Big Star was the first band whose albums I ever sought out based on good reviews. In the years before mp3s and blogging, they were this mythical band that rock critics wrote about in reverential tones. I’d be intrigued by what I read about them, disappointed that I couldn’t hear what I was reading about.

I finally got my chance to hear in the early 90’s. Like most music that’s had an impact on my life, I discovered Big Star’s in a roundabout way, starting with a chance purchase of the archetypal “difficult third album,” Third/Sister Lovers at a Cheapo Records in St. Paul, MN. I remember taking the disc back to my dorm room, putting it in my discman, pressing play, and being awed by the off-kilter combination of rock swagger, pop prettiness, and sonic chaos within.

That following summer, I worked my way backwards to their first two albums, which are also pretty much back-to-back great stuff. I also discovered the work of foundng member Chris Bell, who left the band after their first album, but went on to record his own unjustly ignored pop-rock masterpiece “I Am The Cosmos” before dying in a car crash in the late 70’s. But, as good as it all is, it could never compare to my first taste of Big Star.

Third/Sister Lovers is often described as a dark and despairing album, and it earns that reputation with devastating tracks like “Holocaust.” There’s a milder, more melancholy streak in it as well, and I think that’s what hooked me. Chilton sang as an outsider observing others in “Night Time” and “Kanga Roo” while hiding from the world in “Big Black Car.” Even when he was being violently defensive on songs like “You Can’t Have Me,” you could feel the wounded romantic behind the facade. In one of the few straight-ahead love songs on the album, “Blue Moon,” he sounds resigned. He’ll carry a torch forever, so it doesn’t matter if his love even knows he exists. For an 18-year-old introvert hoping (and failing) to meet the girl who would make his life complete, this was healing balm. Even as a 35-year-old (whose “soul mate quest” has thankfully found its resolution), the album still speaks to me.

Driving home the other night, it was surreal to hear snippets of “Night Time” and “Thirteen” on NPR during a Fresh Air segment in his memory. Alex Chilton may be gone, but at least his music is still here.

Any and all suggestions will be entertained.

And yes, this does mean new posts are coming. Be on the lookout in the next few days for far too many words on Alex Chilton and Big Star. Beyond that, who knows?

Carla and I are leaning against a rock on Church Street in Burlington, VT, enjoying the unseasonably warm November day. The scene surrounding us is a perfect cross section of hippie and hipster, college kids and dropouts. People rush in and out of cafes, bookstores and the occasional chain retail monstrosity.

We’re eating warm, fresh kettle corn that we just bought from a street vendor. A busker is playing vaguely familiar covers nearby, then starts strumming a B flat to E flat chord progression that reminds me of a Big Star song. He vamps on the chords for a minute or so, until he starts to sing:

“Won’t you let me walk you home from school?”

We stay for the whole song, after which I drop a few dollar bills in his case.

“That was for playing ‘Thirteen,’” I tell him.

If not, click the links. I’ll be here when you get back.

Caught up? Good.

One of the benefits of moving in with my mother-in-law our landlady is that we get to share her DirecTV setup. We had no cable, satellite or any kind of subscription TV service prior to the move. The transition to digital over-the-air TV had given us even fewer live viewing choices — we were left with the option of watching either Fox or PBS. The 600 channels or so of satellite TV were like an amazing new world.

The evening after our move, my buddy John stayed with us for a while, taking in the wondrous sights coming from the picture tube. We didn’t have a remote for the DirecTV receiver yet, but it was enough to stand in front of the box, pushing buttons repeatedly, surveying the vast wasteland of wonders.

It was then we saw the words glowing like a beacon of hope from the program guide. “All is not lost,” this two-word phrase whispered in our ears.

Those words? “Knife Show.”

Knowing that O’Dell’s show is called Cutlery Corner, we weren’t expecting to see our hero, and indeed, we did not. Instead, we experienced something far more unsettling. A rotund, genial-looking middle-aged man spoke while gently placing Swiss Army-style knives and “tactical folders” on a glass turntable, usually framed on both sides by tacky touristy crap — plastic Native American stereotypes, figurines depicting livestock, etc. Every few minutes, an awful country song would play as the host stepped away to let the slowly rotating knives speak for themselves. In retrospect, an entire show of this would have been preferable to what came next.

When he came back, he began peppering his sales pitches with references to God. His spiel also betrayed a growing distrust of the government. More than once he mentioned “our freedom being taken away.” What had started as a harmless bit of crap TV was transforming, before our eyes, into some kind of Branch Davidian–style militia recruitment show. Had he more time, I have no doubt our host would have been trotting out “Rockefeller was a Satanist!”-style conspiracy theories.

Next, our host held up what looked like a cylindrical hairbrush. He then proceeded to illustrate the proper way to subdue an assailant with this not-a-hairbrush. Whether the assailant was a terrorist, ACLU lawyer, or ATF agent, he did not specify.

A few weeks later, we finally caught O’Dell in his natural habitat, 1:00 AM, somewhere in the nether regions of the DirecTV schedule. All was right with the world once more. Say what you will about his hyped-up salesmanship, O’Dell has never (to my knowledge) attempted to incite violent overthrow of the government.

• Carla and I decided, for reasons emotional and financial, to put our house on the market.
• Our cat, Gladice, went on to the great mouse hunt in the sky after 17 years.
• We moved in with my mother-in-law a nice older lady who kindly offered to rent half her house to us.
• I started posting more and more little updates to Twitter and Facebook, and as a result have seemingly had less to say on the blog proper. (If you’re reading this from Facebook, it might alleviate your confusion to know that Facebook is auto-importing posts from my blog as notes.)
• I started becoming more interested in making things. Not even necessarily writing songs – just creating. Pencil sketches, guest posts on others’ blogs, ugly PSD mockups of fake band websites…when the time is right, I may share this stuff (or at least the stuff that’s not currently public), but for now the process of making it is good enough.
• I lost some momentum on the songwriting front, which usually happens when life gets in the way. But the study is now arranged and my music equipment set up, so that should change soon.
• And oh, the social engagements. Concerts, ballgames, once-in-a-lifetime Geek singularity events, random get-togethers with friends…considering the circumstances, it’s been a good summer.

And now that I’ve caught you all up (and by “you all,” of course, I mean “me”), I may just resume blogging about everything and nothing.

I may just.

Yes, Mr. Sherman. Everything stinks.

Whenever I sit down to write, make music, or sketch (my latest interest), there’s Jay Sherman in his room, yelling “It stinks! It stinks!” before I’ve even made a mark on the page.

My hope is to eventually turn my inner monologue into the words of the doctor treating him, patronizingly saying “Yes, Mr. Sherman. Everything stinks.” In other words, just don’t take The Critic seriously.

I even made this little parody of a motivational poster to remind me that when I hear that voice, it’s really just Jon Lovitz pretending to be a mentally unbalanced film critic.

Why am I sharing this psychological insight with you not long after talking about getting out of my own head? Well, you may be able to help me in my quest to Be the Doctor instead of The Critic. Or maybe not. Stay tuned to future posts — this might eventually make sense.

As a songwriter, I’ve been pretty stuck in my own head for as long as I can remember. I tend to favor impressionistic lyrics, snatches of ideas mushed together into a whole that I hope is greater than the sum of its parts. More often than not, the phrases tend to reveal something bigger than themselves, but don’t really tell a story in the traditional sense.

I usually associate that kind of “story” writing with cheesy country ballads and CCM artists singing about the love of their daughter, but realized that some of my favorite songwriters (particularly Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie) also use it to great effect.

I guess I’m starting to learn there’s a benefit to getting out of my own head.

Recent events have transpired to make me less despairing of the future. Here, in rambling, semi-coherent form, are a few of the reasons I feel, well, “hopefuller.”

Perhaps it’s the change in the weather. Warmer temperatures, longer days, more sunlight — these are all very positive developments. It’s almost embarrassing how much better I felt after our first few days of spring-like weather this year.

Another plus — today’s my birthday. The entire month of May for me usually is measured in “amount of time preceding or after my birthday.” I’ve come to the conclusion that I enjoy this time year so much because it was the first season I ever knew. I can just imagine myself as a baby, being used to spring and summer, suddenly feeling colder air coming on in autumn and thinking, “Dude, WTF?”

Yes, in my mind, infants speak in IM/txt acronyms.

I’ve spent at least 10 minutes each day for the past week and a half near the water. My current favorite spot for this is the waterfront park in Gardiner. I’ve taken to eating my breakfast there, watching the waves, listening to music in my car. It’s a great way to start off the day, and I can’t imagine why I never thought of it before.

Also, I don’t want to jinx anything, but Carla’s been feeling better. This by itself would be a huge relief.

Last, but not least, I’m enjoying ideas again. Who knows if anything will come of them, but I’m not shooting down any weird creative possibilities my head may invent just because they’re weird and creative.

This feeling may stay. I will allow it.

Image by slavin fpo via Flickr

Don’t be frightened to display your talents. — Brian Eno’s Oblique Strategies, as just seen on Twitter

Your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded. — Fortune cookie taped to my monitor