The Shelly Awards

(Trophies Always Have To Be Supremely Ugly)

There was a time when I watched award shows religiously. I'm not sure why ~ perhaps to confirm that my favorites had the proper cachet and to bitch about the wrong choices the so-called judges made. Of course, that was long before I understood that awards are bought and paid for and perpetually political (I actually prefer the naive me.) 

I generally was lost with the Oscars, since I'd managed to see approximately one of the nominated films, and the flick I caught never won anything. The Grammys were kind of a high-brow joke (even to the naive me) because inevitably the winners would be the industry-coronated choices (as opposed to anything any sane person would actually listen to.) "The Girl From Ipanema" beat out "I Want To Hold Your Hand" for record of the year; and you know how often we hum the melody of "Girl From Ipanema".

The Emmys were more my speed because I definitely knew how to watch TV and I was familiar with most of the nominees. The CMA Awards, however, was my show of choice. I did know my country music and frankly, my taste was eminently superior to most. Plus I was a Country Music Association member and thus got to pencil in my choices on the paper ballot. 

I like to flip on the TV at night before bedtime because the hypnotic rays tend to lull me to sleep, so I tuned into the first five minutes of the Grammys last Sunday night. I will admit, I was confused. Some gal was inhabiting different rooms of a home and brushing her hair and bouncing on the bed with a stuffed bunny; and then someone I thought was Justin Timberlake (who I later learned was Ricky Martin ~ I wasn't wearing my glasses) joined her in the number and someone I was supposed to know played the trumpet. And then some other guy piped in. 

Nevertheless I kept watching. The evening's host, Alicia Keys, soon showed up with four gals, only one of whom I recognized (granted, Jennifer Lopez was hidden behind a humongous broad-brimmed hat). The one I knew was Michelle Obama, and I thought, okay ~ she's a music icon. I did see Dolly Parton in the audience; the only person I actually recognized. And then I flipped the TV off.

So I can now say I watched the 2019 Grammys.

I've now decided to create my own awards, The Shellys. The categories are completely capricious, based on whatever the hell I feel like bestowing.

Thus:

Best Roots Recording

Nominees:

Buddy Holly ~ Rave On

Jerry Lee Lewis ~ Breathless

Eddie Cochran ~ Summertime Blues

Chuck Berry ~ Roll Over Beethoven

The Everly Brothers ~ Bye Bye Love

The Winner:

Best Rock Song From the Year I Graduated High School:

Nominees:

Drift Away ~ Dobie Gray

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ~ Elton John

Stuck In The Middle With You ~ Stealers Wheel

Loves Me Like A Rock ~ Paul Simon

Reelin' In The Years ~ Steely Dan

The Winner:

Best Song My Big Brother Told Me I Should Like:

 Nominees:

The Rain, The Park, and Other Things ~ Cowsills
Rainy Day Woman #12 and 35 ~ Bob Dylan
Another Saturday Night ~ Sam Cooke
Telstar ~ The Tornados
Where Have All The Flowers Gone ~ Johnny Rivers

And the award goes to:

 Best Beatles Song:

The Nominees:

I'm Only Sleeping
You Won't See Me
You're Gonna Lose That Girl
Good Day Sunshine 
We Can Work It Out

There is no live video to be found of the winner. However, the first runner-up (Ringo) will accept the award (I have a sneaking suspicion all the Beatles videos have been removed from YouTube. Thanks. Paul.):

Best Hit From 1965:

Nominees:

California Girls ~ The Beach Boys

I Can't Help Myself ~ The Four Tops

Ticket To Ride ~ The Beatles

Baby, The Rain Must Fall ~ Glenn Yarbrough

My Girl ~ The Temptations

The winner (not even close):

Best Music Video of the '80's:

Nominees:

Raspberry Beret ~ Prince
Take On Me ~ a-ha
Sledgehammer ~ Peter Gabriel
Money For Nothing ~ Dire Straits
Nothing Compares 2U  ~ Sinead O'Connor

The Shelly goes to:

My Favorite '80's Act:

Hall and Oates
Huey Lewis and The News
Prince
Phil Collins
Elton John

This was so close:

Best Upbeat Song:

Walkin' On Sunshine ~ Katrina and The Waves

Morning Train ~ Sheena Easton

Happy Together ~ The Turtles

Beautiful Day ~ U2

I Wanna Dance With Somebody ~ Whitney Houston

Of course, the winner is this:

Song That Scared The Crap Out Of Me (or at least befuddled me) As A Kid:

  

They're Coming To Take Me Away ~ Napoleon XIV

Fire ~ The Crazy World of Arthur Brown

Running Bear ~ Johnny Preston

Last Kiss ~ J Frank Wilson

Devil Or Angel ~ Bobby Vee 

Hands down:

Best Dion and The Belmonts Song:

The Wanderer

Ruby Baby

I Wonder Why

Lovers Who Wander

Runaround Sue

Again, a tight competition, but Dion DiMucci doesn't care, because he's a winner, regardless:

Best Hair Band:

Van Halen

Bon Jovi

Whitesnake

Guns 'n Roses

Def Leppard

I'm not a big fan of hair, except for:

Cheesiest '70's Song:

Loving You ~ Minnie Riperton

Billy, Don't Be A Hero ~ Bo Donaldson and The Heywoods

Seasons In The Sun ~  Terry Jacks

Muskrat Love ~ The Captain and Tenille

Havin' My Baby ~ Paul Anka

You Light Up My Life ~ Debby Boone

Afternoon Delight ~ Starland Vocal Band 

Yes, there are seven nominees, because it's impossible to narrow this category down to five.

This one wins only because I can't bear to post any of the others:

Hey, look at the time! Well, the show has run far over its designated time, so tune in again next year for more Shelly Awards!

And all you forgotten acts, you're welcome! It's time you got your due!

 

 

The Seventies ~ Who Knew?

If you know me, you know that I've been consistent in denigrating nineteen seventies music. My long-held stand has long been that the seventies were the absolute worst musical decade. So why am I drawn to the "70's on 7" channel on Sirius? Could it be that I've wiped that musical period from my memory? And if so, why? The seventies were most certainly the most formative season of my life. After all, I graduated from high school in 1973, and by '76 I was a mother.

I think I was torn then. I'd been steeped in country music since roughly age thirteen, and I felt like a traitor listening to pop music, which I most certainly did, especially in 1973. Then I got married to a man for whom top forty was foreign gibberish, and since I actually, technically still liked country music, I set my pop stylings aside.

But when I hear certain songs from that era, I'm practically giddy. Not all of them, mind you; just certain ones. I still can't stomach Debbie Boone who likened her new paramour to God; or Paul Anka, who was bursting with pride that he managed to inseminate a woman. Both of those songs are creepy in their own inimitable way.

Then there is this:

And I'm no snob:

Elton's best:

For personal reasons, this is my favorite:

To be continued, but damn. I'm going to immerse myself in more nineteen seventies music...

Sharing Music

It occurred to me tonight that throughout my life, the majority of my music-listening has been solitary. It's not that I'm anti-social (though sometimes I am), but sharing music is a gamble. I like what I like, and I don't need somebody telling me, "That song sucks." Maybe it does, but maybe there's a reason I like it that you wouldn't understand. Maybe it takes me back to a special time in my life that you can't relate to, because you weren't there. I was never one to say, "Hey, listen to this," because if I loved a song and the other person didn't get it, my feelings would be hurt. Thus, my musical "sharing" happened organically.

I can say essentially that there were three periods in my life when I shared music.

1. My big brother

Okay, technically, I didn't share music with my brother. He shared with me. Honestly, if it wasn't for my big brother, I think my musical life would have been paltry -- sort of like those old dudes driving big Cadillacs, puffing on big cigars, who slip a CD into the changer to show you how "hip" they are -- and the CD is by John Mayer.

Before I even knew what music was, my big brother pointed at the big radio in our kitchen and schooled me in good music and bad. I was little more than five years old.

The first song he taught me was "good" was by a group called the Tornados. I believe the year was 1962.

Technology, as people naively called it then, was the next big thing. I didn't know that Telstar was a satellite. I thought it was some kind of rocket ship. My big brother was a teenager, so phenomenons like John Glenn going 'round and 'round the earth was a revelation. I watched Glenn's blast-off (or whatever they called it) on a tiny black and white TV in my first-grade classroom and I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I guess one needed to be older and more mature, like my fifteen-year-old brother, to truly grasp the magnitude of the event.

My big brother introduced me to Bob Dylan, who he told me was really Robert Zimmerman, from Hibbing, Minnesota. I was confused why Robert Zimmerman wanted to change his name, but I was proud that he was from Minnesota, just like me. My brother chuckled over this song. I figured it was because it was so ragtime. 

The thing my brother did that sent me flying toward the rest of my life was to clue me in to albums. I was a singles girl -- I rarely could gather enough spare change to purchase one measly '45 at Poplar's Music, and at that, my indecision was excruciating. It was a monumental choice; one that my whole life depended on. If I chose wrong, my existence would be ruined. My big brother, on the other hand, slipped albums 'neath his coat like he'd just popped a stick of Black Jack chewing gum between his gums. 

My big brother showed me a brown and white LP called "The Beatles Second Album". I thought the Beatles were awesome and such good songwriters -- with songs like this:

Granted, it was 1964 and I had no knowledge of musical history. Thus, I naturally assumed the songs on the album were all originals.

Later, my brother would show me LP's like "Help!" and "Rubber Soul". By then I was gone -- besotted -- immersed. 

If I have anyone to thank for my lot in life, and I surely do, it was MY BIG BROTHER.

2. My grade school best friend

The early sixties was a time that was innocent in its naivete. What did we know at age ten? We thought the whole wide world rained exquisite songs. And it did, then. Superb singles were as abundant as the lacy snowflakes we caught on our tongues. 

We were so jaded then. "This song is great, but I can't wait for the next one." "Yea, the Beach Boys. They're so nineteen-sixty-three." My best friend, Cathy, and I, traversed the Louis Murray Bridge on sultry summer Saturdays to partake in the YWCA dances, which consisted of twenty-six gangly fifth-grade girls doing the Jerk to singles buzzed on a record player, like:

3. Alice

Alice and I dragged Main Street in 1973 in her mud-brown Chrysler.  Alice was the best friend I didn't deserve to have. If she were still living, I'd think about asking her what she ever saw in me. I brought nothing of import to the table. Perhaps I had a good sense of humor and she appreciated that. Other than that, I got nothin'. 

In 1973, we were about to turn eighteen -- the magic number. Life was a soon-to-be-devoured feast we'd yet to conjure. We shared the music blaring out of the tinny AM car radio, the wide-open windows tossing our hair in the breeze. The nights were starry and still. Country fanatics that we were, it's strange that we had the radio tuned to KFYR, the local rock station. I think maybe rock was more apropos for the timbre of the times, more befitting the nights.

There are songs from then, from 1973, that remind me of those nights. Here are the ones I remember most because they were played the most:

All that aside, there were two songs -- two songs -- that crystallized 1973 for Alice and me. Here is the first:

And here is our anthem. 

We sang along with it, over and over and over. We were in love with it. The stars, the blade-sharp black sky. The hot, yet cool, arm-tingling promise of the night. If I close my eyes I can see Alice now, gliding the car down the double-strip street, her blue eyes sparkling with a giggle, her blonde bangs fluttering in her eyes . We sang bad harmony -- she was the singer; I was the pretender. We sang at the top of our lungs; sang at the sleepy denizens whose misfortune it was to dwell in second-story apartments above Conlin's Furniture Store, in apartments in the top stories of the old Patterson Hotel.

We sang along with:

Music alone is fine. I can conjure my own memories. The trouble with that is, nobody else knows. And sometimes I get weary of no one else knowing; of pretending that that one special person is in the room with me as the song unwinds, but they're not.

If you find that special song, life is superb if someone else knows it's special, too.

Music and Memory

I've begun to wonder...

Why don't I listen to music anymore?

I mean, I could listen to music. After all, it's just a click away. And when I do listen to music, it's an enjoyable experience.

For me, as a so-called musical person, something just seems off-kilter.

I could click on some tracks right now, and I would be transformed. But I hardly ever do it.

Is it because the choices are so plentiful that I wouldn't know where to begin?

When I was a kid, I didn't have much physical music. In fact, I would wait impatiently for my big brother to go somewhere, anywhere, so I could sneak into his room and play his records. That was a thrill for me. "Rubber Soul" - absolute heaven.

It was exciting. Maybe it was all the cloak and dagger stuff, but I don't really think so.

I could click on some of those tracks right now (yes, I have them all), and I would still feel that little stab in my heart; the same one that I felt all those years ago, when I would carefully place the needle on the turntable.

Which leads me to wonder....is it the music, or is it the memory?

I really believe that they're tied together, inevitably. I think that's why music doesn't mean as much to me anymore.

There are certain songs that, when I hear them, I'm immediately transported back to a certain place; the feelings I was feeling; the actual physical place where that song became lodged inside my heart, or at least my subconscious. What I was doing when that happened.

Those things don't happen to me anymore. And here's why....

Life is sort of a "get by, day-to-day thing", in all honesty. I get up; I put my makeup on; I go downstairs and make breakfast for my "kids" (Josie and Bob); I ride with my husband to work. I work. I go home. I make supper for the kids and for us. I check out the net; I watch a little TV news; I go to bed.

Where is the memory-making opportunity? It's not there.

I'm not out, riding around in a '70 blue Malibu, at midnight, with the AM station turned up as high as those knobs will turn; heady with the smell of the sweet grass; there, along the banks of the Missouri. Itching and ready to find out what will happen next. And if nothing happens, well, we still laugh a lot, and we still have those songs.

And, really, that's what music is about, I've come to believe. It's not for "us" (the "us" that we are now). It's for the us that used to be.

When you hear some old person harping on the songs of yore, cut them a little slack. They're just like you, really. Except that Katy Perry is Karen Carpenter.

Us oldies have to find a new reality in music. It's hard-fought, though. Maybe we're jaded. Maybe the musical past was so much better, filtered through our young ears.

Maybe the music is really beside the point.

Maybe, after all, it's not really the music. It's the memory.