I don't even know where to begin.
Maybe I should be sensible, and start with the clothes.
I'm no fashion dragon, but last night I busted out with some "fits" that were so cool, I don't think anybody at the whole party even understood. Perhaps Simone, the hunkaluscious gay-boy photographer. Yes, perhaps Simone.
Bands are inevitably better performing covers (with exceptions--DUH) because they feel braver doing someone else's songs. Likewise, my outfit last night was a cover version of a look I have long admired. Let's call it "Mick and Bianca's Wedding."
The party was for my best friend Hillary's wedding.
My interpretation of Mick's look involved tight pinstripe trousers, a '70s pale grey polyester tuxedo jacket with velvet trim and wide-ass collars, a loose white tuxedo shirt unbottoned down to there, with flouncy sleeves hanging out, and some shitty white sneakers (or "trainers," as my date Suzanne called them).
This was a tribute to Hillary, my personal rock icon, and to the fashion pioneering of the early-'70s Rolling Stones. (It had nothing to do with the actual pairing of Mick and Bianca, which was clearly an unfortunate one.)
Hillary, the sage, said, "You're wearing what you want your groom to wear."
O, how right she was! I have long envisioned my groom wearing a white '70s tuxedo (with tails!) with sneakers. You got to dream.
But I really couldn't expect Her Majesty to give two shits what I was wearing, since yesterday she committed the rest of her life to Derek, the love of her life. (Whom I have recently anointed "D. Mo." His name is Derek Moran, and wouldn't you know it, he's a Top 40 radio DJ and music director! Yee-haw!)
I have never seen a groom look sexier and more relaxed (and more flushed-at-the-cheeks!). And I have never seen Hillary so lovely and butterfly-kissable.
For the moment, Ms. Hillary is the love of my life!
On Thursday we had a special girlfriends day, and had special spa treatments, lunch, and haircuts etc. At lunch, Hilly said, "I was thinking about soul mates. I was wondering if Derek is my soul mate. But I thought, nah. I already have a soul mate. Kate is my soul mate!"
When I told my mom, she said, "I think it's much more common for women to be each other's soul mates. Women understand each other."
I sighed, and had to agree. It is tragic that men don't understand women better.
I, however, hold out hope that I will one day soon meet a man who really does understand me--as a girl, a woman, a Hello Kitty-kat, a man, a rock star, whatever I am, everything I am, everything I don't yet know I am.
One thing I admire, though, about Hillary and Derek, is that their love is a secret, just between them. It's their private wonderland, and nobody else knows. They don't parade it and they don't have to explain. It's theirs. And for all I know, Derek understands Hillary in a much deeper way than I do.
All I know is, they are madly in love, deeply down there in the secret depths, and ready to open their hearts so wide it seems impossible. They are happy.
All my love, all my hope, all my best wishes ever to Hillary and Derek and their beautiful new life.
Hooray for Hillary and Derek!
And hooray also that they got married this weekend, for it enabled me to witness the final show of the great Colin Blunstone/Rod Argent U.S. tour!
The second song they performed tonight at First Avenue is a song that I have been singing for two months. In fact, on the way to the airport on Monday, I listened to this song five times in a row, because sometimes, this song is really the only song in the whole world.
It's called "This Will Be Our Year," and it's a song for Hillary and Derek; Jim and Jean; and maybe me, in a way.
The warmth of your love's like the warmth from the sun
and this will be our year,
took a long time to come.
Don't let go of my hand, now the darkness is gone
this will be our year,
took a long time to come.
And I won't forget the way you held me up
when I was down
And I won't forget the way you said,
Darling I love you,
you gave me faith to go on!
Now we're there, and we've only just begun.
This will be our year
took a long time come.
Colin Blunstone is a soft hero, a blooming treasure, and he makes any song, however familiar, a work of poetic surprise. A highlight was when he sang lead vocals on the Argent song--and KISS cover-hit--"God Gave Rock 'N' Roll to You." In the middle, after a long-mid-section breakdown, he raised his hands in a "V" and, grinning, shouted "Rock!" like a child.
Argent's piano solos were better than anything I've even heard on a Zombies recording. It's crazy that they don't sound totally cheesy, because they could in a second--all noodly jazzy Hammond-wanking. But they don't.
The guitarist was fine, and at his best showed good Mick Ronson influence. And he rocked a cheesy metal solo on "She's Not There," which was hil-fucking-arious.
Bassist also good, a former Kinks person.
(Have I told you about my theory that "Billy Jean" is an attempt to rewrite "She's Not There"? After tonight I am even more totally sure. Check that shit out, yo.)
My only complaint was the drummer. He didn't fit stylistically, aesthetically, anything. He was an '80s power-drummer, macho and strong and sure and unsubtle, and Blunstone had to yell to be heard over him.
It is amazing how much a drummer can affect the sound of a band.
Still, the show reminded all of us (not that we needed it) what an important and blessed band the Zombies were, what a masterpiece Odessey and Oracle is, now and forever, and what a range of styles they could command.
And what fuzzy fuzz-hearts they are.
God bless the Zombies.
I love you, lovely Zombies, and I thank you for making music for my soul.
So I am going back to L.A. Monday and am psyched to begin work on a new column, on a special new songwriter in L.A. who totally makes you cry.
I wish I could stay here at the same time. Minneapolis is a dream.
I did have a tummy problem Monday night where I had to go to the hospital here. My dad drove me. It was the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life. It was psychedelic, man! It turned out to be nothing serious at all, and I am all better. Maybe a little wiser :)
One thing I have decided is that I am maybe through with pulling all-nighters once a week. I have always gotten a rush out of writing all night, smoking and maybe having some whiskey at the keyboard, listening to that Erik Satie "Trois Gymnopedies" record, with the window open and the skunks roaming outside... (or in Prague, the hedgehogs... or in Minneapolis, the indie rockers...) then crashing at 5 or 6 or 8:30, sleeping for a few hours, waking up and being loopy and stoned all day. It's really fun.
But now I am going to respect the all-nighter as I have come to respect caffeine: It is a drug, and must be utilized as such. My mind and heart want to stay up all night, but my body says, fuck you. And since I can't do anything without my body...
I met a 36-ish guy tonight at the Zombies show who injured his back so badly he lives in chronic pain, and doesn't work. He was on codeine and I gave him one of the Vicodins I brought to the show (for just in case). He lives in Milwaukee and saw them there last night, then drove here for the show tonight. That's a long-ass drive.
He said that when he hears their music, that's when he forgets about his pain. He said it heals him.
After the show he said he was going to look for a hotel closer to Wisconsin and finish the drive tomorrow. I wished I could do something to make him happy, but I didn't want to do anything more than give him beer and narcotics.
I wish I were sluttier. (OK, not really.) I just saw the movie "The Banger Sisters" today with my mom, and in that movie, the Goldie Hawn character sleeps with this really uptight celibate guy out of sympathy. She had a Sixties sense of sexuality.
I do not have a Sixties sense of sexuality anymore.
Only of Romance.
In high school I was really living in the Sixties, spiritually, and when we learned about the Romantics, I totally could relate. (The writers, not the band!) The way our English teacher explained them made them sound like total fucking hippies. I wrote a paper on the Romantics, and he accused me of plagiarism. I don't think I ripped it off--I think I was just really excited about the Romantics. Our teacher was sort of a hippie, of a certain literate Anglophile chain-smoking gay stripe. His brother was Captain Beefheart. He never ever talked about Captain Beefheart and since we didn't know anything, we didn't ever ask him. We never asked him about his private life, or about Captain Beefheart.
He insisted upon calling me "Kathleen" and he spoke with a bit of an affected English accent--especially when reading Shakespeare, which he did nonstop. One time I called him "Mr. Fake English Accent" behind his back--which me and my best friend, Debbie Urlik, thought was really fucking clever. So she passed me a note that said, "Fuck you Mr. Fake English Accent!" He, of course, demanded to see the note, and she got incredibly busted. For the rest of the fucking year I had to sit in the front row. He thought I was some innocent, but the truth is that I made it up.
My problem with him was that once I asked him, "Why do we read?" I really didn't understand the purpose of any of it. He took it as an offense, a questioning of his whole life--and didn't give me a real answer. He got flustered and gave me some rote bullshit about learning from the mistakes of characters--learning from Hamlet not to be indecisive.
Whatever, man. It took me years to figure it out. It's nothing so hoity-toity and cerebral as what he said. People read--I read, anyway--to be not-alone. To connect. With another, with everything. Like E.M. Forster said: Only connect!