Regina Spektor: A Crazy, Amazing Kind of a Girl

I had an opportunity to go see Regina Spektor perform at the House of Blues in Dallas a couple of weeks ago. A friend and crazy girl of the best sort--Em--invited me, and even though I hadn't the slightest who this singer was, I'm absolutely game for live music experiences when they don't include Soak (yes, I realize this probably dates me somewhat and proves that I hold grudges decades later than I should). The night before the concert, I checked out her Myspace, of course, the Wikipedia, and created a Pandora station to see if I could get a preview of what I should expect. The myspace page offered 4 recent (and possibly most popular) songs for free listens-Fidelity, Us, Samson, and On the Radio. At least one of them sounded familiar, but I thought I could dig it, since I let the four songs loop for about an hour with increasing appreciation. The Pandora songs were primarily her earlier work, so there were some memorable lines about "Crispy, crispy Benjamin Franklin" babysitting her four children...it was interesting, to say the least. I enjoy the lyric with an off-the-wall feel (They Might Be Giants, Belle & Sebastian, Sufjan Stephens) that strays beyond the usual feel-good sensation of the year kind of songwriting (cue Ben Folds' "One Down").

But this concert--it was truly impressive even for someone who couldn't be called a fan--yet. Regina just had herself as singer, pianist, and rhythm (tapping her finger on the the mic or stamping a foot on the wood floor of the stage for emphasis) for most of the show--the guy who opened for her "accompanied" one otherwise a capella song with fantastic human drum machine skills. I hope someone recorded that and it will make it to YouTube if it hasn't already. She must have perfect pitch--never a sour note, except for the obviously intoxicated girls on the lower level who kept singing along--badly-- despite the laser beam eyes pointed in their general direction and requests for them to please shut it--Regina was so diplomatic, though, and ignored it, unlike the rest of us. There were times when I had to laugh out loud because of the lyrics of the songs [oh, so you want details now? Well, maybe I'll give you some, if you're really good, but maybe you should just listen for yourself, hmm? "On the Radio" is a good place to start. You can find the video, along with several others, here. ]

The videos are fine, but I rather like to see someone belting out their songs live--forehead getting all wrinkled with concentration, instead of doing the lip-synced versions in music videos which ask the singer to be as made-up and botoxed-looking as possible, even if the facial expressions while singing cannot be at all realistic. What's so unattractive about forehead wrinkles when such beautiful sounds are making their way to your ears? You think so too? I'm glad we're all on the same page here.

The Wikipedia has a good article on her history, musical background, and all that sort of thing, so I don't feel inclined to reinvent the wheel. Just giving one woman's reaction here. I will link to the NPR interview where Regina talks a good bit about her style and fiction songwriting philosophy. If you like her music, it's well-worth the 8 minutes or so of your time.

Back to the concert: I found it endearing that so many people there obviously thought the world of this singer. Ok, maybe not the kind which makes you throw underwear on the stage (thankfully), but people really loved her. And why not? She seems to deserve it much more than your average visible musician these days. She worked hard to give us her music in such a beautiful way, seems very humble about her circumstances of growing fame, and is honest about her music--it's fiction! It's very much about storytelling, not necessarily revealing the depths of her soul (what right do we have to demand the depths of anyone's soul just because we pay for their time?)

Maybe musicians aren't always as lovable as we want them to be. Maybe we also just read too much into music, lyrics, and the emotions that we want to believe the songwriter had. Well, maybe someone did feel deeply enough to write a song, but maybe for every one of those there are 50 more out there just looking to fill 3 minutes with the lowest common denominator of lyrical and musical arrangements. I certainly am no expert--I only speak as I find. But this singer/songwriter seemed different. One guy yelled out at a quiet moment "Regina, you changed my life!" which is hard to believe, but you never know. Maybe he was having a life crisis over his hair length and "Sampson" helped him see the light. How can I say?But I especially loved the guy in front of me-- late middle-aged and who I would have assumed was brought here against his will by his wife. But he was one of the biggest fans there! He was so into the concert--did the clapping, audience participation, and at a quiet moment yelled at the tone-deaf girls to "shut up down there!" with his own personal cheering section behind him. "Woooo! You tell 'em!" Wild stuff and excellent times. It's refreshing to experience such a cross section of ages at a concert--not just your average teen girl kind of fan, but a very nice kettle of fish indeed.

Check out Regina Spektor, and see her live if possible! She's a breath of fresh air.

Honesty In Typing

So, here's my gift to you: honesty in typing. Whatever coes out I'm just going to let it sit there and be a testimony to the need for my anal retentive drafting. Already, I went back to edit part of that sentence. Maybe I can't even greewrite anymore? I'm an editing MACHING! I hope this is adding your hilarity. 'To your hilarity of the morning, that is. I feel like I'm at a nudist colony, only to discover that everyone else is still wearing turtlenecks and twills.

Here's a random tidbit: I clearly remember the first time I heard the word "Chateau." I was just a kid, and we were watching some charley brown special on tv. they said it several times and I remember being so struck by it, and not being terribly sure what it meant at first. thus began a love affair with hoity toity words that would last a lifetime. "By the time she was an octogenarian, J'Non would have gratuitously worked in the words "multitudinous" "nefarious" "polysyllabic" and "sesquipidalianistic" (not to mention "octogenarian") in more than one missive to unsuspecting friends. She also developed an unhealthy addiction to Boggle, but after several trips to rehab, she gave up on her dream to be free of those lettered fetters that bound her... She was buried with her original Boggle set (not the gold-plated version, which was pretty to look at but which lacked the sentimental value of the original)."

YES!!! I started editing mid-paragraph ago! I JUST CAN'T DO IT!!! I am shamed... This must be what it feels like to try and quit smoking. Where's my nicorette for over-drafters?

Memo: TPS Reports Due Today

Today is "have some fresh donuts on us and forget about the things you don't like about us here at the office" day. I already had breakfast, but I still accepted when one was offered me and I inhaled 3/4 of it with an ease that borders on absurdity. I know it will make me feel like crap in about 10 minutes, yet still I take bites between sentences. As I chew the final bite placidly, I realize that my armpit itches slightly because I forgot to apply deodorant this morning. I don't have a spare with me. This does not bode well for the other occupants of the building, but neither does the recent inhalation of aforementioned donut).

(Note: This was written back when I was working in the "corporate world." Now, if I forget my deodorant, I just walk into the bathroom and apply liberally).

Chickenesque

With half of her forearm uncomfortably inside the chicken, J'Non realized with sudden clarity why it was people preferred to buy disjoined chicken.

Several minutes before:
Once the attractively concealing blue package was removed from the body, she narrowed her eyes at the opening in the back of the chicken. "I think I remember that sometimes there are parts in there" she mused, and gamely thrust in a hand to see if the poultry cave was occupied. Indeed, there were several cold and squishy occupants of questionable identity, some of which were helpfully detached from the main carcass. These were dispensed with quickly, accompanied by an almost imperceptible curl of her upper lip.

Upon embarking on another sweep, she found with some alarm that several of the aforementioned unidentified squishy chicken objects seemed to be attached somehow. Breathing an audible "Ugh," she pulled firmly at the USCO's until several released, albeit sullenly. With a slight shiver, she widened the opening just enough to scan the interior for any recalcitrant that might remain. Indeed, something whitish and bean-shaped clung doggedly to the cavity. Just what it might be, she didn't know, but it certainly looked like an organ. Maybe even a lobe. She shuddered at the thought. Steeling her own bean-shaped organs, she reached in and squeezed with all her might to extract it. It fought mightily for so small a warrior, but it ultimately fell upon its fallen brethren, into that special hades for the bean-shaped and whitish.

And that is why people pay 3 prices for boneless, skinless chicken.