Oh, colour me in.

When it comes to music, I have always been a lyrics nerd. I think it all started when, as a tiny child, I would listen to the Monkees (yes, the Monkees) and would try to figure out what Micky Dolenz was really saying amidst his poor enunciation. For example, I was pretty adamant that he sang, "you'll need no underwear in the sky" in the song "Sometime in the Morning." (The lyrics are actually, "You'll need no longer wear a disguise.") Misheard Monkees lyrics are practically an epidemic in the music world.

However, my fascination with lyrics did not stop with the Monkees (Let's hope not. That would be downright depressing, considering that they mostly did not write their own lyrics and were a musical scam altogether. Yet I still love them.)

Lyrics are essential to songs, and they should be considered an equal partner to the musical part of the song. Think marriage in this day and age versus in the 1950s. The lyrics should not have to wear a frilly apron and greet the music with a pot roast on a perfectly dressed table when he comes home from work. They should rather be equals and both have fulfilling lives and careers. (Too much analogy? Probably.)

This is why I become so perplexed when someone tells me that they just listen to a particular song for the melody or rhythm. That's like saying that you like to eat food only to experience its texture-- not its taste or nutritional value. In other words, it's just stupid. But this directly explains the phenomenon we see in the music industry-- the garbage (there's no other word for it) that masquerades as music and sells millions of copies. "P-p-p-poker face, p-p-poker face," anyone? I try to ignore when this happens and have faith that the world might become less dumb with time. (That's mean. I love you, world!) In the meantime, I will continue to be a lyrics nerd/snob and enjoy them on my own merits whilst spreading the love in hopes to infect people with my fascination.

I will share some tidbits of lyrics from some favorite songs filled with meaning, flavor, and all that is right with the world. (I realize this is rather self-indulgent and silly. I don't really know why I'm doing it. So don't read if you think it is lame.)

"Boys who rape should all be destroyed." -The Raveonettes

"If I could have a second skin, I'd probably dress up in you." -Belle and Sebastian

"I want to be your love, I want to make you cry and sweep you off your feet. I want to hurt your pride, I want to slap your face, I want to paint your nails. I want to make you scream, I want to braid your hair, I want to kiss your friends. I want to make you laugh, I want to dress the same, I want to defend you. I want to squeeze your thighs, I want to kiss your eyelids and corrupt your dreams. I want to crash your car, I want to scratch your cheeks, I want to make you sick. I want to sell you out, want to expose your flaws, I want to steal your things.
I want to show you off, I want to tell you lies, I want to write you books..." -of Montreal

"I am grey, still on the page, oh colour me in." -Broadcast

"Help yourself, don't say a thing. Your love won't show you anything at all... if all you do is talk." -Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

"She said it was all make-believe.. but I thought she said maple leaves. And when she talked about the fall, I thought she talked about the season. I never understood at all." -Jens Lekman

"You say the Beatles stopped the war. They might've helped to find a cure, but it's still not over." -The Black Angels

"Why so green and lonely?" -Radiohead

"Chemicals, don't strangle my pen, chemicals, don't make me sick again. I'm always so dubious of your intent, like I can afford to replace what you've spent. Come on, chemicals!" -of Montreal

"In your heart of chambers, where you sit with your picture books and your ancient wit. In that nook I found you so old and tired. Would you be the one to carry me? I'd like to be someone you could finally learn to love again" -Beach House

"I do believe in something, you know." -The Duke Spirit

I am fascinated with berries and seed pods. Especially when it rains. One of the first things that made me fall in love with Logan were the rain-drenched trees laden with dripping, red berries that I would walk through on my way to school. It's a weird fixation that not many understand. I'm fine with that.

A fond farewell.

Goodbye, summer. Thanks for letting me hang my clothes on the line outside my house every laundry day.

I'm going to miss that.

The man in the mustache.

One grey day.
A threat of rain,
but nothing waters.
We are dry still.

Satiation at the coffee shop
welcomed by a poor sore throat.
One-two-three,
and happy jitters arrive
-on time-
with the otherwordly beats of a DJ's complex machinery.

Transcendence to a different place
where people speak in electronica,
awkward rhythms
and colors.
Psychedelia drawn in pastels-
vivid in time,
divine in nature.

And the man in the mustache kicks out the jams.
And the man in the mustache kicks out the jams.

I was only dreaming.

What does it mean when you dream that modern-day Nazis are guarding your house, and one of them looks like the guy who plays Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies? And then they throw a time bomb through your window, and you bust out of your house and only thing you grab is your cat. And then you're running up a really steep hill in a successful escape from Malfoy and the Nazis. And then, naturally, all of the sudden you are with a guy who happens to be wearing blue eyeshadow. You tease him, asking if he's going through a Kevin Barnes-eqsue phase. Thankfully, he declines. He is very elusive, hard to read, and likes to watch you get ready for the day. Then he puts a ring on your finger, smiles, and says he's never given a girl a ring before. But it's your ring, one that you bought yourself. Jerkwad.
















Kevin Barnes, of Montreal frontman.
(*Warning- if you ever do a Google image search of this man, naked images of him performing will inevitably pop up. This is the exact reason I didn't dare attend his most recent concert. Love you, Kev, but *puke.*)

Overheard.

It is now time for "Overheard at the Coffee Shop," a series where I tell you about silly, poignant, interesting, or stupid conversations I overhear in coffee shops or other places while staring into a book or newspaper and consuming a delicious drink or foodstuff.

"Overheard 1"- Saturday, August 15, 2009.

Where: Caffe Ibis.
Eating/Drinking: Dark roast coffee and blackberry coffeecake.
Reading: "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris.


Conversation went something like this (quotes are not exact):

Lady who appears to be in her 30s and who is some kind of instructor at the university: "...Well, it's not fair. Women can't go out alone in public without being bothered. I can't go anywhere alone without being hit on or bothered by someone. It's not fair. Guys can just go sit somewhere alone and read in peace. Women are victims."

Guy: Something interesting. (I couldn't hear what he said.)


Commentary in my head went something like this:

Really, madam? I am a female. I have been sitting here, alone in a public place, for about an hour. No one has "bothered" me or "hit on" me, unless you count the fly who landed on my shoulder a couple times. And I think that was more of a throwing-up-on or pooping-on than anything else. And would you believe, madam, that I frequently sit in public places alone without being approached, except for that time when that guy with the really long earrings just couldn't contain himself about how young I looked? You see, the fact that you are a very attractive, intelligent female doesn't permit you to speak for the rest of us. Perhaps you shouldn't make such broad generalizations about women getting hit on all the time, just because it always happens to you. I'm not trying to be rude, that's just how it is. And it's pretty hard to ignore when I, the lone female, am sitting right across from you.


...And that concludes "Overheard at the Coffee Shop" for this week. Stay tuned for more coffee and conversation in the upcoming weeks.

**IRONY: A week after I wrote this, I was "bothered" by a man in the same coffeeshop. I just wanted to sit and read in peace and he kept talking to me and bragging about his art. And somehow I ended up giving him my phone number. Funny how that happens when you are not in the least bit interested in the person. Not to be rude, I'm just being honest. And then he kept calling and calling me for a while. Oops.

An excerpt.

Dear Miss A.,

I realize it's been a terribly long time since I've written you. I don't really know why. I'm bad at keeping up with things. And facing things. But here I am, I'm facing you, telling you about my day, whether you like it or not.

I thought of you the other day when I bought a classy pair of brown high heels. They are really high and painful. I tried them on probably 20 times before buying them. And there I found myself, lost in the cacophony of shoes at Nordstrom Rack, remembering how you always said high heels were comfortable for you and how it made me jealous. My stupid narrow feet and high arches. Thinking of you amidst the shoe aisles is not an uncommon occurrence for me. I can't go shoe shopping without thinking how much you would want to buy this black pair of peep-toe, hidden platform heels (nevermind you already had several pairs of a similar shoe), or this pair of red satin pumps. Buying my pair of heels was easier knowing you would approve. Buying heels is a big deal for me-- it doesn't happen often. That was always your thing. Maybe that's why I bought them-- so that when I wear them, I'm wearing a little bit of you. I wore them to a wedding with a beautiful aquamarine dress that actually made my eyes blue. I felt pretty for once, and now I understand why you loved to dress to the nines and feel pretty.

I saw the new movie with John Krasinski yesterday. I couldn't help but feel guilty that I was seeing it and you weren't. He was absolutely yours. You would always say, "I want to climb him like a tree." I always thought that was peculiar, but now it makes a lot of sense to me. I mean, he is tall. And handsome, especially with that beard.

For Andrew's wedding luncheon, I sang a lovely little song called "Find Love." Now I understand why you wanted so badly to find true love. I surely hope you've found it somewhere in those crazy stars and planets, amidst millions of flitty butterflies, with Coldplay songs streaming across a galaxy.

And I sure as hell hope I find it on this silly little Earth.