on 69 love songs and a sunny day

So this is an old post that I wrote about a year ago, but I always kind of liked the idea and meant to update it. Since I was writing about music and friendship again over the weekend (and since the same post helped me stop caring so much about my stupid privacy really, it's not like my secrets are that great), I finally found the inspiration to approach it again, and what you see is the revised edition. So yeah, the real reason I complain about writing about music and writing about myself is because I know deep down that's all I really want to do, and I'm ashamed. Anyway, here you go, hope you like it reading it (at least half) as much as I like writing it...

Once, on a spur-of-the-moment road trip during the middle of the summer with some of my best friends, our driver insisted on playing a tape of the Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs, despite my constant demands to "listen to something fun, for Christ’s Sake." I was having some difficulty with my girlfriend at the time and the road trip was definitely being siezed as an opportunity to just get away and enjoy myself, forget about all the stress I was accumulating. Forgeting about my relationship was definitely one of the goals for the trip, and the Magnetic Fields definitely weren't helping me fulfill it.

Despite the differing taste in music I ended up enjoying myself on the trip to Oregon. My friends S., L., and I didn't do much besides enjoy each other's company for an evening and it was grand. We made drunken phone calls, we smoked in a California bar just to say we smoked in California bar, we ate fast food, and I befriended a very creepy Clipper fan when they had the gall to leave me alone. As long as I was outside of Arcata, I was able to easily forget about the troubles I was having back at home, no matter how much the 69 Love Songs tried to depress me on the road up.

Following the road trip, the relationship between the driver, S., and I continued to deteriorate, perhaps because of a difference in musical taste, perhaps because outside of those few days we always had trouble agreeing on exactly what constitutes "fun," perhaps because we just lost interest in each other. Before it was ping pong and chess at every opportunity, gossip and banter, but it moved towards uneasiness, and that uncomfortable feeling of being sentimental and loyal toward someone despite a lack of real reason to do so. We saw each other less, both of us finding lots of different distractions besides one another, and when we did get together it didn't have the same spark as before. I missed our friendship as much as I was annoyed by it, and that made me sad.

Despite my previous insistence upon the fact that there is indeed one objective "fun" to which I hold the key, I’ve decided to momentarily lapse my hard-line stance for the sake of this writing. Perhaps some people really enjoy the Magnetic Fields, and find it completely appropriate for a sunny summer day on the open road. The extent to which the reconsideration of my previous conviction coincides with my reading of Rick Moody’s appreciation of the album in my favorite magazine, The Believer, should not be understated. It’s not often you bother to read a 10-page meditation on an album you don’t really like, especially when you consider writing about music a questionable endeavor in the first place. Rick has done some smart things in his essay, such as whittling the 69 Love Songs down to only 31. Perhaps if I only listened to those 31, I could become a convert and fun would be had. (Although I notice "Reno Dakota" is #4 on his compilation, the song being one of the stronger impressions on my memory of what I just couldn’t "get into" on the album). He also admits a certain relation between some of the songs and the traditional musical, always a key sticking point for me. I, like Rick Moody, can’t stand musicals, so I admire his honest approach with the subject. Still his somewhat defensive (and realistically pretty weak) distinction between musicals and ballads does help me reconsider the album with less prejudice, at least a little bit. But even with Rick Moody on their side, a man whose writing and intellect I greatly admire, I still can’t bring myself to enjoy the Magnetic Fields.

And I realize it’s somewhat taboo to admit personal biases when "objectively" critiquing the merit of art, but that’s what I’m doing. Even though I will now also think of Rick’s love for this album every time I hear it, I will also never forget my friend S. and our relationship, our summer drive and everything else between us. If I were to say what the Magnetic Fields makes me think of, what distinct impression the music leaves upon me, those places it takes me to and the people it reminds me of, I would say, "S."

I recently "starred" in a student film alongside the lovely S.. One of the most obnoxious aspects was that it was a student film, and they didn’t have much film stock to shoot with. As such, all scenes were one-takes and if you screwed up one line you might wreck the whole damn project. What’s obnoxious about this is that S. and I would have been at our best if they just let the cameras roll, and just allowed us to joke back and forth. S. is one of the few women I’ve met who can not only stand up to my rude humor, but give it back as well. We have a strong relationship and part of the fun we always have together is trading wit back and forth.

And of course it's not just the jokes between us, or the ping pong or the chess. Of course there's more. I've listened to some of her personal ramblings as she found her way around, and she's put up with me at some of the lower points I've ever reached. It's odd on one hand feeling so close and so indebted to a person, yet having such uneasiness and frustration lingering between us as well. Maybe it is exactly this close relationship that engenders such animosity. In many ways, S. is more the family I never had than any close personal friend; I love her and I'm loyal to her, but our friendship hasn't been without its points of mutual frustration.

It is most likely these exact types of personal associations the 69 Love Songs has built its popularity upon, but for me it’s an insurmountable hindrance. And why is that? On S.’s last birthday I spent a good deal of my time at her party sitting at her typewriter, typing up a note explaining just how much I love her, and I meant every word. I’ve never written a love note before, and I never intend to again. (See what can happen when you start listening to the Magnetic Fields? Take this as a warning.) And it’s not that I regret the note, or our relationship, or anything like that. I'm as grateful for these things as I am grateful for S.'s continuing friendship. I actually think it has more to do with that sunny summer day, and our drive to Oregon, and our playful banter about exactly what "fun" is, and how much I want to have a day like that again.

And I know what you’re asking yourself, “Just what do you consider fun music to be, then?” Well, I could give lots of examples -– AC/DC, the Roots, Johnny Cash, Outkast, etc. –- but I would never say the Magnetic Fields. If it weren’t for that day on the highway, I would never think of sunshine when I heard their music, I would never get a smile on my face or laugh about private jokes. I would never be glad to reminisce and pine for a dear friend.

And now I know this is exactly what that album stands for, lost friends and old relationships and fun times that actually hurt a little to recall. Maybe that’s why I’m mad at S., because now I feel warm and nostalgic every time Claudia Gonson chews out Reno Dakota in that damn song mentioned above. That stupid “Dakota/iota/quota” rhyme doesn’t represent forced, trite, traditional-musical-esque lyricism, but instead a sunny stretch of open road, a dear friend like I'll never have again, my real family that I've discovered instead of inherited. I can’t say exactly why that upsets me, only that it does, and that I miss you S..