Let's Hear It!

What’s Halloween without a party, and what’s a party without killer music? In compiling my playlist, I realized there is no shortage of songs about darkness, doom, depression, and despair. Imagine that. Fortunately, there is still room for a little magic. Some random tracks from my playlist.

I’m So Afraid – Fleetwood Mac. No spooks or demons needed to get to this condition. All it takes is one’s own loneliness, which is infinite, unchanging, and terrifying.

The Green Manalishi – Judas Priest. The devil is beside you, is at your door, is in your bed. Who else torments and tortures well into adulthood but that one person you thought was your lover? Two pronged crown, indeed.

Still Life – Iron Maiden. Leftover teenage angst is tapped in this creepy suicide pact tale. Or maybe it’s the fluent, haunting opening guitar solo emulating a mysterious pool’s rippling surface that keeps luring me back.

I Put a Spell on You – Nina Simone. Other excellent covers have been made of this song (Creedence Clearwater Revival, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins), but something about Simone’s rendering sinks in and stays with you. When the High Priestess says “you’re mine,” you’d better believe it.

(Don’t Fear) The Reaper – Blue Oyster Cult. Funny title for an ode to everlasting love. Maybe not. Looking for and finding your one and only is an acceptance of need. Anyone you need can leave you, and will one day die. Same goes for you. Fearful stuff. But, God, the alternative: life without love. That’s the real horror.

Witch Doctor – David Seville. What with all the darkness and despair, you gotta throw in some lightness and fun. Besides, behind the squeaky, perky walla-walla is the same story—resorting to a wicked scheme to try to get someone to love you back and end your misery.

Thriller – Michael Jackson. Anything that makes someone with pretty girl issues want to dress up like a tattered, rotting, sunken-eyed zombie, brings a diverse group of people to the park on a weeknight to practice the shuffle-ha-slide during a lightning storm, and gathers an even more diverse of over 200 to perform the dance at Tiguex Park simultaneously with the rest of the globe for Thrill the World, is pure magic.

Maybe I’ll Just Go Home
Girlfriend number one was in Phoenix. Girlfriend number two was sleeping off a trip to Vegas. I had just called girlfriend number three from my car, and she was telling me that she wasn’t feeling so great and didn’t think she was going to make it after all. I was on my own. This wasn’t going to be any fun at all. But it was Summerfest in Nob Hill with a great musical line-up as part of the New Mexico Jazz Festival, one of my Facebook friends was performing with his band Baracutanga that I had received invites to see for the last year, and I had been planning to go to this event for the last three weeks. Besides, I had showered, dressed, and actually found parking.

I’ll just go for an hour. I can stand it for an hour. That got me out of the car and on my way down the hill towards the festivities. It was a beautiful evening. The sun broke through the clouds that had cooled the air to the perfect temperature, and I found a spot with a decent view of the stage.

Are These Bitches Really Going to Stand Right in Front of Me?
Yep. They are. Okay. I needed to move around more anyway. The seven member Latin American Baracutanga was playing music to move to. Vocals, guitar, drums, xylophone! I wanted to be on the beaches of Brazil. Instead, I was shifting spots on the concrete to see past all the duos and trios of buddies who kept blocking me, oblivious of the girl standing alone. But Baracutanga was a great band that I would totally see again, by myself, even.

Will the Next Band Finish Setting Up Before the End of Bob Marley’s Legend?
The African Roots of Jazz Project was ready before the end of “I Shot the Sheriff,” just a little more than halfway through the CD. I quickly forgave when I saw that the group consisted of a singer, a bass player, a guitarist, and four drummers. There was some staff to coordinate and equipment to set up. Sina Soul started singing “Summertime” and I was up off the curb where I had been sitting and waiting, watching people walk by and reading emails on my Blackberry. Chris Rodriguez was like Herbie Hancock and Dizzy Gillespie on guitar. I suddenly wanted to be in the impromptu dance area right in front of the stage, and in front of everybody else, including those sitting in all the white folding chairs. Yet, did I really want to be up front and center among all the crazy solo dancers? You know who I’m talking about. Those people who go up and dance all by themselves, dramatic and spastic and all over the place, not giving a damn what anybody else thinks, and it’s a good thing, because all the rest of us are sitting on our asses and laughing at them.

Someone stepped right in front of me. A tall man with a child perched on his shoulders. Oh, hell, no. I’m getting in front of this dude. Once I started moving, I couldn’t stop. Next thing I knew, I was right up there with the crazy solo dancers. It was sweet up there. I could see the faces and expressions of all the musicians. Sure, I was in the same company as the hat-wearing hippie dude who hopped all around, and the migrant farm-worker looking dude who danced like he was stoned—way too slow and with absolutely no connection to the beat, and the back-porch sitting old dude, who was parked at the foot of the stage hollering field chants, but I breathed a sigh of relief and just laughed. I belonged up here after all.

Then the Odigbo Adama African dancers came on stage, resplendent in all white dresses and head wraps. Score! I didn’t know there were going to be dancers! I now had the best “seat” in the house, and even more of a reason to dance like the crazy solo dancers. Because how are you going to keep still when there’s African drumming and dancing going on? That’s crazy.

I Want to Walk on My Side of the Street
Well, look who’s here! Girlfriend number three got her second wind and came on down with her new boyfriend. I’m not alone after all. I realized I had never really been alone. I had me, and the music, and the performers, and all those people around me, even the ones who had gotten on my last nerve. After the African Roots project finished, we started walking down to the other end of Nob Hill to catch the last act of the night, Los Pleneros de la 21. I was full of energy and kept walking ahead and winding up on the opposite side of the street as my companions.

“Look at you,” GF3 commented. “You stayed down here all by yourself. You’ve become a free spirit.”

Guess I have. Free to be me.