The Music We Loved Most In 2013

2013 Was Not Really A Huge Music Year For LJ

2013 was not really a huge music year for me. It was a food year and a life year. I worked very hard and I got a lot of things done in the very standard way that you're supposed to; it didn't leave me too much time to do much wandering or reflecting. No sitting on too many docks of very many bays. When I think of all the songs that moved me most this past year, I think of specific moments rather than phases or vibes. Hot Love was crossing the street west-to-east on the south side of Bathurst at Bloor last February. It was late into the month, past Valentine's Day, and I was wearing one mitten. I was on my way to go buy a new pair of mittens, which made me angry- I'd been hoping I could make it through the end of winter without having to buy a pair of mittens again, and the fact that I didn't made me feel like winter was lasting longer than it should have. I resented it. As I crossed the street I pressed "next" on my iPod on shuffle and Hot Love came on. It was what Valentine's is supposed to be- happy and hoppy, hoppy like a cute bunny jumping and also hoppy like a complicated beer. It fixed things. It reminded me to care about T.Rex and caring about T.Rex overtook me like the rush you feel after smiling. Marc Bolan is one of the most important artists ever to have spoken to me and he never would have if he hadn't that one weird day. 

Daisy Glaze is from the spring. For some reason I always hear that song as if someone- Alex Chilton, I guess- is swimming in a pool and singing up at me from underneath translucent Yves Klein blue. Daisy Glaze is one of the only times in my life when the song from the album with the best name is also the one I love the most. Life is so good when that happens. 

On Cinco de Mayo I kissed my boyfriend for the first time. It was one of those times when you finally kiss the boy you've had a crush on forever and you think everything's going to happen but as it turns out nothing happens. You're all nervous-excited to see him the next day, your pupils are hearts and the animator is drawing trails of hearts flying out of your head, and then you show up and he's being dull and work-oriented and it's crushing. Then you have to live out the next week of hoping for the best but expecting the worst and accepting it and it's just a generally shitty thing to go through, especially when the dude's your boss, which he was. But oddly, the Universe sent another boy into my life to temporarily distract me- the only Leo I ever kissed. I kissed him seven summers ago and then some lame Tuesday night seven years later and he saunters into my restaurant ten minutes before the kitchen closes, smelling like a dusty bookcase and accompanied by his little brother. I gave them free drinks duh, and for about twelve days I could tell the Leo and I were both thinking "Hmm"- the allure of unfinished business enhanced by the why of "Why did life bring us back together?" and somewhere in the middle of those twelve days, I had to run to the liquor store to buy Bacardi on my break. It was a work-related errand; I would never drink Bacardi, blecch. I  rode the subway one stop to an ugly liquor store inside an ugly underground mall, and I was bumming hard because I knew I'd never love the Leo the way I loved this other guy- my boss who'd become my boyfriend- and I listened to Daisy Glaze on repeat the whole way there and the whole way back, waiting in line holding 3 squishy bottles of Bacardi made from some newfangled 2013 booze bottle material, and I misheard the lyrics and thought that Alex Chilton was singing "I'm trying to look sad about you," and I envied him- I've never had to try and look sad about anybody, I just naturally look it. But really he's singing "I'm driving alone, sad about you," so don't worry. I'm not alone. 

The rest of spring was Machu Picchu and Wakin On A Pretty Day- Machu Picchu was in April, the month I got promoted to assistant manager of my old restaurant and decided that I would openly and unapologetically love the Strokes forever- great decision. On the second day of the month the city of Toronto turned off the water in my restaurant's neighbourhood so they could repair a pipe or whatevs. We closed for lunch and dinner, and my future-boyfriend-boss and I came in to clean the entire restaurant. I got down on my hands and knees and cleaned all the muck and grit and rotten lime wedges out from underneath the bar fridges listening to the Strokes' entire discography on shuffle and every time this song came on it was like someone was feeding me a pina colada and some dirty bad-for-me cheeseburgers intravenously. Wakin On A Pretty Day fasts forward into my May, mostly just walking to work early- I served brunch then- and remarking upon how green the trees were- no. I'm selling myself, and the Universe, short- the greenness was astounding. Chill music tricking me into feeling chilled out, though today it just makes me tired. I listened to Freaks a lot then too. It's a cool song. One night I was lying down on one of the banquettes at my old restaurant waiting for Mark to finish, White Album on the speakers, and my two impish line-cooks, young people from today who don't know how to understand that Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da is actually, somehow, cool, hijacked my iPod and played Freaks loud, started dancing with their arms and knees to make some point about how the Beatles aren't good. I thought it was sort of sweet.

Miss O'Dell is my favorite song (you can read about it here), and this was the year I found it, which is a cool trait in a year: The Year I Found My Favorite Song. Isis was another very important thing that happened to me. 2013 was also The Year I Found Bob Dylan- earlier when I was writing about Marc Bolan I wrote a sentence about how Marc Bolan and Bob Dylan are the two halves of me and then I deleted it because I felt like I was being mean to Ray Davies, but now I'm thinking that maybe Ray Davies is my Sun Sign, Marc Bolan is my Moon Sign, and I'm Bob Dylan Rising. Wow. Okay, I feel like I just figured my entire life out. 

I hope to write about Isis in a more in-depth way as a part of my ongoing Ten Bob Dylan Songs I'd Rather Die Than Live Without in the future, so for the time being I'd just like to shout out the song lyrics I was thinking about turquoise, I was thinking about gold for changing my fucking life with how cool and beautiful they are as well as the part when he sings I was thinking about Isis, how she thought I was so RECKLESS, the way he sings the word RECKLESS- he tastes it, like he's eating it- you can tell he's not just being the character in the song anymore. You can tell that Bob Dylan really sees himself as a reckless guy, that every woman he's ever loved has sighed over his recklessness, and every time I feel like maybe I've grown up and moved on, that I don't care about any crazy thing I actually care about and am only A Person With A Job, his RECKLESS reminds me that I am what I am, that I haven't, that I can't be. 

(Last but not least: if you'd like to win a copy of this mix CD, along with a handful of Strawberry Fields Whatever stickers and maybe something else depending on how busy I am that day, please email a cool response to the question What's your favorite song on Blonde on Blonde and, most importantly, WHY? to laurajanefaulds at gmail by the evening of January 5th; I don't know how I'll pick a winner, but I know that I will.)

2013 Wasn't an Especially Big Music Year for Jen Either

Seeing The Punk Singer reminded me that Bikini Kill is my favorite band. In the film Johanna Fateman says something like, “they weren’t the best girl band, they were the best band”, and she’s right. The songs are as important and emotional for me today as they were when I first heard them as a really angry baby teen.

I got super into the B-52’s for a while.  The outer space/big hair thing was exactly what I needed. Mostly the first 2 albums but I also became especially obsessed by "Girl from Ipanema" goes to Greenland. The Song. The video. THE VIDEO. It  also has the most true truism in the lyrics – wherever you go, there you are, which is so comforting and depressing at the same time.

The "Theme to Female Trouble" by Divine is my #1 song of the year. Even if it had nothing to do with John Waters I would love it. Luckily it has everything to do with John Waters, the world’s most perfect man. I don’t know how to write about music in that way where you can hear it. There’s a definite groove, and amazing lyrics like, “hey spare me your morals/look everyone dies” and "I'm Berserk!/ I like it fine". I’m also pretty into Divine’s disco hit, “I’m so Beautiful."

As always, The Monster Mash remains one of my most favorite songs.

Body/head Coming Apart, is a dream of a record for me.

The songs on Weed Hounds upcoming album are all cool and lovely, but also top secret so you can’t hear them yet.

Tom Scharpling had been ending the music portion of the Best Show with a song by The Sweet for most of the year. I’ve grown to really love “Blockbuster” especially. I’ll continue listening to it at least once a week from here on out in honor of The Best Show, one of the great loves of my life. I will also listen to a lot of Led Zeppelin in 2014.

I became interested in Grimes as a person before I listened to her music. I listened to a few seconds and felt it was too sweet and not for me. It felt like swallowing sugar.  After following her on tumblr for a while I gave Visions another try and was surprised to find I really liked it. Like, a lot. It’s not so sweet and I’m not sure what my problem was but now I love Grimes.

I saw the flawless goddess Julie Klausner's cabaret show at Joe's Pub this year. She & Bridget Everett covered the Monkees song "Nine Timed Blue". I wondered - why don't I listen to this song constantly all of the time? Then I started listening to it constantly all of the time, along with other Mike Nesmith Monkees songs. 

I listen to Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk and Helium’s The Magic City repeatedly while in the studio so they are both forever and permanently on my best music of every year list. Forever.

Liz's 2013 Was Sweet Like Cinnamon

That's a picture of a fortune I got with my fried rice at a Manchu Wok at the Salt Lake City airport, on my way back to L.A. from Tennessee last May. Right before I left for my trip I finished the first draft of my book, and in Tennessee I went to Graceland and ate chess pie and drank lots of beer and whiskey with my cool buddy Alissa and saw Gram Parsons's Nudie suit and had brisket and french fries and a strawberry Coke at a barbecue place because I once saw a picture of Big Star eating there, and then when I got back to L.A. this crazy thing happened and it was crazy.

Anyway my point was it was a BIG WEEK and full of fun and steeped in the richness of life, and the fried rice was fantastic. On the drive home from the airport I stopped at an In N Out by the side of the highway and got a strawberry milkshake and listened to "Hot Burrito #2" by the Flying Burrito Brothers, which is one of the songs I put on this Spotify playlist I just made. It pretty nicely encapsulates my year and it's got songs by Dinosaur Jr. and Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers and Beyonce and Deerhunter, plus all of these fine-looking people: 

BLAKE BABIES & LANA DEL REY. My number-one song of summer 2013 was "Out There" by Blake Babies tied with "Cola" by Lana Del Rey. I associate "Cola" with the Friday afternoon in June when my little sister and her bestie were visiting, and we went to Beverly Hills and bought cupcakes and brought them to Farmers Market and ate them with champagne: it was Lana Del Rey's birthday and my cupcake was cinnamon, as in "Now my life is sweet like cinnamon/Like a fuckin dream I'm livin in." And "Out There" is driving thru the drive-thru at the Dunkin Donuts near my parents' house on a hot rainy Tuesday or Wednesday at the end of the July, and getting a big iced French vanilla coffee, and going to a used bookstore and buying a big stack of used books. Each of those songs is an anthem in its own weird way, and I like the vibe and ridiculousness of swirling together Lana Del Rey's sleazy/glamorous L.A. princess thing and Juliana Hatfield's lonely/glamorous hiding-in-her-bedroom thing and letting them mean something great and grand about me and everything.

COURTNEY BARNETT. Courtney Barnett is a 25-year-old from Australia and my favorite new music person I found this year. I dig her chill romanticism, how it's both dreamy and pragmatic, but more than anything I'm in love with her vocabulary. In "History Eraser" she sings about margaritas, "You Can't Always Get What You Want," French kissing, soccer players, ducks, dudes, vermouth, a farm. In other songs she sings about asthma attacks, radishes, schmoozing loser-y users, masturbation, marijuana, flowers and porcelain and coffee and TV. Her songs are the kind of stories I wish were little movies, and the sex scenes would be so sweetly awkward, like something from an alternate universe where Girls  is a world you actually want to know more and more about instead of less and less.

ALEX CHILTON. I feel like this is maybe a pretentious or dickish thing to say, but I don't really think about Big Star when I think of my Alex Chilton tattoo. I think of shit like the song "Walking Dead" and its fucked-up creepy nowhere-going beautiful bullshit, and of Alex looking like this - a cool sicko who can't ever help being at least a little bit wonderful:

Let's Watch 'Greenberg' Instead of 'It's a Wonderful Life' On Christmas Eve This Year

WORDS BY LIZ, IMAGE BY JEN

I held off on watching Greenberg because every single person/reviewer was like, "OH MY GOD SO DARK, Ben Stiller is so loathsome, just the worst." I'm not very into movies largely populated by loathsome characters; I just don't find it all that amusing or exciting to watch people be miserable assholes to each other for 90 minutes. But then a few Thursday nights ago I slept like hell and on Friday I didn't have heaps of work to do, so I took a sick day. First I watched Frances Ha, the first Greta Gerwig movie I've ever seen. Frances Ha bugged me for the first half-hour or so, but then I loved it and I loved Greta Gerwig and I wanted more of her. I watched The Dish & The Spoon (wonderful, adorable, such a weird sweet heartbreaker), and then I watched Hannah Takes the Stairs (two and a half out of four stars), and then I watched goddamn Greenberg. I put it on because it was there to be watched, and told myself I could shut it off at any time if I started hating everyone in a life-sucking sort of way.

       But I loved loved loved Greenberg; it was very much the highlight of Greta Gerwig Sick Day Film Fest. To me there is absolutely nothing loathsome about Greenberg the movie, or about Greenberg the character. I truly have zero understanding of why anyone would hate Roger Greenberg, and the only explanation I can come up with is so cynical, something about people being too ungenerous and unimaginative to feel any love for someone who has a hard time living in the world; they mistake his anxiety for aggression because it makes them anxious too. Is that it? I really don't know.
      I recognize that Roger is an asshole but I don't quite hold it against him, though I don't feel bad for him either. He's a kicked puppy who's done all the kicking himself, and he's sort of trying to stop and maybe he's going to work it out. I thought it was so sweetly hopeful. So that's the main reason why you should watch Greenberg instead of It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve this year, if you're into the ritual of watching edifying and delightful movies the night before Christmas. Here are four more reasons, and they don't even include Chris Messina and Mark Duplass and Serge Gainsbourg and "Jet Airliner," although of course that's all important too:

RHYS IFANS. I have three main dude types: the first is the dark-haired, slightly bug-eyed, vaguely Ichabod Crane-esque look of Ian Svenonius and the guy who played Josh on 30 Rock; the second is that sandy/pasty/hair-color-matches-skin-tone thing best represented by the Culkin Brothers and Vincent Kartheiser and the first boy I loved in L.A.; and the third is the rugged Welsh beauty of beautiful Rhys Ifans. He's the Greenberg character I'd most want to hang out with, he's so irrepressibly kind and patient with Roger; he's got lovely manners and that cool beaten-down-by-life-but-still-totally-chill vibe. I love his beard, his blondeness, his nice blonde beard. I love the first scene he's in, with Ivan and Roger's amazing conversation about the movie Gung Ho. All of Greenberg is worth watching for that goofy little 13-second chat about the movie Gung Ho, this I swear to you.

MAHLER. The best movie dog ever, maybe? Marissa made this cool point about how Roger's carefulness with Mahler is one of the things that most redeems his character, which is neat to think about in the context of Wes Anderson and that theory of how "offhand and  abrupt acts of canine disregard are examples of the slightly anti-social lack of sentimentality that runs through all of Anderson’s work." And when Roger wakes up on the floor after the party and looks up to see Mahler's cute li'l paws hanging over the edge of the couch, my heart just sings. I want a German Shepherd for Christmas. Also: a cinnamon tree.

FLORENCE. Before I saw Frances Ha my friend Rachel told me that Frances reminded her of me. And then I watched the movie and spent the first half-hour deeply worried that I'm generally perceived as someone who galumphs around acting like a complete idiot all the time. My big prob with Frances Ha, initially, was I just felt like "Nobody is this much of an idiot. You couldn't be this idiotic and exist in the world and not, like, die." But then I got over that, because it's not true, and I started to love Frances and her bonkers exuberance. In Greenberg that joie de vivre is a little tempered but it's still palpable, in Florence. They made so many brill choices with her character, like how she sings a Shawn Colvin song at her show and it's both beautiful and lame, but mostly beautiful, and how she wears her rad Henry's Tacos shirt with that big chunky cardigan, and how she's got a copy of the Sarah McLachlan album Fumbling Towards Ecstasy on CD in her car.

I Love the Best Show Forever

            BY JEN

            Last night was the last episode of the Best Show on WFMU. The show is over as we know it.  

         

            I love the Best Show so much I don’t know how to talk about it. I talk about it all the time and never say what I mean. It’s a radio show, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s about warmth and community and comedy and music and it’s about something else that probably doesn’t have a word because it’s so Best Show specific. Maybe it’s a mispronunciation of a word that means something all encompassing about how massively hugely loved the Best Show is.

            The Best Show has been on WFMU for 13 years and sadly I only got to listen every week for a year and change. I don’t know why I didn’t find it earlier – I was so close. I’m thankful for the short time I’ve spent with the Best Show. I’m also very thankful for the archives and for all of the Best Show Gems.

            

            The show is like a friend or a blanket. It’s comforting and dependable. It radiates kindness even when Tom Scharpling is hanging up on callers. I consider it a feminist show, and Scharpling is a feminist art hero to me. This may be my delusional own thing, but sexism is called out for sure and my existence is never the butt of a joke. A few weeks ago a caller called in to thank Tom for his non-sexist humor. I may have cried.

            I’m going to miss hearing Tom talking about everything and anything. How terrible Tom Waits is. Starbucks. Panera bread. Pinball. Feeling dumb.  All of it. I’ll miss hearing bad callers get Bad Companied (slow fade in of the song Bad Company by Bad Company with a hang up as the chorus kicks in). I’ll miss hearing Gary the Squirel talk about #showbiz and #snacks. I will miss seeing which demented Wurster character is calling in this week. Philly Boy Roy, I love you, shine on you crazy diamond. I’ll miss it all. I guess I can go out on Tuesday nights now, but who cares?

            I made this shrine last night while listening to the show. The show started at 9 and the sticker letters came out. It had to happen. I cracked open a Coors Light (chi-ku)  in celebration of AP Mike and listened to the last episode of this perfect show. It was hilarious and beautiful, a total victory. I cried a little but not too much. I cried a very appropriate amount. I consider the show one of the great loves of my life and thank Tom Scharpling, Jon Wurster, AP Mike, Gary the Squirrel, and  Vance the Puppet with my entire soul. I’m so excited to see what they do next. Best Show for Life.

Old Man John Lennon

I clicked on the link to this super-trashy Buzzfeed post entitled "What Deceased Music Legends Would Look Like If They'd Made It To Old Age" expecting it to be a chill mix of inaccurate and semi-offensive, but it turned out that whoever made these weird Internetty face-meld pictures did a kind of inspired job of it (although they really shit the bed on their wildly-schlumpy depiction of fortysomething Kurt Cobain; I think it's nuts to assume that 2013 Kurt would have had a goatee. Kurt Cobain had his ear to the ground, and goatees are out of fashion. Let's get real here). 

I was hoping there'd be a John Lennon one because duh, I'm obviously obsessed with the Beatles, and then there was, and it is BEAUTIFUL. He looks so English and gentle and he's wearing a) earth tones and b) a turtleneck. His gaze is loving you but also daring you. I've had a pretty good run of not having any emotional breakdowns about John Lennon's death in a couple years but this photo definitely ruined my winning streak. I think it's 100% on the money and that the people who made this picture are actually crazy psychic mystics who travelled here from a parallel Universe where John Lennon is alive to tell us all the TRUTH about what John Lennon truly grew up to look like. 

IN CONCLUSION: John Lennon was one of the coolest humans ever to happen, his death was messed up, and if he were alive I would have figured out some sort of way to be his intern, I know I would have, and we would have been a cool duo, Old Man John and I. I just want to drink wine and talk shit with the old dude in a library. Not, like, a public library- a library in a person's home. In his home. Me and John and a very musty smell and a ladder. 

-LJ

Thing of the Week: LJ's United Bamboo Fishtail Parka, Juliana Hatfield & Pizza by the Sea

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: My United Bamboo Fishtail Parka

I found out that United Bamboo fishtail parkas existed either three or four years ago and quickly became obsessed with needing to own one, but tragically had to hold off because truth be told they are expensive fucking parkas and I spent my entire twenties living below the poverty line until last April. This October, I was having that gross and depressing internal dialogue you have to have with yourself every October where you're like, "Okay, Laura [or whatever your name is], winter is coming, I know you can't believe it but, like death, it's actually going to happen, so what are you going to do about boots this year, what are you going to do about mittens," and realized I had unknowingly accomplished my lifelong dream of becoming rich enough to buy myself a United Bamboo fishtail parka. I was just trying to accomplish some other goals the whole time, and then it turned out that I'd killed a couple birds with one stone. That stone, man. It just ricocheted off the one bird's beak, straight into the other one's noggin. 

So, that's nice. Nice use of noggin. I bought myself a United Bamboo fishtail parka over the Internet and it arrived and it was GIGANTIC. I ended up having to send it back to the United Bamboo people and everything about that process was incredibly stressful for me. I wrote on a piece of paper that I'd like to exchange the medium for the extra-small (they're really weirdly-sized jackets) and enclosed it in the box with the coat I sent back, which made me anxious. I was like "Do words written on paper even count as a legitimate transaction in this day and age? Do I need to include a microchip?" and it was raining that day, it was literally Halloween. A few days later they sent me the XS and I had to pay an insane COD, I was at my wit's end at that point but then I tried it on and it fit perfectly and was so adorbs and then I forgot all about the money and felt vindicated. 

The picture of me up there kind of undersells how awesome my coat is because I'm sitting down and truthfully it could be any bland old coat. But it's my day off and I don't feel like participating in a photoshoot with myself, so this is what you get. There's white wine in it, and it shows off the Betty Draper-ness of my kitchen. And here is a model doing a better job of modelling my coat than I did: 

See, it's so cute, right? It's got a really nice A-line shape and the hood stretches out so far so it's like your head is living inside a cave. It's one of the coziest things I've ever owned, according to my cute boyfriend it makes me look like I'm "on the cutting edge of fashion!" and it breaks my heart to think about how by the time March comes I'm going to hate it as much as I've hated every winter coat I've ever had by the time March comes, when you've worn the same fucking jacket every day for the past hundred days, when it ceases to be a coat and instead becomes a damp, crappy emblem of the living fucking hell you've just endured. 

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: Watching Juliana Hatfield Sing "Out There," Pizza by the Sea

On Tuesday night I went to see Minor Alps, starring Juliana Hatfield. Minor Alps is her new band with Matthew Caws from Nada Surf, and their album Get There is an ideal album to fall in love with in November: it's very gray and sweet and cozily sad-making. After seeing them I've built up some deep affection for Matthew Caws, but at the end of the day: Juliana. I'm in it for Juliana. Juliana is all.
      For a good part of the show they went back and forth, playing their solo songs, and at some point Juliana sang "Out There" by Blake Babies. I'd been gunning for "Out There" and it happened and I saw it, but I really and truly have no memory of it. All I can figure is that the "Out There" video is so blue and green and yellow and white, and at the show Juliana was wearing a brown dress, and maybe the color confusion sent me into a fugue-like state. Yeah that's definitely what happened. They also sang "When Will I Be Loved" and I thought of the last scene in Cocktail and a nice warm liquid gold enveloped my heart and will stay there forever.



My other thing is this pizza place in Santa Monica called Wildflour Pizza. Look how cute and bright yellow it is. Last Saturday afternoon I went to Santa Monica because I like to drink hot coffee by the beach when I'm writing, and then after the writing/coffee-drinking I walked down Main Street and decided to give ol' Wildflour Pizza a whirl. I bought an angelically filled-to-the-brim $3 plastic cup of red wine and a piece of margherita pizza and sat at a table near a cute blonde family: a mom and a dad and a boy who was probably like four and a girl who was probably like six. They were talking about how eating vegetables is important and the girl asked, "What if you ate more vegetables than a hundred?" And the dad was all, "A hundred what? A hundred pounds? A hundred ounces?", which I found rather annoying and obtuse. But it was cool 'cause the daughter just blasé-ly ignored him and said, "You'd get very strong and big!", and she seemed pretty stoked on the prospect of that. She was so wise and chill. They were playing The Police on the oldies station and my pizza was perfectly olive-oily and dense and, like, soft, and I took a Post-It from my bag and wrote a couple sentences about a girl eating pizza with her dad and her dad getting all moony and cutely depressed about The Police being played on the oldies station. I'm very excited to write more sentences about all of that.

10 Bob Dylan Songs I'd Rather Die Than Live Without, Vol. II: Queen Jane Approximately

ILLUSTRATION BY JEN/ WORDS BY LAURA JANE

I posted the first installment of my ongoing 10 Bob Dylan songs proj back in August; this round was supposed to include the other 5, but instead I got stuck on Queen Jane Approximately. 6 down 4 to go! 

On a Monday afternoon in the middle of high summer, my boyfriend came over to my apartment for the first time. He sent me the text “I’m here,” and I opened my front door expecting to see him on my porch but I couldn’t see him. I was afraid that he wasn’t there and it was all a mean prank. I looked around, and found him out on the sidewalk, leaning against a lamp-post, or maybe fire hydrant, in front of the house next door. He was wearing shorts.
        I waved to him. We kissed hello. The day was quiet, and it was awkward, but it was sweet that it was awkward and I knew that when I was remembering it I’d remember it as being sweet. We were still unsure of how best to show one another that we cared. I led him up to my bedroom and I wanted to show him every single thing I owned. I wanted to explain to him the story of how I came to own all of it, and in intense detail, at that. I’d told him some of the stories in my head already, but in real life I couldn’t make them interesting, or even stories. I picked up an 8-track of All Things Must Pass and said, “This is an 8-track of All Things Must Pass.”
        I led him to my kitchen. “This is my couch-nook,” I said, and pointed to my couch-nook. In my head I’d imagined myself telling him all these snazzy one-liners about how “It’s always 1972 in my couch-nook,” and/or “Nothing says ‘I’m a chill person’ like putting a couch in your kitchen,” but instead I just kind of mumbled “I think it looks really seventies,” and then I put on the first Syd Barrett record, which was dusty. All the dust from the record got caught on the needle and it sounded as scratchy and faraway as if it were broadcasting forward in time from a hundred years ago. 
         I felt like I was the Syd Barrett record and my nerves were the dust on the needle. I delivered a small and shaky monologue that was mostly just facts about Syd Barrett’s life. I stupidly asked my boyfriend, “You know the band Pink Floyd?”
          He said, “Yes,” and we laughed. He wasn’t my boyfriend yet, just a guy I wanted to be in a relationship with who “didn’t really want to be in a relationship right now.” Side A of The Madcap Laughs finished and I couldn’t be bothered to flip or switch it. We kissed in silence. That afternoon was the hottest last summer got, and he kissed me so hard it got my hair wet. My hair was literally soaking wet, from a tiny bit spit but 98% sweat, and my body was covered in little shrapnels of dry grey skin, little eraser crumbs. My mascara got rubbed off my eyes and was now somewhere, nowhere. I asked him, “Do you think I’m pretty?”- I can't help myself, I really can't- and he said “Very, very pretty”- almost gravely.
          Every time ten minutes passed I felt like puking. It was a quarter to three and I had to work at four. I opened my eyes as wide as they’ll go and said, “I’m willing to be ten minutes late!”
         I felt like a very professional lady: he was shy at the beginning, and we needed a bracket of time for him to come visit that wasn’t the night. And this had been my only available opening: Monday, 1:45 PM. And I could tell when I told it to him, the way he smiled, that he liked it about me, what a square I am. One forty five.  

LOU REED by Elizabeth Barker & Laura Jane Faulds

LIZ: I already wrote my love letter to Lou Reed, four months ago. I still agree with all of it, especially the part about how I love Lou Reed for never getting over Lou Reed.

       The first song I listened to after I found out Lou Reed died was "I Found a Reason," which I'd just listened to an hour before. I woke up in a very "I Found a Reason"-y mood that morning, and Lou Reed's dying intensified that, and I wanted to write I do believe if you don't like things you leave on every wall in the world. "I Found a Reason" is the holiest Lou Reed/Velvet Underground song for me; in my head it lives next to "Oh! Sweet Nuthin'", which is a little bit holy but mostly my saddest Lou song. "Sweet Jane" is the sweetest, it's angelic and dirty - not "dirty" like "nasty," but just like it's got some dirt on it, a mix of soot and good, minerally soil. "Satellite of Love" is Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Ewan McGregor riding carnival spaceships through the sky, being in love and boys; "Walk on the Wild Side" is still the shitty mustard-yellow/dirt-brown Dodge Dart my dad drove in the late 1980s. "Rock and Roll" is forever and always the song that is most my song of all the songs that have ever been sung.
        And "Sister Ray" is all different things. On Halloween night I went to a party and a guy was dressed as Lou and I never found out his name: I just kept calling him Lou, because if you're going to be Lou Reed for Halloween four days after Lou Reed died, then you have to accept that Lou Reed is the only thing that matters about you. I walked home from the party, up the biggest hill in the world, and I didn't have my earbuds but I wanted to listen to a 21-and-a-half-minute-long version of "Sister Ray" from a show the Velvet Underground played in Boston in 1969. So I just put it on and pressed my phone to my ear like I was talking to Lou Reed singing "Sister Ray," and walked up the hill and down the hill in the big scary dark, full of wine and candy. That version's even more psychotic than the original: it sounds like murdering, but it's also free and dreamy and pretty and heaven-like. I guess I already knew that it's possible to feel all those things at once, but Lou makes it so you don't even need to think about it - he just makes it happen to you. The peak of the murder-y/heaven-y feeling is this part where Lou sings about someone knocking on his chamber door, and then Maureen Tucker beats the drums like a door being knocked, and then Lou does his cool stuttering thing, and the guitars speed up and get extra-insane and extra-psychotic. I want to tell you exactly where it is but I think you have to get through it and find out yourself. All I can say is it's somewhere after the middle but not very close to the end.

       When LJ and I were writing our Beatles book, I was going to have a Lou Reed lyric be my Beatles-book epigraph: it was going to be the part from "Beginning to See the Light" that goes "I met myself in a dream, and I just wanted to tell you everything was all right." It took me a while to figure that out, because "Beginning to See the Light" is so much in my head that sometimes I forget that it's there. I've never not known Lou Reed so I've always taken him for granted and I really like living that way - but I'm also so happy for those moments when I remember the existence of Lou Reed, when a Lou Reed song is the only thing that matters about me or about anything.

LJ: When I found out Lou Reed died, I was sitting at one of the pink-red leather booths at the back of my new restaurant, next to the open kitchen, a silvery metallic blur hovering around one side of my right eye, eating ceviche out of a small white bowl so cute and round it should’ve been called a cup. The cold-station cook at my new restaurant used to be a pastry chef at one of the most famous hotels in Mumbai before she moved here for marriage, and her ceviches are made out of the exact same ingredients as the ceviches at my old restaurant, only she chops them up much tinier and so that all the bits are the exact same size, and when eaten out of a clear vessel, as they are when they’re served to customers, it looks like a goblet crammed full of gemstones.
         My story of how I found out Lou Reed died is not very interesting beyond the ceviche: I was looking at Instagram on my phone while I took a little break from work to chill and eat ceviche, saw a bunch of pictures of Lou Reed or Lou Reed records people’d posted, caught a chill, Googled Lou Reed’s name, and found out that he died. I thought the following thoughts, very quickly, in order: 

 -The possibility of Lou Reed dying never occurred to me before this instant 
 -I’m going to remember that I was eating ceviche when I found out Lou Reed died for the entire rest of my life
-Lou Reed was born the same year as Paul McCartney, which is weird, since the Beatles happened first
-If you’d have asked me to guess, I’d have put him at sixty-six
-Is seventy-one a normal age to die, or is it too soon?
-I feel like when I was a kid more people died at seventy-one than they do today
-I think it’s “on the younger side of average”
-Today must be a really weird day for all the people who were planning on dressing up as Lou Reed for Halloween
-I’m not going to let Lou Reed’s death get to me

And, in the spirit of not letting Lou Reed’s death get to me, I finished eating my ceviche before telling my co-worker that Lou Reed died. I wasn’t going to let Lou Reed’s death prevent me from enjoying my ceviche.

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It’s not that I never loved Lou Reed, it’s that I never thought of myself as being a person who loved Lou Reed. Though if you’d asked me, “Do you love Lou Reed?” I would have spat a venomous “Yes” at you, like a more serious “Duhhhh,” like what kind of idiot are you, like “Of course,” only meaner. But as someone who moved to New York City at eighteen in the hopes of one day self-identifying as “a New Yorker,” only to discover that I’m actually “a New Yorker”’s nameless opposite, I fundamentally can’t relate to anyone as fundamentally New York-y as Lou Reed for crying out loud, and also I love John Cale so much that I can’t help but like Lou Reed a little less in his honor. They’re both Pisces but with Lou you can tell his moon’s in something fiery, something real dominant and aggro, he’s like a fighter, light and sharp, like a boxer the fighter and like a Boxer the dog, but John Cale’s all water, a terrifying yet peaceable Frankenstein who emerged from a lagoon needing nothing more than To Be Loved.
        But mostly it’s that when I think of Lou Reed, I think of BLACK, the non-color black. I think of a bleak, ugly world populated by sex criminals walking other sex criminals around on fraying leashes made of rope colored black with dried-out black Sharpie, the insides of their noses crusted over with bloody brown crud, sharp like all the Clorox chemical drugs they’re always shivering from their having recently taken or direly needing to take, and it’s always either November or February, and Edie Sedgwick’s slumped over in some corner, annoying you by being a wealthy pointless succubus and then dying, making you feel guilty about how you were once annoyed by her being a wealthy pointless succubus, and everybody smokes cigarettes, and there’s cigarette butts floating around in the only water the entire city’s got to drink, and Lou Reed’s like “My week beats your year,” and you’re just like “Euucchh, Lou. No it doesn’t.”

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I came home from the gym, and climbed into bed with my boyfriend. “I think it’s time to wake up,” I said, and he agreed with me. It was one in the afternoon.
        I made him a cup of coffee, and asked, “Do you want to hear what the Velvet Underground sound like?” (It was two days after Lou Reed died, and a lot had happened in between: I’d been very drunk, sobbing to my boyfriend in my black lace dress half-on/half-off, terrified of how many thoughts I’ve been forgetting to think, understanding why I don’t believe in God and why I want to make money, though blown away by how I've stopped believing that writing could give it to me too, confused as to why I didn’t think that I could live a life without God but not be godless, why we all live inside a bubble, and why I ever thought that this bubble meant anything; I woke up at six in the morning and ate a handful of lentil chips to get myself back to sleep, and when we woke up properly we loved each other more than we’d loved ever each other before. We went out for a “fancy-dancy” lunch as he’d adorably say and I recklessly drank two (two!) glasses of wine: one rose, a Syrah, and one of a peppy and dynamic Riesling. We shared a pear and foie gras terrine which we spread onto bread, the French waiter my boyfriend knew dropped the spoon holding the little cubes of dark jelly that I ignored and it shattered; I salted every slice and peppered every slice and then ate them with frisee. I somehow got to work one minute early (work was why the wine was reckless) and sat in the office listening to Sweet Jane on headphones; Lou Reed was in a rock and roll band but I’m more like the girl, Jane, from the couple, “saving up all their monies,” it’s a little condescending the way he talks about them but I’d probably think bankers and clerks were as lame as Lou Reed did if I were Lou Reed too, and I thought about how nice his name is, how nice I’ve always thought his name is, and I thought about how tired I was, how much I missed my boyfriend, how foie gras tastes like earth.)
         He said he did, and I played him Who Loves The Sun. “This is my favorite Velvet Underground song,” I said, “It’s kind of a weird choice to have be your favorite Velvet Underground song. It’s not a very accurate representation of what they actually sound like.”           “It’s nice!” he said, but I take it back- it’s not my favorite Velvet Underground song, though it is the Velvet Underground song that reminds me most of myself: a warm yellow pop song about hating everything. And my favorite Velvet Underground song isn’t Beginning To See The Light either, nor is it She’s My Best Friend, though they're all close seconds, and no song Nico sang’s definitely not my favorite Velvet Underground song- her voice is something to endure, not enjoy- though ever since I fell in love there’s a weirdly stunning line from I’ll Be Your Mirror I refer to at least once a week: I find it hard/ To believe you don’t know/ The beauty you are- 
        But my favorite song from The Velvet Underground & Nico’s got to be There She Goes Again: I’d like to believe that if I were a character in a movie it could maybe play in the background when I first arrived onscreen: I’d like to think that I could be those bam-bam-bam-bam/bam-bam-bam-bams, reclining into a smirk, then coming back to bam-bam-bam all over again, just when you thought everything was gonna be copacetic, it was never gonna be copacetic, the "You better hit her" a nod to my general frustratingness, particularly as a love interest, and I’m partial to any piece of art that talks about flying like There She Goes Again or Norwegian Wood. That’s what flying means for humans, if it doesn’t mean flying in an airplane. It means going away forever.
         And my favorite Velvet Underground song, believe it or not, is Here She Comes Now, but just as my favorite Beatles song isn’t Hey Jude, the best Velvet Underground song is Sister Ray.

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The summer I turned sixteen, my Internet best friend came to visit. I'd never loved her as much as I'd loved the idea of it, and the whole trip- a plodding, excessive three count ‘em three weeks long- was a farce, either of us doing more-or-less half-assed jobs at pretending that we were having as much as fun as I’d inferred from the sourness informing the bulk of her parlance that we were never going to have: it was obvious that she found all details of my life- from my Brutalist high school's poorly-executed open-concept math department, where I went to pick up a near-failure of a trig exam to my ugly dying poodle, my chubby best friends, the pot we smoked out of taped-up bus transfers to impress her- disappointingly unglamorous. She came from privilege, which made me feel poor, and I could tell she was upset that my family didn’t live closer to Toronto’s downtown.
        Her second week here, we stayed at a cottage that belonged to one of my mother’s co-workers; my family didn’t have a cottage; my Internet best friend’s family had a lake house. The cottage was boring, and my mother was afraid that our dogs were going to fall off the balcony and die. My friend and I drank twenty-four cans of Pepsi in three days and talked about how many calories were in the Pepsi. At night we each slept on the bottom bunk of a duo of bunk beds and, once she fell asleep, I’d sneak out and lie on the pier next to the lake or bay or river or whichever it was, probably bay, being eaten alive by skeeters, too bored to write it down in my notebook (“nothing worth documenting,” I would have hummed sedately), listening to Sister Ray on headphones, hating everyone except the moon.
          Sister Ray, broken and majestic, was a secret more illicit than any body part or crazy thing you could do with it, truly more bad than any drug. I didn’t want anyone in the world to know I had it. Some older boys at school I knew had heard the other one, the one with the banana on the cover, but nobody knew about White Light/White Heat except for me.
          It was one of the first songs that took me outside myself- I’d already found the Beatles, but the Beatles drew me deeper within. I didn’t care for many of the words the Velvet Underground sang: Heroin, “It’s my life and it’s my wife” sounded overwrought even to human history’s most dramatic sixteen-year-old; The Gift was like poetry from a long time ago that a nerd would be into, only about Wisconsin, and there was a part about caresses and sexual oblivion that made sex sound really lame; Sister Ray had its moments, but they were burdened by its incessant “sucking on my ding-dong”s, which embarrassed me then, and embarrass me now. It was the guitars I cared about, the music and the noise, the rasp and slur of a Vox Continental organ getting fucked (and I mean that as a compliment) (in the highest regard) by my favorite Welsh Lurch, and it didn’t make me think about life or sex or anything, it just was, and those nights on the pier, amazing to think I didn’t have a glass of wine with me, were the first that I fully understood the vastness and violence with which I would always be a woman who preferred sound to sight, water to air, air to AC. And the ease with which I would always choose solitude.