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.

I just remembered why I get melancholy when autumn comes, even though I never have to go to school again. It’s because October 2nd is the birthday of my dear friend and gifted singer Linda Cotton, who died four years ago on Thanksgiving Day, right in front of me.

For her birthday I buy a big pot of bright-colored chrysanthemums and drive up to the grave site. I always think I’m going to update her on what’s been going on in my life, but I usually just sit and stare at the Sandia Mountains in complete silence. Ironically, visiting her marker at the cemetery is the only time I get to do nothing for longer than five seconds. Leaving is always the hardest part. I then come home to my arsenal of coping with grief material (besides the Vodka and Kahlua, of course.)

Jogging with Ke$ha and ‘70s Disco
Girlfriend would be turning over in her grave if she knew this. Gospel, soul, R&B, jazz, and blues were her loves. Pop and disco were not, to understate it. I can just imagine her caustic and hilarious quips about the matter right now. But it’s poppy, peppy, and about dancing and partying, and sometimes that’s all I really need.

The Magic Hour: Wynton Marsalis Quartet
My friend is responsible for me going to my first Wynton Marsalis concert at the KiMo in 2004, where I bought The Magic Hour CD and promptly became hooked. I now chill, read, write, eat, and sleep to Wynton’s music. And soothe myself when feeling a bit low.

Veronica Mars: The Complete First Season
Following heroine Veronica Mars on her quest to find her best friend’s killer, while haunted by memories of the bosom buddy, playful laughter, and wicked fun that she’s lost forever, is 100% cathartic.

Dorrie and the Wizard’s Spell
Ah, Dorrie the Little Witch books. Back to childhood and the innocence of at least half believing in magic, and being blissfully ignorant of the notion that we grow up, possibly don’t find what we’re looking for, and then die.

A Good Cry
Ain’t no other way to put it. Losing your best friend sucks.

Summer has passed so quickly since the early heat wave in June when it was 104 degrees over a weekend and I hadn’t called the guy to set up my swamp cooler yet. Great way to have an existential breakthrough, by the way, getting up at midnight with your blood boiling and sleeping on the camping mattress by the open kitchen window.  Now the mornings are cooler and the evenings come dark earlier and the Halloween and Christmas décor is out in full force at Hobby Lobby. Besides brandishing my credit card at the fall shoe preview sales, here are five reasons why I’m coping with summer’s end.
Road Trippin’ to the 80’s
Right before Labor Day I went on a road trip to L.A. with my homegirl who was moving into a studio apartment before starting her final year at USC Annenberg. No better way to celebrate the close of the sunny season than driving through the desert at midnight, scarfing down Peanut Butter Newman-O’s and singing to classic eighties cassettes such as Cyndi Lauper’s “She’s So Unusual,” Janet Jackson’s “Control,” and George Michael’s “Faith.”
When September Ends
. . . I will have finally seen Green Day live in concert. That was the motivation behind the trip to L.A. Last time I had the chance to see them, right here in my hometown, none of my friends at the time liked punk—all R&B and jazz lovers, go figure—and by the time I got the courage to go by myself, the concert had sold out. Totally lame-o. Now, when the autumn leaves start to fall, I’ll remember standing on the lawn at Verizon Amphitheater, arm and arm with my buddy, singing along with Billie Joe to “Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life).”
The Vampire Diaries (TVD) Second Season
Checked out the first season reruns over the summer thanks to Rob Sheffield’s (Rolling Stone) review that lead with the statement, “Every teenage girl should have a vampire boyfriend.” He’s right. No wonder I was so lonely in high school. Too late for that now. Thursday nights with CW’s TVD epic soap of a teenage girl, her vampire boyfriend, and his bad older vampire brother who vies for said girl’s heart, will have to do. And it does very well.
B.B. King and Buddy Guy Live and Together
It seems too good to be true. Two blues greats on the same stage on the same night (September 18th). The last two times I saw Buddy Guy were fiascos: 1) the venue changed at the last minute to this crappy bar with folding chairs where one of the patrons thought it was a jam session and pulled out his harmonica to “play” along with Buddy; and 2) I got stuck at work on a mega proposal and my friend got sick and by the time I found a companion and got out to the venue Buddy was almost done with his set. On the upside, tonight will be my sixth time seeing B.B. King live and, nope, it’s not too many. Presumably, this time I won’t have to snatch a harmonica out of somebody’s hand and beat them to death with it.
Smallville Tenth and Final Season
Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Chloe Sullivan, and Oliver Queen trip through trials and tribulations for one last, and reportedly dark, year. No other show I’ve watched and loved has lasted this long. How fast the time goes. Like summer. Shoot. Now I’m feeling a little sad.

Road trips. Everybody should take one. The motion, the adventure, the escape. Yet, the road goes on forever and the body grows weary. The brain goes numb. The heart gets lonely. You need a little company along the way to keep you going, a sympathetic ear, a pep-talking pal, a kindred spirit.

To shift you into gear, here is Loisgrl’s top ten songs to take with you on the road.

10.  Ol’ 55 – The Eagles. Cloaked by the early morning darkness and hush, you back the car out of the garage. This is the time to hit the road, when you don’t have to say goodbye because everyone else is still sleeping. You’ve done something fun and a little bad and you’re getting off scot free. How far can you go before the sun comes up and slices a harsh light on your sins? Let’s find out.
9. One Way Out – The Allman Brothers Band. There’s only one way out of town, with your jeans and T-shirt on, your guitar in the back seat, and the bottle of whiskey in the trunk. The guy or gal who done you wrong is receding into a distant memory, fading away along with the civilization that has been ditched for the long stretch of scrub grass and rock and sky that are along the way to what’s ahead of you. What that is, you don’t know, but there are no cars and no cops out here, so you put your foot to the floor.
8. Fun, Fun, Fun – The Beach Boys. To be young and carefree. All it really takes is for you to release your resistance to pure catchy fun, let your hair down, and roll on out the place, the establishment, the nonsense, bopping in your seat with your inhibition tossed to the wind. Until you arrive at your next destination. Or you could just keep driving.
7. Santa Monica – Everclear. Crank down the window and let the cool, fresh, salty breeze caress your face. The surf slamming into the shore fills your ears and reminds you why it’s great to be alive, even while fleeing the aftershock of a catastrophic breakup. Painful past and foggy future are irrelevant. Right now is the only thing that matters, and right now is pretty damn good.
6. Born to Be Wild – Steppenwolf. Shades on, one hand on the wheel, other elbow out the window, and looking badass. The only reason you know you’re never gonna die is because every end is a beginning. You’re not king of the world, not when the red rock juts majestically against the cloudless blue sky—you’re just in it. Life is grand, and so are you.
5. Highway to Hell – AC/DC. This hasn’t been your most stellar week. You ran that red light, went off on that jackass in the Walmart check-out line, took that phone call from the ex you swore you wouldn’t give the time of day to again, and lied about what you did last night. Time to get out while the getting’s good and turn up the radio as loud as it will go while you’re at it, because you know exactly where you’re going.
4. Sin Wagon – Dixie Chicks. This rollicking, racing whoop of rebellion rousts you out of your stifled, stagnant ways. Daddy might not tell you what to do anymore, but everyone else sure tries to. They’re eating your dust now as you fly down the road to anywhere but here.
3. Crossroads – Cream. You’ve been on the road all day and night has fallen. You feel a little sleepy and you still have a ways to go. You pull over and close your eyes for just a minute . . . your eyes fly open with a start. You hear that dark, urgent, rumbling guitar and bass coming up on you, and you remember that you’re almost there, this is no time to stop. Headlights on, baby. Let’s go for a ride . . .
2. Long Way to Happy – Pink. That one night of what seemed like a good idea at the time has left your with your ego and your emotions stomped and ground into the floor. Will you ever know happiness again? You bet you will. Just peel out onto the highway singing at the top of your lungs. Sure, it’s going to be a long haul, but you’re already on your way.
1. Thunder Road – Bruce Springsteen.  That sweet, hopeful song has been calling to you all summer. You’ve been stalling, because what if it’s too good to be true? What if it spirals away into smoke as soon as you reach out to touch it? What if when you get there, it turns out not to be at all what you were expecting, but an empty disappointment instead? What if, what if . . .  come on.  Get off that porch, jump into the driver’s seat, and go. You know you want to.

At a recent networking event, a group of us girls got to talking about music and musicians, and one of the ladies said, “If Maxwell’s “Fortunate” is playing when you” —meaning her husband— “walk through the door, you’re not going to know what hit you.”

I remembered how several months ago Billboard released its list of 50 sexiest songs and left some us confused as to why “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton-John topped “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye. (One of my favorite local DJs from the Jeff & Jamie morning show on OMG radio was a little outraged. “A bunch of  guys in Spandex is not sexy!”) Billboard’s list was compiled of the 50 most popular songs about sex, based on the song’s performance on the chart. I care more about the performance by a duo in my own personal show, featuring me and him.

To me, a sexy song isn’t just about sex. It’s a song that makes me feel sexy or feel like having sex—preferably both.

Here’s Loisgrl’s list of top ten songs to get naked by.

10. Fire—Bruce Springsteen. The Pointer Sister’s cover of Springsteen’s song is the well-known version, but Bruce’s performance in jeans and a T-shirt, complete with his husky growl and build up, pull back, and climax rhythm is pure sexiness.

9. These Arms of Mine—Otis Redding. It would be hard to resist the call of this would-be seducer’s anguished, impassioned plea. A girl would at the very least get hot and bothered trying.

8. Push It—Salt-N-Pepa. In this female demand for sexual satisfaction, the girl is in control, unabashed, and having fun. When Mama’s having fun . . .

7. If—Janet Jackson. Primal deliverance for anyone who’s ever given in to those futile, frustrating, forbidden fantasies in the heat of the night.

6. In the Closet—Michael Jackson. Before I even saw the video, I knew this was about white desert heat and sweaty bare bodies.

5. Simply Beautiful—Queen Latifah. Sultry smoky guitar strums lead into the sly, “mm-hmmm” purr of the cat that drank the cream. Simply put, the love she’s about to put on him will simply blow his mind.

4. Candy Shop—50 Cent & Olivia. For someone who’s not exactly my type, 50 Cent is inexplicably seductive here with his deep throated and dirty come on over thigh-shaking drums, chest-throbbing bass, and exotic Arabian Nights strings.

3. Let’s Get It On—Marvin Gaye. It’s on everyone’s list, and it’s on mine, too. Because it really is just that good.

2. Breathe On Me—Britney Spears. Simmering with sensuality, this pulsing, breathy, dreamy trip takes you from the dance floor to the bedroom.

1. Love to Love You Baby—Donna Summer. Zero to sixty in twenty seconds or less. The orgasm set to a sweet siren of a chorus—it’s nasty, it’s notorious, and it gets the job done.

Your mood-maker not on this list? Let’s hear it. Send me your personal list of sexy songs and why they work for you. I’ll compile the top ten fever-inducing faves in a future blog post.

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.

“Let your motto be resistance! Resistance! RESISTANCE!” Those were the words spoken by clergyman and abolitionist Henry Highland Garnet in 1843, and that is the theme of the photo exhibit on display through August 7th at the African American Performing Arts Center in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The sixty-nine photographs in the show capture the strength, grace, and beauty of African American icons ranging from civil rights activists to sports heroes to powerhouse performers. Resistance takes many forms, whether it be refusing to give up your seat on a bus, graduating magna cum laude from Dartmouth during a time when members of your race were getting lynched, or singing so beautifully that nobody cares what color you are.

The two depictions of the most famous civil rights leader, Martin Luther King, Jr., were strikingly similar yet chillingly opposite. In the first picture (shown), King is Kennedy-esque, surrounded by family, smiling and alive. In the second picture, he is surrounded by family, and dead.

Martin Luther King, Jr., Coretta Scott King, and Yolanda Denise King: from African American Portraits Exhibit.

On a cheerier note, a photo that brought a broad smile to my face was one of Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., and Stokely Carmichael, two men who represented two different generations and two different approaches to the achievement of racial justice, and here they are standing face-to-face in a Congressional hallway, having a belly laugh together.

A 1936 photo of track star Jesse Owens leaping over a hurdle nearly made me cheer out loud. He won four gold medals at the Summer Olympics in Berlin, dashing Hitler’s hopes of proving Aryan supremacy. Sweet!

For me, there is no “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” except Sarah Vaughan’s. A co-worker who re-discovered his love of playing the saxophone a few years ago told me that he didn’t appreciate Sarah Vaughan (pictured) until he heard me playing her CD at work, over and over. When I recounted a story to him about singing karaoke with a large group, only to discover halfway through the song that my peeps had dropped out to let me belt it out alone, he said, “Well, not everyone listens to Sarah Vaughan.”

Down Beat magazine named Sarah Vaughan top female singer for six consecutive years: from African American Portraits Exhibit.

I wish I could take home the print of Josephine Baker doing the Charleston (pictured.)

Josephine Baker: from African American Portraits Exhibit.

I dressed as the exotic dancer, banana skirt and all, at a Halloween party one year, and everyone thought I was Dorothy Dandridge, because Halle Berry had played her on an HBO special. I saw a photo of Dorothy, the first African American to be nominated for an Academy Award, at the exhibit. Okay, so Josephine Baker and Dorothy Dandridge are both black and very pretty. But, come on. Anyway, what a lot of people probably didn’t know is that Josephine Baker was also a supporter of the Allied troops during WWII and a vocal civil rights proponent after the war.

I can’t close without mentioning my musical hero Wynton Marsalis. I own more CDs by Wynton than any other musician. He has won nine Grammy Awards and is the artistic director of Jazz at Lincoln Center. Wynton’s photo, along with those of many other well-known and remarkable reformers—Frederick Douglass, Malcolm X, athletes—Muhammad Ali, Jackie Robinson, artists—Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and musicians—Duke Ellington, Diana Ross and the Supremes, just to name a few, are on display, along with placards that give brief and illuminating details on their lives and accomplishments.

“Let Resistance Be Our Motto” is a gem of an exhibit. Take an hour to visit the Center and listen to great music—songs of the musicians in the exhibit play in the background—look at gorgeous photographs of some extraordinary individuals, and get inspired by the achievements and shining light of humanity.

The show is free, y’all. What a gift.

“Let Resistance Be Our Motto Art Exhibition” is at the African American Performing Arts Center through August 7th, 2010.

I am still bummed that I was not in my seat but standing in line to answer the call of nature when Ke$ha opened with my second favorite hit of hers, “Blah Blah Blah.” Note to self: take care of that business the minute you arrive, not after you can’t hold it any longer. Although, if I hadn’t made the trek to the restroom at that moment, I wouldn’t have run into a couple of my friends that I hadn’t seen in awhile, and I wouldn’t have stood in line behind two fifteen-year-old girls who were wearing white cut-up T-shirts with hot pink hand-painted graffiti-esque “Ke$ha” and “Rihanna” whimsically angled across the front and back and sprinkled with glitter—homemade T-shirts worthy of retail sale.

Temperatures that day reached just under 100 degrees. An hour before the Pavilion gates opened, a cloud cover rolled over the mesa and a gentle breeze kicked up. Summertime, outdoor concert, perfect.

My friend and I made it back to our seats in time for Ke$ha’s latest top ten hit, “Your Love Is My Drug.” “You know the words,” Ke$ha said to the crowd. Yes, we did.

Ke$ha’s set consisted of a backdrop of like a thousand worn T-shirts strung together in a stage floor-to-roof curtain, and rectangular columns covered with vanity bulbs, reminiscent of both a basement disco party and a beauty pageant dressing room, and only partially concealing the backup dancers changing costumes behind them. Ke$ha and her troupe’s dancing has picked up game since the critically-derided SNL performances, but I could be biased because the blonde-maned star was flanked by two male dancers in cut-offs and T-shirts (just how I like my young male dancers to dress), who took their flannel shirts off for, you know, “Take It Off.”

I know I’m pretty much alone on this, but Ke$ha’s low-tech production that has so unimpressed critics and fans alike is exactly what I found appealing. I realize that her performance probably didn’t project to the lawn seats and although I had a decent seat, I only got to see her chain mail tights and blue glitter mask painted over her eyes from the Facebook photos posted by a fan who won front row seats. Ke$ha seems like someone that any regular girl with talent, creativity, and drive can aspire to. Her outfits, any teenage girl could put together.  Her past gaffes on national television, all part of her charm of the young woman trying her own thing, finding her way, with toughness and confidence. To me, the “amateurish” concert performance was like watching your super talented and ambitious buddies putting on a show. Nothing stood between Ke$ha and her audience but her singing and her music and how it made us feel. Judging from the exuberance with which we all jumped out of our seats and danced and sang at the top of our lungs to her closing number, “Tik Tok,” that was pretty damn good.

As for Rihanna, her deal was definitely high-tech: floating stages, ten-foot tall stilt-walking monsters (Disturbia) and girls in electrical tape costumes dangling from gigantic assault rifles (Te Amo).  An ongoing rapid fire audio/visual assault designed to distract us during her costume changes, which took ten times longer than Ke$ha’s, just made me impatient for the red mop-topped diva to re-emerge from behind the screen and start singing again. But the costumes were fantastic—a pale pink glittery plunging v-neck body suit, a shiny black futuristic dominatrix body thong, and an asymmetrical ensemble that looked like she was wrapped in white tape and nothing else.

Her opening song, “Russian Roulette,” did not receive much airplay when it was released as a single last November—the first time I heard it I was slightly disturbed, then realized “Oh, it’s Rihanna, post-Chris Brown,” then couldn’t wait to hear it again. It got played like, two more times and that was it. As soon as Rihanna sang the first line, “Take a breath,” at the concert, she was met with fervent cheers. A song too disturbing for radio was perfectly dramatic for a live show. She floated magnificently on a raised stage, and the long black dress she wore served as a backdrop for a red droplet light show, representing dripping blood, while the image of a beating heart getting crushed and oozing through a closed fist displayed on the screen behind her. That was all just background for her riveting voice.

This intensity was soon followed by the fun boastful romp and chant of “I-I-I-I’m so hard, yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m so hard” (yes, it is one of my ringtones). I got a real kick out of Rihanna straddling a pink phallic tank at the song’s conclusion.

Rihanna is a pop star, but she rocks. She has a seriously rockin’ live band that features guitarist Nuno Bettencourt, formerly of Extreme (“More Than Words”). The intro to the crowd-pleasing “Rude Boy” was Nuno on stage by himself wailing on the guitar. At one point Rihanna herself beat the hell out of a drum set that was set down on the stage just for her. She banged heads along with her two guitarists for “Rockstar 101” and we all jumped up and danced to “Don’t Stop the Music” and flamenco-flavored “Te Amo.” Her live band laid down a new level of power and drive to her already beat-savvy songs.

Just as powerful were the numbers that spotlighted a piano and Rihanna’s voice: “Hate That I Love You,” “Unfaithful,” and, my emotional climax, “Take A Bow.” The teenage girl next to me said to her father, “I’ve been waiting for this song.” She wasn’t the only one. “This one is for the ladies,” Rihanna announced and was met with a swell of female cheers. That was when I was the most thankful for the jumbo video screens displaying close-ups of her face because I could see the sass in her eyes and smile as she sang the ultimate getting-out-of-a-deceptive-relationship anthem and we sang our hearts out with her, because we knew you haven’t lived much if you haven’t been taken in at least once by a lying, cheating fool.

The Ke$ha /  Rihanna concert did not sell out, which really surprised me. It’s been years since I had this much fun at a concert. When the Barbados-born Rihanna said that this was her first major U.S. tour and thanked us, the audience, for making it possible, I felt a twinge of sadness that the show hadn’t sold out (which it should have). While dancing in the club and jamming to the iPod is great stuff, there is no comparison to the vibrancy and power of a live performance and the collective energy of being surrounded by an amphitheater filled with like-adoring fans. The next time I cringe and start to pace after being met with the ridiculous Ticketmaster/Live Nation/whatever service charges and realize how much I’m about to plunk down for a concert ticket, I’m going to remember, hard economic times or no, my mind, body, and soul need the exhilaration and just plain fun of seeing my favorite bands live.

In one of my all-time favorite movies, Almost Famous, 15-year-old reporter William Miller asks guitarist Russell Hammond, “What do you love about music?” It’s a brilliant moment in the movie, and a brilliant line. Despite the question’s simplicity, digging for our own unique answers can reveal a surprising glimmer into the transcendental nature of our psyches.

What do I love about music? It makes me want to sing, want to dance, want to push myself past the point of “I’m going to hurl” during my morning run. There’s more. Music possesses the mysterious power to transform a completely crappy time in my life into a rose-colored remembrance.

When the devastatingly heartbroken “Long Long Time” was on the airwaves, I was a lost, lonely little girl reading comic books and Nancy Drew mysteries in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a crooked building that was surrounded by sprawling three-bedroom homes owned by the strange, distant, daddies of little rich girls who sometimes deigned to play with me, the welfare girl living up the street.  Now, when I play that song, I belt it out, pretending I have pipes like Linda Ronstadt, and in my mind I hug that little girl and I tell her it’s okay, she eventually gets her own money, and someday, she’ll marry for love. I actually believe that last part.

The seductive, opening swishes of “Little Red Corvette” teleport me to the sunny, tree-lined lake shore of my junior high field trip. I was fifteen and grief stricken because I knew I was moving to another city that summer and that I would never see any of my school friends again. Yet when I hear Prince’s hit now, all I can remember is how my guy pal flirted with me that day in front of all our friends, telling me how good I looked in my swimsuit.

High school. Horrors. Good thing I wasn’t cool enough to have access to drugs. Otherwise, I’d have happily OD’d. High school was a three year prison sentence. I’d play hooky because I couldn’t face another day of kids making fun of my hair and telling black jokes to my face. The other day I caught the tail end of a Ronnie James Dio tribute and heard “Rainbow in the Dark.” Somehow now, as back then, Dio’s dark, poetic lyrics sung over melodic guitar riffs and synths make it all okay. Really okay.

“Fast Car.” Is that a man or a woman singing? Who cares? Because I was a college sophomore seriously crushing on a boy who saw me as a good friend. I was such a good friend in his eyes that he confided in me his problems with his new girlfriend, a circumstance I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. No, really. Along came Tracy Chapman, eluding gender stereotypes and singing simply and truthfully about struggle, sacrifice, and sweet young love. To this day, I hear that triumphant chorus of temporary escape and the gut-wrenching agony of my nineteen-year-old self just melts away.

Strangely siren-like, how a piece of music can make me remember a harrowing period of my life with real fondness. That is what I love about music. Without it, I’d be one heavy load of unhappy memories. With it, I can grab hold and float away under a buoyant balloon of bliss.

And that is bank.