My apartment. ...Or wait - No, this is a picture of Dresden after the bombing.
I’m looking around my apartment for a conversational starting point. My apartment is a mess right now, so there’s a lot to see:
A full hamper of clean clothes that I haven’t yet folded and tucked away.
The (amazing and important) Paul Robeson DVD box set that Criterion released. On top of that is the Nina Simone “Four Women” anthology that Charles loaned me.
My stereo, upon which some Marianne Faithfull recordings of Kurt Weill is playing.
Books everywhere, the closest of which, to me, is “Scum Manifesto” by that blithe and sparkling literary pixie, Valerie Solanas.
A drop-leaf table from Ikea that’s nearly completed construction (since February).
A computer upon which I’m writing an, as yet, trite and aimless blog.
I really should clean this place up.
You know, speaking of Marianne Faithfull, she came into Amoeba Hollywood not that long ago. Normally, when celebrities shop our store (every hour, it seems) I turn a blind eye. I don’t want to be “that guy” that demands some stranger’s time because I “feel” like I “know them” because they played some teen star’s mom on some trite and aimless sitcom.
However, when Kim and Logan came racing back to the soundtrack section to tell me they spotted the glorious Ms. Faithfull inside, I dropped everything and gave chase. I knew, from friends’ stories, that Ms. Faithfull was gracious; besides, I admire her so much that it would be an honor just to have her snub me, so I couldn’t lose, either way.
She was already descending the stairway to the parking garage by the time I found her. She heard my footsteps on the cement above and turned around – huge, black sunglasses covering her eyes. I stopped – froze. I hadn’t thought further than finding her, and now that I had, I didn’t know what to do with the situation.
She removed her sunglasses and we made eye contact. I spoke.
Speaking of speaking, I wish everyone would learn Sign Language. There’s so many instances in which it would be helpful if y’all did. When watching a movie, as an alternative to yelling across a room, when gossiping behind someone’s back, etc.
There’s a million household uses! But none of this has anything to do with music or movies or Amoeba. As you can imagine, I don’t get a lot of opportunities to speak Sign Language, working in a record store. (Sighs.)
And what does any of this have to do with Marianne Faithfull and my story? Well… urr… would you believe there’s, like, some Da Vinci Code-like clues within the above paragraph? Like, in a couple centuries, historians and code-breakers will marvel at the intricate mysteries woven within this blog’s text?
Would you believe that?
My framed photograph of Pope Paul VI is askew. And that Japanese import of Christine McVie’s legendary, self-titled, solo debut “Christine Perfect” isn’t going to put itself away, you know.
Christine Perfect. What a great name. Why would she change it? I don’t care how much she loved John McVie.
How cool would it have been for her and Marianne to do an album together? “Perfect & Faithfull” they could have been. Both of them with their rich, husky voices and cool, British poise.
Speaking of Marianne Faithfull, I opened my mouth and a gush of admiration came out, as I thanked her for the hours and hours of joy her work had provided me. She listened with a sweet and present smile, availing herself to “our” moment – a true professional, aware of her role as someone to admire.
Not wanting to keep her from her life, I quickly excused myself. I returned to the soundtrack section feeling effervescently rad.
You know, I could blog you some facts about Marianne’s life or career or something (such as the fact that she was the first woman to perform music on the Moon, or that, at age 9, she was briefly married to Albert Einstein, just before he died*), but there’s plenty of resources that do that already. I’d just assume tell you this little story and include some of her work so you can experience it for yourself.
She covered a lot of territory in her long career, so there’s a period of Marianne for most everyone. Whether you love her folksy, Anglo-Saxony, early works...
...or her tough-as-nails, fueled by junk and NYC, pop of the 70’s/80’s...
...or her gloomy, cabaret crooning of the 90’s...
...to her re-emergence as confessional popstar with albums produced by PJ Harvey, Beck, and others.
Well… I guess that’s another blog done. And I guess it’s about Marianne Faithfull, which pleases me. But it’s done nothing to help clean my filthy apartment. My filthy, dirty apartment. Naughty, naughty apartment! You’ve been bad, haven’t you? You filthy apartment.
Why am I still writing? Stop! Stop it!
*Not actual facts.