Category Archives: Music

What if Nikki Sixx and Jim Morrison were both my husbands?

I miss my wild teenage imagination. I had all these fantasies in private reverie, this rich tapestry of a make-believe life in which I was rich and famous and romantically involved with all of the people I’d ever deemed attractive.

I won’t go into detail here, as most of it is embarrassing and involves making out with pillows. I was 13 or so and lived in the country, miles away from real people, so I did what I had to between rounds of hating my life and writing in my journal. Fantastical fun commenced.

Nikki Sixx

Nikki Sixx, the man I wanted to be married to in 1987.

In my fantasy world, anything was possible, and though I was just learning about sex, I sure seemed to be having a lot of it up there. In this fantasy world, Nikki Sixx was my steady. The bassist from Motley Crue was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life, and I imagined him bewitching, kind, super-intelligent and dramatic. I didn’t even factor in the whole “heroin-addict” thing. But in this vivid imagination, Nikki was gone a lot, spawning my many affairs with other hot rock stars, including (but not limited to) Sebastian Bach from Skid Row, Jani Lane from Warrant, Bret Michaels, Warren DeMartini and Stephen Pearcy from Ratt, Kelly Nickels from LA. Guns and a brief fling with Axl Rose. In this world of mine, Gene Simmons was a mentor of sorts, a father figure. And Jim Morrison was alive, and also a part-time fling. But since I’d read “No One Here Gets Out Alive” when I was 12 or so, I knew Jim was a space cadet and incapable of real love. So he was just part-time, though I remember thinking, “Man, I wish you could get it together, Jim, you’re so hot and so awesome.”

The imagination game didn’t ever extend to TV people. They didn’t seem real to me. But my music idols, they were the real deal, and I had this intimate relationship with them in my head. I was always so amazed at how far my mind would travel with these fantasies, and how I’d snap out of it, go to school and never lapse into being Mrs. Sixx while studying algebra.

I don’t have time for such daydreams nowadays, and I sort of miss them. They’d probably be a lot more exotic now than they used to be — maybe I should write a book based on that fantasy life? “Teenage Whore,” something like that?

All that daydreaming probably had a good effect on me. It certainly made me picky, and not willing to have sex with just anyone: “Why would I do this with you, when I’ve got a perfectly good rich husband in my head that’s waiting for me to get home?”  In fact, I was a pretty good lil’ girl.

I think it did kind of give me a bad-people mentality though. I’ve always been attracted to those who live dangerously, and it’s been to my detriment. Over the past years, I’ve realized that being a rebel doesn’t necessarily mean you’re more fun or a better friend.

But if Nikki Sixx sashayed into my room tonight, I’d probably go for it. In my mind, he’s still wearing that vertical-striped suit from “Smokin’ In the Boys Room” and wearing black stripes under this eyes. Sigh.

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Filed under Brain Disorders, General Nonsense, Music

I might move to New Orleans tonight

Derek Bridges capturing of the Mardi Gras Indians.

Derek Bridges capturing of the Mardi Gras Indians.

I have an extreme lust for New Orleans — during the cool months, that is — and it’s fired up again because it’s nearly Mardi Gras and I’m going to a Louisiana Mardi Gras-themed party this afternoon.

I’m working on a more substantial blog for the Tulsa World site about comfort music. I don’t know if I get to keep my World blog after all this shifting in the newsroom. Something tells me they’ll take it, and I won’t have time for it anyway. But if I’m going to have to leave it, I’ll leave it on a high note.

My feel-good music isn’t very stylish, but it’s what keeps me happy when I need it most. Some folks turn to the bottle during grieving or tumultuous times, I turn to my music collection (which is growing by the week… iTunes is up to 13,469 songs and that’s what I’ve transferred… the rest is on a separate hard drive.) That’s what I did this morning. I decided to make my friends Shane and Frances Bevel, the purveyors of this evening’s party, a CD of my favorite New Orleans Jass selections. They’re probably heard it all before, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

So I’m having my first cup of coffee after sleeping 12 hours… which was blissful… and I fire up the iTunes. The first song is, of course, “Go to the Mardi Gras” by Professor Longhair, a patron saint of that style of music. He’s a fucking master. He’s the best, and you’d better not try to say he isn’t, especially if you are anywhere near Lake Charles.

I added the second song, “Indian Red,” a favorite featuring the “Indians of Mardi Gras,” a wonderful tradition of brotherhood and peace that tears me up every time I read or hear about it. I would LOVE to be part of that group. Oh how I’d love to be in that number… It’s passion, secretive, beauty, pride, fun, everything I love in a group of marching men, chiefs, spy boys, fly boys… it’s amazing, and I want to see it live before I die.

Which brings me to my point: I want to live in New Orleans. I also want to live in Italy, Chicago, Maine, San Francisco and Tahlequah. But I really feel like I need a New Orleans phase in my life, and it might be the first of my many life phases I hope to conquer. If someone called me and said, “Hey, we’ve got a job for you,” I’d move there TONIGHT.

It’s a wanderlust I can’t explain. I’ve never even been there. I’m in love with the idea, the stories of Tennessee Williams, the Balfa Brothers, the Indians, the food, the swagger… the poverty, the fear, the old, dilapidated houses…

I have never said I make sense. And I never will. But know this: I will get my time in New Orleans. And I will walk that mile, that square, that village that Tennessee extolled during his time there. I might be a short fat white woman, but I will know what it’s like to be a native of a darker persuasion. It will happen.

And it probably won’t be tonight. But when that call comes, I’m ready.

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Filed under General Nonsense, Music, Travel

Total recall, or Sarah and the Jingle Bits

Since I have a known mental defect: my brain is a constant jukebox of sound clips, commercials and annoying songs, I sometimes don’t even slow down enough to notice that it’s happening. It’s like a tic, really, and I often say that it’s probably Tourette’s or OCD and nothing I can control. The above video is a clip from Nickelodeon that I often get embedded in my skull. I also constantly hum other old commercials, cartoon intros, Wham! songs and that effing Miley Cyrus song “Party in the USA.”

I like this tic, though, and hope it never goes away. I do wish I remembered regular stuff, like math, but I guess it’s cool to have total recall of every commercial jingle ever made and also every pop song since 1964. I guess it’s cool that I listen to really cool music like Social Distortion or the Modern Lovers in the morning and have the theme from “Gummi Bears” in my head instead. I guess that’s just AWESOME.

It does get kind of old remembering stuff that no one else does. So when I find someone who remembers some useless little bit of an old commercial or something, I latch onto that person and constantly hound them about it. “Hey, remember that Toyota commercial from 1986? Isn’t that funny that we both remember that! Ha! Hahaha, even!”

And then that person either laughs with me (like a true friend) or looks at me with sadness in their eyes and a fake smile curling up their lips. I know then that that person isn’t special like me. Or that that person has a life, which I don’t have.

Case in point: My old roommate, the gay husband, remembered every jingle from his childhood growing up in Indiana, as well as a bevy of national favorites. I thought this was fantastic, and we would spend long, drunken hours singing them at the top of our lungs to no one in particular. No wonder it took him such a long time to find a man to marry; he was always hanging out with his crazy friendgirls who sang Mazda commercials with him.

Texans, especially Dallas-area Texans, have a firm hold of the commercials of the 1980s, mostly because they were incredibly annoying and catchy: Westway Ford, Trophy Nissan, Dalworth carpeting… I spent my summers in Tarrant County since I was 6, so I know Texas commercials. My youngest sister, The Saint, often sends me texts containing only jingle bits. (Note: I want to name a band “Sarah and the Jingle Bits,” and maybe we’ll perform all these old commercials. That is more rad than Tad. OOOH, now I want to name a band “More Rad than Tad”! I’m on a roll!)

I recently learned that some of my interesting little quirks might be considered “psychologically abnormal,” thanks to Allie Brosh’s blog here about synesthesia from my favorite blog of all time, Hyperbole and a Half. For instance, my feeling sorry for the unmated sock might not be normal. Like, all of you don’t feel sorry for the sock with no mate or the bleach-stained shirt that never got to go to the party it was destined for.

That blog entry (and the blog itself) has changed my life, and made me realize that maybe I can get on disability and never have to work again! HOORAY!

But probably not, since I’m also a workaholic and need lots of money to buy cable so more commercials will lodge themselves in my brain. It’s a twisted life. I love it.

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Childhood, General Nonsense, Music

V-Day songs, AKA a borrowed blog

Would y’all hate me if I use my blog from the newspaper here, too? If I tell you I’m tired and I need to do Zumba but I probably won’t because I’m tired? And wishing I was out drinking? And it’s only Monday?

What if I threw in a free F-bomb?

FARRAH FAWCETT! There’s an F-Bomb(Shell) for ya. Ah, Farrah. RIP.

If that satiates you, stay tuned for The Catbird Seat is Taken from today, lifted from my other blog site at the Tulsa World. It’s my 10 Favorite Love Songs, with a bit o’ commentary.

Let me start off, this fine Valentine’s Day, but saying that I’m not in love. Haven’t been since the middle of 2007. It’s weird, but kind of nice every now and again to hit the reset button.

That being said, I think it’s time. I’ve started to find love songs beautiful again, and I can listen to stuff that reminds of That Guy again. From 2007-2009, about half my music collection was verboten.

But don’t cry for me, Argentina. Despite a random dream about That Guy every once in a while, I’m over it. (GARISH CHICKEN NOTE: If I paid that much attention to my insane dreams, I’d be hospitalized by now. But some of them are awesome… not the zombie dreams though.)

And while I may be single, I don’t begrudge you folks in love your bliss. I hope it happens to me someday.

So here goes, the Top 10 songs I’d like to have sung to me someday. They might be a bit odd. So sue me.

10. “Lovely Day,” Bill Withers. “Then I look at you/and the world’s alright with me.” Yes, I want someone to be so enraptured in me that they think they might die if they don’t see me. Is that so much to ask?

9. “John, I Love You,” Sinead O’Conner. “John I love you, I’m ever so fond of you…” I heard this at a friend’s wedding, and it became THE love song to end all love songs, at least for a while.

8. “Feels Like Rain,” John Hiatt. This is a newly discovered love song that I adore… it’s everything sultry and sexy of a warm, rainy night, with smoky vocals and a relaxed tone… it’s almost dirty how sexy this song is. “We’ll never make that bridge tonight, across lake Ponchartrain, and if feels like rain …”

7. “Always Something There to Remind Me,” Naked Eyes (or Burt Bacharach, or the Carpenters…) I have a vivid memory of being on a ride at Bell’s Amusement Park and this song playing on the speakers. I was 9 or 10, and I was on that canoe ride where you basically went in circles. A really cute boy named Matt was also riding it. That’s all I remember, but there is always something there to remind me of that moment…

6. “Captain of her Heart,” Double. “Too long ago, too long apart, she couldn’t wait another day for/the captain of her heart.” That voice, that dreamy scene set in those lyrics… I remember it was played on General Hospital when I was a kid and I fell hard.

5. “Catch,” The Cure. I guess I identify with this song because of the line “And she used to fall down a lot/that girl was always falling again and again.” That’s me, in a nutshell, falling all the time, and not in love. Just literally falling. This little gem is song No. 2 on the Cure’s classic “Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me.”

4. “Leather and Lace,” Stevie Nicks and Don Henley. “You in the moonlight, with your sleepy eyes, could you ever love a man like me?” That’s sincerity, folks, and it’s beautiful.

3. “Kimberly Austin,” Porno for Pyros. Let it not be understated that I adore Perry Farrell, besides his solo stuff. This song is magical, and I’ve loved it since I heard the first notes on the second P4P CD. “Kisses my fingers when I go by, and I see my mother in her eyes.”

2. “Visions of Johanna,” Bob Dylan. This song will always be a testament to someone I will always love, have loved, for like 17 years, though he’s not an ex, just a dream. There’s a line that describes that feeling of wanting someone to be there, and when he’s not, you go crazy and the rest of the evening blows. “But she just makes it all too concise and too clear/that Johanna’s not here.”

1. “Time and Tide,” Basia. I HATED this song when it came out. Then I fell in love once, and it all made sense. Now, it’s my favorite love song… “We got time, baby, there’s no rush, it’s gonna be a better day for us/hang on, and I will wait for you, and our love will always be as good as new.”

Honorable Mentions:

* “For the Sake of the Song” and “If I Needed You,” Townes Van Zandt. They’re not in the list because they’re almost so lonesome I could cry.

* “Delirious Love,” Neil Diamond. It’s disqualified because it was part of that stuff I couldn’t listen to from 2007-2009.

* “Say Goodbye,” Dave Matthews Band. Another for the guy in the No. 2 song. Nearly too painful to be considered a love song.

* “Trouble,” Ray LaMontagne. Not ranked because it’s typical.

* “You’re In My Heart (The Final Acclaim),” Rod Stewart. I think it’s a terrific love song, but all I hear is Mike Meyers singing it in “So I Married an Axe Murderer” in Scottish twang. Also part of that two-year ban.

* “Silly Love Songs,” Wings. Not ranked because it’s been used on “Glee.”

NEW NEW NEW: And since we’re being open here on the Garish Chicken, I’d have to say that the sexiest song in the world is “In Need” by Sheryl Crow from the “Hope Floats” soundtrack. So take that, man of my dreams. That’s what brewing in my head. Just sayin’.

 

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Three Blues for Sister Sarah

These guys. The Black Keys. I think I may love them, finally.

I’ve always had this “No Blues Unless the Singer’s Black or it was From the 20s” policy.

For that, I blame Stevie Ray Vaughan. I will probably offend blue purists everywhere when I say that SRV, while talented, didn’t typify what I call “The Blues.” Even if he grew up in Oak Cliff outside Dallas. He’s missing something, and maybe it’s like what Wesley Snipes said in “White Men Can’t Jump”: SRV doesn’t hear the blues (or Jimi Hendrix.)

That’s probably because my mama raised me on really old blues, bluegrass, country blues and gospel, such as Leadbelly, Robert Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt, Bill Monroe and Marion Williams, Emmylou Harris, The Whites, Ricky Skaggs and of course, my personal hero, Leon Russell. I have this aversion to that really electrified blues. I realize this probably means real music critics think I’m dumb. But hey, I’ve never been to one like something because someone else did.

Which is why I usually am not the first to jump on a band because some kid in tight jeans and my Nana’s glasses told me I should. Case in point, the Black Keys. I was hesitant, even when people I really respect were lining up to get tickets to their Tulsa show last year. They were playing way too close to the shows of Ween and the Pixies, so I didn’t bother getting to know them and trying to see them. (Side note: I review a lot of shows for work, so I typically only pay for tickets to shows I really, really, really want to see… like Ween, which I would drive to Istanbul to see if I could. My favorite band ever. And the Pixies, which I’ve seen twice now, are another one, though they only get back together and tour when Frank Black thinks someone’s forgotten him.)

But lo and behold, this week I was bestowed with the Black Keys collection from a friend. And I started at the beginning, with “The Big Come Up,” and despite the fact that I know a lot of these songs from various commercials and TV shows, I gotta hand it to them. They break both rules:  They’re white, and definitely not from the 1920s. But they get it, and I think I might have to forever incorporate them into my rotation. And I’m only halfway through their discography.

They give me a  little more faith in modern music, which I struggle with. I try to listen to new bands, really I do — I bought Temper Trap, Passion Pit, Cold War Kids… and I think they’re all pretty good. But I don’t crave hearing them. I crave Bob Dylan, Ween and Bruce Springsteen, Jane’s Addiction, Cracker and Soul Coughing… and Mike Doughty (pretty much every day… how I wish I could meet someone like that guy. He’s my ideal. Sigh.)

I think I might end up craving the Black Keys, as well as another band I’m just now getting into, Alberta Cross.

I don’t ever want to be one of Those People who have to be first, the ones who thwart their latest hot-mess mp3s on you, giving you its  description like they’re selling you wine. “It’s got a bit of a Led Zeppelin finish, with the legs of Debbie Harry, but with notes of Duran Duran…”

Gag me.

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