In the middle of last week, I went from being closer to 39 years of age to closer to 40 years of age, and while I no longer get excited about the half-birthday (and haven't in a very long time), these mini-stones do get me thinking about the past, and make me wonder what the future has in store for me. As people get older, memories from years long gone by become dearer, and frankly, despite the fact that I can't stop it, there's definitely a part of me that wishes I could go back to certain points in my life, taking the knowledge and confidence that I've acquired over the years. There are things I'd like to correct and clarify, episodes I'd like to somehow improve upon or fix. Like everyone, I have regrets – things I've done or haven't done, said or haven't said. Some are long forgotten, while others have occasionally caused me to lose sleep over the years. I've even had the good fortune to clarify and repair two such friendships (and two important ones at that), but still relish the thought of being able to go back and do some things differently.
I must admit that I'm not too keen on the idea of growing older (though it is, quite obviously, better than the alternative), and I definitely agree with the old saying that "youth is wasted on the young". Sometimes, I just want to be forever young…
Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies Hoping for the best but expecting the worst Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?
Let us die young or let us live forever We don't have the power but we never say never Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip The music's for the sad man
Can you imagine when this race is won Turn our golden faces into the sun Praising our leaders we're getting in tune The music's played by the, the madman
Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever? Forever, or never
Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever? Forever young
Some are like water, some are like the heat Some are a melody and some are the beat Sooner or later they all will be gone Why don't they stay young?
It's so hard to get old without a cause I don't want to perish like a fading horse Youth like diamonds in the sun And diamonds are forever
So many adventures couldn't happen today So many songs we forgot to play So many dreams are swinging out of the blue We let 'em come true
Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever? Forever, or never
Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever? Forever, or never
Forever young, I wanna be forever young Do you really want to live forever?
Boys, consider yourselves warned. This week’s entry is for the girls…
Ok, ladies, please raise your hands if you didn’t fantasize about replacing Jennifer Grey in the movie Dirty Dancing, especially during those scenes when Patrick Swayze was teaching her how to dance. Just as I expected. I don’t see any hands raised. Not a one. Well, obviously. We all wanted to be the one who “carried a watermelon”. We all wanted Patrick Swayze to teach us that leap in the water. Admittedly, I don’t know anyone who actually wanted to be called “Baby”, though I do have one friend “attended Mount Holyoke in the fall”, after the movie was released.
I loved this movie, not only for the obvious bits mentioned above, but also because I was a child of the Catskills, where the movie took place (though it was actually filmed in North Carolina and Virginia). While we didn’t go there for summers, a lifetime of Passovers was spent at various hotels in the area, and aside from the fact that the wait-staff that had once been comprised of smiling, young college kids was now mostly comprised of native Spanish and Portuguese speakers from Latin America, our experiences there could have come straight from the script of Dirty Dancing, from the plethora of activities (I still have half a backscratcher from the Fallsview, which I won playing Bingo), to the evening shows, to the copious amounts of food served at every meal. The schedule of activities was printed up on a daily basis and available at the front desk, and we would pore over it every morning, seeking out the activities that caught our fancy (miniature golf competitions with prizes), groaning when they conflicted other desirable activities (trivia contests for prizes). There were dance lessons, fashion shows, and endless rounds of Simon Says (more often than not led by the gentlemen described in this article). There was the arcade (“can I have more quarters, Grandma/Grampa/Mom/Dad?”), the swimming pool and the ice skating rink, and one hotel even had a bowling alley. We were busy from the moment we woke in the morning until we fell into bed at night, which was probably a good thing, given how much food we were packing in at each meal.
When my mother, in her youth, would go away to the Catskills with her entire extended family, they were encouraged to fraternize with the aforementioned wait-staff, who were, as I mentioned, young college kids, and most of them, I believe, were Jewish (as were many of the guests). Friendly relationships were welcomed, and waiters and daughters were introduced. By the time we were going to the Catskills, the situation had changed. You’d have been hard-pressed to find a young, Jewish college student among them, and it wasn’t much easier to find a native English speaker. Relationships were no longer encouraged, but me being me, I was fascinated by the young, shy Spanish speakers, and while I carried no watermelons and went to no parties, I did manage to make a few friends along the way.
Between my mother’s stories and my own annual pilgrimages, I truly felt that the Catskill experience was my own, and needless to say, Dirty Dancing resonated with me in a way that other movies did not. Whenever I see it, old, long-forgotten memories are dredged up, exciting, childhood memories from a more innocent time.
And of course, those dance scenes were really hot… Check out the dance sequences threaded into Eric Carmen’s video for “Hungry Eyes”, and you’ll see what I mean.
Hungry Eyes Eric Carmen
I've been meaning to tell you I've got this feelin' that won't subside I look at you and I fantasize You are mine tonight Now I've got you in my sights
With these hungry eyes One look at you and I can't disguise I've got hungry eyes I feel the magic between you and I
I want to hold you so hear me out I want to show you what love's all about Darlin' tonight Now I've got you in my sights
With these hungry eyes One look at you and I can't disguise I've got hungry eyes I feel the magic between you And I've got hungry eyes Now I've got you in my sights With these hungry eyes Now did I take you by surprise
I need you to see This love was meant to be
I've got hungry eyes One look at you and I can't disguise I've got hungry eyes I feel the magic between you And I've got hungry eyes Now I've got you in my sights With those hungry eyes Did I take you by surprise
As a seriously angst-ridden teenager, I spent a great deal of time dwelling on my feelings and thinking about my relationships with others. This manifested itself in a variety of ways – I can remember spending hours in the greeting card aisle at the local pharmacy, browsing through all the Susan Polis Schutz cards, looking for sentiments that matched my own, or, if I had time, turning the pages of her books in the hopes of finding the words that expressed how I was feeling. Like most of my peers, my moods were all over the place, and if that weren't enough, I probably spent far too much time thinking that not only did no one really seem to notice me, but that they also probably wouldn't notice if I wasn't around (not that I was suicidal, because I wasn't, but thinking in more abstract terms of simply not being there). I even wrote poems about it, poems that I'm assuming (and hoping) no longer exist.
And of course, when I wasn't searching for the meaning of life in Susan Polis Schutz paraphernalia, I would listen to music and try to ascertain whether or not the lyrics could be applied to my own life in some context. I would analyze the words, marveling at the fact that these artists were writing what I was feeling. I would listen to the late night dedication shows, thinking about the songs that I would dedicate and to whom. When I was down, I would make sure to listen to music that best conveyed my emotions of the moment, whether they were of the "nobody understands me" variety or the "why doesn't this person notice me" genre.
While I no longer peruse greeting cards, to this day, I still relate song lyrics to whatever happens to going on in my life. I have sent songs to friends simply because the songs reminded me of these specific individuals for any one of a multitude of reasons (such as the song "Thank You" by South African artist Lionel Bastos, which always reminds me of my pal NRG), and have even been known to pick up the phone to call someone because a song I was listening to made me think of them. There are songs that I can't listen to because the images they conjure up are too difficult to bear, such as Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven", which he wrote after losing his young son and hits far too close for home, or songs that automatically take me back to certain periods or events in my life, both good and bad (such as the Eurythmics' "I Saved the World Today").
Lately, more often than not, I've been feeling mellow and out of sorts, as you may have guessed. And me being me, I'm trying to figure out which song from the 80s best suits my current mood. After careful deliberation, I've decided to go with a song by one of the best (in my opinion, anyway) groups of the era - Asia. The song is "The Smile Has Left Your Eyes", which was released as one of the songs on the album "Alpha" in 1983.
The Smile Has Left Your Eyes Asia
I saw you standing hand in hand And now you come to me the solitary man And I know what it is that made us live Such ordinary lives The where to go the who to see No one could sympathize The Smile Has Left Your Eyes The Smile Has Left Your Eyes
And I've become a rolling stone I don't know where to go or what to call my own But I can see that black horizon glooming ever close to view It's over now it's not my fault See how this feels for you The Smile Has Left Your Eyes The Smile Has Left Your Eyes
But I never thought I'd see you Standing there with him So don't come crawling back to me
Now it's too late you realized Now there's no one can sympathize Now that the Smile Has Left Your Eyes Now it's too late you realized Now there's no one can sympathize Now it's too late you realized Now that the Smile Has Left Your Eyes
In the grand scheme of things, I've come to the conclusion that I'm a bit weird when it comes to remembering inane bits of trivia and assorted episodes from my past. I remember people much better than they remember me, and it can be rather alarming when I can spew the most minute, trivial details about past encounters when the person in question doesn't even remember my name. I've got a collection of birthdays filed away, mostly for friends whom I haven't spoken to in years, and I can remember my login name for my very first computer account (back in elementary school, when we used small black-and-white televisions as monitors and connected to the local network by dialing a certain telephone number and placing the receiver in a specially-designed piece of equipment).
I can remember plots from random episodes of 70s television shows, not to mention the names of actors and actress from various shows. In college, no one was more surprised than my roommate S when I was able to quickly name the actress/singer who played the role of Leather Tuscadero on Happy Days, and quite frankly, I'm not surprised that I actually remember how the subject came up. My friend C shares my appreciation for entertainment trivia, and our emails often incorporate these useless tidbits of knowledge to evoke memories and provoke raucous laughter on a regular basis (though chances are, no one else will get the joke but us...).
I'm also good at remembering numbers, whether it be dates, addresses, telephone numbers (a skill that's deteriorated with the advent of the cellular phone, of course), and so on. I can still remember my grandmother's phone number in Brooklyn, though the number hasn't been in service since 1984 or so, and I remember the phone numbers of some of my old neighbors in the town where I grew up. I can reel off my aunt and uncle's home address and phone number as necessary. Like many of my peers, I've memorized the mailing address for Zoom (that's 350, Boston, Mass, 02134), but I'm not sure that I can recite it without actually singing it as the Zoom kids did. I can also still do Bernadette's butterfly – can you?
Of course, for those of us who grew up in the 80s, there's one telephone number that none of us are ever likely to forget, belonging to a certain young lady named Jenny. Thanks to Tommy Tutone, an overwhelming number of telephone calls were made to increasingly frustrated individuals in a variety of area codes whose greatest misfortune was to have the phone number 867-5309.
867-5309/Jenny Tommy Tutone
Jenny Jenny who can I turn to you give me something I can hold on to now you think I'm like the others before who saw you name and number on the wall
Jenny I got your number I need to make you mine Jenny don't change your number 867-5309, 867-5309, 867-5309, 867-5309
Jenny Jenny your the girl for me you don't know me, but you make me so happy I tried to call you before but I lost the nerve I tried my imagination but I was disturbed
Jenny I got your number I need to make you mine Jenny don't change your number 867-5309, 867-5309, 867-5309, 867-5309
I got it, I got it, I got your number on the wall I got it, I got it, for a good time, for a good time call
Jenny don't change your number I need to make you mine Jenny I got your number 867-5309, 867-5309, 867-5309, 867-5309
Jenny Jenny who can I turn to (867-5309) for the price of a dime I can always turn to you
One day last week I had the distinct pleasure of having lunch with Benji at a small resto near my office. Over humus and salad, we discussed a variety of subjects – work, living in Israel, bloggers and blogging, writing, and so on. One of the main topics of conversation, however, was summer camp. Benji recently returned to Israel after spending his summer working at our old summer camp, and I was anxious to hear all about it. Benji was more than happy to share, and regaled me with story after story about our old stomping grounds.
I loved hearing about the activities being done these days, how things have changed, etc. Many of my fondest memories were created during my summers spent there, and to this day, random interactions, sites and smells can trigger flashbacks (the smell of wooden planks on a hot summer day reminds me of the smell of camp cabins). Seeing Benji opened a floodgate of old memories, and given that he shares my love of 80s music, I find myself remembering songs that were popular in camp. My mind drifts back to the annual talent show, and I can recall with incredibly clarity a group of my bunkmates preparing their song and dance routine. I can remember the cool arm twists, the bit where they jumped around, turning from back to front in order to face the audience. The song they chose was Deniece Williams' "Let's Hear it for the Boy", from everyone's favorite movie of 1984 – Footloose.
While I couldn't find an actual video of the original song, what you're going to see below is a clip of Williams singing the song on Solid Gold, a show that probably deserves its very own blog entry...
Let's Hear it for the Boy Deniece Williams
My baby he don't talk sweet He ain't got much to say But he loves me, loves me, loves me I know that he loves me anyway
And maybe he don't dress fine But I don't really mind 'Cuz every time he pulls me near I just wanna cheer
Let's hear it for the boy! Oh, let's give the boy a hand Let's hear it for my baby You gotta understand Maybe he's no Romeo But he's my loving one-man show Let's hear it for the boy!
My baby may not be rich He's watching every dime But every night he holds me And we always have a real good time
And maybe he sings off-key That's alright by me But what he does he does so well Makes me wanna yell
Let's hear it for the boy! Oh, let's give the boy a hand Let's hear it for my baby You gotta understand Maybe he's no Romeo But he's my loving one-man show Let's hear it for the boy!
Ever gone on a date with someone while your leg was in a cast? I have. As I've mentioned before, I managed to break my leg only several weeks after arriving in Israel at age 18. During the weeks prior to my little mishap, a few friends and I met a group of young men at a (long-defunct) pub in Jerusalem. One of my friends immediately hooked up with one of the young men (immediately being an exchange of phone numbers, of course, and not a quick round of tonsil hockey that very same evening), and thus began one of the more interesting adventures of that year.
The young men we met were Armenian, and lived in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City. They told us about life in the Quarter and they invited us to parties that took place within the walls of the Quarter's convent (the convent was essentially a complex, and many Armenians lived within its walls, resulting in creative entries and exits once the convent gates were locked each night). We snuck them into our dormitory's second-story common room (through the porch door) after the house mother refused them entrance into the building (because they weren't nice Jewish Israeli boys), and we even learned a few words of Armenian (which sadly escape me now).
It was at one of the aforementioned convent parties that I met Aram. He was the DJ, and I was a girl with a serious crush. I didn't see Aram again until after I'd broken my leg. We all went downtown as a group, and believe me when I say that it's no easy feat to get from one end of Jaffa Road to the other with a full-leg cast and crutches. Soon after that, Aram and I made plans to go to a movie, and arranged that he would pick me up at my dormitory. I was excited, and while there was some lingering concern because I didn't know him very well, I reasoned that the cast on my leg, combined with the fact that the car only had two doors, would act as a deterrent in keeping things from going farther than I was prepared to go.
Aram picked me up in his black BMW (as I recall...), presented me with a red rose (which I keep to this day in its dried form), and then we went to see a film at the long-gone Edison Theatre. The film was "Top Gun", and to this day, whenever I hear the song I've chosen for today's 80s Music Video Sunday entry, I'm immediately transported back to that evening, twenty-one years ago, a time when Tom Cruise was just a talented young actor, and not someone prone to making an utter fool of himself on national television repeatedly. The song is Berlin's "Take My Breath Away".
Take My Breath Away Berlin
Watching every motion In my foolish lover's game On this endless ocean Finally lovers know no shame Turning and returning To some secret place inside Watching in slow motion As you turn around and say
Take my breath away Take my breath away
Watching I keep waiting Still anticipating love Never hesitating To become the fated ones Turning and returning To some secret place to hide Watching in slow motion As you turn to me and say
Take my breath away Take my breath away
Through the hourglass I saw you In time you slipped away When the mirror crashed I called you And turned to hear you say If only for today I am unafraid
Take my breath away Take my breath away
Watching every motion In this foolish lover's game Haunted by the notion Somewhere there's a love in flames Turning and returning To some secret place inside Watching in slow motion As you turn my way and say
We took a lot of family vacations while my brother and I were growing up. Sometimes, these getaways were relatively close to home (such as the one at Golden Acres Farm and Ranch, where my parents received special permission for me to join the hotel day camp's boys group instead of the girls group because the boys did fun stuff like dodge ball while the girls group took nature walks to pick flowers, and I was too much of a tomboy to do girly stuff), but other trips took us to far-flung Caribbean islands like Curacao and Saint Martin. The best vacations of all though, were the Caribbean cruises we took as teenagers.
Cruises are the perfect family vacation, as you don't actually have to spend all your time with your family. My parents would wake us up as they were leaving for breakfast, and then we might spot them around the ship during the course of the day. The only meal we shared as a family was dinner, prior to which, we would all squeeze around each other in our miniscule cabin, lining up to use the tiny bathroom and fight over mirror space in order to get ready. After dinner, my brother and I would once again take leave of our parents and run off to find the friends we'd made, usually heading off to the ship's disco for the rest of the evening, and eventually wandering over to the midnight buffet.
While I certainly enjoyed the various ports of call we visited along the way, the best times were to be had on-board. While memories of the first cruise we took are sketchy, I still have fond memories of the second cruise – taken when I was 17. Our group of new friends included Mexicans, Canadians and Brits, as well as an assortment of Americans. Days on-board were spent together, as well as our one-day docking on the cruise line's private island. As I mentioned above, evenings were spent in the disco, where I did my best to catch the eye of one of our young British acquaintances. To this day, I still don't know whether or not I succeeded (I was far too innocent and naive, and needless to say, utterly clueless about things like sending signals and making passes), but David and I remained friends, and managed to keep in touch quite regularly for approximately ten years after that vacation took place, meeting up once in NYC and again in London – no small feat given that this was the pre-email era and my snail mailing skills were questionable at best. We kept in touch during my gap year in Israel (he had spent a year in Israel as well before we met), throughout my years in Boston and during my initial years back in Israel. We exchanged camp stories while I worked at a Jewish camp in NY and he worked at a Jewish camp in Michigan, and we exchanged Israel stories for the duration of our correspondence. The last time I heard from him (at some point after I got married, as I recall), he was very happily living and working in Sydney, Australia, and had married a woman of Dutch-Lebanese descent. Somewhere, I still have all the old letters he sent (as well as nearly all the letters that anyone has ever sent me, including some real winners from a certain friend who reads and comments on this blog quite regularly), and I can even still remember his parents' address in London (I have a bizarre memory for random tidbits of information and trivia).
For some reason, there's one song that I always associate with those nights in the ship's disco. It was probably played at least once every evening, and whenever I hear it, I'm transported back in time, back to that disco. Who'd have guessed that "Tarzan Boy", by one-hit wonder Baltimora would be the song to evoke these memories of good times with "vacation" friends? Certainly not me, but given that it was the 80s, I suppose anything is possible...
Tarzan Boy Baltimora
Jungle life I'm far away from nowhere On my own like Tarzan Boy Hide and seek I play along while rushing cross the forest Monkey business on a sunny afternoon Jungle life I'm living in the open Native beat that carries on Burning bright A fire the blows the signal to the sky I sit and wonder does the message get to you
Night to night Gimme the other, gimme the other chance tonight Gimme the other, gimme the other Night to night Gimme the other, gimme the other world
Jungle life You're far away from nothing It's all right You won't miss home Take a chance Leave everything behind you Come and join me Won't be sorry It's easy to survive
Jungle life We're living in the open All alone like Tarzan Boy Hide and seek We play along while rushing cross the forest Monkey business on a sunny afternoon
Night to night Gimme the other, gimme the other Chance tonight Oh Yeah Night to night Gimme the other, gimme the other Night to night You won't play Night to night Gimme the other, gimme the other Chance tonight Oh Yeah Night to night Night to night Gimme the other, gimme the other
There's one band out there that can put me in a good mood more than any other group or solo artist. When depressed, I often put on one of their CDs (or cassettes) at high volume, and the music almost never fails to bring a smile to my face. If I've got a stack of dishes to wash or have to do some cleaning around the house, I know that I can do it faster if I'm singing along to this group.
The Beach Boys were formed back in 1961, and have been making music ever since. Changes to the group lineup may have slowed them down at times, but they always managed to roar back to life with their distinct, fabulous sound. I know the words to nearly all of their songs, and have seen them perform live twice. The first time was at Tanglewood, located in the beautiful Berkshires region of Western Massachusetts. I went with my friend Jenny, who had come for a visit so that we could go to the concert, and we stayed at my family's lakeside cabin in Lee. It was, of course, an amazing concert, and there are a few moments that I've managed to retain in my aging memory.
We went to the concert during the summer after I returned from my year in Israel. I still had pins in my ankle from having broken it while abroad, and when we wanted to stick around for a bit after the concert, I used my ankle as an excuse when a security guard asked us to leave. I told him I needed to rest for a bit and let him feel my ankle. The moment he realized that he was touching screws, he pulled his hand back as though he'd touched dog poo, said we could stay as long as was needed, and then ran away. When we finally decided to leave, we made our way to the parking lot. We found the spot where we'd left the car, or rather, where we thought we'd left the car. We couldn't find the car! We wandered around and around in the lot, wondering where the car had disappeared to. Suddenly, we noticed people walking past our parking lot, which is when we realized that there was more than one parking lot. Sheepishly, we joined the parade of post-concert goers and found our car just where we'd left it – in the other parking lot.
The second Beach Boys concert that I attended was at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. It was a few days before my wedding (which would make it exactly 14 years ago, as our 14th anniversary is later this week), and I went with my soon-to-be husband and his sister; somehow, we'd managed to snag seats in the first row of the balcony. We sang along with the opening act, America (at least I think it was them), and once The Beach Boys came on stage, we started dancing as well. Lots of room to dance in the first row of the balcony, and the completely unobstructed view was simply outstanding.
Unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to get to any Beach Boys concerts since then. I keep waiting for them to come to Israel, but so far, there's been no "Love" on these shores. This band always makes me think of summer, and I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate mark the end of summer vacation than to feature a song by The Beach Boys for today's edition of 80s Music Video Sunday. And those of you who grew up watching TV in the 80s should definitely recognize the drummer...
Kokomo The Beach Boys
Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take ya Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go Jamaica
Off the Florida Keys There's a place called Kokomo That's where you wanna go to get away from it all
Bodies in the sand Tropical drink melting in your hand We'll be falling in love To the rhythm of a steel drum band Down in Kokomo
Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go
Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo We'll get there fast And then we'll take it slow That's where we wanna go Way down to Kokomo
To Martinique, that Monserrat mystique
We'll put out to sea And we'll perfect our chemistry By and by we'll defy a little bit of gravity
Afternoon delight Cocktails and moonlit nights That dreamy look in your eye Give me a tropical contact high Way down in Kokomo
Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take you To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go
Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo We'll get there fast And then we'll take it slow That's where we wanna go Way down to Kokomo
Port Au Prince, I wanna catch a glimpse
Everybody knows A little place like Kokomo Now if you wanna go And get away from it all Go down to Kokomo
Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take you To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go
Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo We'll get there fast And then we'll take it slow That's where we wanna go Way down to Kokomo
Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take you To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go
While I've always enjoyed their music, for some reason, I never found myself mooning over Duran Duran the way that so many other females of my generation did back in the 80s. I suppose I liked their songs, but never felt the need to purchase their albums or buy tickets to their concerts. I wasn't drawn to them like I was drawn to so many other artists of the time, and I really can't put my finger on why that might be. Maybe I just found them to be too popular, and given that I was something of a loner, their music just didn't speak to me. Maybe they were just a bit too mainstream and too "pretty" for my tastes. Even today, while I certainly don't have a problem with their music, I can also admit that I don't really have any Duran Duran songs among my massive collection of 80s tunes (though I do have a bit of a soft spot for Simon LeBon, since discovering that he spent some time here on a kibbutz when he was younger).
That being said, though, there is one Duran Duran song that I've always really liked, and even went so far as to purchase the single. The sound, different from many of their other popular songs, really appealed to me, and still does. Enjoy!
(Sorry this post is so short – I'm totally swamped today and time is of the essence...)
Save a Prayer Duran Duran
You saw me standing by the wall, corner of a main street And the lights are flashing on your window sill All alone ain't much fun, so you're looking for the thrill And you know just what it takes and where to go
Don't save a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after No, don't say a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after
Feel the breeze deep on the inside, look you down into the well If you can, you'll see the world in all his fire Take a chance (like all dreamers can't find another way) You don't have to dream it all, just live a day
Don't say a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after No, don't say a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after, save it till the morning after
Pretty looking road, I try to hold the rising floods that fill my skin Don't ask me why I'll keep my promise, I'll melt the ice And you wanted to dance so I asked you to dance But fear is in your soul Some people call it a one night stand But we can call it paradise
Don't say a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after No, don't say a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after
I don't even remember his name anymore, but for a while, he was one of my pen pals. Back in the 70s and 80s, it was very much the in thing in certain crowds to have pen pals, whose names you received via a variety of organizations created especially to facilitate such cross-cultural connections. I filled out the forms, stating my interests and hobbies with care, and was shortly rewarded by my efforts with letters from boys my age (don't ask why they didn't present me with female pen pals – I have no idea!) who lived in Israel and Egypt. In this pre-Internet era, we exchanged letters for a while, but given the inherent difficulties of filling pieces of paper with handwritten words, carefully folding the pages so they'd fit in the envelope, addressing said envelope and determining the proper amount of postage needed, these pen friendships, while well-intentioned, did not last for too long.
If I were to spend a few days rummaging through my old keepsakes (all conveniently boxed when my parents moved house just under two years ago), I might find the old letters and photos, reminding me of long-forgotten facts and nuggets of information shared by my pen friends in Egypt and Israel, at a time when I was too young to know about global issues and conflicts, and wished only to make friends with people in far away lands (apparently, some things never change!). Though it's probably been around 25 years since these connections were made, there is one detail that I still remember – the boy from Israel was really into a band called Dire Straits.
I've always enjoyed their music, not least of which because Mark Knopfler wrote the score for one of my all-time favorite movies, "The Princess Bride". Given that today is Mr. Knopfler's 58th birthday, it seems only fitting that today's 80s Music Video Sunday entry feature this incredible band. And, as opposed to last week's entry that featured the first video ever shown on MTV in the US, today's video was the first video ever shown on MTV Europe, on August 1st, 1987. Clearly, Europe wanted their MTV...
The song "Money for Nothing" is shrouded in controversy. Written by Knopfler from the point of view of a blue-collar worker watching MTV, the lyrics were criticized as being anti-gay, sexist and racist, and the entire second verse was often edited out due to both its content and the overall length of the song in its complete version. This edited version later appeared on a Dire Straits compilation album. In some instances, the word "faggot" was apparently replaced by "mother". While I was rather naive when the song was released in 1985, today I'm more than a little surprised that the public was so accepting of lyrics that make me somewhat uneasy.
Money for Nothing Dire Straits
I want my I want my MTV
Now look at them yo-yos that's the way you do it You play the guitar on the MTV That ain't workin' that's the way you do it Money for nothin' and chicks for free Now that ain't workin' that's the way you do it Lemme tell ya them guys ain't dumb Maybe get a blister on your little finger Maybe get a blister on your thumb
We gotta install microwave ovens Custom kitchen deliveries We gotta move these refrigerators We gotta move these colour tvs
See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup Yeah buddy that's his own hair That little faggot got his own jet airplane That little faggot hes a millionaire
We gotta install microwave ovesns Custom kitchens deliveries We gotta move these refrigerators We gotta move these colour tvs
I shoulda learned to play the guitar I shoulda learned to play them drums Look at that mama, she got it stickin' in the camera Man we could have some fun And he's up there, what's that? hawaiian noises? Bangin on the bongoes like a chimpanzee That ain't workin' that's the way you do it Get your money for nothin' get your chicks for free
We gotta install microwave ovens Custom kitchen deliveries We gotta move these refrigerators We gotta move these colour tvs, lord
Now that ain't workin' that's the way you do it You play the guitar on the mtv That ain't workin' that's the way you do it Money for nothin' and your chicks for free Money for nothin' and chicks for free
While growing up, my family always seemed to be a bit behind in the technology game. In our house, phrases like "Now in living color", or "Now in technicolor" meant nothing, as we were the last family on the block to get a color television (and don't even get me started on the lack of a remote control). We were also the last family to get cable television (remember the cable box that sat on top of your television, with a different button for each channel?). Needless to say, this "lethal" combination didn't make us terribly popular when it came to just hanging out and watching television, especially as in our area of Upstate New York, not having cable meant living with three network channels, PBS, and one local channel, which eventually turned into FOX.
In the same way that my younger brother blames his fondness for sugar cereals on the fact that we never had them at home while growing up (we could only have the personal serving-sized boxes on visits to the grandparents, resulting in daily battles as we reserved each box days in advance – "I want the Sugar Pops!" "No! I called it yesterday!" "Mom!"), it wouldn't surprise me to discover that the lack of color and cable in our youth resulted in him today being the proud owner of a seriously high-tech television with a huge screen and several hundred television stations, many of which are in Spanish, due to the fact that he lives in South Florida. And, while I do not share his penchant for sugar cereals (I'm a "Special K" girl), it would not be an understatement to say that I'm wowed by his TV setup (and especially impressed by the fact that my seven year-old niece knows how to configure her own TiVo settings).
Not having cable in the early 80s had its drawbacks, especially for kids our age. We were forced to look elsewhere for our television needs, and missed out on various pop culture phenomena. On August 1st, 1981, when all of our friends suddenly started talking about how they "wanted their MTV", it took us a while until we finally discovered what we'd been missing. We were part of the original MTV generation, and our idols included the newly-coined VJs – Nina Blackwood, JJ Jackson, Mark Goodman, Alan Hunter, and Martha Quinn. Now, of course, MTV has changed and expanded dramatically over the years, with a veritable plethora of MTV networks around the world, with different formats on both the genre level and the regional level, and to be honest, I don't even know what channel it's on anymore (we get MTV Europe as part of our basic cable package). Over the years, I transitioned from being an MTV watcher to being a VH1 watcher, and these days, I don't watch the music channels at all, with one of the underlying reasons being that I simply can't bear the fact that at some point, most of my favorites tunes suddenly fell under the genres of either classics/oldies or adult contemporary (shudder).
In any event, today's 80s Music Video Sunday commemorates that August day 26 years ago when a brand new television network entered our lives and changed the world of music forever. And it all started with this song by The Buggles, which, though technically ineligible for 80s Music Video Sunday because it was released in 1979, receives honorary 80s status because of the defining role it played in one of the most pivotal events of the 1980s as the first video ever played on MTV.
Video Killed the Radio Star The Buggles
I heard you on the wireless back in '52 Lying awake intend at tuning in on you If I was young it didn't stop you coming through
(Oh, oh)
They took the credit for your second symphony Rewritten by machine and new technology And now I understand the problems you can see
(Oh, oh) I met your children (Oh, oh) What did you tell them?
Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star Pictures came and broke your heart
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
And now we meet in an abandoned studio We hear the playback and it seems so long ago And you remember the jingles used to go
(Oh, oh) You were the first one (Oh, oh) You were the last one
Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star In my mind and in my car We can't rewind we've gone to far
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star In my mind and in my car We can't rewind we've gone to far
Pictures came and broke your heart Put the blame on VTR
You are a radio star You are a radio star
Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star
Video killed the radio star (You are a radio star) Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star (You are a radio star) Video killed the radio star
Video killed the radio star (You are a radio star) Video killed the radio star Video killed the radio star (You are a radio star) Video killed the radio star
As you've all figured out by now, I went to high school back in the 80s. I was your average, angst-ridden teenager, and while I was able to get along with virtually everyone, my utter lack of self-confidence (and for those of you who actually know me in person, if you think I'm lacking in self-confidence now, you should have seen me then...) and limited knowledge of all that was cool always left me feeling rather inept. In my freshman year, I was placed in the honors English class (which, incidentally, was the first and last honors course I ever took, but that is neither here or nor there). To say that we had the coolest teacher in the school would have been an understatement. At the time, she was probably the coolest person I'd ever come across, and like everyone else in my class, I was absolutely mesmerized by her persona. Ms. Peterson was the epitome of all that was awesome and hip. She was young and she was totally "with it", and I'm guessing it wouldn't be too far off the mark to assume that she set the hormones of most (if not all) of her male students raging, not to mention projected an aura that all of her female students were secretly dying to emulate.
Ms. Peterson was as innovative in her teaching as one would expect from a teacher with her personality. She did what she could in order to get us to think outside the box, to get us excited about learning. She introduced us to a whole slew of authors, and she had us read and analyze William Safire's newspaper columns on a regular basis. What do I remember the most, though? I remember the day she came in with her portable stereo (otherwise referred to back in the day as a "box", if memory serves me correctly), popped in a cassette, and introduced me to the music of the B-52's. That's right, folks. We analyzed the words of the song "Rock Lobster". Ms. Peterson's coolness rating positively skyrocketed that day. Their sound was like nothing I'd ever heard before, and suddenly, thanks to being in Ms. Peterson's English class, I felt cool by association.
Of course, "Rock Lobster" was released in 1978, and as such, it's ineligible for 80s Music Video Sunday. So, in honor of Ms. Peterson and that very special honors English class, today's featured video is the B-52s "Love Shack", released in 1989. I'm sure Ms. Peterson would approve.
Love Shack B-52s
If you see a faded sign by the side of the road that says 15 miles to the... Love Shack! Love Shack yeah I'm headin' down the Atlanta highway, lookin' for the love getaway Heading for the love getaway, love getaway, I got me a car, it's as big as a whale and we're headin' on down To the Love Shack I got me a Chrysler, it seats about 20 So hurry up and bring your jukebox money
The Love Shack is a little old place where we can get together Love Shack baby, Love Shack bay-bee. Love baby, that's where it's at, Ooo love baby, that's where it's at
Sign says.. Woo... stay away fools, 'cause love rules at the Lo-o-ove Shack! Well it's set way back in the middle of a field, Just a funky old shack and I gotta get back
Glitter on the mattress Glitter on the highway Glitter on the front porch Glitter on the hallway
The Love Shack is a little old place where we can get together Love Shack bay-bee! Love Shack baby! Love Shack, that's where it's at! Huggin' and a kissin', dancin' and a lovin', wearin' next to nothing Cause it's hot as an oven The whole shack shimmies! The whole shack shimmies when everybody's Movin' around and around and around and around! Everybody's movin', everybody's groovin' baby! Folks linin' up outside just to get down Everybody's movin', everybody's groovin' baby Funky little shack! Funk-y little shack!
Hop in my Chrysler, it's as big as a whale and it's about to set sail! I got me a car, it seats about twenty So c'mon and bring your jukebox money.
The Love Shack is a little old place where we can get together Love Shack baby! Love Shack bay-bee! (Love Shack...Love Shack...) Love Shack, that's where it's at!
Bang bang bang on the door baby! Knock a little louder baby! Bang bang bang on the door baby! I can't hear you Bang bang on the door baby Bang bang on the door Bang bang on the door baby Bang bang You're what?... Tin roof, rusted!
Love Shack, baby Love Shack! Love Shack, baby Love Shack! Love baby, that's where it's at Love Shack, baby Love Shack! Love baby, that's where it's at Huggin' and a kissin', dancin' and a lovin' at the love shack
Last Saturday afternoon, following a tiring-yet-fulfilling day of wandering around fortresses and waterfalls in the North, I suddenly found myself feeling envious of my blogging pal Benji. Why was I harboring such feelings towards such an upstanding fellow, you ask? Okay. Picture this scene in your mind. You're sitting in the car with your loved ones, heading home from an excursion chock-full of the sights, sounds and smells of the Hermon region. Your mind is all a-jumble, as you think about Nimrod Fortress, the Banias nature reserve and waterfall, the deliciously cold mango slurpee you drank earlier, and the perfectly-timed iced coffee you're drinking now. The day was a success, and you can't help but wonder how it could get any better. And then it does. The radio station that you're listening to starts broadcasting an hour-long tribute to Naomi Shemer, and all of your old favorite songs are suddenly being played one after another.
Your thoughts start drifting back to the long, lost days of youth, lazy days of summer spent in summer camp. You can remember singing these songs, dancing to these songs. You think of the good times you had, the friends you made, and suddenly, you turn melancholy, wishing you were there again. And suddenly, you remember that Benji is there again. As you sit in your air-conditioned car, stuck in weekend traffic while singing along with the best of Naomi Shemer, ignoring the three year-old next to you who keeps asking for one last cookie, you realize that Benji is probably doing the one thing you'd give anything to be doing at that moment, and alas, you are indeed feeling envious of Benji.
Seriously. What could be better than spending your time with the words and music of the late Naomi Shemer, one of Israel's most popular and talented songwriters? Who hasn't heard "Yerushalayim Shel Zahav" ("Jerusalem of Gold"), or "Al Kol Eileh" ("For all these Things")? This prolific song writer, who passed away in the summer of 2004, played a definitive role in shaping the Israeli music scene, with her songs often reflecting the national mood of the day. Her music has accompanied Israelis through good times and bad, and her tunes have been sung by Israeli artists from all musical genres.
The clip below shows the Israeli singing group The Dudaim (Yisrael Gurion and the late Benny Amdursky) singing of one of my favorite Naomi Shemer songs. The title is "Tilbeshi Lavan" (You will wear White), and the first verse and chorus are translated as:
This summer you will wear white You'll think clear thoughts Perhaps you will receive a love letter Perhaps we will make choices.
I will choose you and you will choose me And together we'll mostly be If this summer you will wear white And pray for good.
So Benji is spending the summer as a unit head at our old summer camp, and quite frankly, I can't wait to hear all about it! Some of my greatest teenage memories are from there, whether it be hours spent happily on the softball field (proving that even though I was a girl, I could play better than most of the boys), folk dancing every evening after dinner, fighting over Fruity Pebbles during Shabbat morning breakfasts or choosing between the various "optional-mandatory" sessions (there were many sessions to choose from – attendance was mandatory but each person had the option to choose the one that sounded the most interesting, hence the name) held on Shabbat afternoons. I'll never forget the Saturday evening Havdalah ceremonies, when somehow, no matter how the weather had been all day, the days before, the days following, etc, it never ever rained, so we were always able to hold the ceremony outside, a record that held throughout five years of month-long sessions.
While I'm not really in touch with people I went to camp with (though interestingly enough, I've since made friends with people who were there around the same time as me, but whom I never met back in the day), I can still remember the good times we had and the closeness and comradery we shared, not to mention the friendly rivalries that existed between the geographical regions from which we'd each come (I remember the Texans as being, ummm, especially proud of their heritage, and being rather loud about it too! "The eyes of Texas are upon you, all the live long day..."). Shabbat was always a special time, starting with the Friday evening services and "Kabalat shabbat", prepared each week by a different group, and special dinners, followed by a short skit (again, prepared each week by a different group) and folk dancing, where, because it was Friday night and the camp kept the shabbat laws, we danced to the sounds of our own voices singing, so as not to break shabbat by using musical instruments or recorded music. Saturdays were relaxing, with prayer services in the morning and most of the day spent at leisure, aside from the previously mentioned "optional-mandatories". Saturday evening dinners (always dairy, as I recall) were followed by the singing of quiet songs (which were often preferred, as they involved a great deal of touching because everyone put their arms around one another's shoulders as we sang, and despite the somewhat spiritual atmosphere, when it came down to it, we were still a bunch of horny teenagers looking for any excuse to make contact with the opposite sex...), the aforementioned Havdalah ceremony (which involved a great deal of hand-holding), and a veritable orgy of folk dancing.
Some of my fondest memories of the camp years were the times spent with the Israeli Scouts – our sister movement. Every year, there would be several young Israelis in camp with us, as well as a group of Scouts who traveled around the country, performing at different summer camps and other Jewish venues (performances were similar to those of the army's entertainment troupes). The Scouts were an integral part of our summer camp experience, and I always enjoyed getting to know these amazing young people who shared their culture with us. To this day, I still have an official "Scouts" bandanna, given to me by a Scout nicknamed Solo in 1984. He had been my best friend that summer, and even though I never saw him after that, I've never forgotten what a wonderful friend he was and the special friendship we shared. I've occasionally tried to look him up during my years in Israel, but so far, without any success.
If I had to pick a favorite summer – and I'd be hard-pressed to do so, but for the sake of argument, let's say I was required to do so, it would have to be the summer we lived in tents. Each tent slept two people (single sex only, so don't go getting ideas into your heads), sat on a raised platform and had a few electrical outlets (hey – it was for a whole month, AND we were American teenagers!). I shared a tent with my friend Pam, with whom I had something of a love-hate relationship, as I recall. I don't remember specifics, I just have these vague memories of the occasional disagreement. One of the things I remember most about that summer was the tent next to ours. One of its inhabitants was a guy named Craig. Craig, in addition to being a champion swimmer (I believe he trained for the Olympics), he was a huge fan of the 80s group General Public. We always knew when Craig was in his tent because we could hear General Public being played (needless to say, tent walls are not very thick...). And so, due to the rather incessant playing of this duo's music (and a minor crush on Craig), I became a fan too. I acquired a copy of "All the Rage" and the rest, as they say, is history.
Tenderness General Public
I don't know when to start or when to stop My luck's like a button I can't stop pushing it My head feels light But I'm still in the dark Seems like without tenderness there's something missing
Tenderness Where is the Tenderness Where is it?
I don't know where I am but I know I don't like it Open my mouth and out pops something spiteful Words are so cheap, but they can turn out expensive Words like conviction can turn into a sentence
I held your hand Rings but none on your fingers We danced and danced but I was scared to go much further with it Just half a chance Make sure that one night you're here, but Next night you're not It always leaves me searching for a little
Tenderness Where is the Tenderness Where is it?
Whistling in the graveyard Calling up your girlfriend Just trying to make you understand You're squeezing the telephone like it was her hand No questions (so many questions) She's gonna catch you out boy It all seems so underhand Now hat she's the only thing that ever made you feel like a man, man Madman madman Tenderness Where is the Tenderness Where is it?
During my university days, there were people who told me that if I was any more laid-back, I'd probably be dead. I always dressed very casually, usually jeans (which were sometimes torn) and sandals (when it was warm enough), and had a penchant for tie-dye, which still exists today. I can only imagine what kind of vibe I must have been giving off, as people always seemed rather surprised that I wasn't a party type, and that I'd never done drugs (which is also still true today, despite a carefree weekend in Amsterdam last fall). Aside from a few occasional bouts of trying to be trendy (I can sadly admit to owning clothes with shoulder pads, though I don't know if there's any photographic proof), when it comes down to it, I'm a crunchy granola hippie-chick wannabe at heart. Give me sandals (if I can't go barefoot) and those long, "earthy" skirts and dresses, give me low-maintenance hair, and I'll be a happy little clam.
Given all of that, you'd have thought that I would have been a serious Dead Head in my youth. Sure, I'd heard of them, but somehow, their music was not on my radar at the time. The kids who promoted listening to the Grateful Dead were the same ones who had passes to the smoking room, the kids who didn't feel the need to conform to the unspoken "white-bread" nature of our life in suburbia. At the time, it would never have occurred to me to reach out to them, nor they to me. I was too busy with my own stuff, with my own friends, and too unsure of myself to reach out to those who dared to be different, who didn't feel it was necessary to be like everyone else. I associated the Grateful Dead with a certain group of people, and as a result, I opted not to take an interest in their music.
Over the years, my musical tastes have changed. Some of my closest friends were (and still are) big fans of this musical phenomenon, and needless to say, I can't believe that it took me so long to discover them. So many years wasted, so many opportunities to see them perform missed. NRG introduced me to one of their songs once I was already living in Israel, and I was hooked. A former officemate of mine was also a fan, and his Grateful Dead CDs were often playing in the background.
While I'd heard a number of their songs over the years, one in particular made a successful crossover into the realm of mainstream music, and the video for this song (released in 1987) received heavy airplay on MTV. Before I really knew their music, I knew the words to this song. Now, it's one of many Grateful Dead songs that I enjoy, but it will always be the song that began to draw me in.
Touch of Grey Grateful Dead
It must be getting early Clocks are running late Paint by numbers morning sky Looks so phony
Dawn is breaking everywhere Light a candle, curse the glare Draw the curtains, I don't care 'Cause it's alright
I will get by I will get by I will get by I will survive
I see you got your list out Say your piece and get out Yes I got the gist of it But it's alright
Sorry that you feel that way The only thing there is to say Every silver lining's got a Touch of grey
It's a lesson to me The Ables and the Bakers and the C's The A B C's We all must face And try to keep a little grace
I know the rent is in arrears The dog has not been fed in years It's even worse than it appears But it's alright
Cows are giving kerosene The kid can't read at seventeen The words he knows are all obscene But it's alright
I will get by I will get by I will get by I will survive
It's a lesson to me The Deltas and the East and the Freeze The A B C's We all think of And try to keep a little love
The shoe is on the hand it fits There's really nothing much to it Whistle through your teeth and split 'Cause it's alright
Oh well a touch of grey Kind of suits you anyway That was all I had to say And it's alright
I will get by I will get by I will get by I will survive
We will get by We will get by We will get by We will survive
Like many of my friends (and I'm obviously referring to my Jewish friends here, as the following words will prove), I had a bat mitzvah. While we didn't opt for the tacky theme party route, my parents still managed to put together a lovely, three-day celebration, with out-of-town relatives invited over Friday evening (resulting in all sorts of strangers coming up to me, saying, "you don't know me, but we're related", and then handing me envelopes with checks inside), Saturday morning services in the synagogue, followed by a reception at one of the local country clubs, guests at the house that evening, and brunch the next morning. Quite a weekend, to say the least.
I have to be honest. Given that it was (gulp) twenty-six years ago, I don't remember it too well. I remember the bit about the checks (funny, that), I remember hating the photographer, who was far too intrusive for my liking, which resulted in many photos of me glaring (at least you couldn't see my braces!), I remember my cousins trying to get me to drink screwdrivers, and I remember the candle lighting ceremony, which is when various important people in your life are called upon to come light one of the candles on the cake. More specifically, I remember my brother's turn. For each person, the band played a different song, something, I suppose, that was considered appropriate for that person. My little brother was ten at the time. And he had a favorite song. It's the only song that I remember from the entire ceremony, as it was so unlike the "Fiddler on the Roof" type songs played for everyone else. Whenever I feel like teasing my little brother today, I remind him of "our" song. I mean, seriously. Who wouldn't turn a bit red being forced to remember that "Celebration" by Kool & The Gang was once their favorite song, right?
Celebration Kool & The Gang
Yahoo! This is your celebration Yahoo! This is your celebration
Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate) Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate)
There's a party goin' on right here A celebration to last throughout the years So bring your good times, and your laughter too We gonna celebrate your party with you
Come on now
Celebration Let's all celebrate and have a good time Celebration We gonna celebrate and have a good time
It's time to come together It's up to you, what's your pleasure
Everyone around the world Come on!
Yahoo! It's a celebration Yahoo!
Celebrate good times, come on! It's a celebration Celebrate good times, come on! Let's celebrate
We're gonna have a good time tonight Let's celebrate, it's all right We're gonna have a good time tonight Let's celebrate, it's all right
Baby...
We're gonna have a good time tonight (Ce-le-bra-tion) Let's celebrate, it's all right We're gonna have a good time tonight (Ce-le-bra-tion) Let's celebrate, it's all right
Yahoo! Yahoo!
Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate) Celebrate good times, come on! It's a celebration! Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate)
Come on and celebrate, good times, tonight (Celebrate good times, come on!) 'Cause everything's gonna be all right Let's celebrate (Celebrate good times, come on) (Let's celebrate)...
Do today's youth collect concert t-shirts the way we used to when we were young? If I were to go through my collection of old clothes, I would find piles and piles of those concert shirts, both regular t-shirts as well as those three-quarter sleeve jerseys, where the body of the shirt was usually white or grey, and the sleeves a different color. There'd be shirts from concerts I attended such as Sting or the Beach Boys, as well as t-shirts from concerts that I never made it to, such as Loverboy, which I imagine must have been purchased by friends following copious amounts of begging and cajoling.
Growing up in Upstate New York, we had several concert venues from which to choose. Summer concerts inevitably took us to the Saratoga Performing Arts Center (where we preferred to stake out spots on the lawn or wander around the grounds to taking a seat inside), and sometimes even as far as Tanglewood, while concerts during the rest of the year had us trekking to places like the RPI Fieldhouse. It was here that I saw my very first concert. For the life of me, I can't remember who I went with, but I I went with fellow Israeli blogosphere citizen and longtime friend Safranit (who clearly has a much better memory than I, despite being the same age), and can still remember being dazzled by the excitement of it all, not to mention how loud it was, due to the huge speakers.
The opening act was Marshall Crenshaw, an excellent musician in his own right, with songs such as "Someday Someway" and "You're My Favorite Waste of Time". (Two points for anyone who can tell me what famous rocker Crenshaw portrayed on the big screen, and what the name of that film was.) The night's headliner was the equally brilliant Howard Jones, whose Dream into Action album was one of the most frequently played cassettes in my collection. With hits like "No One is to Blame", "Life in One Day" and "Things Can Only Get Better", Howard Jones was definitely one of my favorite 80s performers, and is still performing today. I have only vague recollections of what must have been a fabulous (though apparently not memorable, but I'm going to chalk that up to my advanced age) evening. And somewhere, of course, I still have the t-shirt.
So, do you remember your first concert?
What is Love? Howard Jones
I love you whether or not you love me I love you even if you think I don't Sometimes I find you doubt my love for you But I don't mind Why should I mind, Why should I mind
What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway
Can anybody love anyone so much that they will never fear Never worry never be sad The answer is they cannot love this much nobody can This is why I don't mind you doubting
What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway
And maybe love is letting people be just what they want to be The door always must be left unlocked To love when circumstance may lead someone away from you And not to spend the time just doubting
What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway What is love anyway, does anybody Love anybody anyway
I've always enjoyed Latin and Spanish music, whether it be salsa (and I even tried to learn how to salsa dance during my university days, but alas, I have no rhythm), Cuban music, Spanish musicians such as Alejandro Sanz or Estopa, the music of Juanes, and, during the summer camp years, Puerto Rican boy band Menudo, which played a pivotal role in launching the career of Ricky Martin.
Here in South Florida, Spanish is everywhere, whether it be ethnic restaurants, Spanish names, Spanish-speaking television and radio stations. I hear Spanish being spoken at the parks, and on many occasions, the elegant women working in the department stores speak Spanish-accented English. In the same way that one can get by in Israel speaking only in English, one can easily get by in parts of South Florida speaking only in Spanish.
As I'm trying to keep to the South Florida/US theme in my postings these days, my natural inclination for 80s Music Video Sunday is to incorporate music that is undeniably connected to the local music scene. For me, there is no one who better represents this theme than Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine. I've always been a fan of Gloria Estefan. I really like her music, and am impressed by her strength as a person. She's a talented singer, dancer and business woman. She sings in Spanish and English, and I love it all. Today's song takes me back to a winter weekend convention on the grounds of one of my old youth group's summer camp, when during a break in the proceedings, someone put this song on, causing us to spontaneously break out into a large conga line and dance around the building while the snow fell outside. Good memories...
Conga Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer.
Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger Don't you fight it till you've tried it Do the conga beat
Everybody gather 'round now let your body feel the heat. Don't you worry if you can't dance let the music move your feet. It's the rhythm of the island and like sugarcane, so sweet. If you want to do the conga you've got to listen to the beat.
Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger Don't you fight it till you've tried it Do the conga beat.
Feel the fire of desire as you dance the night away. 'Cos tonight we're gonna party till we see the break of day. Better get yourself together and hold on to what you got. Once the music hit your system there's no way you're gonna stop.
Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger Don't you fight it till you've tried it Do the conga beat.
Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger Don't you fight it till you've tried it, do the conga
Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga I know you can't control yourself any longer Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger Don't you fight it till you've tried it Do the conga beat Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga
My parents grew up in the US against the backdrop of the World War Two. As such, like many other American Jews of their generation, their feelings regarding Germany were harsh at best. As a child of parents from this generation, I was brought up in a household with no German products, and my parents have never owned a German car. I can't recall my parents ever having said anything directly negative about Germany (they did not hate Germany, for instance), but all the same, I knew. I knew that we didn't buy German products because we would not spend any money that might potentially benefit those who may have had something to do with the Holocaust.
This "boycott", combined with a voracious appetite for books about children in the Holocaust, resulted in a strange curiosity about the Germany of today, which involved feelings of wanting to know more, while at the same time feeling slightly uncomfortable about wanting to do so. Whenever we had exchange students from Germany in our high school, I found myself attracted to their presence, but it was almost in a "forbidden fruit" sort of way, as though by reaching out and making friends I was doing something unusual and daring. Somewhere in the back of my mind lurked the possibility that somehow, my new friends may have had some connection to Nazi Germany, and this was exciting, for I felt that I was actively doing something to meet and beat my prejudices. And, as I discovered, my German peers were also anxious to cast off the dark skeletons of the past, to demonstrate that the grave sins of their ancestors were not their own. This was brought home to me one afternoon during the summer after high school graduation. I was out with a group of American and international students, including a number of German teens (and NRG, who just seems to pop up everywhere...). We were having a great time, laughing, joking and horsing around. One of the German students, a charming young man named Wolfgang (with whom NRG and her family are still in close touch), laughingly said to someone, "I'm going to kill you." Who among us hasn't said that to someone else at one time or another, right? Of course we don't mean it, and we often say it in a joking manner, which is, of course, what Wolfgang had done. One of the American girls in the group (who was clearly not the quickest bunny in the forest), jokingly responded with something to the effect of, "well, if you say you're going to kill me, you must be Hitler, because you're German!" I was completely and utterly shocked by her comment, and poor Wolfgang looked like he'd been physically slapped. I was horrified and embarrassed, embarrassed that someone could say something so stupid, embarrassed for Wolfgang, who was truly a nice, good guy. I don't remember what happened after that, but I don't think I'll ever forget that scene or how hurt our German friend looked.
I remember my first trip to Israel, and I was amazed to see all the Mercedes and BMW taxis and buses. Clearly, the Israelis were much farther along in dealing with their feelings regarding Germany than were the American Jews of my parents' generation. Today, many of the appliances in our home are German, and I've never thought twice about their purchase. I have never been to Germany, and was once asked during a job interview if I would have a problem flying to Germany periodically for business. I admitted that I had never been there, and privately wondered whether the slivers of my remaining emotional baggage would have a problem. I didn't get the job in the end, and I still haven't been to Germany (though not on purpose – it just hasn't happened).
As a result of growing up with this identity, hearing German being spoken was always something that stood out. Not in a bad way, but more like suddenly hearing something exciting, an unusual event (of course, I also felt this way when hearing Hebrew, and sometimes still feel this way when hearing Arabic outside of Israel). So of course, when, during the 80s, a number of songs were released in both English and the original German, I was quite drawn to them. I bought the singles (most likely in English), I felt a rush of adrenaline when hearing the songs in German. One of the songs became a favorite of mine, and the German version is today's feature video – 99 Luftballons (99 Red Balloons), by Nena.
99 Luftballons Nena
Hast Du etwas Zeit für mich Dann singe ich ein Lied fuer Dich Von 99 Luftballons Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont Denkst Du vielleicht grad' an mich Dann singe ich ein Lied fuer Dich Von 99 Luftballons Und dass sowas von sowas kommt
99 Luftballons Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont Hielt man fuer UFOs aus dem All Darum schickte ein General Eine Fliegerstaffel hinterher Alarm zu geben, wenn es so war Dabei war da am Horizont Nur 99 Luftballons
99 Duesenjaeger Jeder war ein grosser Krieger Hielten sich fuer Captain Kirk Das gab ein grosses Feuerwerk Die Nachbarn haben nichts gerafft Und fuehlten sich gleich angemacht Dabei schoss man am Horizont Auf 99 Luftballons
99 Kriegsminister Streichholz und Benzinkanister Hielten sich fuer schlaue Leute Witterten schon fette Beute Riefen: Krieg und wollten Macht Mann, wer haette das gedacht Dass es einmal soweit kommt Wegen 99 Luftballons
99 Jahre Krieg Liessen keinen Platz fuer Sieger Kriegsminister gibt es nicht mehr Und auch keine Duesenflieger Heute zieh ich meine Runden Seh die Welt in Truemmern liegen Hab' nen Luftballon gefunden Denk' an Dich und lass' ihn fliegen
99 Red Balloons Nena
You and I in a little toy shop Buy a bag of balloons with the money we've got. Set them free at the break of dawn 'Til one by one, they were gone. Back at base, bugs in the software Flash the message, Something's out there. Floating in the summer sky. 99 red balloons go by.
99 red balloons. floating in the summer sky. Panic bells, it's red alert. There's something here from somewhere else. The war machine springs to life. Opens up one eager eye. Focusing it on the sky. Where 99 red balloons go by.
99 Decision Street. 99 ministers meet. To worry, worry, super-scurry. Call the troops out in a hurry. This is what we've waited for. This is it boys, this is war. The president is on the line As 99 red balloons go by.
99 Knights of the air Ride super-high-tech jet fighters Everyone's a superhero. Everyone's a Captain Kirk. With orders to identify. To clarify and classify. Scramble in the summer sky. As 99 red balloons go by.
99 dreams I have had. In every one a red balloon. It's all over and I'm standing pretty. In this dust that was a city. If I could find a souvenier. Just to prove the world was here. And here is a red balloon I think of you and let it go.
As I mentioned in a previous entry, I spent the year of 1986-87 on a year program in Israel, and even managed to break my ankle during my stay. It actually happened when I'd been in the country for less than a month, coincidentally, a few short weeks after someone, while wishing me good luck, had told me to "break a leg". So I did, in a really spectacular way. Our group spent four days on an army base in the north so that we could have a small of what our Israeli peers would experience during their basic training. I didn't make it through all four days. On day two, there was an obstacle course. The first obstacle was a high wall that had to be scaled. You guessed it. I didn't make it past the first obstacle. I managed to get to the top of the wall, and even managed to get over it. It would seem, however, that I didn't land on the ground properly, for the next thing I knew, I heard a crack, and suddenly, my right leg was, umm, improperly aligned.
Given that this occurred just over twenty years ago (which is rather shocking in itself), I don't remember everything that happened. I do remember arguing with people in the base clinic, people who tried to tell me that it wasn't broken, but rather just a bad sprain (I retorted that it had to be broken, given that my knee and foot generally had a tendency to point in the same direction, not opposite directions). I remember the bumpy ride to the hospital in Nahariya, and how it hurt like hell. I remember the idiot masquerading as a medical professional, who told me to get out of the wheel chair and onto the examining table, the one who not only wouldn't help me get up, but actually left the room after telling me to do so, which is how I learned that putting weight on a broken ankle, even by mistake and even only a little bit of weight, is a really, really bad idea.
Not only was my ankle broken, but it was broken in three places. I would need surgery to repair it. With cast and crutches, I was taken back to the base, and the next morning our program director drove up from Jerusalem to pick me up. The hospitals were on strike (some things never change here...), but because I was in Israel on a Hadassahprogram, I was able to get admitted to Hadassah Hospital on Mount Scopus, which was adjacent to our facilities.
Memories of the week or so that I spent in the hospital are sketchy. Many of the staff members I encountered were very nice. I can specifically remember one young male nurse from one of the neighboring Arab villages who was especially helpful, who would spend extra time talking to me and bring me things like cans of Coke from the "outside" whenever I asked. I remember someone asking me if there was something that I really wanted to eat, and that is how I managed to get a cheeseburger brought to me while in the hospital. I seem to recall a friendly plaster fight between me and a handsome young doctor who was closing up my cast after the swelling from the surgery had gone down (during which they had inserted six screws and a metal plate, all of which were removed a year later in the US). I remember the stories of a few of the other patients – one young man who had fallen while running on his kibbutz and gotten stones embedded in his leg (which he proudly showed me in the clear plastic container given to him especially for that purpose); the older woman in the bed next to me whose body was cancer-ridden, but was stuck in the orthopedics ward because she'd broken her femur. When she wasn't completely wracked with pain, she would tell me about her life, and while I've forgotten what she told me, I do remember that it was very impressive, as one would expect of someone who had lived through Israel's brief history.
When she was in pain though, her moaning and crying was frightening. I felt young, alone, and scared myself, and to dull my own pain and block out the world around me, I would grab my walkman and play a certain cassette over and over again. That album was the 1985 release of Norwegian band a-ha's "Hunting High and Low", and the song that I listened to the most was "Take On Me". I've already mentioned my feelings for this band (and of course, for lead singer Morten Harket), so I won't bore you with that again (except to say the man is definitely living proof of the adage about men who get better with age...). I won't put this song on my cell phone, but it will always remain in my heart (yes, I'll wait while you go throw up now) as the song (album, band, etc) that got me through a really difficult, lonely time.
Take On Me a-ha
We're talking away I don't know what I'm to say I'll say it anyway Today's another day to find you Shying away I'll be coming for your love, OK?
Take on me, take me on I'll be gone In a day or two
So needless to say I'm odds and ends But that's me stumbling away Slowly learning that life is OK. Say after me It's no better to be safe than sorry
Take on me, take me on I'll be gone In a day or two
Oh the things that you say Is it life or Just a play my worries away You're all the things I've got to remember You're shying away I'll be coming for you anyway
Take on me, take me on I'll be gone In a day or two
Your thoughts start drifting back to the long, lost days of youth, lazy days of summer spent in summer camp. You can remember singing these songs, dancing to these songs. You think of the good times you had, the friends you made, and suddenly, you turn melancholy, wishing you were there again. And suddenly, you remember that Benji is there again. As you sit in your air-conditioned car, stuck in weekend traffic while singing along with the best of Naomi Shemer, ignoring the three year-old next to you who keeps asking for one last cookie, you realize that Benji is probably doing the one thing you'd give anything to be doing at that moment, and alas, you are indeed feeling envious of Benji.
