Still here

No, I haven’t abandoned this blogging thing, at least not yet. It’s just that, with no internet access at home, I tend to do my blogging during down time at work, and for the last several weeks there just hasn’t been any. However, my boss is out for the afternoon, and I’ve spent the better part of the last 2 days at the mind-numbing, eye-blearying task of weeding duplicate names out of a huge database, so I’m taking a break.

So anyway, this past Saturday, July 9th, was the 50th anniversary of “Rock Around the Clock” hitting Number 1 on the US pop chart, thus initiating the so-called “Rock Era.” Which it seems we’re not really in anymore...if anything we’re in the “Hip-hop/R&B Era,” I guess. But even though rock ‘n’ roll will likely never be the dominant force in pop culture it once was, I think the dire predictions about its future that I sometimes hear are ridiculous. “Hey hey, my my, rock and roll can never die,” sang Mr. Young (paraphrasing Danny and the Juniors), and if you can’t believe Neil Young, who can you believe? Plenty of people like rock and hip-hop and R&B and lots of other kinds of music (I’m one of them), and I think they all have vibrant futures ahead of them. That said, no music has ever captured my soul like rock ‘n’ roll music...it will always be the music that changed my life, that made me alive at all. So I wanted to take a brief moment to recognize the song that, it some sense at least, started it all. And hey, have you heard “Rock Around the Clock” lately? Because it’s still a kick-ass tune.

Speaking of kick-ass tunes, the Song-I-Can’t-Get-Out-of-My-Head this week is by Canuck quintet the Weekend and is called “Into the Morning.” It’s an awesome little punk-pop anthem of teenage love, and I mean “punk-pop” in the best sense of the word: it combines wistful pop earnestness and self-aware punk cynicism in just the right combination. Provided your connection can handle it, you must dig on the video. I watch it like 5 times a day. It also doesn’t hurt that the singer is way hot. She actually reminds me quite a bit of the object of my first major crush, a girl named Lisa Spadaro who went to my mom’s dance school. Man. I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, with her raven-black hair and chocolate-brown eyes and dazzling smile. I wonder where she is now?

Oh hey…funny thing: I used to have this running fantasy in which Lisa and I were spies, going on secret missions to glamorous European locales and getting ourselves into desperate situations where it appeared we were going to die, and so of course I had to reveal my feelings about her, and then we would make out. That’s a funny thing because I was introduced to the Weekend thanks to “Into the Morning” being used in the spy-spoof movie D.E.B.S, which I watched last Sunday. Mary-Jane, in her blog, mentioned seeing My Summer of Love (which I haven’t seen but am looking forward to) and called it “a lesbian teen flick in which nobody dies.” I’m pleased to say the same about D.E.B.S, and also to tell you that it’s definitely worth seeing. It’s hardly great cinema, but it’s charming and funny with the added plus of having a sweet lesbian romance. Sara Foster, who plays the latently lezzie spygirl who falls for her out ‘n’ proud archnemesis, actually reminds me a bit of Amber Benson (high praise indeed), though her beauty is more commonplace. But she does cute things with her mouth like Amber.

I heart alt-country darlings. Apparently. Plus random other stuff.

I’ve been listening a lot to the new record by Kathleen Edwards called Back to Me, and it’s really good. I was sort of vaguely aware of her from her previous record Failer, but hadn’t really paid close attention. When Back to Me came out I started hearing her frequently on the excellent WFUV, the Fordham University-based radio station that I often stream at work, and that led me to her website, and that led me to a listening party at CMT.com where you could stream the entire album, which is like, the best idea ever. Because how many times have you been burned after hearing one or two songs by an artist on the radio that you dig, and then you buy the record and those are the only good songs and the rest of it bites? For me the answer would be “many”.

I’m pleased to say that that is not the case with Kathleen Edwards. I listened to Back to Me every day last week while the listening party was going on, and then when it ended I had to buy the CD so I could keep listening. I’m not quite sure why she’s considered alt-country, though. Actually I’m not quite sure what the term “alt-country” is even supposed to mean, but no one else seems to be either. I can sort of see it with Neko Case, Kathleen’s fellow alt-country darling (it’s the media’s phrase, not mine), whom I talked about a while ago, because her vocal style and musical arrangements clearly draw on classic country. But Kathleen seems more rooted in rock and folk, though there are country elements as well, like the lovely slide and pedal steel guitar work that dominates the album’s instrumentation. Regardless, this is a record full of great songs, from the snarlingly cynical “In State” to the swaggeringly sexy title tune to the moody, slightly disquieting “Copied Keys” (my fave), and Kathleen has a languorous quality to her vocals that I really like; it actually reminds me not a little of Beth Orton, though she lacks some of the richness of Orton’s resonant contralto.

I’m going to see Kathleen play in Santa Fe on June 15th, and for those of you in the Bay Area and the Pacific Northwest, she’ll be swinging through your area before that, if you’re interested.

Also on the chick singer-songwriter tip, I’m almost annoyed at how much I like the song “Breathe (2 AM)” by Anna Nalick, but I totally do. I’m annoyed because the vibe I get from Anna (and admittedly I could be wrong; I know almost nothing about her except that she’s very young) is that she belongs to that class of marginally talented yet inexplicably successful women like Michelle Branch, Vanessa Carlton, et al., who write pedestrian songs with naïve and painfully earnest lyrics that appear to have come straight from the pages of their high school journals. (The degree to which I despise that sort of writing corresponds directly to my level of embarrassment over my own naïve and painfully earnest high school-era writings.) I mean, there’s even a point in “Breathe” where Anna tells us that “these words are [her] diary screaming out loud,” yet as cringeworthy as that moment is, the song as a whole is deeply affecting and never fails to move me when I hear it. I don’t think I’ll be buying the CD, though.

I did buy Alana Davis’s debut CD in 1998, on the strength of her cover of Ani DiFranco’s “32 Flavors”, which showcased her smoky, soulful voice. (She was quite young, too--only 16, I believe. If she’d been prettier, she could’ve been Joss Stone. [Please be assured of the cynicism behind that comment.]) Unfortunately the rest of the album didn’t hold up. She seems to do well with covers, though, because I just heard her doing an acoustic guitar-driven take on “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” that’s really good, and it reminded me of what a great song that is. You’ve gotta love a song that can be played a skillion times on classic rock radio, and made fun of on Saturday Night Live (the cowbell sketch was hilarious), but still grab you when you hear it sung with conviction. Oh, I also just heard the Decemberists and Petra Haden covering Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights”. Also a great song.

My blog description promises bunnies, an area in which I have heretofore been remiss. Therefore, please enjoy this picture of a TOTALLY ROUND BUNNY.

May the Force be with me

There’s a lot of hype about the new Star Wars movie. Despite that, I actually feel like I want to see it.

It’s strange, because I didn’t see either of the last two movies, mostly because of my complete lack of desire to do so. I was definitely a fan of the original trilogy, though, at least when I was younger. I was 12 when the first film came out, and I remember the lines wrapped around the theater and down the block, which was something I’d never seen before. Or since, at least to that extent. I went to see it 3 times, which was the only time I’d ever seen a movie more than once on the big screen (that record, such as it was, was eclipsed the following year by Grease, which I saw 4 times). I had a poster on my wall, a t-shirt that I wore with pride, and a bit of a crush on Princess Leia. Also, I wanted Chewbacca to be my best friend. Sure, that’s all pretty mild compared to some kids that I knew, and certainly compared to the fan culture that’s since emerged, but I’ve never been much for watching things 5000 times, or collecting lots of stuff, or (heaven help me) role-playing. I loved the movie, is all I’m saying.

I also loved The Empire Strikes Back, and I agree with the critical consensus that it’s the best one. (And the crowd's reaction to "I am your father!" was the strongest I've ever heard in a theater.) By the time of Return of the Jedi my ardor was waning, and as with many others, the cloying cuteness of the Ewoks and hokeyness of the ending put the final nail in the coffin for me.

When the original was re-released in theaters in 1997, I went to see it (I hadn’t seen it since 20 years earlier) and I was baffled by the fact that I actually found it sort of boring. Had I changed that much in 20 years? Had I simply gained insight, or had I lost the capacity--seemingly infinite in childhood--to become immersed in a fantasy world? A bit of both, I think, but sadly more the latter.

So now I’m equally baffled by my desire to see Revenge of the Sith, especially since I missed the first two parts of the story, which I still do not plan to watch. I think it’s partly because I was there at the beginning, and now I want to be there at the end. There’s always something satisfying in completion. There’s also the sense--because Star Wars has become so embedded in our culture and its characters so iconic--of participating in some great social ritual. (There was a post on Albuquerque Craig’s List from some guy who was trying to get people to come to the midnight showings on opening day, saying he wanted to make it “the best line party ever”, and for a moment or two I actually considered it. I think it was mostly the fact that his unabashed delight in his own Stars Wars nerdiness was so endearing.) Darth Vader in particular has become a cultural icon (wasn’t he voted the greatest movie villain of all time or something?), so it’s almost like there’s this need to understand his genesis that’s arising from the collective unconscious or something. In any event, I guess I’m going to see the movie.

Plus, Chewbacca’s in it! And I still sort of want him to be my best friend.

Yesterday

Yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing. In 2001 I visited the National Memorial there, so naturally I was recalling it yesterday.

It was actually late September of 2001 that I was in Oklahoma City, only a couple of weeks after 9/11. I’d left the East Coast without going anywhere near Manhattan, let alone Ground Zero, because I couldn’t bear to see that gaping wound on the city’s face. But going to the Oklahoma City memorial helped me to grieve, both for the victims there and for those of 9/11, in a way I hadn’t yet been able to.

The memorial is really well done. From the blasted wall of the building across the street (now a museum), left just as it was that day, to the Survivor Tree alone on its little hill, to the quiet, shallow reflecting pool between the gates that mark the moment of the explosion, to the 168 chairs standing starkly on the gentle slope beyond, everything strikes just the right note of grief, remembrance, and hope. The chairs are probably the most affecting, because they allow you to reflect on each of the lives lost that day, every one of them attached, as if by silken spider thread, to a myriad of other lives, every one of them brimming with love and joy and sorrow and anger and hope and disappointment and dreams. The small ones, of course, hit you the hardest. I pretty much started crying the moment I stepped onto the grounds, but seeing those small chairs is when I really lost it. I really hope that the memorial to be built at the World Trade Center site works as well.

Although my whole experience at the Oklahoma City memorial is indelibly imprinted on my memory, one image stands out: a part of one of the outer walls of the building was left standing, and the twisted rebars emerging from the torn concrete are a visceral reminder of the destructive power of ignorance and hate. But as I stood there looking up at it, the morning sun crested the wall and shone through the broken metal in a way that lent it a strange kind of elegance. It struck me as a potent symbol of the transformative power of hope.

Also yesterday, the Roman Catholic Church got a new pope. Unfortunately I don’t see a lot of cause for hope there, nor do advocates for ecumenism, or women, or lesbians and gays. I’ve seen words like “disaster” and “catastrophe” thrown around. I’ll reserve judgement for now, but this is at best a step to the side, at worst a step--or more--backward.

My favorite poem of four lines

I almost said "of four lines or less", but then I remembered that there's haiku. This one was written five hundred years ago by that most prolific of authors, Anonymous.

Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.

"The small rain down can rain." Yes. Yes it can. I don't think any poet has better captured, in a single image, how the daily trials of life can beset us.

Mon poeme préferé en anglais

I had planned to post a lot of poems this month, and here the month is half over and I’ve only done one. I’ll try to do more, I guess. Since poems in French don’t seem to go over, here is what I would call (only if pressed, of course) my favorite poem in English.

Spring and Fall: To a young child
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.


I must have read (or recited, mostly to myself) this poem hundreds of times, yet it never fails to affect me. I find it hard to talk about for that very reason, as I do favorites in other genres, say Joyce’s “The Dead” or Jules Bastien-Lepage’s painting of Joan of Arc, because analysis requires a certain emotional remove that I’m unwilling to grant. I do love many of the structural elements of the poem. Alliteration can be hard to pull off without seeming cheesy or overbearing, but when done well, as here, it is effective and affecting. I love the limpidity of the words Hopkins invents; where we need Lewis Carroll to tell us that “slithy”is a portmanteau meaning “lithe” and “slimy”, we know instantly what “unleaving” is and how it leaves the landscape “leafmeal”, even though we’ve never encountered these words before. Mostly what I love, though, is the mood the poem engenders, the mix of beauty and sadness. When I was a young child, fall was my favorite season, both because of its incandescent beauty and because of the nebulous sadness that I, like Margaret, felt. Now that I’m an adult and privy to the insight that Hopkins delicately yet shatteringly encapsulates in the final line, now that I am in the late summer and no longer the spring of my life, it’s still my favorite season. And even though the sadness is more concrete, even though I do “come to such sights colder”, there is still that nebulousness at the edges--which is really just our instinctive realization that sic transit gloria mundi--that invests the golden beauty of fall with greater poignancy.

Popage

So the Pope died. You know, in case you weren’t aware. My mom actually called me after the news broke “to see if [I was] okay”. I’m pretty sure it was just an excuse to call (not that she needs one), but it was kind of weird. Because, me? And the pope? Not so much.

A lot’s been made of the fact that he assumed his office around the same time that Reagan became president (and Thatcher became British PM), and indeed, my view of them is much the same: men--former actors, actually--who used their skills and considerable charm to obscure their rabidly conservative and anti-populist agendas. It’s interesting to note that, although Reagan left the world stage long before John Paul II, their deaths also came close together, and now the pope is being lionized in the same way that the president was. (Also interesting that, where Reagan was posthumously given sole credit for the “defeat” of communism in Europe, he’s now forced to share it with the pope.) I must say, though, that I didn’t feel the same antipathy toward JP2 that I did toward Reagan--it was more like disappointment eventually followed by indifference underlain by bitterness.

I still remember when his predecessor, John Paul I, was elected in 1978, and the hope that liberal Catholics (which at that point was every Catholic I knew, even the priests and nuns at my school) felt in the promise that he would continue in the spirit of reform begun by his predecessors, John XXIII and Paul VI. And I remember how crushed everyone was when he died only a month later, to be replaced by a deeply conservative man who would, seemingly, do all that he could to crush that spirit short of actually repudiating the Vatican II reforms. John Paul II arrived on the scene at a crucial point in the history of the Church, when he had the opportunity to further its transformation into a true progressive force for good on this planet--which, lest we forget, was a big part of Jesus’ whole deal--and instead he squandered it, and chose a retreat into medievalism. He was anti-woman and anti-gay, considering both feminism and homosexuality to be part of a greater “ideology of evil” with which he saw the Church at war. And despite the acclaim he’s received as a “strong leader”, such skills were nowhere in evidence as the Church in North America was devastated by the scandal of pedophile priests, a matter on which he chose to remain largely silent. Even if I’d never had any affection for him, and even if I’m not big on authority figures in general, I still always felt some measure of respect for him as the leader of my faith, but after that it was extremely difficult to do so.

The one thing about his papacy that I did find encouraging was his commitment to ecumenism, in both its narrow and broad senses. That was at least one plank of the Vatican II platform that he didn’t try to rip out. He reached out to Jewish and Muslim leaders, becoming the first pope ever to set foot inside both a synagogue and a mosque, praying at the Western Wall and bestowing a kiss upon the Qur’an. I thought of his particular devotion to the Virgin Mary as I read, recently, a book entitled The Miracle Detective, which gives an exhaustive account of the purported Marian apparitions at Medjugorje in Bosnia-Hercegovina. Among the Virgin’s many pronouncements there was that religion is a human invention and that “All religions are similar before God”. I wonder what JP2 thought of that. I know the local priests were duly shocked. I found it surprising but validating, since it well coincides with my own philosophy, most succinctly summed up by the aphorism “One truth, many paths”.

JP2 also built bridges within Christianity, reaching out to the Orthodox Churches of the East, to the Anglican Communion, and to the Lutheran Church. I have to admit I admired him for that. (On the other hand, by strengthening conservative Catholicism in the US, he also had the ominous [if inadvertent] effect of allying Catholics with Protestant Evangelicals, and I don’t think I have to point out what that alliance has wrought.) I think most Christians find the deep divisions among members of their faith distressing, especially considering that such rifts stand in direct contradiction to Jesus’ express wishes. Of course, it started with the Apostles immediately after his death, and it’s quite unlikely he didn’t see it coming. It’s human nature, I suppose. Still, we should at least aspire to an ideal, even if our achieving it is improbable, shouldn’t we?

Hmm. Okay, that’s a bigger question than I care to get into right now. I’d like to wrap this entry up with a fervent prayer for the cardinals to enter their conclave next week and choose a true visionary to lead the Church, someone who can bring it into the 21st century and make it the light to the world that it ought to be. I’d like to, but it sort of seems pointless.

Sigh. I’ll do it anyway.

Poisson d'avril? Non, merci.

April Fool’s Day is my least favorite “holiday”, probably because as a kid I tended to be less the prankster and more the...prankstee? And since I got made fun of more than enough as it was (the perils of nerdhood), an entire day devoted to that activity was not exactly something I looked forward to.

In France today is Poisson d’avril, or April Fish. The thing to do is make paper cutouts of fish and stick them on your friends’ backs. It sounds stupid, but it’s actually kind of funny, in a silly and innocent (and somehow egalitarian) way.

More to my liking, today begins National Poetry Month. Since I’m already on about the French, here is what I would, if pressed, call my favorite poem:

Le Pont Mirabeau
par Guillaume Apollinaire

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure


The more astute among you may have noticed that it’s in French. I’ve seen numerous translations and unfortunately none of them comes close to the original, but here’s a decent one. This is actually a version that was recorded by the Pogues.

Le Pont Mirabeau
by Guillaume Apollinaire

Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine
And all our loves together
Must I recall again
Joy would always follow
After pain

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

Hands holding hands
Let us stand face to face
While underneath the bridge
Of our arms entwined slow race
Eternal gazes flowing
At wave's pace

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

Love runs away
Like running water flows
Love flows away
But oh how slow life goes
How violent is hope
Love only knows

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

The days flow ever on
The weeks pass by in vain
Time never will return
Nor our loves burn again
Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I


Like I said, it’s decent, but a lot of my favorite stuff gets left out. Translating the first line, Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine, as “Below the Pont Mirabeau/Slow flows the Seine” somehow loses the simplicity and solidity of the line. I like it translated as “Under Mirabeau Bridge flows the Seine”, which gives you that and keeps the original’s rhythm as well. I love how that line is repeated at the end of the last stanza before the final refrain; to me it’s like the anchors of the bridge on either side of the river. And I love how that final stanza sort of resolves out of three lines in the subjunctive to the final line in the indicative, like being shaken out of reverie. Where the simplicity and solidity of the line make it seem neutral at the beginning of the poem, here it becomes quietly devastating. You don’t really get that sense in the English. And twisting the line "comme l'Espérance est violente" (how Hope is violent) to make it "How violent is hope" takes a lot of the sting out...you need the noun before you get the adjective, because the adjective is so unexpected.

I’ll post more favorite poems during April, but I’ll try to stick to ones written in English, so I don't have to complain about translations.

Yeah, I don't know.

So this blogging thing takes a lot more time and effort than I figured. And seeing as I can count the number of people who actually read it without taking off my shoes, I wonder if it's worth it. Since I intended this as basically an online journal, i.e. something for my own benefit and not necessarily anyone else's, I guess it shouldn't really matter. Yet somehow it does.

Anyway, here's something I wrote last week.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony was on VH1 this past weekend. I always watch it, even though I get annoyed at the fact that this purported celebration of rock music takes place in a banquet room at the Waldorf Astoria, with everyone in tuxes and gowns sitting around tables and rather staidly nodding and clapping. Come on, man! It’s ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL. This year’s show was opened by the O’Jays. How do you not dance to “Love Train”? I’m dancing around my living room and making crazy gestures, inviting people all over the world to join hands and start a love train, and everybody who’s in the actual goddamned room with them is just SITTING THERE. Worse than that, in honor of the 20th anniversary of the Hall this year they had Jerry Lee Lewis and Bo Diddley close things out, and STILL nobody got out of their chairs. Jerry Lee turns 70 this year, but believe me, he can still play the shit out of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On”. Ladies and gentlemen, THAT IS THE KILLER UP THERE. HE’S ALMOST A SEPTUAGENARIAN AND HE IS ROCKING FOR YOU. GET THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR CHAIRS.

I watch because even though the performances can be spotty, there’s always a gem or two that makes it worth it, and because even though the induction speeches can be lackluster, there’s always a moment or two that moves me (and if Bruce Springsteen is inducting someone, as he did U2 this year, and as he seems to most years, I know I’m in for 10 minutes of stellar oratory).

This year, as I mentioned, U2 was inducted, as were the Pretenders. (There were others as well, but those two groups were the most significant to me.) Although I stopped being interested in U2 twenty years ago (I think I knew it was over when I went to see them in ’85 and was more into opening act Lone Justice than I was them), during the first half of the ‘80s, man, I loved them. I remember when I was 15, 16 years old, I used to take the train up to Westchester to visit my cousin on long weekends. We were so into music and it was all we talked about. We were both learning to play guitar, and we’d always show each other new stuff we’d figured out. We wanted to be in a band more than anything. I remember these endless drives through dark woods, on our way to some party in a field in the middle of nowhere, blasting U2’s Boy on the stereo. That and the Police’s Outlandos d’Amour. Those were a couple of great records, and at that time they sounded so new and so different than anything I’d listened to before. I didn’t even want to get to the party, I just wanted to be in that car, hurtling through the darkness on a country road with the music playing. When I started writing songs a couple of years later, U2, along with the Police, the Clash, and REM, was one of my biggest influences. In fact, the first demo that my band ever recorded (the band that I eventually formed with the aforementioned cousin) included a song called “Remembrance Day” that was, shall we say, heavily indebted to U2. They lost me when they got to the plodding basslines and numbing sameness of The Joshua Tree, but those early records were something, and War in particular stands as one of the greatest albums of the ‘80s.

The Pretenders had an even bigger effect on me: Chrissie Hynde was one of the reasons I even picked up a guitar. The first song I ever heard by them was their cover of the Kinks’ “Stop Your Sobbing”, and it was one of those “Who the fuck is that?” moments. I’ve always thought that Chrissie has one of the most original and arresting voices in pop music. It was her look that really got me, though: with her skinny, leather-clad body and black bangs hanging in her heavily-lined eyes, she looked like the lost Ramone sister. She was tough, but not in the pouty, posturing way that, say, Pat Benatar was (or tried to be). She was cool, but not in the aloof, movie-star-beautiful way that, say, Debbie Harry was. She was as tough and as cool as any man yet sacrificed none of her femininity (whatever that might mean), which couldn’t be said of, say, the deliberately androgynous Patti Smith. (No disrespect intended toward Benatar, Harry, or Smith, all of whom I like.) And she played guitar. I wanted to be just like her.

Of course, the Pretenders were more than just Chrissie Hynde. That is to say, they were more than just a singer-songwriter and her backing crew, they were a band. Unfortunately that became all too clear with the deaths of Pete Farndon and James Honeyman Scott, from which the band never recovered. They kept recording, obviously, but as Chrissie herself has pointed out, they were basically a Pretenders tribute band.

When I think of the Pretenders, I think of my freshman year in high school. High school was not a pleasant time for me, and getting up in the mornings always sucked. But in 1980, “Brass in Pocket” was all over rock radio, and I have this memory of golden sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, and those shimmering chords, and Chrissie’s half-swaggering, half-vulnerable vocal insisting “I’m special, so special” that somehow made everything okay.

Top 5 U2 Songs

5) “New Year’s Day”
4) “An Cat Dubh”
3) “The Unforgettable Fire”
2) “Bad”
1) “Sunday Bloody Sunday”

Top 5 Pretenders Songs

5) “Show Me”
4) “Talk of the Town”
3) “Message of Love”
2) “Brass in Pocket”
1) “Kid”

On a tangential note, “Kid” is definitely my favorite Pretenders song and I adore their version of it, but close behind is Tracey Thorn’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous rendition on Everything But The Girl’s Love Not Money.