Category: music

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, music, southern writing

Little Ship of Dreams

by rayclifton15 Comments on Little Ship of Dreams

I got an email one morning just the other day that announced the upcoming North American Tour of the ‘70s rock band Heart. A stop in Birmingham later this year, and Ticketmaster thought I should know. I am not sure why. A YouTube video I clicked on, or some all-seeing/all-listening electronic entity noticed I always turn the volume up on my truck radio whenever “Barracuda” or “Dreamboat Annie” play.

I was intrigued. I clicked on the link to see what seats were available and how much.

Turned out two good ones at $130 per.

I almost got up to get my credit card, but I decided to mull it over until evening. The waiting was difficult because of a memory.

It was in ’79 or ’80. A brown-eyed boy asked a red-haired girl out on a date. One of the two in love – had been for quite some time. The other, not so much.

I got the friendship date. A few hours with her would be worth the cost.

It was, by the way, expensive. Eight dollars a piece on the seats. Probably ten to fill up the tank of the Camaro to drive to Birmingham and back. Another ten for dinner and concessions. All in, somewhere around $36.

You laugh and wish you were around in “the good old days.” But keep in mind that I only had a part-time-after-school-and-Saturday job. Minimum wage was $3.10. I had a solid 12 hours of sweat commitment to that girl. If that ain’t love, love never was.

My memory is that it was a great show. I did not win her heart that evening, but I recall a hug and a little peck on the cheek. Money well spent.

Back to the present day, forty some odd years later. I kept turning that sweet memory over in my mind as I drove down the road, the radio tuned to a “classic rock” station. “Barracuda” came on as if by magic. My mind made up. It had to be fate. I would pull the trigger on the tickets when I got home.

Then fate actually made an appearance. The DJ (what is the correct term for that vocation today, “streaming digital song selector?”) mentioned that Heart was about to launch a tour, and they had appeared on one of the late-night T.V. shows to kick things off. If I missed it, I could catch it on YouTube.

I did. Wow.

That sweet, amazing soprano voice was mostly gone. Her sister’s guitar work was adequate but labored. Frankly, I had heard better covers of the song. They looked and sounded so old. How could that be?

Because they are. So am I. I keep forgetting.

I passed on the tickets. Let Dreamboat Annie’s “little ship of dreams” sail on through Birmingham.

Besides, the investment paid off. I eventually got that Redhead to love me back.

I told you it was money well spent.

creative nonfiction, culture, Humor, Life in Alabama, music, southern culture, southern writing

Skinny Girls and High Culture

by rayclifton9 Comments on Skinny Girls and High Culture

ballerina

A forester and high culture are two things that don’t seem to jibe.

I imagine when I say I am a forester you assume my culture would be NASCAR, country music, and killin’ animals for sport.  That might be true in some cases.

Not this forester.  I aspire to explore higher levels of culture.

I thought I would give the opera a try.  I heard this Pavarotti fellow had a set of fine tenor pipes, so I thought I would give him a listen.  I downloaded “The Best of Pavarotti,” not knowing that this collection would total about 90 songs.  After three or four, I decided that the opera was not for me.  The man can sing, no doubt, but what is he singing about?  Does he know English?

Do you know how long it takes to delete 90 songs?  I do.

Then I tried ballet.  Now to be completely truthful (which I rarely am in my writing — that’s the “creative” part of “creative non-fiction”), I attended a ballet at the request of a cousin, who I love very much.  She has a preteen daughter who is an aspiring ballerina.  I love her too.

My first ballet was “Zelda,” which was loosely based on the life of Zelda Fitzgerald.

Very loosely.  I know a good bit about Zelda Fitzgerald.  I’ve read most of her husband’s novels, and she was from Montgomery, Alabama where I work every day.

I was puzzled.  I found it very hard to relate what I saw to what I knew.

The next performance was “The Nutcracker.”  It had something to do with Christmas.

This past Sunday I attended “Frida!”  This one was about a Mexican communist with a unibrow.  I had to “Google” it to learn that much.

It took three puzzling performances to figure it out.  This kind of ballet is not about story.  It’s about teaching young girls the technique necessary to become ballerinas.

I can relate to that.  I have taught quite a few boys how to swing a baseball bat.  Perhaps one day I’ll teach one who will develop a swing as sweet as Ken Griffey Jr.  It’s a one in a million shot, but it’s worth the effort.

A girl has to start somewhere, and even if you don’t ever make Swan Lake, at the very least it should be worth something to know you had someone who loved you enough to drive a couple of hours to see you try.

I rather like the ballet.