If I had to pick just one song I most connect to the salad days, it would be this one.
I have many opinions about the Indigo Girls… that all their songs sound alike, that I hate what they did to Dire Straits’ ‘Romeo & Juliet,’ that their self-titled album is pretty much perfect from start to finish.
Ron Sexsmith is either incredibly consistent or maddeningly inflexible — perhaps both.
Over nine studio albums, he has danced with the girl that brung him, rarely straying from his signature McCartney-esque singer-songwriter blend of folk and pop. And by rarely, I mean never. If you listened to his albums at random, you’d have a hard time putting them in chronological order. Sure, his vocals have gotten stronger and his production a little more crisp, but only by the smallest degrees. His idea of a bold stylistic departure is hiring a horn section to back him up on a few tracks.
Yesterday’s post might give the impression that music hasn’t played an important role in my relationship with my wife. That’s far from the case. So I’m dedicating the next five days to songs that are inexorably tied to our courtship.
Toad the Wet Sprocket’s Fear came out a year before I met Alex, but I’ll forever associate it with the summer of ’92.
I break down my entertainment compatibility with my wife (Alex) into three categories.
First comes TV, where we are extremely compatible. We both love Buffy, Angel, Alias, Friday Night Lights, The Office, The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Arrested Development… a whole host of things. About the only TV show we don’t watch together is Survivor, though I usually drag her in by the finale.
Then come movies, and we’re a little less in line. We do love a lot of the same films, but there are many movies that I love and she either hates or has no desire to see. And on the flip side, she has her favorites that I find little time for.
This has been a great year for new music — especially new music by women. As I write this, five of my top ten 2008 CD’s are by women and most of those are first or second albums.
Years ago I was accused of not listening to many female artists. I had some old standbys by Carole King and Carly Simon that had mostly been inherited from my parents plus a Tracy Chapman or two, but otherwise my collection was distinctly lacking in estrogen.
Meet Me In Montauk 