Walk Unafraid

My best friend’s life changes today. We’ve always gotten a lot of strength from this song, so I’m posting this for you, Renae. I'm thinking about you.

R.E.M. : Walk Unafraid

As the sun comes up, as the moon goes down
These heavy notions creep around
It makes me think long ago
I was brought into this life a little lamb, a little lamb
Courageous, stumbling
Fearless was my middle name
But somewhere there I
Lost my way
Everyone walks the same
Expecting me to step
The narrow path they've laid
They claim to

Walk unafraid
I'll be clumsy instead
Hold my love me or leave me high.

Say 'keep within the boundaries if you want to play.'
Say 'contradiction only makes it harder.'
How can I be what I want to be?
When all I want to do is strip away
These stilled constraints
And crush this charade
Shred this sad masquerade
I don't need no persuading
I'll trip, fall, pick myself up and

Walk unafraid
I'll be clumsy instead
Hold my love me or leave me high.

If I have a bag of rocks to carry as I go
I just want to hold my head up high
I don't care what I have to step over
I'm prepared to look you in the eye
Look me in the eye
And if you see familiarity
Yhen celebrate the contradiction
Help me when I fall to

Walk unafraid
I'll be clumsy instead
jold my love me or leave me high.
Walk unafraid
I'll be clumsy instead
Hold my love me or leave me high.

Up, 1998

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Mix Tape Friday: Mighty Aphrodite

We’re debuting a new series for Mix Tape Friday: Mighty Aphrodite, or chicks-only musicians (I stole the name from a weekly show on my college radio station). The first in the Mighty Aphrodite series is The Renae Tape, for my best friend who’s in town right now. Her feet hit Georgia clay, my toe started tapping to Renae-and-Beth classics. I used to make Renae mix tapes all the time with that week's favorite bands and songs. Hope y’all enjoy this one.

• Mother's Finest: Baby Love


• Elastica: Connection


• The Breeders: Cannonball


• The Pixies: Gigantic


• Ultra Vivid Scene feat. Kim Deal: Special One


• Jane Siberry: Everything Reminds Me of My Dog
  
• Garbage: When I Grow Up


• The B-52's: Legal Tender


• Voice of the Beehive: Beat of Love


• Oh-OK: Such N Such


• Magnapop: Merry


• 10,000 Maniacs: Pit Viper


• Pylon: Crazy


• Gang of Four: Is It Love


• Neneh Cherry feat. Michael Stipe: Trout


• Tom Tom Club: Genius of Love


• Deee-Lite: Groove Is in the Heart


• Yaz: Nobody's Diary


• Jody Grind: Peter Gunn


• Lucinda Williams: Car Wheels on a Gravel Road


• Rickie Lee Jones: Dat Dere


• Patti Smith: When Doves Cry


• Hem: So. Central Rain


• Joan Armatrading: Willow


• Cat Power: Wonderwall


• Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez: Aria from 'La Wally'

There’s a good story or great memory behind every song on the list, but we have time for just a few.

Renae’s R.E.M. is Oasis (you should read all her comments to my (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? post) + Renae’s husband introduced me to Cat Power = the perfect cover tune for this mix tape.

Rickie Lee Jones is one of Renae’s all-time faves, one of the few musicians she found on her own (she's introduced to most bands by her husband or me, the music bullies). I picked the track “Dat Dere” (from Pop Pop) because we all loved going to Cafe Erewhon to see Cy Timmons in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and he’s the first person I heard perform the song.

Renae discovered 10,000 Maniacs, back when they were new wave, not folkie, back they were semi-local, in 1983. Their first albums — Secrets of the I Ching and Human Conflict No. 5 — were great for dancing and spinning all night long … as long as you didn’t notice how bleak the lyrics could be. Give “Pit Viper” a spin. I danced and did Natalie spins all over the room every time I played it.

Patti Smith covering Prince? If you'd been blessed to see Renae's imitation of Prince dragging himself across the bathroom floor, you'd find a way to get "When Doves Cry" on the mix tape, too.


Info on the local bands included on this mix tape:

Pylon is probably my favorite 1980s Athens band, next to … well, you know. Vanessa Briscoe has one helluva voice, and they had the coolest songs. R.E.M. covered “Crazy” for the “Driver 8” B-side (I think on the “Wendel Gee” single, too); my boys did the song justice, but the original is, as always, the best.

Oh-OK, one of my faves during the Athens heyday, was founded by Linda Hopper and Lynda Stipe (yep, Michael’s sister). Linda Hopper went on to found Magnapop. Whenever I’m in the same place as Linda Hopper, she always says she recognizes me from back then, which always gives me a thrill. Be sure to listen to both tracks — and dance while you listen!

Back in the 1980s, The Jody Grind boasted the fabulous lead vocals of Kelly Hogan, who left Atlanta and went on her own a few moons ago. Ms. Hogan kicks aural ass with this version of “Peter Gunn Theme.”

If you went to high school in Georgia or our neighboring states in the 1970s, you danced your teenaged ass off to Mother’s Finest. They were the best Atlanta-based rock band during that time. It was rumored they lived together in a big house on the south side of town. Joyce Kennedy, who sings lead on “Baby Love,” went on to have a pretty good R&B career.

And, of course, The B-52’s, Cat Power’s Chan Marshall, and the adorable Michael Stipe started their music careers in Georgia.

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Oasis: (What's the Story) Morning Glory?

When the Britpop invasion of the mid-1990s was in full swing, I was just starting out with the Longtime. We were still at that squishy stage where we bought CDs both would enjoy, and bands such as Oasis and Blur bored him. So, for me Oasis was a guilty pleasure savored on the car radio.

My best friend and her husband adore them — Oasis is their R.E.M. — so I always knew the latest news, minutiae that compares to what I could tell you about R.E.M. And my buddy Ms. Lemke was just as nuts about Noel and Liam. I was well versed in all things Gallagher, without a single CD on the O shelf.

Fast-forward to January 2001: Longtime and I had a dry run on the breakup gig and he moved out. Within a week I found myself doing things I didn’t while longtimed. Watching “Gilmore Girls.” Cooking big Southern breakfasts. Making noise before 11 a.m. And buying, then falling in love with, every damn Oasis and Blur CD.

A disclaimer: None of these new activities were forbidden by Longtime. He’s as far from demanding as you can get; he’s quite sweet, actually. But you do some things when you’re coupled, and different things when you’re singled.

(What’s the Story) Morning Glory? was my first Oasis find at the neighborhood used CD shop. I went home, listened, and was hooked. It has remained my favorite since that January Saturday.
Why, you ask? Well, look at the track listing; it’s practically a greatest-hits album. Five tracks are still played regularly on Atlanta radio*: “Roll with It,” “Wonderwall,” “Don't Look Back in Anger,” “Morning Glory,” “Champagne Supernova.” The rest of the tracks are just as fab, particularly “Hello,” “She’s Electric,” and “Some Might Say.” Okay, hell, the whole damn album is brilliant; there’s isn’t a skip-it on the album.

*A dig at Renae and Greg, who complain they don’t hear Oasis on New York/Connecticut stations.

I had a very rough Monday. Dave FM rewarded my crazy day with “Wonderwall” four minutes from my driveway. There was a hint of a drizzle, so I opened the sunroof, cranked the radio, sang to the top of my lungs, and pulled into the drive as those last lovely notes trailed off. Tension gone from the shoulders, I walked in and played the entire CD, dancing my ampleness off until I realized it was time to resurrect My Soundtrack series.

Oasis is just a damn-near perfect band. Great hooks, fun lyrics, kick-ass guitar. And best of all: You can dance to it!

There are few songs that are so perfect you have to just. stop. and. listen. every time it comes on. Your brain just doesn’t want to waste those four minutes on tasks or thoughts, can’t concentrate on what you’re doing at that moment, but instead focuses completely on that song. “Wonderwall” is one of those songs for me. That acoustic guitar, the strings, the bass and drums are enough to make it A Great Song. But then you listen to the lyrics and … swoon.

The Beloved Engineer, who is also a musician, laughed at me when I told him I thought “Wonderwall” was a terribly romantic song. Having played in many local cover bands, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the romance of these lyrics?

There are many things that I would like to say to you,
But I don’t know how.
Because maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me.
And after all, you’re my wonderwall.

How wonderful is “Wonderwall”? It’s always the ringtone for the current beau.

Have you ever heard the “Wonderwall” covers by Ryan Adams or Cat Power? Both are heartbreakingly beautiful. Noel was so impressed with Ryan Adams’ version that he often plays it that way. Very cool that the originator will emulate the other guy.

“Champagne Supernova” is one of my ten favorite songs to hear while driving. Something about the waves in the beginning, the calming music, those lovely, trippy, easy-to-sing-along lyrics. It always leaves me joyful, especially when I’m in a black mood.

It’s also the ringtone for Renae.

I was lucky enough to finally see Oasis live in September 2005. I went with Ms. Lemke, who landed second-row seats in front of Noel.

Liam “smiling” for the camera.

I don’t remember a single sitdown once Oasis hit the stage. Dancing, singing, talking to everyone around us. It was definitely, not maybe, an amazing experience. I will never again miss an Oasis tour, and have plans to hit the New York City shows with Renae and Greg. I can’t wait to see those two the moment the first note is played.

How amazing is a live Oasis show? Renae’s long-suffered sciatica was miraculously healed while dancing during a 1997 show — and her back remains un-sciatica’ed to this day.

One of my favorite parts of the show was Liam’s stance during Noel’s solos — and he stanced right in front of us. He worked the whole rockstar thing — posing, still as could be, cool and adorable. I giggled every time. I still giggle when I see these pix.

Liam rock-stancin’ it right in front of us.

I regret that it took me so long to buy an Oasis CD, and even longer to see them live. Don’t follow in my procrastinating footsteps; log onto iTunes and download all you can today.

p.s. Did you notice I got through an entire Oasis post without comparing them to The Beatles? I’m rather proud of myself …

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HerStory

You can know someone so well and love her your entire life … be in on her secrets and thrills and omigoshes and heartaches … and yet sometimes she can still surprise you, shock you, bring unexpected tears to your eyes through the beauty she brings to this world.

Renae, my oldest friend, has a photo in Manhattan Arts International’s online exhibition, HerStory 2007:

Infertility 03 (© 2000 Renae D. Edge. All rights reserved.)

On its own, the photograph is a lovely piece. But when you read her statement (which I’ve quoted here), it becomes more than a pretty picture:

The desperation, pain, and humiliation of infertility are so profound that the inadequacy of words is welcomed by a culture that dares not speak of it. As the amaryllis bloomed and withered in my home, I found a silent companion in the doomed struggle I imagined taking place in my own body to produce a viable egg, accept one willing sperm, and allow them to take hold in the warmth of my flesh and grow.

Wow.

Forget that we’ve been friends for more than forty years. Forget my bias. Renae’s talented, damn talented. Treat yourself and visit her Web site. Waste valuable office hours looking at her work. Bookmark it and come back often, as she’s uploading new work regularly. Buy a piece — or two or seven — while you can still afford it.

* * * * * *

Life and How to Live It

Happy birthday, Renae!

This must be the week Miles Davis was thinking about when he came up with Birth of the Cool. Peter Buck’s birthday was yesterday, and today’s the birthday of my oldest and dearest. Keep the toasts hoisted, kids.

I first met Renae toward the end of first grade. Our new home in Vinings was nearly complete, and we were there checking on its progress. Renae’s family lived one street over, and her mom (who went to high school with my mother) brought Renae over to meet me. And we’ve been friends since that spring day in 1966 — forty years of friendship. A fun, lovely, giggly, special friendship.

Not only did our moms go to high school together, but Renae’s maternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather grew up together, too. We were destined for friendship.

Our days as kids were filled with imagination and silliness and walking ‘round and ‘round and ‘round the block. Renae’s house was as unstructured as mine was structured, so we had two different environments for playing (usually her house). We spent one summer obsessed with Sgt. Pepper's. Ah, good times.

My eighth birthday party. That’s Renae in the blue plaid dress.

Let’s face it: We were geeks. We stayed kids as long as we could. And I’m glad we were able to grow up that way.

One Easter season, I guess when we were around ten or eleven, Renae and I were obsessed with the movie The Ten Commandments. We’d act it out in her backyard. The bridge over the creek was the perfect spot for our dancing girls segment (I’d wear my cork-heeled clogs for that number; the cork sounded cool on the wooden bridge). And then there was the “Moses! Moses” Moses!” kiss; we’d pull our arms up and rub elbows as we relived Yvonne de Carlo’s declarations of love and lust for Charlton Heston. We still do the “Moses! Moses! Moses!” kiss when we see each other.

Holly came on board when her family moved to Vinings in the fourth grade. We’ve been a pretty good threesome for a very long time … and they’re lucky that I adore their husbands.

Holly and Renae, in my Little Five Points apartment (Dec. 1986)

As with all long friendships, there were times when we were inseparable and times when we didn’t hang out that much. We ran with different crowds in high school and drifted apart in college, only to come back together with a bang in 1983. Renae had been working and supporting herself for a couple of years, and decided to go back and finish her degree at the University of Georgia. We spent nearly every evening together the summer before she moved to Athens — a summer of great music, great love (it was the summer I fell in love with R.E.M. ), great friendships (I met Simeon through Renae, and Shawn hung out with us a lot that summer, too). And gallons of jug wine.

Holly, Renae, and me (Athens, Dec. 7, 1983)

Renae’s move to Athens was the best thing for me. (Oh, yeah, and she finished her degree and went on to earn a master’s degree at Wisconsin. But enough about her. It’s her birthday, but it’s my memories.) This was the era of a young R.E.M., Art in the Dark, Pylon, this little band called 10,000 Maniacs (a totally different sound back then; you could dance to it!), and other great local bands playing every week. I spent many weekends in Athens, and would even go up for the night to see a show. My flirting with young lads at free R.E.M. shows got us in trouble a couple of times, but it made the story better. And I was glad to be there (literally, there) when things kicked off between Renae and Ron.

Because we’ve been friends for so long, I have a confidence around Renae that I don’t with every person. With Renae, I’ll do just about anything to make her laugh. Well, okay, as I’ve grown older I have that confidence nearly all the time, but it grew thanks to my friendship with Renae.

New Year's Eve 1999

I went with Renae to help her find an apartment in Madison during the summer of 1987. There was a piano bar downtown where you could ing with the piano player — a lovely, older woman who could play 1,001 songs. This was my chance! I went up and sang “Feelings,” dedicating it to Renae and her Athens-based beau at the time. Yes, of course I performed it with a bit o’ the lounge, but I was also serious. The woman loved my performance, so she suggested — and I quickly agreed on — “The Rose.” Fabulous! I was in heaven — all eyes on me, singing my heart out, Renae turning beet-red from laughter. When I returned to the table (chased away by some blond summer-stock reject), Renae noted how sad it was that I’m so at home, alive on stage … and yet I didn’t have a lick of singing talent. True words to be uttered only by someone who loves you.

I was the first in our crowd to meet Greg, back in their grad school days, and he’s still one of my very favorite boys. I love going to visit them, especially the days where we stay in our pajamas until 3 p.m., just talking and laughing and drinking tea.

My first moments with Greg

My first moments with Bopper

Renae and I have been as close as two friends can be since that summer of 1983. Sadly, we haven’t lived in the same state — not even the same damn region — since 1987. One of these days, I’m going to move to the Northeast so that we can hang out all the time like we did that last great summer.

New Year’s Eve 1997

Renae introduced me to and taught me about art. I introduced her to music (pre-Greg) and many wonderful bands. She’s the first one I call about a new beau or a break-up, the one who gets to hear me whine or cheer myself on.

Fun with lights

Renae has become my role model. She’s a professor in Connecticut, and her photography career is now taking off. In fact, she had pieces in shows for a solid year, up until the last month or so — and she has a one-woman show soon in Vermont. Oh, and she ran in the New York Marathon last month.

Renae’s first show (November 2005)

Renae is the best. And I’m glad she’s my best. Happy birthday, Renae!

Christmas Griping

I adore the Christmas season. I listen to Christmas music all month long, and I have a collection of Christmas albums and CDs beyond compare. I chirp “merry Christmas!” everywhere I go … watch the classic holiday cartoons without fail … get out in the shops the few days before Christmas just to absorb more holiday cheer. Yep, I’m one of those delirious December dorks.

But.

The Christmas season runs from Thanksgiving Day through Christmas Day. Not one day sooner. Why aren’t folks following the freakin’ rules?

One of our local radio stations went all-Christmas on weekends two weeks ago — the first damn weekend in November. Who wants to sing along with Bruce to “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” when you’re still munching on that bowl of leftover Halloween Snickers?

Dan called me Sunday to let me know that TBS was playing “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” — my favorite animated show of all time. November 12, and we’re already Grinching? Nuh-uh; I refused to watch. I have principles, dammit, even when it comes to the Grinch.

Our sixth grade class performed “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” in our school’s Christmas program. Renae was Little Cindy Lou Who (who was not more than two) and Holly was Max the Dog. Me? Just a Who down in Whoville, singing along to “Joy to the World” and “Deck the Halls.” The play rocked; wish we had video cameras back in those days.

Why rush it? We’ll be sick of “Joy to the World” and “A Charlie Brown Christmas” with this premature exaltation. Do not encourage them, folks, or we’ll be listening to Andy Williams and Johnny Mathis carols next August.

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Prince: Purple Rain

One of the most demoralizing news stories I’ve heard lately is not about Haggard or Foley, Bush or Hussein. It’s about Prince and the fact that the de-symboled one has sold out and — shudder — gone Vegas on us. So let’s remember Prince’s prime … when he still had integrity and produced great albums.

For me, it’s Purple Rain. That first organ note of “Let’s Go Crazy,” and I’m back in the summer of 1984 — a steamy, sultry, sexy summer for me. We won’t go into those details, but trust me when I say it was one helluva summer.

I first became a Prince fan with “I Wanna Be Your Lover,” way back in 1979. Judged purely on the songs, Purple Rain isn’t my favorite. I prefer his first few albums for the funk, and “My Name Is Prince” may be my favorite from his oeuvre. But for passion and memories and just plain fun, I always come back to Purple Rain. And aren’t the memories associated with a song or album as important as the musicology of it?

The Prince sellout spreads. Morris Day is now doing television commercials for a local Toyota dealer. Seems it’s time to buy or something.

Some of Purple Rain sounds dated, I guess, but it also rocks the rafters, thanks to Wendy and Lisa. Maybe he needs to call them again.

“Let’s Go Crazy” kicks off the album — maybe a bit too theatrically, but I’ve always loved its energy.



“I Would Die 4 U,” along with “Take Me with U,” is the pop highlight. Yeah, I know I should say "When Doves Cry" ... but it just got played to death ... although Renae does a fabulous job reenacting the video.



Forget all the Tipper Gore brouhaha over “Darling Nikki.” And forget about the magazine-related activities. It’s a damn fun, balls-to-the-walls rock tune. And that backward stuff at the end is still neat. C’mon; can your hips stay still when Prince sings about Nikki starting to grind? Mine can’t.


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Go home. Pull out your Purple Rain and relive the eighties.

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Clap for Her!

My oldest and dearest ran the New York Marathon yesterday, averaging ten to eleven minutes per mile. The impressive part: Her time per mile got faster every five kilometers. Cheers, Renae!

Renae, just before the marathon

I’ve been remiss in keeping you up with Renae's photography career. Her first show was a year ago this weekend. Her work has hung in a gallery or been included in a juried show every month since then — in Reston, Newport, Louisville, Brooklyn. A gallery in Vermont wants to put on a one-woman show of her photographs. Check out her work, and buy a piece (or seven) while she’s still affordable.

Renae amazes me; she’s my inspiration.

Squeeze: Argybargy

I’ve been in a very happy place for the last several weeks, so this week’s album needs to be a happy one, one that will get us up and dancing. And few bands make me happier or dancier than Squeeze.

I love British new wave. Elvis Costello, Joe Jackson, and Squeeze ruled my turntable from the late 1970s to the mid-1980s. There was a wild, free, crazy happiness to the music — at a time when I was having that damn good time you get between nineteen and twenty-four. Responsibility, planning for the future, and sleep weren’t necessities — dancing and singing and blowing every spare buck on records and hitting several music clubs each night were the only importances of my life.

Yes, I know. Those still seem to be my priorities, and I’m a long way from that twenty-four cutoff. But at least I’m happy, right? And do you ever get too old for the pure, liberating pleasure that music brings your soul? I think not.

Squeeze — thanks to the songwriting team of lyricist Chris Difford and lead singer Glenn Tilbrook, who wrote the music — was heralded as the next coming of The Beatles. Okay, what semi-great British band hasn’t been called that? But Difford/Tilbrook came damn close. They crafted wonderfully danceable pop tunes with funny, sardonic, catchy lyrics. Tilbrook’s voice soared beautifully, always at his best when the lyrics were a bit snarky. The music is intricate but uncomplicated. And I just want to dance … dance … dance around the room whenever I listen.

Plus, I still have a crush on Glenn Tilbrook. He’s so damn cute.

I went to Europe for the first time in 1984, with my parents and my sister, spending the first several days in London. I was still mad about Squeeze and the adorable Glenn Tilbrook, and I’d read that he deejayed once a week at The Wow Club (or something like that). Mama said if I could find the club, she’d go with me. Sadly, I couldn’t find it. But I’ve always loved that she was willing to go with me.

My love for Squeeze began with Argybargy. Still can’t comprehend that this album was released more than a quarter century ago. I’ve been listening to the album for days, and it still sounds fresh, current. Or maybe I’m as outdated as my record collection.

Argybargy starts what I consider the Squeeze Trilogy — followed by 1981’s East Side Story and Sweets from a Stranger in 1982. I don’t think there are many British power pop albums from that era that can top the fun, the feeling, the brilliance of these albums.

Did you notice that my Argybargy in the upper right is autographed? A happy moment in Cupland, kids.

Here’s the hard part: Which three songs do I link up for you? There are the singles — “Pulling Mussels (From the Shell),” “If I Didn’t Love You,” and “Another Nail in My Heart” — all great three-minute ditties that will make you dance and feel nineteen again. But I need to introduce you to new tracks so that you feel the need to run out at lunch and pick up the CD, right? So, we’re going for a two/one mix.

“If I Didn’t Love You” is a wonderful slice of power pop with the oh-so-true line “If I didn’t love you, I’d hate you.”


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“Pulling Mussels (From the Shell)” is probably the most popular tune from the album (and it was hard to not include “Another Nail in My Heart”). Again, beautiful, catchy pop from the British New Wave era.


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For the lesser known, I’ve chosen “Separate Beds.” I love Glenn Tilbrook’s voice in this tune, as well as the simple beat. Difford and Tilbrook did a good job telling little stories in their songs, and this is one of their more visual ones. I love singing along.


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Yes, Renae, I should have bared all and told the story about the 1985 concert at the Fox … but I’ll save that for Sweets from a Stranger.

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Short Trip — Long Recap

Back home after a short trip to Washington, DC, one of my favorite U.S. cities. This was my fourth trip in the aughts to our nation’s capital, third summer in a row.

What do I like about DC? First off, there’s art everywhere you go. For free. The National Gallery, which includes the Vogels’ collection (they’re in my book of heroes; theirs is a story worthy of its own post one day). The Hirschhorn and Corcoran, the Sackler and The Phillips Collection, and so many more. If art’s your thing, DC is a must.

What else? DC is a walking city. I don’t live in a walking city; I live in a city where you drive the quarter mile to Kroger. I’ve found that I adore walking cities — New York City, San Francisco, Chicago, DC. Walking blocks and blocks make you a part of the city, brings the city to life.

But the best thing about the DC area is it’s the home of French, one of my favorite life companions. Funny, honest, happy, adventurous, and one of the smartest people I know. Gracious manners, open heart, and an incredibly hearty laugh. We share passions in music and books and travel and grammar. I’m lucky to have been his friend for the last 15 years. I cherish the boy's soul. I wish he’d move back to Atlanta, but I do enjoy going up for my annual visit and having all of his attention focused on me.

I usually go to DC in the summer. Me, who hates heat and humidity, although I’ve lived in a humid city all my life. But every time I go to DC (and French will back me up on this), God blows out the hot and the humid, leaving me happy and relaxed in milder summer temps. I think God likes my visiting DC.

This year’s trip had another purpose: to see one of Renae’s photographs at the Greater Reston Arts Center, outside DC.

So, a quick recap of the last few days.


Saturday

After the trials and tribulations of the flight to DC, we landed at National at 3:45 p.m., and I met up with French a little after 4:00. We were about 30 minutes from the gallery in Reston, a gallery that closed at 5:00. We dashed to the car … up the highway … through the faux world that is Reston … to the complex where the gallery was located. We, of course, parked as far away from the gallery as was possible, and had to stop several times to ask for directions, those directions always starting with a “go way down there” and accompanied by an arm wave indicating way down there. We burst through the door at 4:45. The gallery hostess was gracious and didn’t rush our viewing of the Languages of Silence show. It was juried by J.W. Mahoney, who recently retired from the Hirshhorn and is the regional arts editor for Art in America magazine (translation: The guy knows art and he selected one of Renae’s photographs for the show. I’m not surprised, but impressed and thrilled.). We got some photos of Renae’s piece, hanging on the wall as you walked in, already purchased by a GRACE board member — and checked out the rest of the work. I may be partial, but I have an eye for art, and Renae’s was by far the most interesting and evocative piece in the show.

Renae and Me

The first purpose of the trip complete, we immediately moved to the second purpose: sending booze coursing through our veins. French and I walked a couple of blocks and slid onto barstools at Clyde’s. Fortified an hour later by cosmopolitans and Guinness, we decided maybe food wouldn’t be a bad idea.

The DC area is filled with remarkable restaurants, and my foodie friend French always selects a good one for us. Saturday nigh was Tallula, a restaurant in Arlington that boasts an impressive wine list and darn good food. Luck stayed on our side as we snagged a rare outdoor table. We amused ourselves with the baby burger (black truffle butter and red onion marmalade on a tiny hamburger bun) and two more appetizers. My entrée selection was the ricotta gnudi (similar to the gnudi I had at The Spotted Pig in New York last fall), with a nice pinot gris from an Oregon winery. Dinner was sumptuous, and the company was extraordinary.

It was now late, and the lethal combination of little sleep, long airport wait, and lots of alcohol sucked all energy from this old body. We went back to French’s and crashed.


Sunday

French had an interesting suggestion for a Sunday adventure: Drive out to Maryland and sift the shore of the Chesapeake Bay for fossils at Calvert Cliffs.

But first we had to complete an arts-and-crafts project to build sifters that would help us find fossils in the water. French built the frames on Saturday, as I lolled buzzedly on the sofa. It was now time to cut out the screens and staple them to the frames. It seems I have a knack for snipping wire and stapling it to wood … except for that one time when I stapled-gunned my hand. We’re still not quite sure how I did it, but it did begin with my scoffing at French for holding the staple gun backward … which I then did, but I stapled, too. I really need to get my scoffing under control, since God seems to enjoy mocking me for my mean thoughts (see Saturday’s post).

Self-stapled … and sober

Sifters completed, hand bandaged, and water iced, we headed out for Maryland, taking the Nick’s Trip route. French has XM radio, so the soundtrack was varied and superb — Americana, 1980s New Wave, classic rock, alternative, bluegrass. The 90-minute drive allowed us the luxury of deep, philosophical, from-the-heart conversations: whether or not Chrissie Hynde is hot (I think so; French used to think so, but now thinks she’d frighten him), comparisons of our witty conversations with Scott McCaughey before a Minus 5 show, possible romantic connections, and other important issues of the day.

We stopped for lunch on Solomons Island, a beautiful spot on the river in Maryland. And what do you eat while in Maryland? Crab, of course. We had crab sandwiches, crab balls, and mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat. And some rum drinks (did you know you get a quick buzz if you haven’t had much rum in the last year? ‘Tis so.) We had a nice table on the patio overlooking the water, so it was hard to get up and get going. But get going we did.

The obligatory photo of a gull on a post, from our restaurant table

Calvert Cliffs is a perfect spot in this world of ours. To get to the beach, you take a two-mile hike through woods largely untouched by man (just a few planks, service roads, and mile markers). It was so quiet. And green. And peaceful. Just a perfect hike.

We made it to the cliffs and the shore of the Chesapeake, and spent a couple of hours playing along the shore. The sifters worked well, and we found pieces of fossils and water-worn rocks. There were two kids playing near us, fascinated by our sifters, so I let them play with mine while I relaxed and watched on a fallen log. When you live in a landlocked city, you forget how peaceful waves washing ashore can be, so I wanted to get lost in that for a while.

French and little Julia looking for fossils

Calvert Cliffs, from the beached log

We headed back down the trail around six … pointed the car toward DC … had more deep discussions about hot rock stars and good books and favorite songs … and simply enjoyed each other’s witty take of life.

Booze and blood loss and beach romping had worn us both out, so we stayed in Sunday night, ordering a pizza and watching a DVD. Just like we used to.


Monday

Monday’s calendar was penciled in as culture day. The National Gallery had disappointed me last summer when I popped into the East Building to pay my respects to one of my favorite pieces of art — Chuck Close’s Fanny/Fingerpainting — only to find that it was in storage (art museums often rotate their permanent collection since they don’t have room to display everything).

Fanny/Fingerpainting (Chuck Close, 1985)

So we had to go by the National Gallery so that I could once again gaze upon Close’s astonishing use of fingerprints — yes, fingerprints — to create this huge portrait of his mother-in-law. Sadly, oh so sadly, Fanny/Fingerpainting is still undeservedly stuck in storage. French and I opted to check out the Henri Rousseau show in the East Wing. We were both underwhelmed with the Rousseau collection on display, other than The Dream. I’ve always enjoyed The Dream (once had a watch with it reproduced on the face) and I liked the Rousseau work I’d seen at Paris’ Musée d'Orsay, but these paintings were flat and boring. Or maybe I just wasn’t in the mood.

Henri and I share a dream

I was restless, so it was decided that a long lunch was in order — after, of course, I picked out a bauble at the museum’s gift shop. Art museum gift shops always have the best baubles, and they’re a good reminder of the day. I found a nice pair of earrings, and we grabbed a cab.

We lunched at the Hawk ‘n’ Dove, a well-known bar in Capitol Hill. Damn good hamburger — and they actually serve it rare if you request it — but skip the gazpacho. French regaled me with tales from his recent trip to Italy, and we talked about Paris and Rome and other favorite cities. We then wandered the neighborhood streets until it was time to go back to French’s place and gather my luggage.

I made the return flight — the flight I would have preferred to miss, so that I could have taken up more of French’s time. It was marvelous to get away … but now I feel a little lonely without French by my side.

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Through the Lens: Renae Edge

Renae — lifelong friend, creative goddess, photographer extraordinaire — has an opening tonight for another gallery show, at Newport's Island Arts Center, a show curated by someone smart enough to select three of her photographs. It will be a spectacular night in Newport, one I’m sorry I’ll miss.

Through the Lens: Contemporary Photography is an intimate survey of the recent work of eleven photographers from the United States and Canada. Selected by award-winning photographer and Rhode Island School of Design Professor Steve Smith, the exhibition is a snapshot of current photographic trends, including pictorial, conceptual, and photojournalistic approaches.

Eleven photographers are included in the exhibition … but it was one of Renae’s photographs selected for the invitation and the Web site. Yes, my girl has arrived.

Here are the photographs included in the Rhode Island show (which runs through August 25):

This is the photo used on the invitation.

Renae's Statement:

The Ribbon Series is shot as light and wind pass through curtains of grosgrain ribbons suspended as walls for a ceremonial tea house, resulting in what appear to be quiet landscapes of varying levels of abstraction. In printing I do little to no manipulation as I want the richness of the colors to be true to what I experienced while shooting.

The images chosen for this series are ones that allow me to remain comfortable in the suspension between the push to create a nameable place and the pull of simply enjoying the beauty of color and light. Because the images have no reference to actual landmarks or identifying features, the audience may create the reality of a landscape in their own mind, using their own references to places they have visited or imagined, making the experience with the work a personal one.

Two summers ago, Renae started thinking about getting back into photography. Last summer, she shot the Ribbon Series. This year, her work has been included in six — yes, six — exhibitions, and she had her first one-woman show last fall.

Renae has another piece in a gallery show in Reston, which I’ll see this weekend while I'm in D.C. I’ll write about that show after I’ve seen it.

Her friend Tami recently sent her a quote, which Renae forwarded to me. It defines this phase of our lives.

Remember, the longer it takes for a dream to make itself manifest, the more comfortable you'll feel owning your talent. (Sarah Ban Breathnach, Simple Abundance)

Renae definitely owns her talent. I'm so proud of her. She inspires me every day.

I’ve loved* this woman for forty years. We stayed children as long as we could, playing in the creek, imaginations running wild. We watched each other grow from geeky to groovy, introverted to extroverted. Renae brought art into my world, from being in her poster- and artbook-filled home every day, to her taking the time to find art history books and tab the important pages for me to study, to wandering through museums and galleries. She was born to create, and now she is.

For more information on Renae’s work — and the opportunity to purchase some beautiful artwork before she explodes on the art scene and her prices skyrocket — go to RenaeEdge.com.

*To hell with the Cup Challenge. There is no better word to describe my feelings for Renae.

R.E.M.: Fables of the Reconstruction

I hadn’t planned to feature another R.E.M. album so soon in my soundtrack series. Y’all know how deeply I love the boys, and how passionate I am about nearly every chord struck or note sung. I can’t describe the pure joy I get from listening to an R.E.M. album (Dan may be able to describe it to you, but I think he’s trying to erase all that effusion from his memory banks). But I love many bands and different genres, so I was planning to go all over the musical landscape this summer, and come back to R.E.M. in the fall.

However, while talking to this month’s crush Friday night, he mentioned — no, apologized — that Fables of the Reconstruction is his favorite R.E.M. album. Apologizing for one of their best (and, sadly, often overlooked) albums? I put on the album immediately, and haven’t listened to anything else since Friday. Thus, once again, we must go down that R.E.M. road.

The Facts
R.E.M.’s third full-length album, Fables of the Reconstruction (or Reconstruction of the Fables; you can't quite tell from the album cover which is correct) was released in 1985. The album was their departure from producer Mitch Easter and the South. They instead chose Joe Boyd — who produced some of the greatest work by British folk artists Nick Drake, Fairport Convention, and Richard Thompson, among others — and recorded the album in London. Ironically, Fables is R.E.M.'s most Southern album. I’ve read that Bill Berry loathes it and Peter Buck hated “Wendell Gee,” but I think it’s brilliant.

Fables is, in a word, evocative. It conjures the feel of the South — kudzu and eccentrics and humid summer nights and the mood that permeates the region. It’s a mood that can’t be described, only felt — and it comes through when you listen to Fables from beginning to end. Hence, the obsessive, nonstop listenings of the last few days as I sat on the porch and stared into the trees.

There isn’t a bad song on the album. For personal reasons, my favorite is “Good Advices,” but I absolutely adore “Green Grow the Rushes” and “Feeling Gravity’s Pull.” Love the “Wendell Gee” lyric If the wind were colors / And if the air could speak; beautiful, visual words, Michael.

Why doesn’t Fables get its due? I guess because it was followed by Life’s Rich Pageant and Document, which took R.E.M. to a new level.

But enough with the music-nerd pontifications. What makes an album great is what it means to you, right?

Whenever I hear Fables, I’m transported back to a mid-September night in 1985. My paramour and I had attended a University of Georgia football game with my parents. We rode back to Atlanta with Renae, who was in school at UGA. We drove down dark two-lane roads, windows open, breezes blowing, listening to Fables, laughing and talking and singing along. In the dark, the three of us felt like the only people on the earth, the only ones soaking up the beautiful night and beautiful songs. It was one of those perfect moments that never fades. And that’s why I love Fables of the Reconstruction.

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Happy 40th to Us!

Forty years ago this month (it weirds me out just typing it) I met one of the great loves of my life. Our family was moving into our new home in Vinings, and a neighbor came by with her little girl. That little girl, dear readers, is well known to you: Renae, my oldest, dearest friend.

Renae and I were destined for friendship. My mama went to high school with her mama, and her maternal grandmother grew up with my maternal grandfather. When we were kids, we used to tell people that we talked to each other through our mom’s bellybuttons when they were in school.

Holly, Renae, and Me
Broad Street, Downtown Athens
Renae’s Birthday, December 1983

We were wonderfully weird and nerdy when we were kids. I say “wonderfully” because we stayed kids as long as we could. We played in the creek and had great adventures and let our imaginations go wild. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why we’re such creative souls today.

When we grew older, we spent most of our time walking around and around and around the block, talking and laughing and dreaming. But I have this problem. If I’m on your left side, I slowly drift toward you, eventually bumping into your left shoulder. I’m OK if I’m on your right side. And yet I always had to walk on her left side. How Renae can stand straight after years of shoulder collisions is beyond me.

We drifted apart a little in junior high and high school. We’d hang out some, but not as much as when we were kids. Later on, we’d see each other at Georgia State and do things on occasion (such as that drunken and disastrous “Rocky Horror Picture Show” with Holly). We reconnected during the spring of 1983.

Renae has brought a lot to my life. She opened up the world of art to me — from the Paul Klee poster hanging in her family’s home when we were kids, to art books and art discussions, to museums and galleries. Without Renae, I’d probably be stuck on Van Gogh (in 1984, Renae forbade me from buying yet another Van Gogh book — I had three — and I followed the rules) and would have missed out on so many artists I now love.

We’ve seen each other through loves and heartbreaks, career highs and lows, weddings and deaths. We’ve encouraged and pushed, advised and commiserated, bitched and moaned. I adore Renae, and look forward to another forty years with her.

To this day, my friendship with Renae is one of the most valuable things in my life. I’ll share some of our stories during the next few weeks as we celebrate our 40th.

*Holly: Our celebration comes in September 2008.

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R.E.M.: Murmur

When I wrote last week about my seminal album, I should have mentioned that Murmur is a very close second to Sgt. Pepper’s.

I’ve been aware of R.E.M. since around 1981, when I worked at WRAS, Georgia State University’s radio station. R.E.M. opened up for a lot of acts we saw at 688 and the Agora Ballroom. And I was familiar with the “Radio Free Europe”/”Sitting Still” Hibtone single since it was a playlist staple. I thought they were a pretty good local band, but I wasn’t yet in love with them. Not even Chronic Town hooked me at the time; I was still into British New Wave — Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Joe Jackson, and Nick Lowe, in particular.

And then Murmur was released in April 1983, starting a love affair that hasn’t wavered or disappointed in 23 years. That album connected with me like no other album had in years or has since. Listening to it still fills me with complete joy. I can’t describe what it does for me. There isn’t a song on the album I don’t like. Michael’s voice, Peter’s guitar, Mike’s musical brilliance, Bill’s beat. It’s such a Southern album. It was something new. I’m sounding like a pretentious college newspaper record reviewer, aren’t I? Damn, I wish I could come up with the words to describe what I feel when I listen to Murmur. I just want to jump up and dance that Athens dance and spin and forget about everything else but the happiness and youthfulness I feel.

But maybe it was the timing. The summer of 1983 was one of the best summers of my life, my last summer as a kid. OK, I was 24, but it was my last summer of complete freedom and no responsibilities. Renae and I had started hanging out again, after I freaked out about Holly and Randy getting married that summer. Renae was living in a cool apartment at The Belvedere, in Pershing Point. For a brief moment, that triangle at Peachtree and West Peachtree was our city’s Village, with funky neighbors and little galleries everywhere. I went over there nearly every night after work and spent most of my weekends there. We’d put on a record, sit on her balcony, drink lots of jug wine, sing and dance, spy on a particularly weird neighbor, and enjoy the summer. Or we were at Fellini’s for a slice and a flirt with Clay and Nelson. And Murmur was usually playing.

It was at Renae’s where I met Simeon, who was such a large part of my life for so many years (and is still one of my very favorite people I’ve ever known). Simeon was a music nut like me — probably more than me — and we were obsessed with R.E.M. We listened to Murmur and Chronic Town all the time. We started hanging out with Shawn, a guy who went to high school with Renae and me (and whose heart I had to stomp when he was a freshman) and worked with Simeon at Sam Flax (which was around the corner from Renae’s at the time). The four of us went dancing, saw movies, looked at art books, hung out. Every time I listen to Murmur, I’m transported back to that summer and that neighborhood.

Simeon and I went to see R.E.M. together that August at, of all places, the parking lot at Six Flags. My boys performed on a stage that looked like a flatbed trailer; I seem to remember their parents were seated on the stage. Simeon and I danced the entire show; most people just stood around. Simeon correctly predicted that those idiots wouldn’t move until they heard “Radio Free Europe.” He was right — everyone jumped up and danced as soon as it started — so Sim refused to dance to show his disgust. He stood completely still in the middle of the crowd … although his foot was a-tapping. I loved him for that. It was a waste, too, because I adored the way Simeon slammed his legs when he danced to “Radio Free Europe.” I danced, of course; I have no scruples when it comes to dancing along with Berry, Buck, Mills, and Stipe.

We next saw R.E.M. in October, when they performed a free concert on UGA's Legion Field (now a parking deck between the freshman dorms). The band played “So. Central Rain” for the first time; the Letterman appearance was three days later. I loved the Legion Field shows — crisp fall weather, the freedom of dancing in the field, getting in trouble for flirting with cute young boys. Damn, it was fun.

I have this great memory of driving in Athens with Renae the following spring. The sunroof was open, “Sitting Still” was playing, and we were singing at the top of our lungs — completely different words. It was such a silly, happy moment. I love mumbling Michael; the beauty of singing along with him was nobody could say you were singing the wrong words.

Nearly a quarter of a century later, I still love R.E.M. as much as I did that summer. I’ve seen them perform more than 20 times. I’ve bought every album the day it came out, or (beginning with “Automatic for the People”) at midnight the night before in Athens at the band’s release party. I’ve been a proud fan club member for years. I’ve read most of their interviews, watched every video, defended them to those who were dismissive of their brilliance. Michael eye-flirted with me in the mid-1980s and flirted with my beau in the mid-1990s. Peter’s given me the “hi” eye numerous times, and uttered many a "how's it going?" as he walked by. I once told Mike Mills how much his music means to me, and pissed off his girlfriend another time because he kept checking me out. And Bill Berry ... well, he had the best damn arms in Athens.

So, this isn’t a record review; it's ramblings of the memories that Murmur brings me. But isn’t that what a great album is supposed to do?

The Beatles: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

Today marks the debut of a new weekly feature: the soundtrack of my life. Every Tuesday I’ll feature one of my favorite albums. I am, however, kicking off today because Sgt. Pepper’s was released 39 years ago today (in the U.S. on June 2).

Years ago, back when the magazine was still relevant, Rolling Stone polled musicians on their seminal album, the one that changed how they listened to and loved music. (Peter Buck named the Stones’ Exile on Main Street, if I remember correctly.) When I read the question, I knew my answer without having to think — and, believe it or not, it’s not an R.E.M. disc. The album that changed my life is Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. It has yet to leave my top-five list. I went through four vinyl copies. It was the first album I bought on 8-track, on cassette, and on CD. The day I downloaded MP3-ripping software, it was the first album I ripped.

I’m listening to Sgt. Pepper’s as I write this column. I’m not going to get into the music-nerd stuff. We all know how innovative it is, how groundbreaking, what a design masterpiece the cover is; Wikipedia has done a good job of covering that. I thought about doing a track-by-track review of the album, but that takes away from what the album is: a symphony, at least to me. Each song is good on its own, but they work so much better as one collective piece, from the rustle of the crowd and the orchestra warming up to that final piano chord. So, I’m going to focus on what the album means to me.

I was eight years old when Sgt. Pepper’s was released. I spent nearly every day that summer at Renae’s, listening to the album over and over as we played parchesi and whatever else two girls do during the summer. It’s trippy. Funny. Catchy. The lyrics are full of wonderful, visual stories. It was just damn groovy, in the year of grooviness.

Listening to Sgt. Pepper’s takes me back to the magic of that summer. We were kids, with our lives ahead of us. We didn’t have responsibilities, other than having fun. And that’s what that summer was like across the world. The hippies (man, I loved hippies), the psychedelic era — for a brief moment, the Summer of Love was real. The album brings back that feeling of hope and joy and excitement and silliness. If I’m in a grumpy mood, listening to any of those songs pick me up. We never got tired of listening to it that summer, and I have yet to grow tired of it. I don’t think I’ve gone more than a month without listening to the entire album since that summer 39 years ago.

It just struck me how unusual it is that two eight-year-old girls were obsessed with this album — especially today, when kids listen to manufactured pop, such as Hillary Duff and 'N Sync. Sure, we had The Partridge Family (loved them!) and the 1920 Fruitgum Company, but psychedelic rock was also accessible. I don’t want to go on a diatribe about the evils of corporate record companies, but it is sad that you have to work at and research to find new sounds, new bands, new genres.

Anyway, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is brilliant. It’s a great memory from my childhood, and it’s still my most personal album. Pull it out and listen to the entire album this week.

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Happy Steveday, Greggie!

For those of you out of the loop — and that’s everyone but Renae, Dan, and me — that’s “happy birthday, Greg!” in Espersteveto.

Greg is my favorite Canadian — ahead of Neil Young, Robertson Davies, Eugene Levy, Paul Shaffer, and Margaret Trudeau. Heck, he’s in the top five on my list of great guys.

I first met Greg in 1988, at the student union at the University of Wisconsin. He was wearing a button with something like “Elvis is dead, but at least he’s a lot thinner.” Instant love for the boy. He earned my awe that weekend when he showed me a photo of him lighting Richard Butler’s cigarette (which reminds me that I’m still miffed at Renae for not telling me about that free Psychedelic Furs concert in Athens in 1986).

Renae and Greg at her gallery opening (Nov. 2005).
This photo says it all.

There are few people who can introduce me to new bands — I tend to keep up more than most in my circle — but Greg introduces me to at least one new band every year. Thanks to him, I love The Music and My Morning Jacket, Kent and The Doves, Cee-lo and Helen Merrill, Twilight Singers and Mel Tormé’s “Prelude to a Kiss,” Calexico and Steve.

And, of course, Oasis. You can’t talk about Greg and not mention Oasis. The summer Renae and Greg bought their house, Greg seriously considered taking the money to follow Oasis across the world. We have the same priorities. I finally saw Oasis last September; I think Greg was more excited about that than any of my accomplishments during our long friendship. It’s a good thing he’s not a big R.E.M. fan, or I’d have to steal him from Renae.

Greg, Dan, me, and Renae (New Rochelle, Jan. 2000)

But it’s not all about music. Greg is simply one of the most fun, cerebral, open-minded, silly people I’ve ever known. I’d rather sit around Renae and Greg’s kitchen for hours in my pajamas than go out and doing something.

BRAG TIME: In addition to having impeccable music taste and the silliest sense of humor this side of Dan, our Greg is also a published author, having written one of the first studies of American film criticism:

Artists in the Audience (© 1999)

Happy birthday, Greggie! Hope the Bahamian sun and surf is perfect for your birthday!

Clap for her!

As you read in a recent post, Renae had this piece accepted in the prestigious 57th Annual Art of the Northeast juried show:

Untitled (Ribbons 50605152)

The opening was last night — and her photograph won the Silvermine Community Association Award!

I wish I could express in a blog how proud I am of Renae. Two years ago, she was ending another year as department chair at her college, deciding at the last minute to let the chairmanship (and stress) go and serve just as a professor. This time last year, she began the ribbon series of photographs — and, 12 months later, has had a one-woman show and a piece in a juried exhibition. Isn't that amazing and inspiring?

Renae was born creative, artistic and talented. The difference is, now she now believes in herself, puts herself out there, and balances her work/art priorities. She’s taking risks and reaping the benefits she deserves. She’s a true inspiration — and one heck of a talented artist.

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Renae Edge, artist

Renae (my oldest friend in the world) had her first one-woman show last fall, for a series of abstract photographs she shot last summer. She (quite deservedly) continues to get a lot of attention for this series.

Renae has an online gallery. Take the time to view each series of her online portfolio. Her work is truly amazing.

This piece will be in the 57th annual Art of the Northeast juried exhibition, in New Canaan, Connecticut:

Untitled (Ribbons 50605152)

The Silvermine Guild is a well-established, well-known guild; the show was juried by Ben Barzune, who's a partner in a New York City gallery that represents the likes of Milton Avery and Helen Frankenthaler. Renae also has a piece in an upcoming show in Connecticut. Our girl has hit the big time.

Renae Edge, at her show last November

I am so damn proud of Renae! She just got back into photography about a year ago, maybe two. Her goal was to produce great work and be accepted as an artist, and it looks like she's there. Her determination and self-confidence — and, of course, her creativity and artistic vision — continue to inspire me. And her work is beautiful, amazing, unique. I have one piece hanging over my sofa, and it's my most valued piece. I hope to have a wall of Edges by the end of the year.

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