Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Kiss's Beth

Beth, I hear you callin'
But I can't come home right now
Me and the boys are playin'
And we just can't find the sound
Just a few more hours
And I'll be right home to you
I think I hear them callin'
Oh, Beth what can I do
Beth what can I do

You say you feel so empty
That our house just ain't a home
And I'm always somewhere else
And you're always there alone

Just a few more hours
And I'll be right home to you
I think I hear them callin'
Oh, Beth what can I do
Beth what can I do

Beth, I know you're lonely
And I hope you'll be alright
'Cause me and the boys will be playin'
All night

'Beth' was penned by Kiss's drummer, Peter Criss, along with Stan Penridge, while both were still a members of Chelsea, a NY based band that disbanded after their first album. The song was initially written apparently as an insult to Rebecca, the wife of guitarist Mike Brand and, according to Criss, a notorious hypochondriac, who would frequently interrupt recording sessions and rehearsals. Apparently, Criss also commented that the song also reflects Criss's wife Lydia's lamentations while Criss was on tour but this is unconfirmed.

Several years later, when Destroyer producer Bob Ezrin was presented with the song, he re-wrote the lyrics and suggested the piano and orchestra. Gone was the caustic (and reportedly profane) diatribe against an annoying woman. What it became was a sweet ballad about missing a loved one while on the road; telling her that even though you're not there and have a job to do, you're still thinking about her. However, it was Gene Simmons who suggested a change in title to "Beth", presumably to be more recognizable as a female name. There is another version of this story, that Simmons was concerned about fans believing it was about English rock guitarist Jeff Beck or, worse yet, misconstrued as a gay love song about the guitarist.

Beth was originally released on their 1976 album, Destroyer and although being a ballad, not typical of their sound, it is their highest-charting single, reaching #7 on Billboard's American charts. It is one of only two gold selling singles for the band (the other being 1979's "I Was Made for Lovin' You"), and their first of two Top Ten singles (along with 1990's "Forever", #8).

The lyrics are tender and kind and the tune complements it perfectly. It is so easy to listen to it and be lost in it. As if it's a tune that's in our blood that's been forgotten in time. Its a song to which I could smile my brightest, let the tears flow in abandon or just be my calmest. Like a broken record. Playing over and over and over again. It's a song to which I could be still in time.

Teary beautiful, this.

Publish Post

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Food for thought!

With the tag line as 'We concept, co you don't have to.', Steal Our Ideas' is a laugh a minute. Started by 2 admen, it clearly knows the punch and goes right for it. I just had to spread the word. So here's to the spirit of reblogging.


Perhaps

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

- Pablo Neruda


Maybe this is the point I'm trying to make....

Monday, November 1, 2010

Ode to a dog

All the care in the world can disappear for a moment if you can play with a dog. Its cheeriness is contagious. It's a tried and tested fact. I have gotten through death, despair, agony, failure and heartbreak with the help of my dog.

She was my pillow; I could hold her with my cheek pressed against her soft fur as long as I needed.

She was my counselor; patient while I told her every little grievance I had with the world and its neighbours, staring at me comfortingly with soulful brown eyes. As if she knew and understood everything I was going through. As if saying, "I understand. Mmm Hmm... So how does that make you feel?"

She was my playmate, always ready to entertain my spurts of nervous energy with a game of catch.

She was my toy; always ready to take a joke even if it was on her. I named her Nicole Kiddog in jest and she never once complained even when the world laughed at us. 

She was my best friend. Always welcoming, even when I returned home after forever with nothing to offer but a smile and a handshake.

She was my parent. Forgiving of my inequities and loving unconditionally. And always always ready to give what she had.

I miss her more than words can say.

This poem is by Pablo Neruda.

For Nikki.

A dog has died

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.


Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer