Kenneth Branagh's "Love Too Much"

 

In our reality, this is the video for Keane's "Love Too Much." In the reality I visited last night, Kenneth Branagh directed and starred in his own "Love Too Much" video. In Branagh's version, he appears as a dancing vaudeville performer, wearing a bowler hat, suspenders, brown trousers, and a button-up white shirt. He wields a cane, which he uses throughout the video as a prop as he tries to woo a variety of women on a London street circa 1910 or so; there are horses and carriages, street vendors, and shops housed in red brick buildings. 

While he's had a couple of misses in his career (Aremis Fowl, Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit, I'm looking at you), Branagh remains one of my favourite artists, and the video he created in my dreams last night suited Keane's song perfectly. 

The more I explore Keane's catalogue, the more I love their focus on humanity, decency, our failings and foibles--and our ability to be better. Unless I'm reading their work wrong, Keane seems to lead with empathy with their music, and I love them for it. They gave me a lovely dream last night, when these days they're mostly nightmares. 

Fanfare for the Unknown Couple

Ba, ba--bum ba ba
Pum pum ba ba bum ba ba
Lum de dum ba pum pum pum
ba, ba--bum ba ba
 

One for Joy, One for Desire, One for Despair

More and more often these days, I'm stricken by dark melancholy. Fortunately, music helps, and for this particular shade of darkness, I play Keane's "Higher than the Sun." The lyrics and melody fan the dying embers of my optimism. 

There's a song to ease your fear; a song to take you far from here; one for joy, one for desire, one for despair

Need a Lift? Go Higher than the Sun

With human civilization approaching collapse, I feel a bit guilty indulging in upbeat art. But sometimes I can't help myself, and I need to indulge the fantasy that we'll somehow pull through <gestures at everything> this. 

"May you go on and on" is my favourite line. It's a lovely sentiment in the context of the song, a sort of "peace and long life" for the non-Trekkies. 
 

An Organic Interlude

Sometime in the mid-1970s, we travelled from Leaf Rapids to Thompson to buy an electronic organ. Mom or Dad shot a Polaroid of us playing with it in the spring of 1977. 

As a built-in teaching aid, the keys on this organ would light up to display the notes. Once you'd learned them, you could turn off the feature and play like a real organist. Mom and Dad got pretty good at it, as I recall, and the organ came with us to Alberta. I think Mom and Dad finally tired of it in the late 80s, or maybe it stopped working. 

The organ's brief presence in our lives is something of an anomaly, as neither Sean nor I play an instrument, nor did Mom and Dad seem to have much interest in doing so aside from this organic interlude. (Pun intended.) Maybe they hoped Sean or I would pursue music. Sean plays the harmonica, but me, well . . . I still have the recorder from the one music class I had in grade four or five, but I was and am pretty terrible. 

This is the our first Mother's Day without Mom, and it feels weird to say it, but I think they might have gotten a kick out of some of the stuff Sean and I have been doing with generative AI tools--taking old photos of fishing trips and turning them into movie clips and so on. Or this: 
 

Sean and Earl as painted by da Vinci. I think Mom would have gotten a chuckle out of this. Dad probably would have shaken his head, but I think he'd like the motorboat animations from our fishing trips. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. 

Keane Leads with Empathy

 

As I've said in the past, I don't have the knowledge or vocabulary to explain why I like certain pieces of music. All I can say about Keane's "The Way I Feel" is that the percussion makes me want to pretend to play the drums, the keyboards make little flashbulbs of multicoloured light go off in my head, and the guitar (a rarity for Keane in my experience) has me seeing retro, rocket-shaped 1950s starships doing barrel rolls. 

But the lyrics, I get--I hope, anyway. I love how supportive they are--a message of understanding, reassurance, and comfort to someone suffering from some kind of mental illness, low self esteem, or a combination of both. 

The lyrical message is: It's the voices in your head telling you there's something wrong with the way you feel. You're not alone, and I'm here for you. 

It's beautiful, even if by song's end the problem remains. Maybe more beautiful because of that--the support continues no matter what. 

The Last Labyrinth, the Lost Ending

Gwendolyn Womack's new novel, The Last Labyrinth, is a well-paced, well-written romantasy time travel story that uses music as its magic. But it has one fatal flaw. 

The setup: Womack's heroine, Magellan, is a modern woman, a musical prodigy who can play any instrument like a virtuoso, even if she's never touched it before, and she doesn't need sheet music. As the novel opens, we learn that Magellan has a talented roommate, Wren, a singer, who tries to bring Magellan out of her shell a bit; Magellan has a number of phobias that keep her pretty much confined to her apartment, except when she's out performing. One night, the skies all over the world light up with an aurora the likes of which humanity has never seen, at impossibly low latitudes. It's around this time Magellan receives a mysterious diary, purported to be that of  Gwenddydd, Merlin's sister. (This framing--that of powerful women being identified only in relation to the men in their lives--recurs throughout the novel, to good effect). 

While Magellan is playing at a wedding, the world begins to unravel, thanks to the auroras. In a panic, she runs off to play the venue's pipe organ, and this transports her to 1829, where she meets Rhys, a handsome bachelor who happens to be caught in a financial trap, needing to wed a rich bride to save his family estate. 

Meet-cute and time travel shenanigans begin. Magellan learns that to save the world, she must assemble four movements of a symphony. She has half the first movement, and she discovers Fanny Mendelssohn has the second. To gather the other movements, she must collaborate with other important women musicians of the past, all while surviving not only the differences in language, culture, and technology, but the demonic forces who try to stop her from saving the world. Thankfully, she has Rhys at her side, who's no Superman but does have a talent for languages--very useful given their circumstances. 

The plot serves as a great vehicle for the romance and for Womack's point about talented women being overlooked by history, and how that fault persists over the centuries. It's also fun seeing how the predestination paradoxes play out. 

Here's my issue: We learn that the final confrontation will happen when Magellan returns to 2026, when she'll put the final movement of the symphony together and somehow gather all the world's musicians to play it together, the only way to seal the rip in the universe. 

The novel ends before we get to that moment, with the ultimate fate of the world and the characters we've come to love unresolved. It's fine, of course, for novels to end on a note of ambiguity, but this really feels like the writer just ran out of steam and didn't have the means to craft the epic finale she envisioned. 

The novel is still worth reading; it's clever, exciting, suspenseful, and warm. Magellan is a great heroine, and Rhys is flawed but worthy partner for her. I really wanted to see them triumph, though. 

There's no word of a sequel, nor is there a hint of one in the author's afterword. It feels like this is the novel Womack decided to deliver. That's her right, but I really wish she'd given us that grand finale. 

Kirk, Spock, and the Beastie Boys: Solved!

We learn in Star Trek (2009) and Star Trek Beyond (2016) that James T. Kirk is a fan of Beastie Boys, the American hip hop band formed in 1981. In 1998, the Beastie Boys released "Intergalactic," which included the phrase "like a pinch on the neck of Mr. Spock." 

This presents a continuity conundrum. How could the band have known about Mr. Spock, much less his famous nerve pinch, hundreds of years before Spock was born? 

Well, in the summer of 1986, the Beastie Boys were in Oakland, California, in support of their album Licensed to Ill. Right around that same time, the senior staff of the USS Enterprise were in nearby San Francisco, having travelled back in time to bring a pair of humpback whales to the future. During their visit to the past, Kirk and Spock board a city bus and gain some notoriety when Spock silences a rude punk rocker with a nerve pinch. The other passengers clap, and shortly after, Spock says, "Admiral, may I ask you a question?" 

Kirk responds, "Spock, don't call me admiral." They then proceed to have a short conversation about colourful metaphors--double dumb ass on you, and so forth. 

I propose that one or more members of the Beastie Boys were on that bus and witnessed the incident, taking note of the strange attire of the one they heard called "Spock" and his friend the admiral. The amusing memory stuck with them, and they reference the event in "Intergalactic." 

Young Kirk, when he first heard "Intergalactic" hundreds of years later, wouldn't have taken note of the "Spock" lyric. But when he met Spock at Starfleet Academy, I wonder if was taken aback for a moment. Probably not; after all, there were Spocks on Earth, such as Dr. Benjamin Spock. The first time Kirk saw Spock use a nerve pinch, though, must have made him wonder . . . 

A predestination paradox! 

Somewhere Only We Know, Everybody's Changing

 

I stumbled across Keane last year--late to the party as always when it comes to music--and I fell in love with two tracks: "Somewhere Only We Know" and "Everybody's Changing." 

"Everybody's Changing" really resonated with me last year, and that resonance consists. I get the sense that Keane intended the song to be a reflection about how young groups of friends tend to drift apart with age, but in 2025 and 2026, I interpret them in a different way: as a person dying slowly without understanding what's happening. My interpretation appears after each verse. 

You say, you wander your own land
But when I think about it, I don't see how you can 

(The singer doesn't understand what a loved one is trying to tell him) 

You're aching, you're breaking
And I can see the pain in your eyes
Says Everybody's Changing, and I don't know why

(The singer knows their visitor is upset and she doesn't understand why) 

So little time
Try to understand that I'm
Trying to make a move just to stay in the game
I try to stay awake and remember my name
But Everybody's Changing, and I don't feel the same

(The singer rallies and gets some limited understanding back, fighting for her life and mind) 

You're gone from here
Soon you will disappear, fading into beautiful light
'Cause Everybody's Changing, and I don't feel right

(The singer thinks he's singing about someone leaving and not caring about him, but it's really what's about to happen to him. My favourite verse.) 

So little time
Try to understand that I'm
Trying to make a move just to stay in the game
I try to stay awake and remember my name
But Everybody's Changing, and I don't feel the same

(She rallies again) 

So little time
Try to understand that I'm
Trying to make a move just to stay in the game
I try to stay awake and remember my name
But Everybody's Changing, and I don't feel the same
Oh, Everybody's Changing, and I don't feel the same

(A final rally, and he's gone) 

It's a sad, lovely, mournful song, either way you look at it. 

Here's "Somewhere Only We Know," which makes me think of Leaf Rapids. 

Let the Mystery Be

I first heard Iris DeMent's "Let the Mystery Be" when it came up as the new opening theme for season two of The Leftovers. The song has been on my mind lately as part of my recent preoccupation with death and aging. Given the subject matter--what happens after we die--Iris' lyrics are refreshingly nonjudgmental and upbeat. Here's the chorus: 

Everybody is wonderin' what and where they all came from
Everybody is worryin' about where they're gonna go when the whole thing's done
But no one knows for certain and so it's all the same to me
Think I'll just let the mystery be

Each verse that follows quickly describes one of the various human concepts of what an afterlife might be like. My favourite is the last: 

Some say they're goin' to a place called Glory and I ain't sayin' it ain't a fact
But I've heard that I'm on the road to purgatory and I don't like the sounds of that
 'Cause I believe in love and I live my life accordingly
I choose to let the mystery be

The song sometimes makes me tear up, particularly at that final verse. I love her agency, her choice, and her acceptance of other ways of thinking about philosophy and religion. 

8-Track Mind

Mom and Dad had a modest collection of 8-track cartridges. A common way to listen to music in vehicles from the late 60s to the early 80s, 8-tracks weren't the greatest in terms of durability or sound quality, but they were portable and affordable. The family crew cab had a player mounted underneath the dashboard, and the tapes seen above, along with many others, enjoyed heavy rotation on long Woods road trips across the northern and southern prairie provinces. 

Sean and I took these last remnants of the family 8-track collection to the Leduc eco station yesterday. Neither of us has an 8-track player anymore, and these cartridges are so old they probably wouldn't survive more than a few plays, anyway. 

Sean and I spent a lot of time trying to hunt down a more convenient way than the 8-track seen on the lower right, above, for Mom to listen to Russ Gurr, a fellow Manitoban and farmer who enjoyed some local fame as a performer. As far as we can tell, though, Gurr never made the leap to any form of digital media. 

Well, look at that. Before writing this, I'd never thought to look for Russ Gurr on YouTube, and there he is. I'm sorry, Mom. This one's for you. 

I kept the case seen above. Sean realized it would make a great storage space for my external hard drives. I'm going to drill a few holes in the back for cable management. 

Chu-Bops

Sometime between 1980 and 1983, probably on a road trip with the family between Alberta and Manitoba, I picked up these two Chu-Bops. Each Chu-Bop was a 3x3-inch album sleeve reproduction containing a pink bubblegum record. I was never much of a gum guy, but at just 35 cents each, these were a cool little novelty. I really love that Blue Oyster Cult art! 

Delta Bluesman

I'm a wand'rin delta bluesman
Miles and miles from home
'Cept for my bedrool and my guitar
I wander all alone 

Stickin' close to the Ole Miss shoreline
Catfishin' for my meals
Singin' 'bout my dear Mary
And how her loss still feels



 

Brave Mountaineer

Like brave mountaineers
We never were much bothered by the climb
 

Jinx Johnson's Harlem Jazz Quartet

 

Flash! Oww-wwww!

Just a man
With a man's torn shirt
Nothing but a man
Covered with bruises and blood
No one but this pain-wracked guy
Can save our wo-orld
Oh, Flash
Oh, Flash
 

Courageous Mountaineer

Like brave mountaineers
We never were much bothered by time

 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2024 Day 16

Ghostly choir, Ghost ship 

PC, cactus harmonize

But no audience

 

This One Is Lovely

While driving from Leduc to Edmonton on Saturday night, YouTube music's algorhytim slid "This One" through my speakers. To the best of my memory, never before had I heard "This One," and it captured my heart immediately; since that day I've played it dozens of times. 

There's always something new and beautiful to discover, isn't there? 
 

The Motion Picture

"Just a Motion Away," from Gino Vanelli's 1984 album Black Cars, tells the story of two people in the process of possibly reconnecting after many years apart. Perhaps they were former lovers, or merely potential lovers who remained apart for reasons unknown to us, the listeners. 

The point of view of the singer-narrator makes it clear he's hoping the person he desires feels the same way, and encourages them to leave the past behind and start a new chapter. To paraphrase some of the lyrics, "Chance is knocking on our door to open up our ailing hearts once more . . . it's just a motion away." 

Whenever I hear this song, I wonder about the nature of that motion, the one that will set our lovers on a new (and perhaps more fulfilling) path. Do they reach out to hold hands? Do they hug? Smile? Nod yes? 

For several decades now, I've thought of fictions, large or small, as simply things that really happen on some other plane of existence (or, conversely, whatever we imagine springs into being on those other planes). When a story ends ambiguously, or when it's missing key details, I can't help but wonder about these things. Because somehow, somewhere, they happened or will happen. 

Is that madness?