Let Me Tell You About My Best Friend

By Chastity Morgan

My favorite book is Shantaram by David Gregory Roberts. The events in the book are real, so Roberts says. But he has been called into question concerning his authenticity. Shantaram reminds me of my Uncle Larry and the movie Big Fish. It is easy to be skeptical of the tall tales different characters tell, and it is even easier to dismiss people as liars when their lives do not necessarily align with the clearly delineated moral compass that we tell ourselves exists. We all have secrets. We all have beauty. We all have talents. We all have darkness. If we take the time to listen, we hear the truth, the beauty, the complexity, and the difficult choices people are forced to make and reconcile with until the last breath they take. However, all too often, we become too focused on pointing out the inconsistencies to either make other people appear foolish or discredit their words, which in essence discredits their character as a whole, even the beautiful parts. 

My favorite quote in the book is, “Fate gives all of us three teachers, three friends, three enemies, and three great loves in our lives. But these twelve are always disguised, and we can never know which one is which until we’ve loved them, left them, or fought them.” Nearly every encounter I have with someone, I try to compartmentalize them into one of these four categories. I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, or maybe it is just a thing. Overtime, the veil of people unshrouds. Those who I thought were my loves were my teachers, my friends were my enemies, and my enemies were really my loves. Some people do not fit neatly into just one category.

The individuals who I think most about are the strangers who shared their stories with me in fleeting encounters. I call these strangers my best friends because we had a special bond at that moment in time. We did not know each other long enough to develop animosity or anger. I did not know their ugliness and they did not know mine. We were simply two strangers looking for someone who was willing to listen to our stories and share what life has taught us. 

This is my ode to my best friends and the lessons they taught me. 

The Homeless Guy at the Bus Stop in San Francisco

I was waiting for the bus downtown, sometime in the early 2000s, when a gentleman came up to me randomly. We made small talk about the day, the weather, and where we were taking the bus to. He told me his feelings about being homeless. For him, homelessness brought overwhelming loneliness. The invisibility associated with being homeless hurt his soul. He reminded me that there are a lot of lonely people in the world. This still seems odd given the billions of people that exist.

The Homeless Woman on the Greyhound

On one of many Greyhound trips from Arcata to San Francisco, I had the privilege of sitting next to a homeless woman. This was when a roundtrip Greyhound ticket from Eureka to San Francisco was $60, there were two buses a day, and you just had to get there early enough to make sure you were able to get a seat on the bus. The woman had just given birth to a baby boy in Eureka twenty-four hours earlier. She never held her child because she did not want to. Instead, she gave birth, left the hospital, and caught a one-way Greyhound to San Francisco where she could at least be part of a community living on the streets. She spoke about her love for her child being so big, that she made the difficult choice to give him up. She knew deep down that she could never give him the life she believed he deserved, and she hoped that whoever he ended up with loved him as much as she did. She reminded me that love is not always doing what is best for ourselves, but for others.

The Woman Going to Vegas for the Dance Competition

It may have been 2014, and I was on a flight from Salt Lake City to Las Vegas for the tradition that needs to die, a Hen Night, commonly referred to as a Bachelorette Party. I was sitting next to a woman in her late 20s who was headed to Vegas to compete in a tribal dance competition. She was telling me about her recent heartbreak with her high school sweetheart. They were childhood friends on the reservation, and married when they turned 18. The two enjoyed 10 years of marriage then they realized they outgrew each other. To no one’s fault, they decided to divorce. She was talking about the heartbreak associated with coming to the realization that the person who, at one time, she loved more than the world was no longer the same person, but neither was she. She spoke about the feeling of overwhelming sadness where the grief felt too big to handle. When she felt this way, she would do what her mother suggested, she would lie in the grass, touching each individual blade. She would give her sadness to the grass because while it felt too heavy for her, it was not too heavy for the grass to carry. She reminded me that the universe is always there to take away our sorrows.

The Guy Who Just Served 10 Years in Prison

One thing about California is that it has a huge prison system. It is not uncommon to see just released prisoners from Pelican Bay in Crescent City or San Quentin in Marin County on the trains and the Greyhounds. They are usually easy to spot with their crisp white t-shirt, white tennies, clear bag of random goods, and intense eye contact. In 2003, I was taking a late-night Greyhound from San Francisco to Santa Ynez in Southern California. The bus had a stop in Bakersfield, which is the closest Greyhound for Kern Valley State Prison. The bus was near empty, so I closed my eyes to get some sleep, but I immediately woke up to the sound of a stare and the smell of a Snickers bar. My eyes opened to see a bald man in a crisp white t-shirt sitting on the seat next to me. 

The bald man immediately said, “I just got out of prison.” Then he showed me his prison badge and said, “This is what I looked like when I went in. I needed a break.” On his badge was a picture of him about 30 pounds skinnier with an emaciated methamphetamine look. He was going home to his mother after 10 years in prison on a second-strike drug offense for possession of cocaine. He proceeded to tell me how he ended up in prison for an empty baggie with cocaine residue on it. He went to a hotel room with an 8 ball, waiting for hours for a lady friend to arrive. By the time she arrived, the drugs were gone. He left the hotel room with the empty baggie still in his pocket, and an angry woman on his tail. He walked two blocks, before a police officer did a “random” stop and search. It was 1993, and he already had a record for drug possession, so he was given an excessive sentence for less than 3.5 ounces of cocaine. While he was incarcerated, he spoke about how he was grateful to have the opportunity to get sober, and he hoped to stay sober. He reminded me that sometimes people need a first chance.

The Woman from the Commune

While I was living in Northern California, Humboldt County had an exodus of 20-something year olds who were called the Farm Kids. I had a boyfriend from The Farm, who in an act of rebellion from his vegan upbringing, developed an unsatiable appetite for cheeseburgers. The Farm is a commune in Tennessee, started by Stephen Gaskin in 1971. Toted as a spiritual haven, it was also a place for a hippie lifestyle to exist. Humboldt also had their own “communes.” There was the “Salmon House,” which was notoriously referred to as the hippie commune house. People would also start their own small communes in the forest, or on a person’s plot of land somewhere in the hills. 

In 2002, I was on the Greyhound from Arcata to San Francisco and I sat next to this younger woman in her mid to late 20s wearing a teddy bear backpack. She just quit her job at the Tip Top Gentleman’s Club in Eureka, and she was moving to Ukiah where she bought a piece of land with her boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, her mother and her mother’s new husband, her father and her father’s new wife, and the same setup on the boyfriend’s side. To elaborate it was, his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend, his mother and her new husband, and his father and his new wife. She told me about the communal living style they wanted, which would be off the grid and completely sustainable. I could not get past the new and former relationships of the living arrangement, but according to her, they were all the best of friends. I strongly admire(d) the lack of ego and jealousy of the whole dynamic. 

She took a turn with the conversation and she lifted up her shirt to show me the scarification on her chest, which was an autopsy scar. She got a kick out of the thought that somebody would one day perform an autopsy on her, and she would already have the scar. She reminded me to not give two-fucks.

A Fish Named Wanda

Wanda is a little different than the others. She was a fixture through my high school years. While I knew her, I did not know her that well. Wanda was beautiful. She used to sell her jewelry on the weekends on Market Street in San Francisco. She was houseless for the most part, but eventually secured a houseboat that she parked in the Bay. Wanda would make this really cool wrap jewelry out of wire, stones, and sea glass. I would scavenge the beach and collect sea glass pieces and bring them to her. I would buy her jewelry too, but if I felt like my style changed, I would give it back to her and she would sell it again. One year, I hadn’t seen her for months and then, one weekend, she was there but her jewelry was a little more polished and refined. I remember her saying, “No one litters anymore.” She was pissed because she could not find any sea glass at the beach. She would commiserate about how the city was changing and she could see the changes because no one wanted her self-proclaimed hippie jewelry. She was “forced” to use sterling silver wire instead of pewter, and tumbled beads and stones, instead of the recycled material with the rough edges because, according to Wanda, it is what the people wanted. Wanda passed away in 2003 from a heroin overdose. I wonder what she thinks the San Francisco style would be like today. She reminded me that we are not defined solely by our perceived vices.

I am grateful to these individuals who shared their lives, lessons, hopes, and sorrows. I hope that they are grateful to me too, for listening. 

“Pacing the Cage”

By SoDak

In the final moments of life, what do you do? Of course, it depends. There are innumerable situations and issues to consider, such as whether the circumstances are under your control, and if you can make choices and act on them. Oftentimes, you do not have such luxuries. 

There are so many songs that I want to hear, many times, before I die. The list is very long, and, in many ways, every single day involves filling as many hours as possible with music. Nevertheless, I am left contemplating the different scenarios of death and how different songs would be more fitting for the occasion. If I was lucky enough to live a long satisfying life, was able to communicate with loved ones, I can imagine asking to listen to Willie Nelson records before my final breath. But what would I listen to if I decided to commit suicide? I suppose this decision also depends on the context and means. I do have one song in mind for such a situation. Fear not, worry not, I have no plans to kill myself. I am merely reflecting on a particular song and moment in which such choices could be made. 

For me, if I was going to exit by my own hand, perhaps due to not wanting to confront the grizzly decline associated with a terminal disease and the fact that I do not live in a state that supports death with dignity, I might elect suicide by car exhaust asphyxiation. (I recognize that a catalytic converter on the car makes this selection problematic.) I am not one for guns and knives. I prefer the thought that I could sit in the car in the garage while listening to music as I drift toward death. The song that I would play on repeat is “Pacing the Cage” by Bruce Cockburn. I first heard this song in August 1996 at a Folks Festival in Colorado, where Bruce was playing a solo set. As the sky darkened, I got chills as Bruce started playing this song. The main guitar part is beautiful and gentle. The music alone invites contemplation and taking stock. On that night, I sat up to focus more intently, and I grabbed the hand of my partner. The opening lines floored me: “Sunset is an angel weeping / Holding out a bloody sword.” He continued: “Sometimes you feel like you live too long / Days drip slowly on the page / You catch yourself / Pacing the cage.” I shuddered, captivated by the weight and calm. The weariness was evident, as he sang: “I’ve proven who I am so many times / The magnetic strip’s worn thin.” Tears streamed down my face. With each word, Bruce held me at attention:

I never knew what you all wanted

So I gave you everything

All that I could pillage

All the spells that I could sing

It’s as if the thing were written

In the constitution of the age

Sooner or later, you’ll wind up

Pacing the cage.

The extended guitar part that followed let the words sink in, before the last verses:

Sometimes the best map will not guide you

You can’t see what’s round the bend

Sometimes the road leads through dark places

Sometimes the darkness is your friend

Today these eyes scan bleached-out land

For the coming of the outbound stage.

The song left me stunned. It haunted me. I loved the closing exploration, embracing the circuitousness of life and, perhaps, the feeling that you have done all you can. While the struggles of life are noted, the song generates a sense of peace, comfort, and ease. In many ways, this is exactly what I would hope to feel as I drew life to an end. 

“Pacing the Cage” has stayed with me since first hearing it, months before it was released on his album The Charity of Night. It remains one of my favorites by Bruce. As so much of life involves “pacing the cage,” I carry the song forward, trying to make the most of the time that I have, hoping for some form of peace and comfort, whenever it may come. 

Roger Taylor, Outsider (Nightjar, 2021)

Review by Null

It seems that I tend to write reviews of novelty records, as opposed to albums by bands that have been my lifeblood. Such is the case with this unexpected discovery, Roger Taylor’s Outsider. I happened upon this release when I was doing a little research for the last review I wrote on Queen’s 1977 record, News of the World.

To start with, I had almost no knowledge that the members of Queen made solo albums. Why would I? Apparently, they’ve made quite a few. Nor did I realize that the drummer from Queen shared the same name as the drummer for Duran Duran. Who knew? Likewise, the fact that this album was made by a member of Queen really has no particular importance to me. It is a mere triviality, so I approached this record with no preconceptions.

I’ll assume you know as little about this release as I do. Here are the basics. Outsider is an album that Roger Taylor recorded in his home studio during the height of the pandemic in England. He wrote all the songs and plays all the instruments. For the most part, it is a meditation on mortality, or it at least feels that way, considering that the album is bookended by two its best tracks that deal with this theme, “Tides” and “Journey’s End.” 

The album does vary in its subject matter. Some of the issues addressed are the thrill-seeking days in his youth, regret and apologies to loved ones, and the fact that “Gangsters Are Running This World.” However, the record feels as though it was constructed under the umbrella of contemplating one’s own mortality. I’m always interested in projects where an artist makes their own home recordings, especially when they write and play all the instruments. It must be a labor of love. 

Though this album may not be for everyone, I found it refreshing. I particularly liked the way Roger Taylor addresses the subject of mortality with beauty and resignation.

The first song I heard, “Tides,” is also the opening track on the record. It sets the stage for what follows. Taylor sings, “The only whisper is the wind / The only motion is the wave / The only constant is the change / And all I’m left with is the tide / That tells me all the things that live / Someday must die.” It is a very moving reflection and an entryway to the album as a whole.

One of the great joys of music is discovering unexpected records like this. It’s quirky in places, which adds to its uniqueness and charm. The only problem with the album is that it contains two versions of the song, “Gangsters Are Running This World.” The first is great and far superior, but the second, the “purple” version, is an unnecessary addition that represents the only real pothole on the record. 

I was also intrigued by the artwork on the album, which alludes to a beautiful pink sunset silhouetted by a person, the outsider, alone on a cliff. It seems to capture perfectly the mood of the record.

Give it a listen. It is an odd record I just happened upon this year, like a strange shell on a vast beach, which like everything else will eventually be consumed by the tide.

Queen, News of the World (Elektra, 1977)

Review by Null

I am not a huge Queen fan; however, the band’s musical virtuosity and talent is undeniable. This fact should be clear to anyone with ears.

Like most kids who lived out their elementary school years in the late 1970s and early 80s, the big Queen hits on the radio were a part of our musical landscape. We were lucky to be exposed to such a unique, impactful, and musically diverse band. I cannot deny that they also had a subversive sensuality that was mysterious and magnetic to a young boy. I was pretty sure Freddie Mercury was gay, if only because he looked like the biker-guy from The Village People and he oozed a confusing sexuality. Queen always seemed to be from another planet.

Queen’s Greatest Hits was released in 1981. We had this album on 8-track back on the farm, but I would not listen to it very often for two reasons. First, every song seemed to be played on the radio all the time. So, I heard them a lot. Second, no matter how talented Queen were, they always became kind-of annoying after a while. Once I was two or three songs in, I had reached my limit. I also have a very clear memory of visiting my cousins in Minnesota, and they had the vinyl 45, 7” single, of “Another One Bits the Dust.” While we were captivated by the A-side, it was the B-side that stuck out to me. I distinctly remember lying on their bunkbeds, staring at the blue shag carpet on the walls and listening to the B-side, “Don’t Try Suicide,” over and over again while my cousins were outside playing in the yard. I’m sure a psychologist would have a lot to say about that moment.

There is, however, one Queen album that I can listen to from beginning to end. It is the quintessential Queen album, News of the World. It is filled with grit, grace, beauty, and even fear. My older step-brother had the vinyl LP, and I will never forget when I discovered it in the attic next to the record player. It was like being abducted by aliens. 

Of course, I knew who Queen was, but I had never seen this album. The album art was terrifying. I threw the needle on the record and examined the album cover. It is a painting of an intelligent-looking robot (made of concrete?), who is holding humans (the band?) in one hand. They appear to be dead, and one of them is bleeding from the mid-section, while the robot’s middle finger on the other hand is dripping with blood. As I held open the gatefold, I could see that one of the members, again dead, seems to be falling back into some sort of cave that has been ripped open. The creepiest thing about this whole scene is the intelligent, inquisitive, and even kind look in the robot’s eyes. He knows not what he does, like a scientist collecting butterflies, only to mutilate and kill them, as part of a study. Even as a kid, this struck me as representing the random bullets of tragedy that spray across humanity. Such unintentional cruelty seemed par for the course. As I looked at the inner sleeve, my fears were confirmed. It showed the view from inside “the cave,” as humans are pictured running in terror as the robot reaches in to evaluate these mysterious organisms.

While I contemplated the album cover, the music played in the background. It opened with “We Will Rock You” and “We Are the Champions.” I know that most people these days connect these songs to sporting events, which I find disappointing and unfortunate, as it steals the songs of their power. Luckily, I do not relate these songs to sporting events. Instead, I associate them to the uneasy feeling of the album cover, even after all these years. “We Will Rock You” is a menacing and gritty track about being at rock bottom: blood, dirt, poverty, and old age. It is a portrait of the abused, inebriated, dog on the street. “We Are the Champions” is a beautiful response to “We Will Rock You,” and the triumphant poetry seems to be in the protagonist’s mind alone. Its emotional impact is contingent on the proceeding track.

Next is “Sheer Heart Attack,” which is basically Queen doing punk rock. It works. It rocks. It is relentless. People forget how hard Queen can rock.

What follows is a creepy ballad, “All Dead All Dead.” It is a beautiful song with Queen’s excellent harmonies and minimalist instrumentation. The protagonist wonders why he is still alive when his love is dead: the sweet memories are gone forever. The song ends with: “In time it comes to everyone, all dead, all dead.” I admire Freddie’s forthrightness, the way he tended to lay things bare. In the recent decades, I often think of America’s epidemic of mass shootings when I hear this song. Its creepiness has not been diluted over time.

Already this album is a roller-coaster.

The beautiful, “Spread your Wings,” follows with a chorus that always pulled at my heartstrings. It is a classic Queen torch song, that has always been one of my favorites.

“Fight from the Inside” is a typical 1970s rock track. It is all funk swagger. I guess it is a little respite from the other tracks.

Next up is “Get Down Make Love,” which is fucking awesome. It is the musical equivalent of being in third grade and finding a Hustler magazine under your brother’s bed. It is so overly sexual that there is an innate fear of mother walking into the room. The song sounds like sex, cocaine, blowjobs, and sweat. It even has sci-fi sounds in it, because everything comes back to the album cover.

The song “Sleeping on the Sidewalk” literally sounds like another band. It is a fairly forgettable blues rocker. “Who Needs You” is a little, acoustic, jazzy number, because Queen is only consistent in their inconsistency. These songs do not really leave much of an impression, other than the fact that Queen seem to be able to do anything.

The second to last track, “It’s Late,” picks up the pace. It fluctuates between a slow groove and a barn burner. The final song, “My Melancholy Blues,” is Freddie doing his best piano, Broadway, showtune thing he did from time to time. It just leaves you with another reminder that, whether you specifically like it or not, this band was filled with accomplished musicians.

I hardly ever listen to Queen; however, when I do I usually grab News of the World. I guess it has functioned as alternative greatest hits throughout my life. It holds my interest due to the deep tracks and the overall connection to the album cover. It has everything I expect from Queen; it becomes slightly annoying at times, it has that unique “Queen sound,” and even after all these years it still surprises me how pretty and moving some of these songs are, be it tear-jerkers or an underlying sense of uneasiness.

If you feel the same way about Queen that I do, here is my suggested album list:

News of the World (1977) See above.

Bohemian Rhapsody Soundtrack (2018). This has the essential Queen hits you need, and it is interspersed with some really great deep cuts.

Hot Space (1982). This record is a much hated “dance album,” but it has some killer songs, like “Put Out the Fire,” “Life is Real,” and the masterpiece “Under Pressure.” You will learn to love it.

Buckingham Nicks, Buckingham Nicks (Polydor, 1973)

 

Reviewed by Null

This album is full of great acoustic ditties by a duo that were soon to help propel Fleetwood Mac from a very popular British band to a full-fledged global sensation. If you are a fan the latter version of Fleetwood Mac, then this album is a must have. The vocal warmth of Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks is undeniable. I won’t go through the whole track list, because if you enjoy one of these songs, you’ll like all of them. Warm. Creamy. Analog.

There are, however, two thigs that are endlessly baffling about this record. The first is a more recent conundrum, while that latter has troubled me since childhood.

The first astonishing fact is that this album has not been re-released since it was initially birthed in 1973. This is a baffling fact considering that it is an album by one of the most popular, and top-selling, songwriting duos in the world. Isn’t Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours one of the bestselling albums of all time?

The second issue that has puzzled me since childhood is this: Does Nicks have a shirt on? If so, is it airbrushed off? If not, was her nipple airbrushed out, or just barley hiding in the shadow? This question has confounded me for decades.

Only recently, I discovered that this issue was addressed in an interview. As Nicks tells it, she was asked to take her shirt off. She didn’t want to, but Buckingham reminded her that “this is art.” I guess Wikipedia is good for something. However, one can understand why Nicks would be reluctant to remove her shirt in an industry full of hairy men, when even her boyfriend, Buckingham, was more than eager to flaunt his bare chest. 

After all these years, I finally received an answer to part of the question. However, one question still remains: Where is the nipple?

If you can find a copy, pick up this album. It’s very good. Hold the album cover in your hands and ask yourself, “Nipple?”