My parents are currently visiting from South Africa, and last week we took them on a road trip to explore the California Coast. The weather was spectacular, and it was a great time all-around – it’s always fun when you have an excuse to act like a tourist in your own backyard.
These are strange times we live in, and I don’t think the current economic environment has impacted the collective psyche of a nation anywhere as much as it has here in America. The mood has changed dramatically over the past year or so, and it is hard not to get caught up in it all. Because yes, it is scary, and I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t sometimes keep me up at night.
But all of this turmoil – the stress at work, the worries about the future, the uncertainty of the economy – went away for a few moments yesterday when I heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. I kid you not, it is like standing on holy ground. The realization that God is assembling a new life inside Jess fills me with a reverence and a sense of happy responsibility that dwarf any fears or uncertainty I might otherwise have. I fully embrace and run towards this “friendly takeover” of our lives, as my brother calls it.
Of course, I’m not the first dad-to-be to have this kind of reaction. Yes, all ultrasounds look the same – at 57 mm there is not a whole lot to see yet! But this one is different. Because this one is ours. It is moving around in there, alive and kicking. And all I can think about is how this tiny life fits so perfectly into God’s creation, how the many good and bad decisions we (and our child) will make in the coming years will shape this new creation into a person that has the potential to be a force for good in this world. What could be more exhilarating?
From now on, I won’t be skeptical when Jess explains her tiredness by saying “Hey, I’m building a person here!” She’s right. She’s building a person, and all I can do is make sure that I help build a world that is worthy for this person to live in. Bring it on. I’m ready.
The discussion over the societal impact of social networking sites (like Facebook and MySpace) and other social media (like Twitter) will probably continue for many years to come. There are certainly good arguments on both sides. Those who feel too much time online takes away from personal face time with friends and family out in the “real world” have plenty of lonely teenager examples to back them up. On the other hand, those who feel social media help people enhance their offline relationships have plenty of examples too. Where do I stand? Well, I take the easy answer — it depends on the individual, and what they use it for. What follows is a story of how a simple 140-character post on Twitter led to one of the most invigorating experiences I’ve had in a long time. But I still think, when it comes to social media… it depends.
Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am a huge John Mayer fan (and those of you who don’t know me can tell from the title of this blog – yes, now is a good time to go search for “John Mayer Great Indoors” in iTunes). In addition to owning all the CDs and going to his live concerts every time he’s in the area, I also follow his blog closely. And as a Twitter user I was delighted to see that he also joined Twitter recently, so I followed him immediately.
Well, about a week ago, John Mayer posted this picture on Twitter, with the title Moving in, breaking out the vinyl:
For some reason, I couldn’t stop staring at this picture. Music is an enormous part of my life, but I’ve never really been into vinyl. This image — and the promise of the history and joy in this decades-old music — for some reason lit a fire under me to explore vinyl.
Well, as I started reading up about turntables and records online, I quickly realized that I had a lot to learn. I also immediately understood that if there’s one thing all audiophiles agree on, it’s that nothing sounds better than a good record. The sound ranges and emotions in analog recordings are simply superior to any digital recording. (Well, there are exceptions of course. I’m sure a Britney Spears record sounds just as bad as a Britney Spears CD. As someone recently told me in a record shop — you can’t polish a turd…).
Anyway, far from being an expert, I set out this weekend to go buy my first record, Try! by the John Mayer Trio. This just seemed appropriate seeing as I owe my new-found hobby to John Mayer, and I was pretty sure that blues lends itself pretty well to vinyl recordings. But I didn’t have a turntable yet. So I asked at the front desk of the music store (Rasputin, for those who live in the Bay Area) if anyone knew where I could buy a turntable. They sent me to the Analog Room. A mythical place they’ve never been in — in fact, they’ve gone looking for it but couldn’t find it. But they assured me that it existed. So off I went, in search of this mysterious place…
When I walked into the Analog Room it was like stepping into another time and dimension. It’s a few rooms in a house, filled with record players, LPs, and 3 middle-aged guys arguing constantly about equipment, sounds, and of course, their favorite records. I spent my morning there, listening first to my new John Mayer Trio record (“John Mayer is a lot of things, but well recorded isn’t one of them,” was their verdict), and then to the entire Folk Singer album by Muddy Waters. From the first notes of that record I was hooked. I suddenly had a huge smile on my face, and my new friend Brian pointed at me and said, “That’s why vinyl is better than CD.” And I got it. This was the real deal.
I now own a Rega P1 record player and 3 vinyl records: John Mayer Trio (even though the recording is apparently not that good), Folk Singer by Muddy Waters (of course I had to get that), and Axis: Bold as Love by the Jimi Hendrix Experience (the record in the top left corner of the photo above — wow, what a recording). The sounds of vinyl are opening up new doors to experiencing music for me. It’s like discovering a secret garden in your backyard. I’ve only scratched the surface, and I know so little about this world, but I can’t wait to get more. If you have recommendations for essential albums to own on vinyl, please let me know.
So anyway, that’s why I use Twitter. Because every person in the world is interesting at least some of the time. And if you just listen at the right time at what they have to say, your life will be so much richer.
As a South African currently living in the United States, I have heard every response imaginable on my decision to (temporarily) leave South Africa. The responses range all the way from “you must be glad you got out of that dump” to “how can you abandon your country at this critical time?” – and everything in between. Recently the press has picked up on what has become known as the big “brain drain” out of South Africa. This week, Newsweek got into the game with an article sensationally called “Fleeing From South Africa“. I’d like to take a few moments to respond to this article – but please read it first for context.
First, I want to say that there lives a unique dichotomy within those of us who were born and raised in South Africa. Look, we get it. We get that the crime rate is astronomical, the politics are corrupt, and things just tend to not work the way it “should” according to First World standards. Yes, we get all that, but still we can’t emancipate ourselves from this flawed, breathtakingly beautiful country – and its open-hearted, ready-to-take-on-the-future people. And then I read paragraphs like this one in the Newsweek article, and I just shake my head – not because the facts are wrong, but because it misses the point so completely:
The primary driver for emigration among all groups, but especially whites, who still retain the majority of South Africa’s wealth, is fear of crime. With more than 50 killings a day, South Africa has one of the highest per capita murder rates in the world. The same goes for rape—ranking the country alongside conflict zones such as Sierra Leone, Colombia and Afghanistan. Future Fact polling indicates that more than 95 percent of those eager to leave South Africa rate violent crime as the single most important factor affecting their thinking.
Yes, it sounds scary – and the facts are disturbing. But I’ve also recently seen a remarkable uprising of positivity in South Africa that I haven’t seen before. I’m increasingly seeing a “good riddance” attitude towards those who leave the country loudly and for negative reasons. A hope that all the complainers would leave already, so that those who would like to stay and build can get down to business without the distracting and annoying voices of the nay-sayers. I still remember a high school teacher who once asked me, “Do you want to ride the wave of a place that has already accomplished everything, or be a part of building something that has huge unmet potential?” I choose the latter.
I know what you’re thinking though – how can I be judgmental about this while I sit “safely” in another country. Sure, point taken. But I can say that my reasons for leaving had nothing to do with the crime rate or the politcal environment (Yep, I left to pursue a girl…). And I can also say that we will move back, we will definitely move back, and that I’m using my time here to develop skills I can use to help build the future of South Africa.
Why do we plan to go back? Because there’s no place like Africa. Chaos and beauty exist so close to each other, often within the same place and the same moment, and it creates an energy that you just cannot describe. Yes, it’s not for the faint-hearted, and the decision to live there, especially if you’ve lived somewhere else in the world for a while, is made for reasons that transcend the traditional Western values of consumerism and security.
You live in Africa because you can’t get it out of your blood. You live there because you are placed there to make a difference. You live there because you are compelled by the red earth and the redder sunsets to make a small contribution to the ongoing effort to save it from itself, to preserve both the chaos and the beauty so that it can co-exist in harmony. And you do it not for yourself, but for your children, and for generations to come. You live there because you believe that Africa is not the dark continent it is made out to be, that it cannot be written off, that it is too precious and too fragile and too robust, that the world is making a big mistake if it thinks African countries cannot be successful, peaceful democracies.
And so I’ve had several conversations with my country over the past few years. We’re still fighting with each other, my country and I, not quite coming to an agreement about my future there. But I’m ok with that for now. Because I know Africa will never retreat, never stop talking, never condemn me for taking so long to come back. Make no mistake — I know that Africa does not need me. But I need it, desperately. I need it to blow life into my calloused bones. And I need it because I was born there. I am an African.
I don’t understand why good bands have to break up. I recently wrote about Motor Ace, and today it’s time to lament the demise of The Juliana Theory, one of the few emo bands who I thought had brains too, not just an overdose of heart. Although there’s more than enough heart to put them in the emo genre (Exhibit A: they announced their break-up on their site with a single-line blog post: The Juliana Theory is Dead). The music was smart, different, daring… well, until about 2002. After that they unfortunately sunk into the abyss of radio-friendly generic rock, which is probably what doomed them.
But let’s not talk about that, let’s focus on happier days – well, as happy as emo can get – their 2 brilliant albums Emotion Is Dead and Love. Below are a couple of songs off the Love album that really showcase their talent – overly emotional, like emo should be, but with enough melody and musicianship to be taken seriously. Make sure you listen all the way through Everything, it gets huge at the end.
Into the Dark by The Juliana Theory:
Everything by The Juliana Theory:
You should really add these albums to your collection. It’s great for having a good emotional freak-out session without the added guilt of having to listen to Josh Groban while you’re there. Oh, and no need to listen to anything they did after the Love album. Trust me.
On this Inauguration weekend I’m spending some time looking back at the inaugural addresses made by past presidents. The address that captivated me the most was that of John F. Kennedy in 1961. The lyrical content and almost musical quality of the speech is inspiring and timeless. The parts I found most relevant for the world we live in today are his strong calls for social justice that are scattered throughout the speech. Here are some excerpts:
For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life. And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe—the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.
To those peoples in the huts and villages across the globe struggling to break the bonds of mass misery, we pledge our best efforts to help them help themselves, for whatever period is required—not because we seek their votes, but because it is right. If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.
Now the trumpet summons us again—not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need; not as a call to battle, though embattled we are—but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation”—a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease, and war itself. Can we forge against these enemies a grand and global alliance, North and South, East and West, that can assure a more fruitful life for all mankind? Will you join in that historic effort?
Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God’s work must truly be our own.
Below is the full 10-minute address. The hopefulness and optimism reminds me a lot of what President-elect Obama stands for, so as we prepare to hear him speak on Tuesday, let’s take some time to reflect on how history is not as far from the present as we might think. And let’s put away our cynicism, at least for a little while, because as we saw again this week with the plane crash in the Hudson river – when people pull together towards a common goal, miracles happen. Or, to use Obama’s own words:
We’ve been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.
And let us also not forget Robert Kennedy’s words:
Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.
Last week Bono wrote an Op-Ed for the New York Times entitled Notes From the Chairman. I’ve always found Bono to be a surprisingly good writer, and this article is no exception. He reflects on the year that is gone, the times to come, and what it means to be here, now, alive in the turmoil and excitement that is 2009.
He also writes about Frank Sinatra, who I must confess is not my particular brand of vodka. But I do recognize his talent and respect his immense influence on music over the years. And it’s hard to disagree with Bono as he points out the almost eery relevance of a 1963 recording of My Way:
There’s a voice on the speakers that wakes everyone out of the moment: it’s Frank Sinatra singing “My Way.” His ode to defiance is four decades old this year and everyone sings along for a lifetime of reasons. I am struck by the one quality his voice lacks: Sentimentality.
Is this knotted fist of a voice a clue to the next year? In the midst of uncertainty in your business life, your love life, your life life, why is Sinatra’s voice such a foghorn — such confidence in nervous times allowing you romance but knocking your rose-tinted glasses off your nose, if you get too carried away.
A call to believability.
A voice that says, “Don’t lie to me now.”
That says, “Baby, if there’s someone else, tell me now.”
Fabulous, not fabulist. Honesty to hang your hat on.
As the year rolls over, the emotion in the room tussles between hope and fear, expectation and trepidation. Wherever you end up, his voice takes you by the hand.
I’ve sensed for some time now what I think is probably a slow end to post-modern thinking. A rejection of relativism, and a renewed sense of longing for truth and authenticity in our lives. I agree with Bono here – this is is probably what 2009 will bring us.
Bono continues to discuss a relatively obscure recording of One for My Baby (and One More for the Road), off the 1993 Duets album, and what happens when a voice allows itself to be brutally honest:
If you want to hear the least sentimental voice in the history of pop music finally crack, though — shhhh — find the version of Frank’s ode to insomnia, “One for My Baby (and One More for the Road),” hidden on “Duets.” Listen through to the end and you will hear the great man break as he truly sobs on the line, “It’s a long, long, long road.” I kid you not.
Like Bob Dylan’s, Nina Simone’s, Pavarotti’s, Sinatra’s voice is improved by age, by years spent fermenting in cracked and whiskeyed oak barrels. As a communicator, hitting the notes is only part of the story, of course.
It was difficult to find this version of the song, but I finally tracked it down – you can listen to it below. And even though I’m still pretty certain that it’s not the type of music I like to listen to, the emotion is amazing and real and touching. Follow Bono’s advice and listen all the way to the end…
One for My Baby (and One More for the Road) by Frank Sinatra:
As much as I love complex and edgy music, sometimes you just need to rock out. If you get this itch every once in a while too, then this post is for you. You probably haven’t heard about the band Motor Ace before, for two reasons:
They’re Australian, and let’s face it, Australia hasn’t given us anything since Kylie Minogue (thanks for nothing, by the way) and Midnight Oil (YES! “Beds are burning” is the best song of the 80s!!).
They broke up a few years ago.
But their legacy and cult following are still very much alive. It’s hard to find winners in the genre of simple guitar-driven rock. Daughtry and Nickleback have certainly tried, but they too often just end up sounding generic and boring. Motor Ace is different. Their music hits you in the face with unapologetic power chords, smart lyrics, and just enough experimentation to keep you guessing and keep the albums playing on repeat.
Below I’ve provided samples of 2 of the songs from their album Five Star Laundry. If you like it, I encourage you to buy both albums (you’ll have to buy the actual CDs – crazy, I know! – because this isn’t available on iTunes or Amazon MP3). Five Star Laundry (Buy from Amazon) is the raw debut with songs that border on being careless, but that’s what makes it fun. The follow-up album Shoot This (Buy from Amazon)is much more refined (and some would say less real and too radio-friendly). Enjoy!
Long after I should have gone to bed last night, I was sucked in again by Coldplay’s performance on VH1 Storytellers. It occured to me again how they just instinctively get what music is all about. And yes, maybe they take it too far sometimes – their music is pure, over the top emotion, designed to lift you up like you’re flying, or crush you into the ground, depending on the song. Any emotional response will do, as long as it’s not apathy.
But isn’t that what most good art is about? Isn’t it supposed to exaggerate our emotions artificially to help us recognize them more easily the next time we just walk down the street? I believe so. So I say to Coldplay: please continue to play with my emotions. I accept it willingly.
As an example, check out this live version of Fix You:
As I was watching Mamma Mia! a few nights ago (and enjoying it immensely – much to my wife’s dismay) I was struck again by the power of sound and smell to trigger our best – and sometimes our worst – memories. After the movie, I was left with a deep, satisfying sense of nostalgia that couldn’t possibly have been because of Meryl Streep’s dance moves. No, there had to be something else behind it. And that got me thinking…
Vacations are sacred, magical times when you are young. For me they came in two varieties. Summer vacations were comforting and consistent: two weeks in the same beach town, year after year, meant for sun, ocean, and the endless highs and lows that come with growing up in the carefree summer bubble of South African beaches (highest high: taking and surviving the most dangerous of waves; lowest low: well, failed romances, of course).
But winter vacations were something completely different. Where summer vacations were all about resting in the known with the same beach community year after year, winter vacations were about long road trips exploring the unknown, endless hours on the road, together as a family, no outsiders allowed. Where summer vacations were for being as useless as possible, winter vacations were for adventure and growing our increasingly inquisitive minds. And what I remember most about winter vacations is how they always got started: very very VERY early.
My Dad was all about hitting the road at 5am. Just on the first day of vacation, mind you – the rest of the time we didn’t have quite such a strict schedule. He would say it’s about being practical – getting out of the city before traffic picks up, or making sure we hit a certain town before sundown. But I think it was about more than that. I think he liked being on the open road with his family sleeping in the car, the excitement and endless possibility of driving in a new direction under the cover of darkness. Always an explorer at heart, it is one of the strongest senses I inherited from him, and a tie between us that remains unspoken but fully understood. I now think about the many times I had left home – not necessarily in physical darkness, but always with an uncertainty that felt pretty dark to me – and I know that as much as he would have wanted me to stay in town, he understood what I had to do. He understands.
So, at 5am we would all complain and pretend to be upset as we got up and had breakfast, we’d throw our things in my dad’s ancient light-green Mercedes – more of a boat than a car, but an extremely comfortable boat to sleep in – and be on our way. Lying in the back seat of that old car in the pre-dawn hours, pretending to sleep but too excited to do so, is one of my fondest memories. I would imagine where we would be by the time the sun came up. Of course I’d studied the map extensively in the weeks before we left, so I knew exactly where we were going. But what would it look like? Where would we sleep tonight? It might be those moments that transformed me into a serial traveler, always looking for the next place to explore. And the image I have of those times is still as fresh as if it happened yesterday: the roof of the Mercedes was lined with a synthetic that had tiny holes in them, very close together, and if you stared at it just right, it would turn into a 3D image that seemed to come out of the roof, close enough to touch, like tiny stars. The road and the car were quiet. But my mind was racing. And as fast as my mind was going, I’m pretty sure my Dad was thinking only one thing behind the wheel: this is what I live for.
Of course, it wasn’t all fun and games. My brother is 9 years older than I am, and if you spend that much time on the road, the fights are going to be plentiful and not so far between. I can’t remember much about those fights, but I do remember what was usually the only thing that could break them up – music. But that wasn’t easy either. Music is serious business in my family. And on long road trips, we broke into 2 clearly defined factions. My parents preferred talk radio or classical music. My brother and I preferred something a little more youthful (for the time): Neil Diamond, Chris de Burgh, Cat Stevens. Sometimes my parents won, and sometimes my brother and I won. But then there was the one band we could all agree to listen to. ABBA. Civilized enough to suit my parents, enough drums and fake electric guitar to suit my brother and I. Oh, ABBA. We would listen to those tapes until they were worn completely through. We would sing along and forget about all our disagreements – in fact, I would venture to say that ABBA became the defining music of our family vacations.
I’m sure you know where I’m going with this. Watching Mamma Mia! is not about the movie at all. It is about a childhood’s worth of memories flooding over me all at once like water through a burst dam, and the emotion that comes with it. We all have these memories, and they’re triggered by different things – the smell of freshly-cut grass, hearing a jingle from an old TV commercial, a song that played at your high school graduation. You know how it feels.
And it reminds me again of how closely connected we are through our memories, how that which is most personal is most universal, how our humanity and our joy is tied up in the way we were and how that shapes the way we are and can be. And since this is Christmas time and my family is an ocean away, it reminds me of bonds that cannot be broken, bonds strengthened by time together and not broken by time apart. Of traditions we pass on to the new families we create out of nothing, and the bonds that exist not just among us but also with generations past.
And most of all, it reminds me that life is good because of the people we love. So during this time of family and being together, give a little extra love, and maybe start a tradition. Because who knows, generations from now your great-grandson might hear an “old” song from 2008 and be struck silent by a flood of memory you helped create. And so we live on through the people we love.
