A pop culture education

Most parents will tell you that part of anticipating a child coming into the family is looking forward to sharing one's culture. And pop culture is a lot of that. Noel was shaped by the records in his father's collection; I devoured the classic books on my parents' shelves. We were excited about introducing our children to the things we loved.

That ended up being on a slower timeframe than I think we had imagined. Yes, we shared some classic children's literature when they were young, but it took a while for CG to develop an interest in the television, music, and film that consumes her parents' lives. AA, meanwhile, has always gone his own way and developed his own obsessions; we worried, early on, that he would have nothing to talk about with his peers, but it turns out that Pokemon is a universal language (thankfully).

Another factor, though, is that it turns out the easiest way into popular culture's archival depths (aka the stuff that was meaningful to us when we were younger) is by way of current culture. And those entry points need to have some family appeal. They need to be things that we can watch or listen to with our child. CBS's Supergirl, for example; we made plans early on to include CG in our viewing of it, based on the creative people involved, its empowering messages, and the geek appeal factor. But once we're all hooked, when the show makes references to other parts of the DC universe (or even does a version of a classic story, like its retelling of Alan Moore's "For the Man Who Has Everything"), it's a simple matter to give those ancillary materials to CG and let her expand the connections.

We all treasure the moments when we bond with our children over shared culture. But those moments aren't really the heart and soul of a cultural education. As suggested by those records of Noel's dad and those books of my parents, the most important thing is to leave a lot of culture lying around, and wait for your kids to burrow their way in, by any route they choose. CG uses our Amazon Echo to stream music from our collection while she reads, and sometimes we can suggest other artists she might like. She developed her love of comic strips from the many collections with which we seeded her shelf. But as rich as our libraries might be, they'd be a prison if that's all she ever explored. She made her own way to manga and anime, and together she and Archer have ventured into gaming and design, areas their parents would never have been able to lead them.

And now they teach us, and amaze us. That's the part that we didn't know enough, years ago, to anticipate, and it's the part that now seems most miraculous.

One voice

Yesterday was our seventeenth wedding anniversary. I got Noel a new phone. He got me (in addition to some book that hasn't appeared yet, but hey, I'm not going to be the first to bring it up) a day alone with my daughter while he went along with Archer to the All-Region Choir tryouts.

I sang in choirs throughout my childhood. But I never competed for a spot in any of these mass choirs. My elementary school didn't have a choir or an orchestra, and my secondary school didn't participate in whatever organization oversees these things. So this whole world of honor choirs and orchestras and bands and cheer squads and who knows what all is completely new to me.

I do know the choir world well, though. I know the music and the rehearsals and the participants. And I was hopeful, when we chose Archer's electives for this seventh grade year, that he would get into it. He is fascinated by the technical side of music -- notation, theory, structure -- and he has perfect pitch. I didn't know if he'd like the process of learning, rehearsing, and performing. But his teacher (who also leads the music programs at our church) says that he's a classroom leader, grasping the music quickly and helping others to get it and stay on track.

Noel followed the school bus up to Clarksville on Saturday, and stayed with Archer while waiting for his group to be called and to make their way in stages back to the audition rooms. It was hard for us to imagine what Archer would do with the long, long of waiting. I'm still nervous about sending him off into unstructured situations, where there's no one around who can keep an eye on him. He almost certainly would handled it fine. Without some firsthand experience of the setup, though, there was no way for us to know that.

It's reportedly unusual for first-timers to make the grade in these auditions. When I asked Archer to rate his performance, he reported that he would give it a 98%. For the last couple of weeks, he's been telling us about the pieces they chose, what key they're in, how many vocal parts, their suggested tempo in beats per minute, the song structure. He seems positive about the whole experience. I wouldn't be at all disappointed if choir became one of his things, like it was always one of mine.

Look I made a hat

One of my favorite songs from any genre is "Finishing The Hat" from Sunday in the Park with George. I don't know that there's a better description of the process and the pride of creation. The smallest detail involves a constant passage from the world of the artist into the world of the artwork -- a submission to the reality of that created world. And then when it is done, the accomplishment is immense not because of the magnitude of what has been created, but because of the power exerted and the change from nothing to something: "Look, I made a hat where there never was a hat."

What attracts the artist is control. When circumstances take control away from you in the real world, when you are blocked or limited by location or by other people, you take control in the arena that is yours alone. But Sondheim is saying that it's not about being the king of that world; it's about creating an environment where the world exerts its own logic and brings its power to bear on you, where you obey the forces that are bringing it into being.

I've come late to the addictive power of the maker. Writing is something I've done all my life, and I've felt that sense of being able to craft words and phrases that are more than the sum of their parts. But to make something come alive for multiple senses -- for sight and touch, for warmth and movement -- you need to create in the physical world. That's something I didn't start doing until a few years ago. The transformation is both laborious and intoxicating. Which is exactly how Sondheim describes it.

Creation awaits me this weekend, and I'm afraid and excited, the way I always am before starting a project that will have a bunch of challenges, probably some setbacks, and could go horribly wrong. I love the pride that comes from the improbable existence of a finished object. But even more, I think, I love knowing what goes into them -- their story, their birth pangs. "Look, I made a hat" requires and includes the whole song that comes before: "Reaching through the world of the hat like a window/Back to this one from that."

Now bring us some figgy pudding

Some of the folks at our church organized a small caroling expedition this evening.  It wasn't a highly structured affair -- a list of shut-in members to visit, a series of nursing homes.  And there weren't many of us, and we weren't rehearsed, and we didn't have accompaniment.  (At one of the nursing homes we walked in right on the heels of a large Methodist youth group that had brought music stands and guitars.  Is that really in the spirit of caroling, which is in my experience an a capella endeavor?)

But we had heart, and a lyric sheet, and some strong voices.  Most of all, we had a desire to participate in one of the most iconic forms of giving that the season affords, or at least the Victorian version of the season that we all treasure.  And we had a cherubic little girl giving it her all.  We made sure to put Cady Gray, our only child participant, front and center so that our lack of professionalism and preparation would be offset by her indomitable cuteness.

Cady Gray, for her part, took it as seriously as I would have taken it at her age.  I used to love any occasion where I was the only child doing something with a bunch of teens or adults.  It made me feel like they had neglected to notice that I was a child for a moment, and included me in something usually reserved for people twice my age.  I always tried to act casual, like I belonged.  And I saw that with Cady Gray singing tonight.  She wasn't a retiring flower; I could hear her belting it out even over the big booming sounds of the choir members and youth group stalwarts who carried our tune -- even over my very loud voice, and I was singing as loudly as I could.  She studied the lyric sheet carefully and practiced in the back seat as we drove from location to location.

Noel is big on occasions where we can "make memories" for the kids.  This is the kind of memory I treasure, and the kind I want Cady Gray to keep with her long after she leaves childhood behind.  Singing with the grown-ups, bringing smiles to the faces of elderly and infirm community members, standing in a nursing home common area and having resident after resident wheel themselves up to listen in and sing along.  I hope she remembers how easy it is for her to make people happy, and never doubts her power to give so much joy with just a tiny investment of herself.

Serenaded

This afternoon, I was working in my office when the secretary asked if I could receive a student and some friends.  I didn't know which of the family students with the first name she mentioned it could be, but I invited them in.

Turns out it was a former student, someone who had dropped out of the program in his first year but whom I see, greet, and keep up with frequently on campus. He and his friends came in wearing Phi Mu Alpha gear and carrying songbooks.  What a delightful surprise -- a holiday serenade!

Then they opened their mouths, six men singing in four-part harmony, and the moment went from a sweet surprise to an aesthetic delight. They sang a Christmas carol so beautifully, then pulled me into the center of their circle to sing "To The Sweetheart of Phi Mu Alpha," a 1914 vintage that is full of collegiate tradition and turn of the century charm.  Yes, just as in this version (with more singers) from the University of Miami, they went down on one knee in unison all around me.  It was a sheer happiness to be surrounded by these beautiful singers, giving me their gift of talent and entertainment.

As they left to spread their cheer elsewhere on campus, I thought how courageous it is to decide to share freely what you do well with your community.  And yet, once you make the decision, it's the easiest thing in the world to do.  Having the idea and making the commitment is the tough part.  I was inspired by the men of Phi Mu Alpha to look for opportunities to do just that, and invite my students and associates to do the same.  Christmas is a time for gifts. The gift of music, art, craft, beauty of all kinds, coming to you unbidden -- that's a wonderful idea, and one that occurs to me far too rarely.

A year in song

Years ago, Noel spent his Decembers and Januaries putting together massive mix CDs of his favorite songs of the year.  I loved those playlists and listened to them all through the next year.

It's been awhile since he made one, and I've missed them.  Like with any good mixtape, the songs in their assembled order become the way they were impressed on my memory.  Hearing any one of them out of their mixtape context made me anticipate what was supposed to come next.

I'm happy to report that, inspired by a particularly fine musical year with a bumper crop of great songs, Noel has put together a forty-song collection of tracks from albums that didn't make his top 15.  Even better, the A.V. Club's Jesse Woghin turned it into a Spotify playlist.  You can listen to all the songs start to finish, and you can share the playlist with friends on your social networks.

I have fallen in love with some of these songs.  The criteria for a playlist like this is the boldness of the song's concept and execution.  Glen Campbell, Sloan, Fountains of Wayne, Ron Sexsmith -- these are stunning songs that command your attention when they activate your speakers.  Listen and enjoy!

La ci darem la mano

On Sunday I went to a theatrical presentation of the Metropolitan Opera's production of Don Giovanni -- one of those live-in-HD broadcasts on the giant screen, only not at my local movie theater but in the performing arts main stage on our campus.

We had worked with the College of Fine Arts and Communications to get discounted tickets for our freshmen in the hope of introducing them to the opera series offered on campus. The choice of opera couldn't have been more felicitous for me. Don Giovanni is one of the few operas with resonance in my upbringing.

I'll never forget the unit on Don Giovanni that my beloved high school mentor Mrs. Greene taught in ninth grade music.  She played and replayed "La ci darem la mano" so we could understand the simple melody and structure, and the subtle way Mozart changes it as the duet progresses.

She also impressed my teenage mind indelibly with the plot of the final act: A graveyard statue comes to life and drags Don Giovanni down to hell for his sins!  I admit that throughout the broadcast on Sunday I was giddy with anticipation for that part.  What could be more awesome?

What I'm wondering is whether productions usually play Donna Anna and her fiance straight, or whether they are ever played as comic buffoons.  Their asides to the audience about how confused they are, not to mention the way Donna Anna always pleads grief and revenge in order to avoid committing to Don Ottavio, make me think that the whole thing could be a pretty hilarious joke.  Any opera aficionados care to enlighten me?

Karaoke dreams

At the retreat's open mic night this past weekend, the students leading the event persuaded me to hop on stage for a rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'" at the very end of the night.  Thankfully, everyone was up, yelling along, bouncing, circling, and playing air guitar -- it was less of a solo and more of a very enthusiastic sing-along.  I admit that it took very little arm-twisting for them to get me up to the mic.  I had a ball.

I have never sung karaoke, but I fantasize about it frequently.  Last year I celebrated the end of my senior seminar class with the students in a local pizza joint and bar that has karaoke on Wednesday night.  Several of the students got up and sang.  I have to admit, I was hoping they would insist I take a turn, and was plotting what song I might choose.  But nobody pushed me on stage, and I felt too self-conscious to volunteer.

My most frequent karaoke fantasies happen while I'm running with my iPod on shuffle.  Certain pop acts and songs instantly send me into a reverie of slaying an appreciative audience with my rendition.  ABBA, Fountains of Wayne, Robbie Williams, just to name a few.  At open mic night I noticed a marked preference among the students for Coldplay, Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, and Miley Cyrus amongst the surprising number of original compositions.

What I'd really like is a chance to try karaoke at a party, among friends, rather than at a bar among strangers.  The alumni who joined us at the retreat went off on their own for some karaoke after the open mic night devolved into a dance party, but I didn't join them out of sheer exhaustion.  I regret that now.  The supportive atmosphere would have been perfect for my first outing.  But maybe that opens the door for something more authentic in Tokyo in a couple of weeks.  Any chance that the participants at the Eighth International Whitehead Conference will unwind after a long day of papers and keynotes with some soulful ballads in the hotel bar, Lost In Translation style?

Dad rock

I heard a story on NPR driving home this afternoon about what songs our dads were listening to when they were our age. I haven't asked my dad what his favorite might have been in his forties, but judging from my memory of long commutes listening to Luther Masingill on WDEF -- master of the news, traffic, and MOR pop format -- it was probably Anne Murray's "You Needed Me."

My dad loved the adult contemporary female singers -- all the better if they had a country streak (though I never knew him to listen to country music per se). Olivia Newton-John hit a chord, as I recall; Barbara Mandrell was one of his idols. When he and mom went to Vegas for a convention and he got to see Mandrell in concert, he seemed genuinely thrilled. (Naturally as a teetotaller and non-gambler, the shows were the main attraction of Sin City, and he forgave them if they went a little blue.)

I've written before, but probably can never write enough, about how important my dad has been in my life. He taught me optimism and loyalty, two principles that form the bedrock of the approach I try to take to my life. He and I don't see eye to eye on many matters of ideology, but he's always been sincere in his beliefs, never an opportunist or a reactionary, and that I deeply admire. Reading his devotional blog, I recognize his honest search for truth, although we start from quite different premises.

And the way that our world views overlap like the halves of a stereoscopic image, slightly different angles that add up to the same fundamental values, describes the music we listened to as well. I grew to love the version of pop that my dad responded to, even though my teenage ears yearned at the time for something harsher, younger, and (I thought) more authentic. It was at least secular, concerned with feelings I recognized as the hallmarks of adulthood (love in all its manifestations and results, good and bad); it was a closer cousin to the pop and rock my friends and older siblings sent my way than the hymns on the local Moody Bible Institute affiliate favored by my mother. Sharing it even without comment felt like a point of agreement.

It was always that way with my dad. What we shared was more important than what separated us, and listening ears were always open. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Quick hits

Reposting my old blog site on Tumblr has made me realize that I used to do a lot more short or bullet-point-style entries.  These days I feel like I'm not really writing unless I'm writing a multi-paragraph essay.  It's nice to give myself permission to just touch on a few brief topics instead.

• At Cady Gray's recital last night, both my kids were delighted -- delighted! -- that an older student performed a song from Super Mario World, the "Air Platform" theme.  I wouldn't have recognized the music from the rather abstract beginning, but once it segued into a rollicking ragtime beat, I caught some familiar notes.  We ended up humming it all the way home.  
• What's the difference between a subscription and an automatic home delivery service?  I guess a subscription implies some discount off the cover price of a magazine -- that's all I can figure.  Interweave Press publishes a magazine called Knitscene that has been coming out about twice or three times a year on an irregular schedule, and people who like the magazine have been asking about subscriptions for years.  No subscription, but there's a "consumer auto-ship program" you can sign up for (a fee of $0.99 applies, then your credit card is charged each time a new issue is released and it's mailed to you for free).  As one of those Knitscene fans who has to go looking at the local bookstore every time I know a new one has come out, I'm signing up, but I still don't understand why we can't just subscribe to it and be done.
• Come later this summer, the Craft Wisely class blog will start coming to life as students enrolled in the class for the fall 2011 semester begin posting about their summer crafting and learning.  If you haven't followed that blog or subscribed to the feed in your favorite reader, take a second and do it now, won't you?

One keyboard, four hands

A lengthy Blogger outage kept me from posting last night, but here's what I was going to offer: Video documentation of our kids' piano recitals.  They both did fantastic and are eager to continue learning. Best of all: post-recital treats!

Perfect timing

Books and albums have had official release dates for years.  Used to be that if you wanted to be among the first to read that book or hear that album, you made time to go to the store on that Tuesday.  (Why are release dates always Tuesday, by the way?  Anyone?)

Now thanks to internet pre-orders, you can have the book or album shipped to you, scheduled to arrive on its day of release.  Or if you have a Kindle, you can have the book appear on your device as soon as it's available for purchase.  I woke up this morning and found the next book in my all-time favorite fantasy series, Elizabeth Moon's Kings of the North, ready to read on my Kindle.

This process hasn't completely killed the tradition of going to the store on release day, though, as anybody who has ever attended a Harry Potter midnight release party knows.  It's become an optional, socially-intensive way of acquiring a highly-anticipated book or album.  We have the no-effort way, in which it comes to you, and we have the maximal effort way in which we make a big production out of the acquisition.  Either way, there's something wonderful about waiting for that piece of media you want, and devouring it on the first day you can get it.

Song metrics

On the way home from our celebratory and firmly traditional Friday night Mexican dinner, Archer began telling us about his appraisals of songs in his fourth grade music book.  He has given them ratings in Mario coins.  The favorite song, "We Go Together," was worth several thousand coins.  A middling song had a couple hundred.  And his least favorite song had only a dozen or so.

It wasn't until he started telling us about how his favorite song was "a doo-wop song with lots of nonsense lyrics" that I realized he was talking about "We Go Together" from Grease.  I improvised a shooby-dee-doo-doo-wop line and asked him if it was like that, and he grinned from ear to ear.  Not only was it his favorite song, he informed us, but it was also the favorite of most fourth graders, because it had "lots of action."

And then, although he mumbled his way through the scatting, he sang as many lines as he could remember, in his boyish soprano.  Now the grins were on his father and me in the front seat, stealing glances at each other in delight about how wonderful it was to have a boy singing a song from Grease in the back, accompanied by his sister trying to mimic each line.  Here's hoping it's a signal that there'll be plenty of Broadway in both kids' futures.

Turn on your radio

Noel's "Gateway to Geekery" essay on Harry Nilsson went live today.  Nilsson is somebody I knew only glancingly in my pre-Noel days -- as the voice behind "Everybody's Talkin'," the beautiful theme to a movie I loved (Midnight Cowboy), and as John Lennon's companion during his infamous "lost weekend" in California (an episode I cataloged along with my obsessive knowledge of all things Beatles).

Finding and resurrecting the three-dimensional career, the arc and the art, behind the handful of pop hits and moments of cultural notoriety -- it's one of the great joys of life, and of my marriage.  When Noel and I go out for a date-night dinner out, I like to ask him, "So what's the deal with Ricky Nelson?", and get treated to the fascinating story of who this guy was, where he fit in during his own era, how he got there and what happened to him.  It's like the blank spots in one's Headline News version of cultural history being filled in with color.

My interest in Nilsson, I admit, derives partly from his similarity to Todd Rundgren, of whom I've been a rabid fan since my college days.  Both were known as great pop songwriters and studio wizards; both put out crazy, idiosyncratic albums full of obtuse jokes and pastiches.  Both resented, probably, to some extent, being pressured to be conventionally entertaining, and rebelled in their own ways.

Nilsson probably didn't take himself seriously enough, endlessly deconstructing his own legacy and sabotaging his chances of success; Todd probably took himself too seriously, dumping all his philosophico-mystical dabblings into the marketplace.  But that's what makes the frequent moments of absolute pop perfection in both of their catalogs so glittering and precious.  Take them as they are, or don't take them at all.  For me, the human failings of the carriers of so magical a gift, so immense a share of creativity, make their stories all the more compelling, and the music all the more worthy of our love.

Take a bow

Archer got to play on one of the music department's beautiful new Steinway grand pianos today. Noel made a very brief video of his end-of-semester recital, the highlight of which (in my opinion) is the deep and elegant bow at the end of the piece.

Making music

I think we've reached a turning point in Archer's musical education.  This past summer, after he became obsessed with chord structures, we re-enrolled him in piano lessons with the university's community school of music.  He's had a good semester, but he's not getting what he wants out of the lessons, I know.

It's a tough call.  Conventional music lessons emphasize technique and use the lure of melody -- the pleasure of playing a song.  Archer isn't as motivated by melody.  For him it's all about structure, especially harmonic structure.  And in conventional music lessons, that's not the first priority.  In fact, it's one of the last things you do at the basic level.

I don't think we can keep Archer motivated unless his lessons focus more on what interests him: the way notes combine to form chords, chords transform into other chords, and the sequences cycle endlessly in infinite variations.  What I'd like to do is to find an instructor who will feed that interest while getting him to pick up some technique and skill along the way.  I need a music theory teacher who will use the ideas inherent in musical structures to motivate Archer to learn to produce them and their associated musical forms.

Just as an example: Archer loves to transpose.  Imagine a teacher who would share that enthusiasm and use it to get Archer excited about performing a piece well, with the expectation that he could solve the puzzle of transposition once he'd mastered it.

I'm not sure I can use the community school of music system to find that teacher.  These are undergraduates and graduate students, not people who want to teach for the rest of their lives -- people making a little extra money while they pursue performance degrees.  I'm wondering if I need to try to find someone for private lessons, someone who is flexible and can work with Archer's particular mindset.  The advantage of the community school is that it's nearby and easy, a relatively low-pressure investment.  I'm hesitant to step out into the unknown and try to find someone on my own, but I'm also worried that another semester of standard instruction will leave Archer uninterested in further lessons at all.

The show must go on

Tonight as I took Archer to his piano lesson in my university's music department, we passed through a lobby full of undergraduates in long dresses, heels, and incongruous winter jackets against the cold rain outside.  They clumped in excited gaggles outside of the recital hall, a few breaking off every so often to run after some forgotten item or person.  Soon they'd be herded into a rehearsal space to make final preparations for their choir concert.

After Archer's lesson, his teacher mentioned that the end of term recital would be coming up for him, too.  He has three pieces to memorize.  Immediately that brought back memories of last year's recital; it was a watershed moment for me, seeing how Archer could concentrate and perform under pressure.

And of course it reminds me of the many, many recitals in my childhood.  There were choral performances galore, and those I loved.  Piano recitals, not so much.  The individual pressure was less to my liking; the nakedness of the performance and the complexity of the task intimidated me.  I was more confident as a singer, less nervous about making mistakes -- certain, in fact, that I would not -- and had a lot more fun making music with my voice.

As an adult I'm more accustomed to individual performances, and more confident that I can pull off a success even when I'm going it alone.  So now I'm nervous for the child I used to be.  We've tried to raise kids who believe in their own abilities implicitly.  I hope they take pleasure in stepping up to the plate and knocking it out of the park when they get their chance.

Rock me tonight

In today's music section of the A.V. Club, Noel very kindly validates my 15-year-old self's taste by reviewing a 30th-anniversary reissue of one of the most important albums of my pre-majority. I don't remember how I acquired a copy of Billy Squier's Don't Say No. I just know I didn't buy it -- I didn't buy any albums for myself until I got my driver's license and headed to Cat Records to pick up ELO's Time later in 1981. Probably I won it in a radio station promotion. Between the ages of 12 and 20 I won a lot of things that way, including a copy of Phil Seymour's classic power pop debut, tickets to see Don Henley and Tom Petty, and a New Year's Eve trip to Los Angeles.

At any rate, that album became central to my 1981 self. And when a Squier concert was announced for my hometown, it became my mission to convince my parents to let me go. Not easy when the act in question was heavy, sexually-tinged rock. I remember a session where I played tracks from the album in my room for my parents to hear. But for whatever reason, they finally agreed. And I did get to see that show at the Roundhouse, with Ratt opening.

It was hard to have a supercool teenage experience in Chattanooga, Tennessee in the early 1980s. Some people manage a time and place where their enthusiasms match up perfectly with the cultural cachet to be validated by subsequent generations. I had Billy Squier and ELO; my much more sophisticated boyfriend at the time had King Crimson and Utopia. So it's nice to have a moment to look back and say yeah, those may not have been the coolest times in the world, but the things we loved were worth it in their way. We need not be ashamed that our adoration of them formed us.

That Michael Jones moment

A month ago, the Internet was briefly abuzz with follow-ups to a piece on the Huffington Post. In "That Steely Dan Moment," Michael Jones generalized about a step in new relationships when you find out that your intended has some failure of taste so egregious that the connection is instantly doomed. His example is finding out that an otherwise suitable mate loves Steely Dan.

I'm sure that after this article appeared, old flames of mine opined in corners of the web obscure to me about their realization that I was a cultural troll. Because I love Steely Dan. And it's not because I've never heard better music or been educated into more refined tastes. In fact, what would count as a Steely Dan moment for me would be finding out that someone is using Steely Dan as an example of a musical passion completely beyond the pale.

Someone clearly needs to explain to me what is so godawful about Steely Dan. I could understand if the demon of choice was, say, the Eagles. Because I get why people hate the Eagles. I don't agree, but I get it. The Eagles completely steamrolled the Top 40 for years, and their slick version of country-roots rock (plus Don Henley's often-insufferable pontificating) strikes many as the triumph of corporate soulless style over substance.

Steely Dan has slick production and a sound that was AM radio-ready back in the seventies. But that's where the similarities with the much-reviled Eagles end. Steely Dan could never be mistaken for heavy equipment cramming pablum down our throats or shoving more sophisticated entertainment out of the way. It was moody, jazzy art-pop. Maybe that's not your thing. Maybe that sends you completely round the bend with rage. Maybe you hate the pretention of people who call them "the Dan" and insist that they be appreciated for their cynicism and subversion. (I kinda do.)

Why, though, would I want to deprive myself of some of the most beautiful music of its kind ever to find its way (improbably, it increasingly seems) onto the radio? The slickness isn't some calculated capitulation to the market; it's what Fagen and Becker aspired to. You may not like that, but to mistake it for a sellout move is just unfair. And why assume that anything aspiring to professionalism and virtuosity is tainted? Or that it lacks authentic feeling? I've been listening to these songs and albums for years now, and they move me as regularly and as deeply as any artist in my personal canon -- for sheer gorgeousness combined with a sense of yearning and loss.

Maybe I'm so far into the Bizarro world that it seems normal to me. If so, you can keep your good taste. I'll be over here singing "Razor Boy," one of my favorite songs of all time. And I'll be smiling.

Archies ahoy

Not only did my dear friend The Secret Knitter make an Archies list ...

1. ... he made it the same length as mine (51 items), and ...
2. ... he alphabetized it.

Witness his concert-heavy, links-galore list over at Knitting Confidential. Make one of your own, and be sure to link to this blog and/or leave me a comment to let me know you did!

Me? I'm still trying to extract my brain from the cotton-candy happiness that was the musical number in "Girls Vs. Suits." Here's some links to explain why:

• "Nothing Suits Me Like A Suit"
• Behind the scenes: The making of
• NPH plays the Shoe Fairy on Sesame Street
• NPH and Jason Segal spontaneously sing "Confrontation" from Les Mis on the Megan Mullally Show