Which song do you wish you'd written?

I've been thinking a lot about songs lately. I am obsessed with the Seeker Lover Keeper song Even Though I'm A Woman (with any luck I'll be able to work out how to embed it at the bottom of this post so you'll know what I'm on about...). There are two particular lines in the song that are just so, so clever.

"I love you more when I'm missing you."
"I love the danger in distance."

I wish I'd written them. I wish I'd written the song. It will resonate with anyone who's ever had a failed long-distance relationship.

I had a boyfriend once who wanted to write songs with me. I fobbed him off. I am not a poet and I believe that the best songs are accessible poetry. You hum along, you get it, but the best lines, the mysterious lines, stay with you.

Paul Kelly has a song called Don't Explain. In three verses, he outlines the end of a relationship between an older woman and a younger man.

"You sure know
How to use your hands
But you don't have
A great attention span"

The simplicity and sparsity of the language is matched by the melody. It adds up to pragmatic heartbreak.

Rod Stewart wrote the same relationship from the other perspective in Maggie May.

"The morning sun
When it's in your face
Really shows your age"

I understand those lines (and see my own lines) more and more as I get older.

On her blog today, Lady Estrogen featured another of those lines, this time from The Whitlams song Melbourne.

"If I had three lives, I'd marry her in two"

I asked The Builder for one of his favourite lines. His is from Forever Young (originally by Alphaville, covered by Youth Group in 2005)

"Youth is like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever"

There are lines that make you ache with wonder and envy. And then there are lines like my personal nomination for Worst Line In A Song Ever, courtesy of Patrick Swayze.

"She's like the wind
Through my tree"

From the song, She's Like The Wind.

But the beauty of songs is that they're so subjective. One woman's fabulous is another woman's farcical.

This is my idea of fabulous.




Which song do you wish you'd written?

[image: vinyl music decal from pedped/etsy]

YouTube must wait: my music career has stalled

The band has split up. Mr7 has decided to trade me and my guitar in for bright lights and black and whites. He is not a string man anymore. Keys all the way, Baby. He has discovered the piano and he loves it. No more guitar lessons together.

It's always the talent that makes the decisions, isn't it? Everyone else is left to muddle along, trying to work out whether a drummer can write music and whether three years as a rhythm guitarist qualifies you to be a lead singer. I've lost the impetus to learn.

My guitar lies idle in the corner. Resentful. Pouting. Fretting.* I must find some lessons of my very own. Even B, our beautiful 17-year-old teacher, has abandoned me. Something about an HSC. Really.

In the meantime, I am reduced to roadie. Driving Mr7 to his lessons at the big, old, once-grand house in town. Waiting out the front, watching the cars drive in and out of the bottle shop driveway opposite, or the trucks reverse precisely into the supermarket loading dock.

The music industry is all glamour. I'm just hoping I'm never called upon to lug the piano to a gig.

*sorry, couldn't resist

[image: I think I will get Mr7 one of these key rings from riskybeads/etsy]

How to gain instant music credibility

This post was all set to be about how the Genius at iTunes seems to be under the illusion that I am a complete dag. For those not familiar with the word dag, think of everything cool and hip and sohotrightnow - and then picture the opposite. That's a dag.

For some reason, I opened it up on Sunday and it was suggesting I buy singles by Jason Donovan, Ricky Martin, Take That and Guy Sebastian*. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Yep, a trip to the iTunes store can be one simple way for those over a certain age to see that they're really not, um, with it anymore.

Today's a different story. Today Genius is suggesting I purchase Sufjan Stevens, Little Birdy, and Happy Mondays.

There can be only one explanation for this.

Genius has found The Builder's playlists.

Music cred by association.

You've got to love marriage.

So tell me, what does your iTunes Genius say about you?

*Please let it be noted that I have never purchased anything by these artists. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

{image: via weheartit.com}

Our secret garden

Fibrotown has a secret garden (not the one pictured, but I just couldn't resist that image, from The Real Flower Girl). A magical place of trees and fairy lights and music. You can get good coffee in the daytime while the kids run amok. In the evening, you can bring your own vino and enjoy live performances while the kids run amok.

Last night, we introduced Misters 6 and 3 to the delights of the Blues while we chatted with friends and sipped our wine under the trees and the stars. Mr3 gave all and sundry a display of his stellar dance moves (keeping the hip minimalism to a minimum). Mr6 attempted to analyse the chords being played by the singer/guitarist. "Do you think that was an A, Mum?" Hmmm. Possibly. Then again, possibly not.

It's wonderful to have a place where entire families can enjoy real music. Space for the kids to get into the groove. Space for the parents to sit back and relax. No pressure. No hokey pokey. No Hot Potato.

Every town should have a secret garden.

Does your town have a secret garden? Or even a non-secret place where families can enjoy a night out? Tell me all!

All hail the Sultan

On Friday night, The Builder and I dropped our kids off with Gran and Pops for a sleepover, picked up our friend S, filled the tank with petrol and headed north. While it sounds a bit Thelma and Louise (with The Builder playing the Brad Pitt role), it wasn't as dramatic as all that. We were off to a gig. To see the newly crowned ARIA Best Male Artist. Dan Sultan to be precise.

When we booked our tickets weeks ago, after humming and ha-ing about driving an hour up the highway for a gig, he was not ARIA Best Male Artist. Though he was the winner of the Deadly Award for Single of the Year ('Letter'). We had also seen him in a stellar line-up of indigenous artists who supported Al Green when he performed in The Domain last year. The Builder had heard good things. We were going.

The venue was The Heritage Hotel, Bulli. We entered through the public bar, which is never the most auspicious of beginnings at an Australian pub. But the room in which the gig was to be held was worth the price of admission. High pressed-metal ceilings, broad, weathered floor boards. Proportions. You know what I mean?

Propping ourselves up on a bar stool, we sat back to wait for Dan. Watching the crowd, as it ebbed and flowed around us. Meeting people as they stretched over us to pour a glass of water. All of us waiting, expectant.

He didn't disappoint. Playing with his mate (and musical collaborator) Scott Wilson, he chatted and strummed his acoustic guitar and sang. Good grief, the man can sing. There was a bit of banter about how they'd found themselves in INXS for five minutes at the ARIAs, and a lot of discussion about how they'd found each other in a pub in Williamstown.

Meanwhile, back in the crowd, S was distracted by a couple in front of us. "Oh my God, they're practising Tantra," she said, shoving me in the back and almost off my stool.

"Are you serious?" I said, leaning forward for a better look. I'm not sure what I was expecting - something from the Kama Sutra, perhaps? - but the guy massaging his girlfriend's neck while she zoned out on the sofa was not it.

"That's it," she said, pointing at them in an obvious fashion. "See where his fingers are? Pressure points."

I watched more closely. The girlfriend did appear to be in a blissful state, but could this not simply be the joy of loving fingers on aching, computer-strained muscles. "Can't see it," I said.

"You're not supposed to," she said, "but trust me."

 We left it at that, eyes and ears drawn back to the stage by the voice of the Sultan. Me with a host of questions as to why my friend S knows so much about this...

The gig was all over by 11pm. One last strum of the guitar, a quick high-five through the crowd, and Dan Sultan was out the door and roaring off into the night. Soon, we were doing the same. Only without the ringing applause of the enthusiastic crowd fading in our ears.

Back down the highway. Home.

{image: dansultan.com}

Keeping the band together

After two weeks' holidays, Mr6 and I are back at guitar lessons. We have scaled the lofty heights of Book 2 of our course, as far as 'I'm a Little Teapot' and 'Michael Finnigan' (begin again). We are also working on the theme from Inspector Gadget (you're welcome for the ear worm).

Despite my best efforts, Mr6 would not practise over the holidays. He noodled about with a few chords, making up a song or two, but he would not play notes, and definitely not in any recognisable order. I, on the other hand, put in two or three good sessions with Michael, The Teapot and the good Inspector.

I discussed tactics with my Mum. I remember being a kid and being, um, encouraged to practise the piano or organ or recorder or whatever the instrument du jour was. It didn't work. But setting an example wasn't working either. She pointed out that he's only six and it's more important that he be introduced to the instrument than that he be committed to it. Dating rather than marriage, so to speak. So I didn't nag. Besides, on other occasions when he's refused to practise, he's rolled up to our lesson and, in the face of my dire predictions, pulled out a reasonably good effort.

Not this time. For starters, he insisted on wearing full piratical garb and attempted to play in his eye patch. That lasted all of three minutes. He couldn't remember what the notes were, let alone where they were. (Being unable to see them with one eye, didn't help.) I didn't say anything. Just played through my pieces and then sat there quietly while he struggled through his. The Inspector Gadget theme, in particular, seemed to take days.

When he'd finally played the last note, our teacher, the lovely B, laughed at him (as only a gorgeous 17 year old could get away with) and said, "See what happens when you don't practice? It's just hard work."

After we'd zipped our guitars back into their cases (we're very rock star) and were walking back to the car, he turned to me. "I think we'd better schedule in some practice this week," he said.

I was relieved. It could have gone the other way, with a refusal to ever return. I'm not ready to go solo just yet.

Do your kids play instruments? How do you deal with the practice problem?


It's Flog Yo Blog Friday! Visit Lori at RRSAHM for your weekend reading list of fab blogs.

Practice makes... well, more practice really

It's never a good day when you come face-to-face with your limitations. I've had several such days of late. Moments when my dreams and expectations don't quite match my realities. I had another one today.

Picture, if you will, me sitting on a train, face pressed against the window, white iPod headphone cord snaking down into my handbag. I'm singing along (inside my head only, because I know there's nothing worse than sitting next to someone who's actually singing along to an iPod - hello tuneless, uncool person) to Kate Miller-Heidke's 'The Last Day on Earth', the swelling, soaring, aching longing of which perfectly suits the dramatic coastline out my window. Suddenly, into my head pops a vision of me sitting, not on the train, but on a chair at home, guitar in hand, playing said song and singing for real. This beautiful moment lasts all of five seconds - until the sum total of my guitar playing skills comes flooding in to knock it sidewards. Five notes and seven chords do not an epic pop song make.

The reality that every beginner musician faces is that what they want to play and what they can actually play are two completely different things. I can play 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow'. I cannot play the Crowded House songbook (Neil, Neil, why did you have to make them so hard?) I can fudge my way through 'Me and Bobby McGee' and even 'Can't Find a Better Man', but not really. I'm better at 'Mary Had A Little Lamb'.

The Lovely B, my guitar teacher, is teaching Mr6 and I to understand tabulation as well as chords. She wants to teach us how to play the theme from Inspector Gadget. To do so, she is preparing us with the basics - we are learning the opening riff of Nirvana's 'Come As You Are'. This is fun for me. Mr6 not so much. He needed a full explanation of who Nirvana was, and why you'd want to play their songs. Much the same when we learned 'Smoke On The Water' - trying to explain to a six-year-old why they might want to play a 40-year-old song in a guitar shop in an ironic fashion is not easy.

All I can do is persist. If I give up now, I'll be in exactly the same boat in 40 years as I'm in now. I'll be wishing I'd stuck with it when I was young. So I'll take those limitations, raise you another couple of terms of lessons and, hopefully, start working on 'Roll Out The Barrel' to play in the old folks home when I get there.

“The dog ate my G chord…”

If you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a kid, may I humbly suggest you try learning a brand new skill. Not how to use a new iPhone app, how to flambé a crème brulee with a mini-blowtorch (though this idea has merit), or how to speak in those corporate weasel words that continue to infiltrate common speech (I’d ‘go forward’ with that ‘dialogue’ but it would be too ‘outside the box’ for this ‘agenda’). I mean a real, honest-to-goodness starting-from-scratch skill.

As you may know, Mr6 and I are learning to play the guitar. After one term, we have made some progress. We can now play four notes – enough to jam together as long as we play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’. We also have, as he will proudly tell anyone who stands still long enough to hear, a few chords in our repertoire. He plays half-chords – twang, twang, twang. I play full chords, full and throaty (or so I tell myself).

When we began, we were both nervous. We both had to concentrate hard. Then our confidence began to grow. And we both came a cropper.

See what I mean. A new skill is a great leveller.

We didn’t have the same problem. He practised one song a few times, until he could sing the notes out loud – B, A, G. B, A, G. B – A. B – A. B, A, G. Trouble was, singing them wasn’t playing them. When it came time to play the song for B, our gorgeous 17-year-old teacher, the pauses between the ‘plink’ of each note were painful.

There was silence when he finished, before she said: ‘It’s great that you know the notes, but by the time you’d finished I’d forgotten what song you were playing.’ His ears went red. He’s practised harder since then – actually playing the guitar rather than walking around strumming an air version.

As for my cropper, I have been diligently practising a song – my first song! – over the school holidays. Very basic chord structure, very repetitive. I was doing great. It sounded a little strange, but I just thought that was due to the untuned nature of my guitar. Then, tonight, three days before we are due back for term two, I came to the realisation that the basic G chord I’d been diligently practising wasn’t actually a G chord at all. It was E. Which is why the song sounded so strange.

So now I have three days in which to reprogram my mind (and my fingers) to play the real G chord when B asks me to show her what I’ve been practising. Three days in which to learn enough to make it look like I didn’t spend the whole holidays eating Easter Eggs and watching tele. Three days in which to show I did my homework.

See, just like being a kid all over again.

{image: Red Dog Guitars}

A little more knowledge and I'll be dangerous

Last Friday, Mr6 and I had our second joint guitar lesson. It was a much more relaxed affair than our first. Then, we were both nervous. Him because he gets nervous about anything new – he only likes to do things that he knows he can do, which, as I pointed out to him, is a bit limiting at this stage of his life. Me because I’m 40 years old – everyone I know who plays the guitar seems to have been doing it since they were, well, six.

But we went. Things didn’t get off to a great start when I got lost on the way to the lesson. Given the size of the town, this is no mean feat, but a new ‘no right turn’ sign (okay, it’s probably been there forever, but I’ve never had to turn right there before so somehow missed it) saw us driving in circles for a while. Mr6 was very cool about it, only asking me why I was lost AGAIN about 16 times. I don’t get lost that often, but when you’re six and nervous everything seems larger than life.

Anyway, we spent half an hour with the delightful and accomplished B, the 17-year-old daughter of a friend who plays four instruments and wants to be a pilot. Nothing puts you in your place faster than learning from someone half your age.

We both learned G (world’s easiest note) and A, and then I took on some chords. The chords won. That ring finger you have, the one that doesn’t do much but support the jewellery of the moment? It actually has to do useful things when you play guitar chords. Mine more or less told me that I should not give up my day job.

We returned last Friday, to learn the note B (both of us) and another chord for me. Any more knowledge and I’ll be dangerous – or eligible to join the Sex Pistols at the very least (I think they started out with three chords between them). To be frank, I’m finding it challenging.

But I’m practising. Best of all, Mr6 is practising with me. We sit together and plink away – he calls it ‘getting out our guitars and having a bit of a fiddle’, which makes me laugh so much that I haven’t dissuaded him from that description. Not yet.

I’m not sure how long this adventure will last. My main aim is to introduce him to the idea of playing and just see if he likes it. I’ve told him that he only has to do one term at this stage and see how he feels after that. I intend to continue, though, because I’ve always wanted to learn, and I’ve told him that as well. I’m just hoping he’ll go along with me for the ride.

Hopefully, then, he won’t get to 40 and wish he'd started at six!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, FebFast continues, but is just too boring to write about. Wake me up when it’s over.