R.E.M. is dead.

Now we can properly remember them.

R.E.M. was a really important part of my musical puberty. They pulled together a lot of threads and needs that existed inside me that weren’t being satisfied by other groups. As a band, they were gently southern, literate, immediate, relatively unknown, catchy and intimate. It felt like they had been created just for me. It’s like R.E.M. had been given life by one of my late night fever dreams.

And there was a lot of space in their early tunes. Mumbled words came out of Stipe with a carelessness that is born of equal parts arrogance and paralyzing shyness. The music had loopy jangly gaps and spaces like songs that had been played too many times and had been winnowed down to just the bare essentials. Really enjoying their early music required some participation on your part to fill those gaps with your own beats and words.

But something happened to R.E.M. over time, though. How does it not? The music became too clean and the words became too clear. They didn’t need me anymore. And to save face and be cool, I rejected them first.

Monster was the last CD that I bought of theirs, and I still don’t listen to it. But I still have it for some reason. I’ve surely sold better discs back to the record store, but it somehow still remains.

Here’s a confession: I was honestly looking forward to them calling it quits.

No matter how many times you see that ex-girlfriend from 20 years ago around town, you still remember those amazing and desperate nights you spent together when you were growing up. You don’t want to forget those times, but it would be a lot easier if she could move away. R.E.M. is finally done and I’m happy to wave at their moving truck.

A perfect circle of acquaintances and friends / Drink another, coin a phrase / Heaven assumed, shoulders high in the room / Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room.

— Perfect Circle 

And, of course, R.E.M. is not dead. We’ve got about 5 years before they get back together, with Bill Berry, and release a new album and tour.

Those cheating bastards.

Dean wrote a great post a few weeks about making the right decision when it comes to shows: Pride: Eating It

Life isn’t a simple question with either A, B, C, or D being the right answer. Life and family is full of hand-wrenching questions where you have to choose the best answer. Yeah, life is the professor you hated for giving you those kinds of tests. That is until you find yourself quoting him or her one day.

The other side of the coin are the shows you can easily make, but just because you can go to a show it doesn’t mean that you’ve earned it.

Case in point was the My Morning Jacket Show at the Charlottesville Pavilion at the end of August. It was a Wednesday night, it was the day after the family and I got back from vacation, and it was the night after my kids’ first day of school. None of these things were even remotely a deal breaker, but I would have felt it was a wash if I had simply gone straight from work to the show. Instead I met the family for dinner in-between and I got to hear my daughters tell me about their first day of school. Which teachers they liked, which stupid boys were in their class (again), and the drama of finding all their new classrooms in the school building.

Sure, I could have waited to hear these things in the frantic moments before they caught the bus the next morning, or after school the next day. But I think the show was actually better that night because my head was full of their little stories and expectations of the new year. Although I’ve been boisterous in sharing that I think the last two MMJ albums have been uneven and self-indulgent, they are still a journeyman band with the ability to blossom when live. On stage, their songs take on a sonic storytelling quality. A narrative of sound.

I suppose I could have gone to the show empty, but I prefer to fill my head up with life and stories ready to overflow. When it comes to family and music, not only can you have both, but why wouldn’t you want both?

If you touch me
Well I just think I’ll scream
Cause it’s been so long
Since someone challenged me

Made me think
About the way things are
Made me think
About the way that they could be

At a recent concert I was whining that The Head and The Heart show coming up soon in DC was going to run too late into the night for Addy to go to. She and I are both smitten with that band right now and I’m eager for her to see them live (I was lucky to catch them at Bonnaroo and will hopefully again at ACL). In my head  I was trying to make it work: I could snatch her early from school, barrel towards DC while eating dinner on the road and then hoping Addy could make it through the two (!) openers and into THATH’s set that likely wouldn’t start until 11:00pm. It was insanity. 

Overhead, as we waited for our show to start and I openly bitched, an ad played for an upcoming Jason Mraz show with Colbie Caillat at Merriweather. It was the very next day after the other show I was trying to wedge into our lives. And starting much earlier in the evening. Except I couldn’t be less excited about seeing Mraz in concert… but Addy would. In fact if I’m being honest with myself and everyone else, I have to note that Addy LOVES some of his stuff. We have an entire playlist called, “I’m Yours Over and Over” which is - you guessed it - a live cut of that song on repeat. She requests it often.

Soon, plans for the other band were dashed, as they should have been for pure logistical reasons. And there on my phone I manage to get tickets for the Saturday show Addy would love much more.

The lesson here isn’t that Addy wouldn’t enjoy a show by The Head and The Heart - but they’re a new band that will be around, I’m sure, many times. The lesson is — just because my life operates at this insane pace of work and life and music and fatherhood and work doesn’t mean that hers should. There are easier decisions to be made. And they can be made to make her happier not necessarily just appease my need to spread the goodwill of new bands. 

So on September 24 we’ll go to see one of Addy’s favorite artists on a lazy day that will probably include some ice cream, a stop at an American Girl doll store and some live music. And maybe I’ll take an extra scoop of pride and patience with that ice cream.

- Dean

When was the last time you made a mixtape?

Ok, yeah, no one makes “tapes” anymore. But once upon a time, before Dropbox and before we could share our “playlists” with the world, making someone a mixtape was the coolest thing you could do. Back in the 80’s, I wasn’t the best looking guy in the world, but I was into good music and I was into artists that my friends hadn’t even heard of yet.

Ladies: if I made you a mixtape, I put some thought into it. And you. I analyzed what you liked, and recorded tracks you’d never heard of, but I knew you would dig. I thought about the transition between tracks and what sounds and ideas flowed into the next song. It was an art.

And, sure, I’d make an occasional tape for guy friends, but that was just a matter-of-fact recording. “You oughta check out this band, here’s a copy of their tape.” High-five. Chest bump. A bare bones, soulless copy of someone else’s album.

But, if I gave you a mixtape, you got a little bit of me, too. Who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I hoped you’d think I was. Maybe a mixtape was my generation’s love letter. That’s some angsty, teenage melodrama there, but that’s what it became.

I don’t make mixtapes anymore.

Maybe I’m too busy. Maybe it’s because I’m married now, and there’s no desperate need to woo the fairer sex. That’s a shame. What is art other than using our skill and imagination to create something beautiful or that stirs up an emotion? It is bad to lose touch with the thing that makes us a better, more connected, person.

My daughters and I saw the Scott Pilgrim movie in the theater last summer and loved it.

Since then, the movie soundtrack has been spinning in our iPods. When I told my oldest daughter that Beck had written all of the original songs for the soundtrack, she wanted to hear more Beck. So I went through my old CDs and handpicked tracks from Mellow Gold, Odelay and others from his back catalog.

Maybe I still do make mixtapes. And who better to give them to than my kids?

There’s lots of things any of us here at FDATR could tell you about what to take to concerts if you’re attending with children. Some of them are a part of a long list of equipment (earplugs/headphones, sunscreen…etc) and some are just the philosophical underpinnings necessary for both parent and child to enjoy a show. In the vein of the latter I wanted to talk about an under-utilized but crucial arrow in the quiver of family concert going: Patience.

But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself by even naming it, because true patience is built on a foundation of key realities you have to buy into. If you can’t agree on the following three things when taking a kid to a show (and I’m talking older than just a baby), patience will completely elude you:

1. THIS SHOW IS NOT ABOUT YOU: This is true. From the start, if you are taking a kid with you there is all expectation that you might enjoy yourself, but your enjoyment is NOT paramount here. If you do not enjoy seeing someone else enjoy themselves at a show, this exercise is not for you. This is not about you knowing all the words, not about you finagling a spot near the bassist like you always do, and it sure as hell has nothing to do with your habit of elbowing tweens to get the setlist. Let all that go. Any of your personal needs coming true is heretofore known as GRAVY and you’re extra lucky if any of it happens.
2. YOU DO NOT NEED A T-SHIRT LIKE HE/SHE NEEDS A T-SHIRT: I get it. You compulsively purchase even the sort-of cool shirt available and the more obscure the band the more likely you’ll want it for flaunting your incredible taste. But trust me - picking out a shirt for your kid(s) is ten thousand times cooler than anything you will ever get yourself. And trust me, they’ll notice that you don’t get one for yourself and that you’re just trying to make their time special. (Remember the equation here is: the more special they feel = the more shows you’ll get to go to.) Don’t have kids sizes? Who cares? My daughter Addy has been wearing an Eisley shirt to bed as a sleep shirt for months now (replacing the Tool one I thought was hilarious). Point being, you spend ungodly amounts of money for knick knacks for every other trip - BOTHER to memorialize your time together with something. Addy’s signed Grace Potter handkerchief is one of her prized possessions - and she likes it way better than if I had gotten her the super-limited-edition-foil-ridiculous poster that I would have gotten myself.
3. PUT THE BEER DOWN: What’s the harm? Nothing. A single beer probably won’t matter. But kids know that your adult drinks signal an adult time and that could be good (“I’m a grown up now!”) or bad (“I’m being dragged to this”). Even if one of you is driving and the other could cut loose, making a kid wait in a beer line is akin to watching paint dry and you also signal that drinking is THAT important. Trust me, the few minutes you save could be spent sitting the amphitheater seats getting excited, pointing out the lights, telling her/him what song you think they’ll like, or finding the other kids in the crowd. You want to distinguish yourself from the drunks you hope they don’t notice? Don’t be one.

 So. Got those covered? Good. You’re already 2/3 of the way to achieving the most important thing for you to bring. Patience. Have you ever sat down and done a single thing with a child for 2+ hours? Then you know it can be achieved as long as you are okay with distractions, errant thoughts, stimulation and potty breaks. (That last one is important, because if they need to pee during “Yellow Ledbetter” you have just got to deal with it.)

The great news is, as hard as I’ve made this sound it’s completely attainable. I’m embarrassed by how many parents DON’T take their kids to more shows. What an incredible moment to share with them. When they enjoy it, and they’ve been to a few, it’s a truly bonding experience. The few shows I’ve been to with my parents are defining moments that get brought up often, from seeing Don McLean when I was in high school to the 10,000 Maniacs show my Dad took me to that my Mother always reminds us she didn’t make. I love that we have those memories and I love that Addy won’t see concert-going as something she had to make me do with her as a chaperone, but rather something we just always did because we love music. It’s something we do together because we both want each other there.

Shared experiences are touchstones for relating to people. Addy finds it hard to relate to kids that have never been to a show when she shows up at school after one. But you know who she does relate to? Every one of my friends, everyone she looks up to. For every female friend that tells her how freaking incredible it is that she has been to Bonnaroo - that’s a positive interaction a MILLION times more potent and empowering than yet another comment about how a 7 year old little girl is “pretty.” It’s a statement of who she is, who she wants to be, what she likes, what she’s brave and mature enough to handle and how she can be seen as an adult through her responsible actions - not through acting out or away from the interests of her parents. And you know what? I get to go to a lot more shows. And every time my daughter and I put on a song and we both start butt-dancing and singing at the top of our lungs in the car with the windows rolled down, you know what the very next thing out of her mouth is when it’s over?

“We should go see them in concert.”

Did you hear that?

“We.” 

- Dean

Having daughters has been a steep learning curve for me.

I’m an only child, so I didn’t have the deeply immersive experience of being around little girls until I had kids of my own. Honestly, I don’t think there’s a difference between boys and girls for the first few years. Babies are babies, and much of what we stereotypically attribute as male or female is pushed upon them through the color of their clothing and the toys we give them at that age.

Once they start to walk and talk, all bets are off. Their nature takes off, but you’ve still got an angle with nurture.

There was a lot of crappy “kid” music for a while. (And, yes, there is some really great kid music out there. But that is a whole ‘nother post all together….) But, all the while, they are listening to your music, too. The funny thing is that it is very natural for kids to want to sing along with music. To really know the words and to be part of a performance, although the stage is usually just a kid seat in the back of your car. They don’t care how they sound, and that alone can be hilarious, they just want to rock.

And very early on, both of my daughters began to ask for songs, and some were good choices (Alice Cooper, Led Zepplin, Spoon) and some were bad choices (Black Eyed Peas, Ke$Ha). But, after a while, they started asking for songs where the singers were female. That surprised me, but it shouldn’t have been surprising. We all want to sing along with music, but not everyone can belt out a dirty ashtray, robber-baron tune with the authenticity of Tom Waits. Sometimes you want to sing along with a song and sound like you are at least from the same planet as the singer.

That made me readdress who were my favorite female singers and who were I going to “nurture” my daughters towards? The easy, early list for me is Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders, Neko Case, Bjork, PJ Harvey, Kim Deal of The Breeders and Pixies, Aimee Mann, and I’m still a big fan of Sleater-Kinney and Tanya Donnelly of Throwing Muses/The Breeders/Belly. I’d throw in Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson of The B-52s, but my girls already love them and have seen them in concert.

And you have to choose a few artists that are getting played on top 40 radio today, as well. That is a tougher task, but the girls and I agree on Adele and Metric for now.

Who are your favorite female rock ‘n roll singers?

It is never too early to show your daughters that women can rock as hard as the guys.

Don’t believe me? Watch PJ Harvey freaking own the stage all by herself:

I think someone threw out my records. This isn’t anything recent, but its just recently that I’ve been missing them. And its just the record covers I’ve been missing. I’ve been thinking of a small collection of my favorite old rock records for wall art, from the days of actual rock records with super bitchin record covers.

I guess I’m actually thinking of shopping for these on Ebay. I told a snooty French hipster record store owner in Charlottesville of my interest in records for the album art only and it was apparent that he didn’t like me anymore.