Unlike Stay With Me and Rightfully Ours, music isn’t a part of the story in Ornamental Graces. No song or music is integral to the plot,…
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Tag: Music
I’m linking up with The Broke and the Bookish (which describes me quite well) for my top ten albums. The broad category is “audio,” and since I couldn’t complete a list of 10 favorite audiobooks (yet) or podcasts (which I don’t often listen to), I’m going with albums. A good song, and even more so a good album, like a good book, should transport you to a unique place in your mind with a feeling, a mood, and characters all its own.
In no particular order and probably omitting a forgotten favorite or two:
- The Rising – Bruce Springsteen (2002)
- Scarecrow – John Cougar Mellencamp (1985)
- All That You Can’t Leave Behind -U2 (2000)
- Woodface – Crowded House (1991)
- Kick – INXS (1987)
- Riser – Dierks Bentley (2014)
- Mercury Falling – Sting (1996)
- Under the Table and Dreaming – Dave Matthews Band (1994)
- Blue Moon Swamp – John Fogerty (1997)
- Mission Bell – Amos Lee (2011)
A couple of weeks ago, I endured a particularly grueling trip to the grocery store with my two youngest children. It started with the purchase of King Julian yogurt tubes instead of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle yogurt tubes and escalated to a shouting match over who would press the button to close the rear door of the minivan. An attempt was made at choking. An arm was bitten hard enough to leave a bruise. There was much wailing and whining as I slammed shut the vehicle to head for home. All I could think to do was crank up the car stereo. I didn’t care what song was on, only that it would drown out the pandemonium in my car. It happened to be Dustin Lynch’s “That’s Where It’s At.”
The song’s okay. I don’t have much feeling for it one way or another. But I started to pity Dustin Lynch. Someone slaved over that song. Every chord, each lyric, was the product of someone’s creativity. There were writers, performers, producers, and others. The grand sum of countless hours of creativity and work was, for me, finding its fulfillment in suffocating the noise of my children in meltdown mode.
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Spring is just around the corner, so saith the illustrious Punxsatawney Phil. At this time of year, when 55 degrees feels balmy rather than chilly, I’m eager to roll down the car windows at the first glimpse of forsythia – long before the parking lot snow piles have melted. Granted, rolling down windows held more excitement when there was actually rolling to do and my vehicle was something other than a minivan, even if it was my parents’ Chevy station wagon. These are five songs that, to me, are the perfect accompaniment to the windows-down ride.
The title reads, “Top 10 Ways Music Helps Me Write,” but you could substitute the creative activity of your choice: painting, sculpting, or even more rote activities. I’ve written about the music related to the creation of Stay With Me. Music has an uncanny way of altering mood and spirit. I’ve found that the right music can help me cope on the most trying days, elevating frustration and drudgery with lightness and good humor.
- Serves as background noise. Sometimes a little white noise cuts the distraction. The rhythm and hum of music can help you tune out the random noises, sounds, and dare I say, voices, that drive you to distraction. My mom couldn’t understand it, but I often did high school homework with music in the background. It improved my concentration.
We’re only five months out from the release of Stay With Me. Last month, I wrote about the settings, and this month, I’m blogging about the music in and related to the novel.
Over at Catholic Fiction.net, the author interviews always include this question:
“If you could no longer work with words, what medium would you work in to create art?
I don’t know whether I’ll ever be asked the question, but I’m ready with an easy answer: music.
The summer before my sixth birthday, my mother asked whether I’d be interested in taking a ballet class. And so began a decade marked by black leotards and pink tights, tutus, moleskin, lambs wool, and pointe shoes.
And the custom-welded ballet barre that resided in my family’s living room.
I was struck dumb the first time I took my daughter to a dance shop, and that familiar smell uniquely associated with those years swirled round me. Is it the leather of the shoes? I’m not sure, but it is distinct, familiar, and nostalgic.
This time of year, as dance schools prepare for spring recitals and performances, I’m reminded of my love for classical ballet that began in a large Victorian home converted into a YWCA.
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