necessarily new, but Spotify thinks might be new to me; and "Radar Release", which includes newly released tracks by artists in whom I've shown an interest, either by "liking" songs, or "following" the artist, in social-media-speak.

I try to listen to both playlists, because the whole point of the exercise is my desire to expand my listening, but it's a helluva lot of music, and I don't always get through it all, especially since I am also sent six (6!) playlists each day, comprised of stuff I've "liked", or even just listened to. Each playlist is based on four to six artists, so that it is sort of themed, roughly, in my case to alternative rock, folk, with some innings into glam rock, and singer/songwriter stuff. It is, of course, my favourite music, on the whole, but some of it is quite repetitive, and the "new" stuff I'm sent is slightly skewed towards country music. Not surprising, I suppose, given that I like folk, and folk and country often tend to lean into each other.

That's algorithm for ya.

Today, however, I got something different. One of my playlists was entirely given over to an Early Music/choral/Mozart/ mix. Fifty tracks of lutes, madrigals, requiems, and the occasional pop song reworked in acapella. Tallis Scholars, King Singers, Oxford Camerata, Bryn Terfel, and, of course, Baltimore Consort.

Like a greedy kid in an ice cream parlour, I downed it all at one sitting.

Heaven knows what this will do to the algorithm. I'd better listen to the Stone Roses-based playlist tomorrow.

With our names upon a star

This rather lovely song turned up on my Spotify "Release Radar" last week.

Looking at the singer, I thought he looked somewhat familiar. It turns out he's Marc Almond. Nearly 40 years ago, he had a hit with a cover of "Tainted Love", originally recorded by Gloria Jones in 1964, and whose version I rather prefer.

Whose hearts are caged by the wage of their lives

A darkish sort of day, as we move deeper into January.  The temperature is dropping and the wind is rising.  This is literal, not a metaphor (but it could be).

Spotify sent me this today.  I like it.  It's like four different poems, read forwards and then backwards, like a tide.  In this days of extreme weather, the first verse seems particularly apt.

Sounds good to me

 Look.  According to my FitBit, I've walked 21,000 paces today.  (Younger daughter had a song competition, among other things.)  I'm wiped, and running out of day.

The spring before last, I had the pleasure of hearing Lucy Wainwright Roche, a daughter of Louden Wainwright III and Suzzy Roche [of The Roches], in concert with her half-brother Rufus Wainwright.

Spotify sent me this gem, where LWR sings with another three-barrelled name, Mary Chapin Carpenter, another firm favourite of mine.

Have a listen.  I'm dragging myself off to bed, where I hope to lie comfortably in my own quiet line.

Colder chests

As I continue to build my Spotify account, I stumble across moments. A few days ago, I mentioned here a song I'd almost forgotten about that reminds me of my young motherhood days. Yesterday, I suddenly remembered a song from my earlier days in Ottawa.

I used to volunteer at the library at the elementary school where my daughters attended. When elder daughter was there, the librarian was a twenty-something who actually introduced me to Launchcast.

This song, recommended to my Launchcast account about fifteen years ago, reaches into me like a hook, and I can clearly see the study in our house on Springfield Road, feeling the aloneness and the grey cold outside.

Older chests reveal themselves
Like a crack in a wall
Starting small, and grow in time
And we always seem to need the help
Of someone else
To mend that shelf
Too many books
Read me your favourite line
Papa went to other lands
And he found someone who understands
The ticking, and the western man's need to cry
He came back the other day, you know
Some things in life may change
And some things
They stay the same
Like time, there's always time
On my mind
So pass me by, I'll be fine
Just give me time
Older gents sit on the fence
With their cap in hand
Looking grand
They watch their city change
Children scream, or so it seems,
Louder than before
Out of doors, and into stores with bigger names
Mama tried to wash their faces
But these kids they lost their graces
And daddy lost at the races too many times
She broke down the other day, yeah you know
Some things in life may change
But some things they stay the same

Adventures on café walls

Still setting up my Spotify.  In my bid to get more recent music recommended to me, I've been entering some of the stuff I've "Shazam"ed while in coffee shops and restaurants.

This is five years old, but golly, I like it:

Memories coming around like comets

Since the demise of Launchcast about ten years ago, I have longed for something similar, and tried three or four different platforms, including Spotify.  None of them quite took.

However, elder daughter has been honing her Spotify for some time now, and this week,  I decided to give it another try.

My hope is, like Launchcast, it will lead me to new (to me) music, but of course, this involves programming it with stuff I already know.  A pleasant side-effect is the stumbling on to songs I'd forgotten, such as this Mary Chapin Carpenter composition, which was a favourite when my little girls were little girls.


Another side effect is the pleasant at-home feeling that familiar music gives this new (to me) home.

As for new (to me) music, I've already made half-a-dozen or so promising discoveries, which I may share here - should I find myself short of time, which is likely.