Monthly Archives: March 2018

Commuting with George Best

New sounds from 31 years ago.

New sounds from 31 years ago.

Portland’s music radio doesn’t cut it.

Not the hip-hop, or the jazz, or the country stuff – but the alt stations. I live in a city renowned for its musical impact, and spend hours every week listening to the radio, but have yet to find a solid alternative station.

When I tune in to the Rose City’s best known one, for every interesting tune I sit through repeat plays of decade-old White Stripes’ numbers, Radiohead’s High and Dry (again), or, I kid you not, Blink-182 songs.

To be fair, the nighttime playlists are more interesting. But I listen during morning and evening commutes, when Mumford & Sons doesn’t cut it. (Any chance of James Blake’s ‘If The Car Beside You Moves Ahead‘)

Maybe it’s an age thing. At 40 I’ve been through the wringer of three decades of alternative movements, from grunge to Britpop to landfill indie to whatever ‘Merriweather Post Pavilion‘ was. Maybe I’m tapped out, and the only alt rock I really want to hear is ‘Goo’, or ‘Let Love In’, or ‘Repeater’ (again).

But every now and then I come across a band or a song that blows that theory apart. The thing is, it rarely happens on radio. Unable to handle another listen to ‘Stupid Girl’ last week, I switched to Spotify for the drive home. And a playlist randomly threw up The Wedding Present.

I’d heard of the band over the years, and once endured a serious ‘come to Jesus’ chat from one of their fans. But I’d never bothered to listen to them. Until ‘Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft‘, the opening track on their best known album, ‘George Best‘, came through the speakers.

Here’s what I’d been hunting – a driving beat, jangling guitars, droll lyrics, a seamless blend of punk sensibility and pop melody. All in three minutes. It’s just a pity that it was recorded 31 years ago.

I almost – almost – told myself: ‘they don’t make them like this anymore’.

But I didn’t, because I remain in hope – hope that the next The Wedding Present, whoever they are, will come over airwaves on tomorrow’s drive home; hope that I’m not backing into a cul-de-sac of ageing musical snobbery; hope that – basically – they still make them like that.

We’ll see. Until then, I’ll be enjoying my honeymoon with David Gedge and his crew. As they sang, “everyone thinks he looks daft but you can have your dream”.

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Highway 26

Pic: EncMstr

Pic: EncMstr

Every morning: gray and speed and signal lights and merging.

Hundreds of cars entering the tunnel every minute.

Thousands of stories, worries, illnesses, joys, and fears –

Speeding through a hillside at 60 miles per hour.

Most of us doing it to earn enough to

Do it all again tomorrow.

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Back to running

Shamrock Run, Portland, March 2018

Shamrock Run, Portland, March 2018

I was never a serious runner. At least, I was never as serious as club runners, or marathon runners, or even friends of mine, who are both marathon and club runners (and have the times to prove it).

Instead I am a slogger. At my peak, and the peak of my cartilage, I was managing about 60k a week, running home from Dublin city center to our Raheny apartment five days a week. I never monitored my times, I just ground it out, day in, day out, along the Clontarf Road. In the years before that, I’d do the same around the Phoenix Park.

Then the injuries started. The plantar fasciitis first, followed by the diagnosis of hallux limitus, which became hallux rigidus, all of which I’ve blogged about previously. I kept running, but ran less and moved my workouts to a stationary bike. It wasn’t the same, but at least I could read and listen to music.

As time passed, the runs lessened and the bike work increased. By the start of this year I was shuffling through 5-10k a week, and feeling a long way off the pavement-pounder that I used to be.

This wasn’t helped by a visit to a podiatrist last year, who confirmed my worst fear – that the arthritis in my left big toe needed surgery and the sooner, the better. This has yet to happen, and managing the pain was the single reason for the fall off in my running.

Until last month. On a whim I joined a group of Nike colleagues who’d signed up to run the 5k Shamrock Run in downtown Portland. This mean training, and training meant a return to running. Over the course of February I moved from 5k to 30k, pushing my time down and spending a lot of rest time with an ice pack.

Last Sunday I ran the 5k, pulling in a not-bad time (despite the strollers – baby and human). It was enjoyable on the day, but the prep was even more so. For the first time in a couple of years, I’d accessed that clean, good feeling that – despite the foot pain and the burning chest and the rain and the traffic – reminded me of why I’d often ran 50k a week without blinking.

Over the years I’ve hiked, swum, walked, and cycled, but nothing matches the sweat-soaked, mind-clearing experience that comes of stepping out the front door and going for it. Even if my times aren’t anywhere near the old days.

What’s more, my foot’s holding up. For now.

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Feeling Irish abroad – but maybe not today

Patrick Kavanagh, 1963. Pic: NLI

Poet Patrick Kavanagh, 1963. Pic: NLI

What’s makes up an emigrant’s St Patrick’s Day?

Wearing green? Hitting the Irish bar(s)? Calling home? Listening to the Six Nations? Or none of the above?

It’s probably the latter for me. The most Irish thing I’ll do today is have a glass of Jameson this afternoon. The most Irish-American thing I’ll do this weekend is the Shamrock Run, a 5k in downtown Portland tomorrow morning, which attracts thousands of participants, many clad in kelly green (one of the 40 shades I’d never heard of until I moved here).

But Portland isn’t Boston or New York or even San Francisco. On a run today I spotted, in the early morning murk, a single tricolor hanging outside a house on NE 33rd Street. Yesterday a couple of colleagues wore green (as did I).

But that is the extent of St Patrick’s Day, for me. I’m tempted to pop into the local Irish bar, which is making the most of the weekend, but it looks like rain, and it’s chilly, and I’ll have to walk the dog later, so I’m not sure.

Not that this represents much change from when I used to live in Dublin. As a journalist, I worked every St Patrick’s Day, negotiating the alcohol-fueled mess of Talbot Street and the DART to get home at the end of the day. I’d wade through thousands of pictures of parades, but never bothered going to one.

Living abroad, I feel more Irish in certain moments than on certain days. A particular light in the evening will remind me of the sky over St Anne’s Park in Raheny, or a damp, clear morning will bring to mind stepping out of my dad’s house on a spring weekend. A Planxty song or a Patrick Kavanagh line or an Irish accent in the coffee shop – all of these prompt a certain small twinge, a reminder of my Irishness.

But I’m not feeling any of this today. Maybe next year, until then – go mbeirimid beo ar an am seo arís.

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If you need reminding

Djuna Barnes,, 1905

Djuna Barnes,, 1905

Joni Mitchell

Djuna Barnes

Rosa Parks

Joan of Arc

Joan Benoit

Mary Shelley

Alison Hargreaves

Marie Curie

Sylvia Plath

Serena Williams

Joan Didion

Elizabeth I

Flannery O’Connor and

Grace O’Malley.

To begin with.

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