Falling forward.

Oh, Fall. Last hurrah of summer, transforming green into bright, earthy swatches of color..frost on the ground, and an aire of anticipation in the air. Autumn is my favorite season, and although I'm resigned to not being a cold weather person, there's a certain comfort and grounding I take in the briskness. To me, the turning is not really a mourning of last days of warm weather - the end of barbecues, baseball, and...um, butterflies, I guess - but a gradual easing of us into another state of familiarity and comfort, warmth and closeness.

(Secretly, I love this time of year mostly because it's like a virtual hourglass of leaves, marking time to the end of arduous lawn mowing for the next few months.)

But there's more. A good friend of mine recently ruminated on reasons to love Fall. I submit my own.


10. All the good movies open in Fall. Not your typical Summer popcorn fare trumpeted with hyped release dates, obscenely paid stars and convoluted/safe storylines; I'm talking the serious Oscar contenders, that you may have to seek out that little arthouse theatre downtown to find - stories with historical sweeps of grandeur, or suburban boredom and dissatisfaction. Ones which you try to describe to your friends afterward that elicit quizzical looks and dismissive "never heard of it" responses. You know, that one film with the ending not always neatly tied up, incessantly resonating in your head on the drive home. Sneak out early on a Friday afternoon, the day one opens, and catch the last matinee show. On the way out after, give a knowing nod to the people queued up for that latest "Saw XXV" or whatever, and get a head start on awards season.

9. Football games. All kinds. even if you don't go to one, it's comfortingly familiar to see high school kids with cars (and faces) painted in hopeful victory, makeshift spririt flags hanging from windows and planted in yards. The halo glow of high school stadium lights. Marching band practices. Sundays on the couch watching a late game, with the cat sleeping on your stomach (and barely opening an eye as you throw the remote down in disgust when your team offers up a poor play).

8. Dark in, Dark out. So, Daylight Savings may have shifted, and we gain that extra hour and fall back just a little later into November now. But it's still the same Fall. Don't just go from garage to car to parking garage at work to home...Take that rare personal moment when you can walk outside into the cool darkness of the morning, inhale slow and deep, and reflect as you exhale and watch your breath disappear up over your head...attaching itself to a world vibrant and moving elsewhere, but still and calm in your driveway. And do it again as you pull into the garage at the close of the day.

7. Sleeping with windows open makes both sides of the pillow cooler. Enough said.

6. Sweatshirts and shorts together. I could wear shorts all year-round like second skin, except that enhances a dork factor in the rest of me that I have to contend with. But it's a compromised collision of mild acceptance of cooler weather, along with a holding onto summer's last hurrah, that makes this ensemble wholly necessary and acceptable. Especially here in Chicago, where Summer doesn't start until July 4th weekend, and ends with the first sighting of a Cubs fan's tears (mine included). And Spring begins again around Flag Day.

5. Smell of campfires and burning leaves. This ranks as one of my all time favorite scents. Reminds me of being a kid and sitting around fire pits, challenging each other to "What will burn the fastest?" contests. Yeah, it's accelerating global warming. But isn't the black smoke from Styrofoam cool?!?

4. Halloween parties. Couples costumes are hard - you can either go the obvious route of the latest celebrity or political scandal of that week...or be more esoteric and obscure, like each wearing a human IM log you both regularly update with Sharpies as the party progresses. ("Jen says: 'OMG. Glad we only see these neighbors once a year' ", "Nick says: 'LOL. Hope they get into the same fight again over the 'key party' suggestion he offers up every year.' "). Either way, it's a brutal fight to bragging rights for best costume prize of a ceramic pumkin mug.

3. Brunch. Fall just seems more acceptable to be decadent in your eating habits. And heavier buffet-style gorging just feels right. To a non meat-eater like myself, even sausage smells good and tempting in the thick fall air. There's a reassuring communal experience shared with strangers at an omelet station, when you're piling on six kinds of cheeses. Encouraged by the guy in a chef hat. "Feta AND cheddar sauce? Eh...why not."

2. Hot/ warm spiced wine. Mugs of cider are great for autumn wrapping of cold hands, but a friend got me hooked on a red, spiced wine served up hot...awesome for some serious fall imbibing. You can get it in a white, too, but the red just seems more seasonal...oak-y and party-like. And for you more sophisticate types, you can walk around looking detached with your wine glass in hand but still drink yourself blind like us simple folk.

1. Re-setting the DVR for new shows and getting ready for some serious couch time. And the intricate complications of emotional discourse with your spouse as to whether you'll bother getting into a new show: because it'll probably be cancelled by November sweeps anyway/ but what if it's a hit and I can't discuss with my friends at work/ yes but we watch too many shows anyway and I don't have time to get into another show/ It looks good though/ I thought you were going to read more/ but if I get suckered in and have to wait for the DVD it won't come out until the beginning of next season then I'll be two seasons behind/ can't we eliminate a reality show/ no because we've stuck with it from the beginning and besides you like Kim Kardashian/ fine/ watch it yourself, I don't care, I never stopped you, I'll just go in another room/ now I feel guilty/ you don't seem to want to spend time with me anymore anyway/ I never said that/ it's apparent we're growing further apart/ just because you know I could care less about "Dr Phil" yet you insist on recording it every day and taking up valuable space?/ I record it for you, hoping you'll take a cue and work on your emotional distancing and constant denial of my affirmations! (sniff)....

Where have all the soul men gone?

James Brown. Barry White. Luther Vandross. Wilson Pickett. Just recently, Bernie Mac.

And sadly, now Isaac Hayes.

The "Black Moses" legend of Southern R&B and "Shaft" fame...longtime in-house songwriter and arranger for Stax Records, and revered for his own Hall Of Fame career...known to most younger generations from his voice work on "South Park"...oft sampled on countless Rap hits... passed away today at age 65.

Hayes leaves 12 children, 14 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren.

Sometimes I joke that, because of my Dad's record collection, I might have been I conceived to one of his albums.

I shall play now play Side One of "Hot Buttered Soul" in memoriam.

Somewhere today, there's an angel wearing only gold chains.

The Swell Season - Chicago Theatre, June 17, 2008

To paraphrase Lin Brehmer from WXRT, you know when you discover a band or a piece of music, maybe a film, and you feel like you're the only person who could possibly, truly get it? And you so want to share it with anyone and everyone who might show a passable interest, while at the same time letting them know at every instance that it's "yours" , and "you" knew before anyone else? Like a pride of ownership. And once the popularity builds, you feel like you just want to say it louder and more often that you discovered it "first"...but you feel like you've lost a little piece of the art to the masses? Well, here you go, general public...I give you The Swell Season. Enjoy.

Last evening, the duo of Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova played the second performance of a sold-out Chicago Theatre three-night stand. And 3,500 of "us" collectively held our breath in wondrous amazement as willing accomplices, witnessing their run through an awe-inspiring two hour set of not only music from their film, "Once," but also cover songs and impeccably performed stripped down versions of songs from Glen's main gig (and the night's backing band), The Frames.

From the moment Glen walked out onto the stark, blue and yellow light-bathed stage with his well-worn guitar, kicking off the night with a "Hey, how's it going?" before the band launched into "Trying," you just knew: this was a night for people who loved the pure art of listening to music performed by real musicians. With real instruments. Artists who genuinely felt lucky - nay, privileged - to be able to share their craft with people who loved their art as much as they did. There's a time and place for shiny, manufactured glitter pop and contrived sing-alongs (I love those songs as much as anyone), but this night wasn't it.

"Lies" was typically chest-swelling in it's majestic sweep of loud/soft dynamics, and the audience hung on every note of the warmth in Colm Mac Con Iomairem's violin. Marketa's voice rose about and weaved in and out from Glen's, sometimes sitting on top of his, sometimes providing the cushion to ease off the rough edges of his lyrical disappointments and regret. Stretching the chorus out slightly more so than the recorded version, the words hung in the air almost precariously, then reigned back in, giving added weight to a song that already sends this writer to an uncharacteristically mushy-hearted place inside. Throughout much of the night's performance, the theater got deathly quiet, and you could almost hear the audience smiling through the silence between notes. It continued with "The Moon,", and a spacey violin weaving in and out of locomotive charging acoustic power, just before the bottom dropped out in and left the audience gasping.

Both he and Mar took center spotlight for “When Your Mind’s Made Up” and completely nailed the emotional ballast of this song. Just epic in it’s grandeur and primal feel. I honestly thought at this point, we would all have witnessed the last performance of his road-weary guitar, he nearly wore another hole through it. Perfect.

Glen and Marketa traded places, he on piano, and she strapped on an acoustic for the new composition “I Have Loved You Wrong”. The words rested like a fine mist over a dense morning fog, her voice colored with a slight tinge of eerie reverb, and the drums muted by tympani toms. A very hypnotic arrangement, and at the end, Glen and Mar locked into a soaring harmony that was almost a spiritual bluegrass in it's splendor, repeating the same refrain over and over : ”Every now and then, on my mind” Definitely a showcase for Marketa, and left the audience wishing for more.

At one point, the band left Glen to center stage, sitting alone with just his guitar. No microphone or amp, just his voice to soar and bounce amongst the upper balcony reaches. Playing “Say It To Me Now” as if he was back in his street busking days, he filled the seemingly cavernous Theatre's ornate walls with clear projection and literally foot-stomping rhythm with living room intensity.

Throughout, what struck me was the genuine appreciativeness the band felt for the way the audience had chosen to spend their night. Glen thanked the crowd after each song, and he frequently segued between songs with an affably charming story or self-effacing analogies, always punctuated with the wild gesturing of hands to make a point. I felt for him, as most of my stories have no seeming end or reason...Loved his introduction for "Falling Slowly," comparing the Oscar-winning song and ensuing rise from playing 100-seat clubs to larger symphony halls, to a ball being kicked not just over the fence, but over the river and into the next town. "99% of you is proud, but the other 1% of you you just wants your ball back."

“Broken Hearted Hoover Fixer Sucker Guy” featured a star-turning appearance from a 6-year old named Ethan, plucked from You Tube ,and the crowd, to sing on-stage. He briefly forgot the words, but then backtracked and did an amazing job. Coming into the show, I wouldn't have expected a little boy to sing the word "screwed", but that and his show-bizzy bow at the end (complete with hand on tummy) made the night worth it. A meditative “What Happens When The Heart Just Stops?” had Glen comparing the conflicts hearts and minds to a “lion driving a train full speed on ice”, before he repeatedly beat the word “disappointment” into oblivion.

Glen accented “Go With Happiness” with sweeping hand gestures alternately reminiscent of a conductor with jazz hands, and a scarecrow. Holding out his arms, he just let the music sit and breathe for a moment. The lyrics, a redeeming message of letting a love go, was like a slow walk in the snow toward the dawn (“If you gotta go/ Go with happiness”)

Marketa joined him at the mic for a soaring, magical cover of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic”, the stage awash like sunlight; they kept the song going for a few more bars of vamping after turning toward the drummer and mentioning “that song was supposed to end there, but we'll just let it ride out”.

After Marketa's cradling of the audience in her hand with "The Hill" (which she mentioned had never before been performed live until then), and an angelic "If You Want Me", the full band came back for a mammoth version of The Frame's "Fitzcarraldo" (“I’m not goin down, this journey isn’t over”.) Weaving piano lines drove alongside pulsing bass lines, and the drums pounded insistently in a version that was just amazing in scale and ambition. Although more overtly rocking than much of the night's song selection, much of the earlier, performances matched the song note for note in terms of introspection and longing - and left the crowd near rapturous oblivion, wishing their journey would roll on.

The band closed the evening on a sweet note, with “Star Star” (a “lullaby to your broken soul…written in a field, drunk”) A gorgeous violin coda punctuated the night with a bit of (and it took me a moment to remember where I heard this from...like one of those melodies you've heard hundreds of times, but can't place) "Pure Imagination" from 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory' incorporated into the interlude:

"Star, star teach me how to shine, shine/ Teach me so I know what's going on in your mind"

Opening Sub Pop recording artist Daniel Martin Moore performed a solo set of sparse, plaintive guitar and introspection that captivated the crowd's attention in a way I've seen few opening acts do. His music feels like the perfect way to fill the spaciousness of a nighttime drive on an empty country road. Sweet and heartfelt warmness, delicate in it's moments but not too precious. Good stuff.

Wow. Amazing. A brilliant night, and one of the most memorable shows one could hope to witness. If you'd like to download the show (legally and artist sanctioned, I might add), go here

The Swell Season, June 17th, 2008
Chicago Theatre
SETLIST:

‘Trying”
“Lies”
“Sleeping”
“The Moon”
“When Your Mind’s Made Up”
“Seven Day Mile”
“Drown Out”
“I Have Loved You Wrong”
“Falling Slowly”
“Say It to Me Now”
"Broken-Hearted Hoover-Fixer Sucker Guy"
"What Happens When The Heart Just Stops?"
“Buzzin' Fly” (Tim Buckley cover)
“Go With Happiness”
“Into the Mystic” (Van Morrison cover)
“Once”
“The Hill
“If You Want Me”
“Fitzcarraldo”
“Star Star”

Ok, so now you know what the rest of us know. Experience the movie now if you haven't. Watch it again if you have. Go out and support real music. Be bold and adventurous. Great things will come.

Perception and Reality.

What you IMAGINE her doing at 2 a.m. :

• On the deck of a fancy yacht, cruising some magical, star-lined harbour...pastel-colored drink hoisted...smiling dreamy-eyed at her bastard model boyfriend, on her arm and holding her balance.

The probable REALITY:

• She's on her hands and knees, scraping puke from her 4-year old, out of the crevaces of the hardwood floor, with a butter knife.

What you IMAGINE she's doing, while you're stuck in traffic:

• Giving out her phone number to a co-worker, and all flirty with less than pure intentions.

The probable REALITY:

• She's annoyed, because she couldn't get size 7 bowling shoes at the alley, and has to suffer with a size smaller. And she won't shut up about it.

What you IMAGINE she's doing, when she says she'll be stuck late at work:

• Something illicit with the Peruvian cleaning guy.

The probable REALITY:

• Something even more unimaginably illicit with the American plant-watering guy.

Don't hang out with your own thoughts. They always tell the worst stories.

You're actually NOT that important if...

...you use your cell phone while you are:

1. at a urinal/ in a stall. I know, I've said it before. Although, you most likely will never have your phone stolen at the airport while doing so. Good for you, Stinkfinger. High five. Just kidding.

2. standing in line, and paying for a good or service. Nice way for you to be shorted change:

"and that's... 4 - I know you can't hear me -5 - but who cares about what's for dinner - 7 - I hope your wife is trying to race you home - 9 - and forgets her underwear - 10."

3. on a call (which YOU dialed), and then me on hold - without my honest permission - to answer another land-based phone call. Sure, you're multitasking: losing my patience and gaining a dial tone.

4. wandering the office cube farm, talking with earnest intent and gesticulating wildly, using business-isms like "It just doesn't pass the smell test" or "Let's quickly level-set, because this onion is multi-layered." Bluetooth doesn't make your call more conveniently condusive to your mobility. It just makes your jerkiness more universally accessible.

5. on camera at a televised sporting event. You are waving to viewers that don't know you. Possibly millions of people. However, based on that, you are unknowingly setting a record for receipt of virtual finger flipping from us at home. Later, you can watch the guys on Sportscenter give it to you, too. 5 times tonight.

It's okay, though. Really. I'll just ignore you. This absence (or abstinance) of ettiquette is becomeming increasingly more common place these days. And just think about the innevitable: coming soon to your transcontinental flight, hours of innane one-sided dialogue from your row-mate's phone appendage. Probably the only cause celebre' for a tarmack delay before takeoff; the flight attendants can target the most offensive offending orrators (most likely walking up and down the aisle blah-blahing with phone in hand) and corral them into the back of the plane with the beverage cart.

Ah. That's better.

Or just pass me one of them unwashed pillows. All the more better to stuff in your chatty gob.