I am not a very musically-inclined person. I'd rather listen to NPR than a CD on my ride to work. I prefer to work in silence rather than with music in the background. I would rather watch something than simply listen to music, even if it is "Sunset Tan." Therefore I find it puzzling that I am so affected by certain songs. And it's not just the lyrics either: Even a score is enough to send me spiraling into sadness.
I present, without shame, a list of songs that make me cry (in no particular order)
1. Bjork, "Joga." The song I walked down the aisle to at my wedding. Enough said?
2. Jeff Buckley, "Hallelujah." I may not cry so much about the song, but thinking about the numerous heartbreaking montages from TV shows that it narrated.
3. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, The Requiem Mass in D minor. A classic emo song. Feeling blue? Paint on some black eyeliner and pump this jam.
4. Rod Stewart, "Forever Young." A song from a father to a child, though I hold no deeply seeded sorrow for my own father. And I don't have kids. Unexplainable.
5. Paul Simon, "Father and Daughter." Once again, I promise I don't have any daddy issues. But this amazingly sweet song (from The Wild Thornberrys soundtrack, believe it or not) still brings a tear to the old eye.
6. Sufjan Stevens, "To be alone with you." I am by no means religious but I always feel all Amazing Grace'd when I hear this song.
7. The Wicked finale. For those of you who haven't seen the show, it is a very theatrical, dramatic ending with this interlude:
Who's to say if I've been changed for the better but
Because I knew you (because I knew you)
I have been changed
At that exact moment, my heart breaks.
8. Toto, "Africa." My parents owned this album, so maybe I am mourning for my lost childhood rather than Steve Porcaro's lyrics.
9. Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You into the Dark." This plays at work, and I'm sure customers sometimes wonder why I am misty-eyed. I sing to it when nobody else is in the store.
10. Shania Twain, "You're Still the One." If I was going to be embarrassed by any song on here, this would be it. But I'm not. So there.
11. Rufus Wainwright, "Complainte de la Butte." This song is from Moulin Rouge and mostly in French. I don't even know what he is saying, and yet I cry like a bebe.
12. Hans Zimmer, "King of Pride Rock." From the Lion King soundtrack. The finale. You dare dispute my awestruck tears? (This is one that made me cry when I was much younger. Today I am more composed over Disney films.) By the way, Hans really floats my boat when it comes to the soundtrack.
13. Xiu Xiu, "Love the Vally OH!" Makes me homesick for California. Yes, seriously.
14. Elton John, "Candle in the Wind." The original, not the sequel. And I don't even like Marilyn Monroe (Audrey's my gal).
There you have it, songs that reduce a stone heart like me into a puddle of quivering sadness. What a big list! I must be some kind of softy.
Please post your songs that make you cry in the comments section.....maybe we can shed some tears together.
My buddy just fell in love with Ratatat's Mirando and who wouldn't! I just would love to see a giant screen of their crazy ass videos as they spin live! Kinda like this. So awesome how they mess around with vintage clips over their music. In this case the classic Paul Simon video "You Can Call Me Al" featuring Chevy Chase. Below is Flynn by Ratatat.
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Monday July 14th, 2008
It's 6am, the day I leave for Seattle and the eve of my flight to London.
I have scheduled my hostel for two nights and made additional contacts
to my relatives in Stockholm. I had a whirlwind of errands under my belt
during a 12 hour rush Sunday and I have everything I (think I) need for my trip...
except for my passport.
I've turned over/inside out every container, backpack, envelope, portfolio, coffee mug
looking for the yellow envelope that has been the permanent home to my passport
for over four years. The envelope has never left a particular box, and never been out
of my site, until now. I had glimpsed the yellow envelope just before it was crammed
into the back of my Subaru, yet maintained an eerie feeling of unrest until that
Saturday afternoon when I went searching for it. I immediately called Becky and
frantically asked if she could search her place (my previous residence for the month
of June) for the important folder. Of course, the yellow envelope I had reassuringly
secured in my car was for something completely different, an insurance form and a
letter from North Shore thanking me for my time during the initial interview. In the
mess of all of my things, I was reminded of an article Adam (he and Tommy are
friends of mine who are concerned with living without "stuff") mentioned about a
man who pars down his belongings to 100 things.
Here is the article from the RedEye: http://redeye.chicagotribune.com/red-062508-things-main,0,2507304.story
Early Monday morning, after dreading in all of my Catholic guilt, the impending cancellation of my trip, and the difficult logistical dance I would perform to get a new passport in record time I received another call from Becky. The passport was still missing and we commiserated over the phone while crafting a new plan. She has always been so good about calming me down, and organizing my
thoughts during the rush of particularly hectic moment. She has a way
of seeing like no one else I've ever met, and hearing her voice on the phone always makes me smile...I racked my brain for several minutes while listening to her rifle through more and more of her own boxes and storage.
After recollecting other details about the envelope she happened upon a bag shoved into the corner of a closet she goes into every three years or so. Suddenly. She found it.
Among the dusty mannequins, old floor lamps, boxes of photographs was an errant Whole Foods bag that had been neglected in the packing process, because of its odd location. Becky was kind enough to stow away my things for the Good-Bye BBQ while I was teaching at camp, with masterful organizational skill, cramming everything (delicately) into an unbelievably small space. Having not touched the bag myself in a few weeks I didn't remember it, and because it was the *only* brown bag in my assortment of belongings, it remained unknown to us.
The passport is now en route to Portland where my mother, previously clenching hands and jaw, is rejoicing at her daughter's extended stay. I'm happy to be parked in my hometown for an additional two weeks before leaving. It'll give me some time to job hunt, and hammer out some details on camping and hiking in Sweden. It's also allowed me a chance to connect with my oldest relatives in Sweden and hopefully secure a visit to my ancestors related to Carl Larsson
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Larsson
This whole experience has been eye opening for me. I have spent the last two months flying through my daily activity, cramming every last minute with a meet-up or a get together, or some other sundry social thing. And/or favors or jobs in fear of running out of money for the trip...now I'll be out way more money than intended for the replacement ticket. So strange/funny how the world works.. I haven't had the time to sink into planning or even just relaxing. I'm appreciative of the additional income afforded to me by the NSCDS camp, but insodoing lost hours and hours of preparatory time...
In the Quaker faith there is this term used called Way Opens.
Here's a post from a Quaker faith-based blog. Though I don't consider myself religious, it has an interested pique that can be related to here:
[Way Opens has] become almost a Quaker cliché.