McCartney Series is An Aural Adventure

https://youtu.be/KAkqy5QntGQ 

McCartney 3-2-1 is this Beatles fan’s dream come true.

To hear Paul McCartney talk about the background to some of my favorite Beatles songs is like receiving a letter that the post office lost half a century ago. 

The envelope is faded and stained, but there it is! That is my name on it. 

There are origin stories about songs like Michelle and Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band that both surprise and make sense. 

There are interesting connections between the Beatles and other performers from Jimi Hendrix to Ray Roy Orbison and Eric Clapton. 

The Hulu series that premiered July 17 includes archival footage— some that I’ve seen before —but the best part is the series’ fascinating deep dives, complete with audio examples, from separate tracks on Beatles recordings. It’s like looking inside of a diamond and parsing the light beneath the surface.

The wonderful interviewer, Rick Rubin, is the host of the podcast Broken Record. 

Watching the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan TV show in 1964 told me that my life could be better than I could ever imagine. The performance was full-force and unforgettable.  This band’s music transformed me from a glasses-wearing tomboy-bookworm into somebody who found membership in a generation that believed in possibility. 

McCartney 3-2-1 is a gift full of rich details about the music that has been the soundtrack to much of my life. 

Summer Before Fourth Grade

It was H-O-T hot in Laredo all during the summer, but especially during the dog days of mid August, which my mom called la canicula. 

Time during the summer stretched stiff and slow as a piece of taffy. The last school year seemed so long ago. Now there were endless days of watching TV, riding bikes, and during the cool of the night, sitting on the porch listening to the grown-ups telling stories. 

The new school year‘s arrival was still too distant to warrant any serious consideration. What did occupy my mind and time was the Confederate troop I was a part of (my neighbor’s toy long rifle fueled that historical wandering) and also my travels in outer space, which I explored straddling a rolled-up quilt/saddle atop my dresser, which served excellently as the cockpit of my spaceship. 

I was about to start fourth grade the summer I was allowed by Mama to travel solo on the bus to our town’s library, a place I secretly felt was as wonderful and sacred as any church I knew. The magic was in finally getting to do something on my own. It was thrilling.

I pulled open the doors of the air-conditioned library on the second story of Laredo’s City Hall. I was lucky to feel confident that the public library’s  gatekeepers, two gray-haired Anglo-looking ladies seated behind the checkout counter would approve my entry into such a venerable place.  They looked much like the nuns at school, except for their exposed gray curls and ears. 

For hours I walked slowly scanning titles from both the children’s and adult sections. I loved titles and wanted to grow up to make up my own titles. Was that a job? I took home as many books as I could carry. While waiting for the bus I bought with a spare 25 cents a copy of a tabloid newspaper with photos and a story about an Italian family barbecued and eaten by their madman father. When I got to our stop I left the newspaper on the bus seat on purpose. Mama would not approve of either my buying or reading it.

Trips to the library were my first steps in exercising my imagination into reality. It was my idea to get a library card and also my decision when to go there and when come home. Yes, there were still morning forays into neighboring Yankee territory, and space adventures avoiding asteroids during the hottest part of the day. They didn’t compare with wandering the aisles of fiction and nonfiction at the library. I breathed in the aromas of old colonial furniture polish mixed with paper from new and vintage books, magazines and newspapers. It was more than intoxicating adventure, it was liberating.  I had discovered my agency, true, but equally important was that in simply browsing the titles of hundreds upon hundreds of books I birthed the idea that life, however it unfolded, would be plentiful with stories. I wanted desperately to know how other people lived, what they did and what they thought. 

My stacks of horse biographies and joke books fed my imagination during the summer as much as the nuns did with spelling bees, religion class and long division during the school year. 

At the end of la canicula , a rain shower would fall and remind me that just around the corner was the start of a new school year. Soon Mama would drive us downtown, past the bus stop, newsstand and library for the yearly purchase of a pair of white oxfords. I had little time to miss my dangerous incursions into foreign territories whether Yankee or astral. Summer was like that, there endless and forever, then suddenly over. 

Brian T. Gosling's Day of Firsts at San Pedro Springs Park Pool

Read Brian T. Gosling's story here

Songs, The System and So Many Questions

 

I love songs so much that all my life I have wondered how songwriters construct them. 

Do lyrics come to a songwriter first, and then afterwards comes the idea for the music? Or is it the other way around? 

Seeing the mobs’ flag on the walls of the nation’s capitol scaled by lawless weightlifters, I felt the same sort of question form in my mind. 

What came first, the hateful fear-mongering rhetoric of cable’s bargain basement screaming heads programming, or was it the policies that led to the mob’s anger: the loss of good-paying jobs in the U.S. to countries whose workers are forced to work for lower wages? 

Or, as a card-carrying Chicana lesbian, I wonder, too, if the reason includes the changing features and shades on the faces of America’s family portrait?

I wonder also which came first, corporations’ higher profits and our collective reduced support for K- 12 education and colleges  or was it unregulated social media? 

Did new media’s rush for ratings and views blind us to the power shown yesterday of media’s impact and influence over people and their behaviors? 

Disenfranchised people who drank Trump’s Jonestown Kool-Aid and took to the streets at the behest of their leader yesterday sure gave us a show. What a show. 

And I ask were the rioters admitted onto the grounds by an  intentionally under-prepared capital police force? And when they were herded out without being arrested, where did the muscle men thugs go during a curfew to celebrate their failed coup d’état? 

I know this: They got their time on camera, their moment in the spotlight,  their 15 seconds of fame, taking selfies in an elected official‘s office and on the dias  of the senate chambers. Also, I know the system worked. The legislators did their job. The system worked.

 I remind myself that is what’s important. 

As we sat watching the legislators speak for five minutes each when they finally returned to work, we were thrilled with being able to listen to them and watch them. The system at work. They were going to do the job of certifying Biden’s election.

It was magical even if they were limited to five minutes to see their passion and hear their thoughts,  their speeches without interruption from commercials or interpretation. 

I realized it had been decades since I had been able to listen to a live speech! And as I followed on Twitter there were people there complaining about the length of time taken up leading to the final vote. Our collective attention span has reduced, mine included

Yet I thrilled at watching people who I read about for years but had hardly seen on TV.  Even if I didn’t agree with them, I saw their personalities and their passion and appreciated being able to see the system work, live and unfiltered. It had been bruised and battered, true, and we have years of work ahead of us. But the system worked.

Sloop John B's Gift That Keeps Giving

Today I learned that my nearly-all-time favorite Beach Boys song, Sloop John B has its origins far from where I've spent the past 55 years or so believing it originated. It's the only song on the epic Pet Sounds album that was not a Beach Boys' composition, according to Wikipedia . Sloop John B is based on a Kingston Trio version of a folksong from the Bahamas.

This discovery prompted me to think  about a history book I received from my mother in law, Francis McAtee for Christmas. It is David Johnson's In the Loop, A Political and Economic History of San Antonio. Dr. Johnson and I met some years back while taping an interview for a Heritage documentary segment for KLRN TV on the Mexican Revolution which I wrote and produced. His book reads like an adventure novel, complete with clashing characters and cultures and the shifting boundaries among countries extending from New Orleans to Mexico City. 

The way Johnson's book brought to life the massive changes in history and how they informed our city's development made me mindful of how I've enjoyed being a bystander to the history of media. 

As a college student and teacher in Communication, I have witnessed the shifting boundaries in our media and cultural landscape. It started with my witnessing as a consumer and becoming a content maker during the apex of mass media 1960's-1970's and the arrival of the Market Segmentation with cable's arrival in the 1980's, home video to the arrival of the home computer, digital technology and the Internet in the early 1990's.  

One possible way to describe what the scene felt like and sounded like during these shifts of culture and technology would be to envision a Victorian home's tidy somber living room parlor. Think lace curtains drifting with the wind from an open window. The furniture is stiff and ancient, highly polished. There are collections of travel souvenirs on the shelves. On the Victrola record player is a 33 rpm vinyl album bringing to life the voice of Janis Joplin, a rock and roll singer born in Port Arthur, Texas whose talent star scorched the Earth until it burned itself out in a heroin overdose. It was that stark a contrast in cultures. 

There, in that tidy parlor the record albums bought at record stores or through a record club subscription service and stored in the living room record player ranged from from those from artists as varied as Jimmy Hendrix to Marty Robbins, from John Gary to Eydie Gorme and the Trio Los Panchos, from Stevie Wonder to the Chambers Brothers, Roy Orbison to the New Christy Minstrels. I missed James Brown paired beside Johnny Cash or Sam and Dave's Hold On I'm Coming played on our town's radio station twice in a row by a disc jockey who liked the song that much! Petula Clark sang next to the Everly Brothers. Smorgasbord of music and a nation of across-the-board fans of it all. Maybe our country had fewer divisions when we listened to everyone's music. Just wondering'. 

The sounds on any car radio anywhere in the entire country were an even wider free-for-all celebration for all ages in their programming. This was the era where a radio station like KTSA in San Antonio showered all of South Texas with rock, country, soul and the occasional international hit like Sukiyaki or the novelty hit that made you chuckle. My all-time favorite example is Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah by Alan Sherman. Click on it! Now it's an ear worm for you today, too. You're welcome. 

In every other aspect of life, we may have been living at least part time in Grandma and Grandpa's world, but that era's movies, TV, magazines and books introduced to us tastes and examples of new and emerging talents on the world stage. Old, new, somewhere in between --all folded in together for our media mix during the 1960's and 1970's for a decade or so. 

Then came the arrival of new media such as cable and FM radio, where segmentation of our population into pop, country, soul, Tejano, etc., became the order of the day because it was lucrative. Segmentation had lasting effects in separating and dividing us. Maybe it's part of the reason we're as deep as we are in our own echo chambers of social media and news today.

Understanding this time  and what happened then is important, because like the parting of the Red Sea in the Old Testament, it was then that two important things happened. First, media content shifted from something-selected-for-us to something-selected-because-we-had-liked-it-before. In the prior model, content was selected by some for the many, in the style of William Shawn and the New Yorker. This is an amazing story of editors presenting to their readers what they the editors themselves would want to read. The latter model's market-driven programming paid homage to profits before art, innovation or novelty. Now it became advertising, polls and surveys based on ratings and sales that determined content. Content never "just happen". It happens for reasons and it's good to know them because media plays such a huge role in our lives, culture and as we've seen recently in our national dialogue. 

Knowing which model for content creation--quality v. quantity, style v. sales, is better or worse, backward or forward, right or wrong might be beyond my pay grade. I do, however, believe history of all kinds is worthy of our careful study.  Our perspectives can broaden, and more importantly, knowing how media evolved helps to set us on our present day journey better prepared to be both content consumers and creators. 

The Circle of Life or Not A Good Lunch for ZZ

Out of the corner of my eye I caught ZZ the cat zigzagging up and down in the screened-in porch. How cute I thought. But it wasn’t. With some fear for my fingers, I snatched from his clamped and salivating jaws a very checked-out looking finch. It had come into the porch through a door the wind had opened.

I screamed "No!" over and over and so loudly that Susie came running, thinking I must've been captured by Pipe Creek pirates. I handed her the poor, startled, fainted creature and collapsed to have a good cry. Susie took the little bird to a flower pot in the garden where it would be safe from ZZ who was locked up in the porch. 

I slowly made my peace with the circle of life in Zee Zee the porch kitty's kingdom. I waited ten minutes and went outside to check on the bird and heard loud bird calls of alarms from the trees. I thought they were warning the little fallen fellow about me. Meanwhile, ZZ, who had found an unattended door and had gone to look for its lost lunch was hiding in the bushes. Suddenly the little bird flew low past me, and this time, and only by a few inches, escaped ZZ, who surprised us both, and flew in the direction of the trees.

I hope the little guy is safe for whatever is left of the rest of his life. This one half hour was rough enough to last anyone a lifetime. 

I secured ZZ in his porch and the little side garden where the life and death drama took place was peaceful again. I marveled at the way the place had changed. It had been a stubborn eyesore for years.  After a trip to Hill Country African Violets and Nursery in Boerne, we spruced up our neglected garden. Our friends, Tony Reyes and Tony Villarreal, who is a landscape designer of some renown, helped to inspire us. We planted Copper Canyon daisies, ground sage, iris, pink salvia, red shrimp plants and, most importantly in our drought, we ran the sprinkler on a timer for 5 minutes every day.  

The place went bonkers. Our wild onion and dollar succulents loved the hydration.  We added a small fountain with colored lights that I rigged with a champagne cork in an old planter. Susie added bluetooth-controlled colored lights on the porch. Then she installed two finch feeders and tray feeders by the fence and studio door. Things got very interesting. Especially for ZZ, who got to reign over the bees, birds and butterflies of his African savannah from behind a porch screen. 

The cold weather has not dropped to freezing yet, and everything is still blossoming and growing and blooming. Some colors are faded. In this year of firsts in our lives, this long neglected garden reminds me that we need our health more than anything. Past that, even during a drought, life and beauty are sustained by the basics, and little cariño.

A Fawn In the Mid-Day Sun

 

The sunlight in October is less intense and blinding than earlier in August.

The sun peeks sideways at us, not directly overhead or quite as hot as Hades.

I can see this mid-day in October instead of squinting blindly into the haze and heat.

She stands at the end of the driveway and at first I think she floats above the road. 

She seems lifted with light shining from below.

A fawn stands staring at me as I stand staring at her.

Her outline is vaporous and charged with light. Her belly glows.

Caliche snows upward from below us, bouncing off her belly and the cenizo.  

Limestone dust flurries as she startles and leaps into the field her curiosity abated.
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