Yeah, I picked the above song because today is Saturday and the above song is the first Saturday song I think of. I’ve made mixed tapes doing days of the week which is why I left out past perfect tense, I’ve done this more than once, will do it again, and even without the mix tape I think of connections like that the way one runs a blade over a whet stone. Running a blade over a whet stone is calming almost meditative, it also makes the blade sharp.
An overly simplified but fairly good theory on why punk became so popular by 1980 is in retaliation for pop music having gotten so complacent and bland. I like Chicago and thought they were kind of innovative, but, if I were making the punk-born-of-complacency argument this wouldn’t be a bad example of a ‘before’ sound.
What they did that was interesting was add a brass section after an entire cultural revolution in music had abandoned the big band concept for a sort of standard four piece; lead guitar, rhythm guitar, bass guitar and drums. Sure there were famous and notable exceptions, Blind Faith and Rush were three piece bands, Traffic evolved into a pretty large band, the E street band had a saxophone … still. The sex pistols made a huge impressions because they were rude and made noise, rude noise. Hindsight says they were created that way, sort of like the monkees (not sound wise, but created as a marketing thing to pander to a specific demographic). Whether that’s true or not isn’t the point, it worked. I loved those guys; they really sucked.
The art industries do that all the time, shake shit up when pandering to the lowest common denominator gives the world lowest common denominator art. Usually someone gets rich off of doing that, usually it is not the artist.
Yeah, I didn’t have a mini lecture over simplified and rife with opinion in mind when I sat down. What was in my mind was “Motherfucking Christ rocking Casbah, these horse humping partials hurt like a fiery asshole to put on, ow, ow, fucking ow.”
I made an appointment with dentist to check the fitting. I probably told y’all about post op. I probably didn’t tell you that oral surgeon backed out of biopsy at last minute, explaining shit to me while jabbing at my paw with needle (he never got it in right paw which looks like it went two rounds with Mike Tyson and then got bit). What bugs me the most about that is the lack of communication between dentist and oral surgeon. I understood both sides just fine, I understood that to biopsy they had to take out tooth. As the oral surgeon got more explicit and graphic after I said ‘Ok, I was planning on the tooth coming out’ I realized he didn’t want to do it for some reason or other, though, the last thing he said before I went under was ‘If it was mine, I’d have it done’.
I didn’t want it done but had agreed to it anyway, talking me out of it at the last minute under the guise of educating me was unfair, so much so I figured he didn’t want to do it, probably nerves. I sure as hell didn’t want a guy nervous about cutting a tooth so close to the jawbone do it anyway. I also don’t want cancer. Given my druthers I’d rather leave it there and not get cancer, it’s not like the area hurts or anything. He said something like if it hurts I should have it done immediately, I don’t know, my brain was cringing on the ropes at the time. I’m not an expert on cancer, but I think when it hurts it’s way way way too late. He suggested keeping an eye on it. I’m going to bitch when I go in for readjustment. I might also shop for another oral surgeon. I picked these guys because their name started with an A. It’s possible that Zeke Zimmerman is the best in town. Um, I feel stupid doing this, but it means I chose alphabetically. I asked all the locals I know for recommendations. They all loved some dentist or other who had retired or died, the recommendations for their current ones were ‘He’s ok’. Here in the polite and stoic Midwest that either means he’s ok or the man is a fucking butcher. Answering how are you with ok is tantamount to saying I have cancer.
So in the last few years when I’ve done a google search for lyrics or a song (you have to know precisely what you are looking for) one of the options has been meaning, e.g. Saturday in the Park lyrics meaning. I’m always curious but also always so focused I haven’t looked at one of those yet. I’m pretty sure I’m on solid footing with the meaning of this song, but I’m curious to see if meaning sites are like Wikipedia, some guy who wanted to write about the meaning did and submitted it, as opposed to, say, the author.
When I was in college and living in an on campus apartment overlooking the park blocks, I would sometimes go downstairs to the park to play my flute to give from waking the baby. When he was awake I would take him down with me to play the flute. I’m ok, I wasn’t playing to improve, I would play to relax. Sometimes I’d get a small crowd, sometimes they tried putting money in my flute case. I think it had more to do with how raggedy I looked or the cute baby next to me than appreciation for my skills. I’m not being humble, I made sweet dulcet tones from the axe but in a decidedly average way.
So one day, sans baby, this guy sits down next to me, a large, flaming African American. He’s enthralled and starts up a conversation. It’s impossible to play the flute and hold up ones end of the conversation, which is ok if the other person is just talking. This guy asked questions and was building up a profile. It was tiresome after fifteen minutes and whatever calm I was going to get from playing was shot to shit, so I said I had to go. He apparently lived in the same building. I invited to my place. No, I didn’t think he was hitting on me and no I didn’t think the baby would prove to him all hopes were dashed. I figured meeting the seahag would drive him off as it does everyone from hetro-sexual Caucasians to transgender Inuit. He hit it off with the seahag who offered him cheap wine and he offered to spark a cheap doobie.
Under the influence he figured it was really profound to talk about pop song lyrics and their deeper meaning. The song he chose? Hold me Closer tiny dancer, which he recited like William Shatner might. I sort of liked the guy by then, a good buffer between the seahag and I, I picked up my son who was just waking, and with one hand I put on the title track to Low Spark of High Heeled boys. I love the song, I don’t have a fucking clue what it means exactly. He was quiet through all seventeen minutes (ok, I’m not sure how long it is, but it’s a long song), bowed slightly and left. For the rest of the school year he avoided me whenever he could and was short, polite but short, when he couldn’t avoid me.
It was Portland so I’m pretty sure he wasn’t offended by the idea that high heeled boys might be a homosexual reference (you’d think so, right? I don’t understand the lyrics enough to say; oh yeah, queer as snow in august) or that a guy who claimed his mind was blown by hold me closer tiny dancer actually experienced a real blown mind from Low Spark of High Heeled boys.
So, why don’t I see what google thinks the song means? I have loved that song for over forty years, I’m afraid the meaning, even a misguided bad guess at a meaning, might ruin it for me. The song also has more music than lyrics, part of why it’s so long, there’s at least three solos.
I don’t know. Good morning. I’m going to try and eat something harder than pudding, like mac and cheese.
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