A time to laugh, a time to cry

The family was heading out late last week for our semi-annual joint haircut at Cabello's, having let our manes get quite shaggy. We scheduled the visit on the day I didn't teach, which corresponded with the day that Xan was not in school due to a day of parent-teacher conferences. Ange had to teach, however, and so just before the appointed time, we were parked relatively close to her classroom to wait. We were listening to a mix-CD (is that what you call the slightly more modern version of a "mix tape," before we get to playlists?) made by a friend as a party favor for his three-year-old's birthday party earlier this year. Since this CD features Elmo, Xan was in a particularly good mood.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, a quiet voice from the back seat of the car said, "Dada, when someone kills, that means someone dies, right?"

I was a bit shaken by this, but the word "kill" has come up a few times before. I think one of the kids at his school had talked about "killing" things, perhaps because he has a video game or something and I had dissuaded Xan from blithely using the word, trying to indicate the serious finality of killing. He also understands the concept of death, somewhat, mainly because his great-grandfather died only a year ago. So I said, "Yes, that's what that means."

There was a pause.

And then: "Dada, when will I die?"

In the rear view mirror, I could see the earnest expression on his face. At that point, I had to figure out how to hold it together. I was not preapred for this at all, nor the way that such a question would put me near tears. Quite frankly, I don't think about this possibility at all because, deep inside, I know this would crush me in ways I really can't imagine. (This, even though we upped our life insurance the other day. My own potential death? Apparently, I can handle that.)

I replied, "Oh, sweetie. I have no idea when you will die. Hopefully, not for a very, very long time."

He pondered that. "When do people die?" he continued.

"We don't know," I said. "No one ever knows when they're going to die. That's why we have to do the best we can while we're still here."

He seemed to accept this, and I gave him a squeeze. I did think, however, What on earth inspired him to ask that question?

On the way home from the haircut, the CD had started over again and I realized that one of the songs we had heard in the morning was Dolly Parton's version of the Byrds' "Turn, Turn, Turn." I absolutely love this song in virtually any form (part of my amusement comes from the fact that this is probably the only #1 pop song to be inspired by the Book of Ecclesiastes), but of course the song posits a series of opposites. In fact, as I thought about it, I realized that a few days earlier we heard the song and Xan, having processed the concept "kill = bad," had said, "Dada, they said 'kill.' That's bad." I had explained what the song was trying to do, and that we needed the bad things in life in order to appreciate the good. Somehow, however, I hadn't thought about him processing the concept of death as it might apply to himself.

All this simply means that I better take my copy of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" out of the car.

Beats in Barranco

Lima has grown far more cosmopolitan in many ways since I lived there almost 20 (crikey!) years ago. At the time, I was heavily into music and I still relish whatever little clubbing I did, bopping away to the likes of Depeche Mode and New Order in the black, black rooms of Bizpix and Nirvana. These bands, however, never played in Peru, as if the mere thought of touring the area was anathema. French band Indochine came and I think Roxette gave a few concerts at my high school (!) shortly after I left Peru, but the big bands from England and the U.S.? Not then. Erasure came many years later (my cousin says that her super-macho now-husband danced the night away like a transvestite superstar), but the closest we ever got was Air Supply -- and I even think that concert was cancelled.

This is why, despite what I know to be true about Lima's resurgent cosmopolitanism, it still surprises me when I get something in my Inbox indicating that yes, pop culture arrives there as well. I used to buy Global Underground's CDs fairly frequently, given my penchant for electronica (now somewhat dormant) and as the series went around the world (Moscow, San Francisco, Ibiza), I kept thinking to myself, Well, they ain't never gettin' to Lima. Punta del Este, Uruguay, sure, but that's a resort town. And here I am, eating my words. (Plus, the music is pretty good.)

(And if I'm listening to music again -- and writing here again -- can you tell that the tenure file went in today? Wheeeeee!)

Of trains and sewing machines

Hide and Seek


We were introduced to this song, I'm almost ashamed to say, because of So You Think You Can Dance. (Yes, admitting it.) And this song completely bowled us over, so much that Angela bought the song for her ipod. This is somewhat surprising on the surface, since she's not exactly a fan of electronic music at all. Yet she's listened to it non-stop. It's also become an earworm for me, enough that I tried singing the tune to Xan in an effort to calm him down at some point over the last day.

We might be a little obsessed.

I have since found Imogen Heap's whole website, where she has ridiculously cool video-blog entries about the creative process. The song also seemed ripe for use by collegiate a-cappella singing groups -- and, sure enough, I found that the group I sang for (well, the summer version, I never even tried to make the regular version since they had ridiculously talented basses already and I didn't stand a chance in hell) has a pretty decent version.



So what's your favorite earworm these days? Or did I just provide one for you?

"It took all the strength I had not to fall apart"

Somebody who I hadn't spoken to in a little while called and asked how Xan was dealing with the terrible twos. "Has he entered into the 'NO NO NO NO' phase?" she asked. "Well, in his own way," I replied. "And by that, I mean he seems to offer further explanations with his 'no.' It's rarely a simple 'no.'"

He has actually done this for a while (in fact, I blogged about what turned into his favorite phrase at least once) Case in point for the new version: This morning, the three of us were in the car to go to work when suddenly Gloria Gaynor came through the speakers, discussing her post-breakup Survival skillz. Naturally, because disco was involved, we in the front seats started car-dancing and singing along with Gloria: "At first I was afraid I was petrified..."

The back seat disapproved. "No!" came the shout. "No dancing! No singing."

This has happened quite a bit lately, the plea for no more frivolity. And I have to say, it's not because the two of us are tone-deaf. I also have a hard time remaining quiet and morose all the time, particularly when he is having so much fun. We stopped for a minute, then suddenly bounced back: "And so you're back! From outer spa-"

"No, no! Mama and Dada, stop singing and dancing." There was some actual distress here.

"Listen," I patiently explained, "all the books we read indicate the singing with your child is a good thing, even if you have a bad voice. And not only don't we have bad voices, we have good voices. And I know you haven't read those books yet, but that's what they say, so there you go. Not to mention that this is disco, which is definitely indicates the necessity for dancing."

He contemplated that for a moment.

"And besides," I continued, "Mama and Dada sing because we're happy."

This, he could counter: "No."

"No?"

"No. Mama and Dada are not happy."

"Really."

"Yes. Mama and Dada are not happy."

I looked at Angela. "Well, I was hoping it would be a good day with the students, but I'll have to tell them that I was told I was 'not happy' today. I wish I had something to grade, man."

Angela stopped giggling enough to pipe in at this point. "Does that mean Mama is sad?"

"Yes," Xan said, "Mama is crying."

Angela proceeded to cry. I continued, "And that must mean Dada is angry." I then started growling like a lion.

This actually made him happy. He forgot that we were not supposed to sing and dance by this point and we could go back to doing that eventually -- although the downside was that we were then met with cries of "Mama, cry please! And Dada, please growl!" for much of the rest of the trip.

mABBAmatics

"The Winner Takes It All"
("But tell me does she kiss/Like I used to kiss you?/Does it feel the same/When she calls your name?")
-
Swedish reserve
*
a can of mace
=
Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know"
("And every time you speak her name/Does she know how you told me/You'd hold me until you died/Till you died, but you're still alive")



"Waterloo"
(Swedish entry and winner of Eurovision song contest 1974)
*
[Frankie Goes to Hollywood + SNL's "Dieter"]
=
Verka Serdushka's "Danzing Lasha Tumbai"
(this year's runner-up -- you really need to see this to believe it)



The ABBA Gold CD that Angela found for me at the local library book sale
+
yet another trip to Ikea
+
happy child in back seat of car bouncing and singing along to "Voulez-Vous"
("vooooooooooo, a-HA! a-HA!")
=
completely manufactured Swedish goodness
/
realization that I walked through the entire store with Xan's child-size fireman's hat only after we got to the check-out line
("Dada wear the hat. DADA wear the hat!")
=
slightly mortified, but only slightly

On having a face for radio

When I was in college, I never listened to public radio. Ever. "VPR? What's that?" I would say, feet having firmly taken root years ago in Top 40 radio. There was a point even when I considered broadcast journalism and joined the radio station, first as a newscaster, then as a DJ (since I knew the music on alternative radio better than the DJ who I had to work with). Still, I had never even listened to a broadcast of "All Things Considered."

I reflect on that especially considering that our house radio rarely leaves the public radio stations, leaping back and forth between WAMU and Classical WETA (with occasional stops at the pop station -- yes, we're trendy, and that new Nelly Furtado song is hot).

Lately, they have been advertising the public radio version of American Idol, as they look for a new host, the "host with the most hostiness," so to speak. I listened to a few entries and, well...

I succumbed.

Inspired by the very hotel room I was staying in in Puebla, I decided to record an entry of my own (using my pathetic laptop microphone, but for effect!) and throw my hat into the ring. I'm actually pretty pleased with the results as well. (Although many people are sending in show ideas -- and heck, I have one of my own -- what they've asked for is simply a two-minute introduction, so theat's what I did.)

So, for once, dear readers, I'd like to promote myself: listen to my entry, and then vote for me if you wish. And tell others to vote, too. (This is actually getting fun, listening to other people's material. And I realize I may be in waaaaay over my head, but what other way should it be?) Needless to say, I will let everyone know if somehow I make it past Round 1!

Unsung accolades

We watched Little Miss Sunshine tonight (which, for the record, surely ain't the Best Picture of the year although it was plenty fun) and, right before I switched off the DVD, I noticed that, to my surprise, the movie had been scored by one of my favorite composers. I have a thing for film scores -- indeed, at one point I wanted to take a class in the School of Music at Michigan on film scoring -- and they used to make up a sizeable portion of my CD collection. The only thing that I miss about the recent conversion of WETA to an entirely classical music format is Weekend Edition Sunday -- relevant to this posting because right around now they review portions of all the soundtracks nominated for the Oscar.

I was also thinking about the scoring nominations for the Oscar because Ennio Morricone is getting the honorary award this year. Before JJ says something: no, I'm not enough of a score freak to actually own a Morricone soundtrack, which really should be rectified. I have stated elsewhere that I still long for some of the old guard, like Elmer Bernstein. But I do have several favorites that are still around and, hey, might actually get nominated (even win) one day themselves.

• Mychael Danna -- The inspiration of this post, as his most recent work was featured in Little Miss Sunshine, The Nativity Story and the upcoming Breach. For me, however, it's all the work with Atom Egoyan that speaks most to me. Danna has a penchant for Eastern instruments, often time working with gamelan instruments or a ney, mixing them with some haunting melodies.
  
• Carter Burwell -- As with Danna/Egoyan, I tend to associate Burwell with the quirky work of the Coen Brothers. Given the relatively high profile work he's done (Rob Roy, Before Night Falls, the exquisite Gods and Monsters), it's surprising that he hasn't been nominated yet. The rhythms he uses throughout his music tend to function as counterpoint in many ways: again, hear Gods and Monsters, where he uses a waltz almost ironically.
  
• Clint Mansell -- If you knew me way back when, you'd realize that I'd have to love this guy because he was a main part of the band Pop Will Eat Itself, which I loved for its beats as much as its electrics; Mansell's scores add string quartets to this for a very trippy composition. Again, this is a composer who can be associated with one primary director: Darren Aronofsky. Indeed, the music for The Fountain is incredible and really contributes to the film's overall power (much like what he did for Requiem for a Dream).
  
• Thomas Newman -- OK, so of these five here, Newman actually has been nominated before. (In fact, he's up this year again for The Good German.) That I can tell, however, he's still unlikely to win. I find this fascinating given that his precussive, minimalist scores throughout the 1990s have been some of the most memorable. American Beauty is the most familiar, although my favorite goes back a little further to the more jazzed up atmosphere surrounding Robert Altman's The Player.
  
• Craig Armstrong -- This former member of the Brit trip-hop outfit Massive Attack most recent composed for World Trade Center, but I know him best for his work for Moulin Rouge!, which I listen to on road trips (and for which he won the Golden Globe). The funny thing about Armstrong is that his solo albums are fantastic electronica cinemascapes themselves, so that it's not surprising to see some of the tracks off of those albums make it into films as well.
  

The Chicken Dance as cultural marker

Our local library has a "Spanish circle" twice a month on Thursdays, where kids can play and a wonderfully energetic woman named Señora Lupe plays with them and tells them stories in Spanish. It's true that Xan really doesn't need this since his daycare person is Ecuadorian and only speaks to him in Spanish, and I attempt to speak only Spanish when I'm alone with him, but it is a chance to hang out at the library and our view is that anything that gets him used to going to the library is a good thing.

Last semester, I had to teach on Thursdays; in the spring, Thursday is my day home with Xan. Angela had been taking Xan and he has loved it, so she reminded me that today was time for Señora Lupe and to not be too late. I had heard about Señora Lupe and the nutty things she did. ("¡Una mano! ¡Dos manos! ¡No manos! Yaaaay!") We arrived early, actually (how novel!) and watched as Señora Lupe got things organized. She put in a CD and went out of the children's room for a moment.

A song came on.

La gallina turuleca
Ha puesto un huevo, ha puesto dos, ha puesto treees...

I thought, Wow, I know this song. But I haven't heard this song for, gee, at least 25 years. The song is patently idiotic (about, natch, a crazy hen laying eggs everywhere) but I started to sing along to Xan with the music.

Señora Lupe came in, saw me singing and stopped. "¿Eres peruano?" she asked.

I blinked. This has to have been the first time I've been identified as Peruvian so quickly, particularly since I hadn't even said anything. "Sí," I said.

She immediately got excited: looking at her again, I realized that I should have immediately seen that she was Peruvian. Indeed, at that moment, I remember Angela telling me this a while ago, although I had forgotten.) But how did she know?

She smiled and pointed to the CD player. "Hola Yola," she said. "My sister just sent it to me for Christmas. I hadn't been able to find it before."

And sure enough: it was the music. I hadn't realized that "La gallina turuleca" is not a song every Latin kid should know; rather, it's sung by the famous kids variety show diva Yola Polastry who, no joke, has been doing this since I was a kid. Think of Xuxa, only Peruvian and less slutty. In fact, I had the very album that Señora Lupe was now playing. (And, with the wonder of YouTube, you can even see her performing it below! It is really dumb. And yet so awesome.) I hadn't realized that my knowledge of this song pretty much identified me not only as Peruvian, but also fo a certain age -- much like my ability to recite the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution only by singing the Schoolhouse Rock tune does the same thing as an American kid. Indeed, my son and I immediately became Señora Lupe's favorites for the entire time.

And dammit if I'm not still singing the song, over and over like an earworm. How it brings me back.

Next donation: bone marrow

We have already given money to our local NPR station. This year, we also donated our old car, thinking that we weren't going to get any money for it if we tried to sell it (and at auction, as it turns out, it went for three times what we thought we would get for it! woohoo! tax deduction!). I am now beginning to believe that NPR is just wants more and more from me than, quite frankly, is even legal.

This morning, you see, I realized that NPR has secretly been going through my CD collection for relatively obscure music selections to play as outtros for the news reports.

I mean, really, I was tickled that they selected the beginning of The Cure's "The Kiss" for "appropriate music" for reflection on the deteriorating situation in the Middle East. (I'm glad they didn't go for "Killing an A-rab"...) But who else has heard of St. Germain's "So Flute," a peppy little quasi-techno piece?

I suppose I should just wait a few years until I am no longer the perfect demographic for NPR. Or perhaps a better security system may be in order. My cat is clearly not doing a good enough job of keeping the NPR music director trolls out of my stash in the middle of the night.

A psychological profile

I couldn’t resist trying this, nabbed off of The Film Experience. In theory, the directions are as follows:

• Turn on iPod.
• Shuffle.
• Hit play.
• The songs that then appear -- in order -- answer the following questions.
  

Being technically unadvanced (read: cheap) as I am, the problem here is that I do not own an iPod. Luckily, one can do something similar simply by taking everything I have on WindowsPlayer, making a gigantic playlist of it and hitting shuffle. Voila. Here's what came up for me, which is decidedly funny:

1. How does the world see you?
El mayoral by Susana Baca. This translates to "Slave Driver." Perhaps my students (along with my T.A.) might agree. Not sure about my wife though.

2. Will I have a happy life?
Let Love Speak Up Itself by The Beautiful South. This means that life is happy and full of love? I can definitely take that!

3. What do my friends think of me?
Marlene on the Wall by Suzanne Vega. What a shocker that a Suzanne Vega song made it on here. So my friends think I'm a wallflower? Perhaps people from high school.

4. Do people secretly lust after me?
Julianna by Patrick Brickell. Well, none of you know this tune at all, though it's worth checking out since Pat is someone I knew in high school in New York and is now a very cool folk singer. As for someone named "Julianna" secretly lusting after me, the only person I know with a name close to that would be the roommate formerly known as Julie Donahue -- and I think we covered long ago that there is noooo secret lusting after me, especially since she only laughed when I ran across the bedroom naked.

5. How can I make myself happy?
Cubik by 808 State. Mindless, wordless techno in an extended version, no less. Actually, this makes sense.

6. What should I do with my life?
Supermarket from the soundtrack to Run Lola Run. At least I know where to go if (God forbid) tenure doesn't come through.

7. Will I ever have children?
Beautiful by Manderlay. Yes, he is.

8. What is some good advice for me?
One Day I'll Fly Away by Nicole Kidman, from the soundtrack to Moulin Rouge! Wait, I should leave? I don't want to leave! This is not good advice.

9. How will I be remembered?
The Drinking Song by Moxy Fruvous. And the band played on/As the helicopters whirred/Drunk on the lawn in a nuclear dawn/My senses finally blurred. Sounds like there won't be no one left to remember me.

10. What's my signature dance song?
Sing by the Carpenters. Isn't this from when they were on the Muppet Show? I kinda do dance like a Muppet.

11. What's my current theme song?
Yahoo! by Erasure. Given that it's the end of the semester, couldn't be more appropriate.

12. What do others think my current theme song is?
Rodeo by Aaron Copland. Oddly enough, very similar. Except classical instead of 80s New Wave.

13. What shall they play at my funeral?
Better? by Propellerheads. No lyrics again, but funky and lilting. I can see people jamming to that at my wake.

14. What type of men do I like?
MMM Skyscraper I Love You by Underworld. I kid you not that this is what came up. It appears that I am not just a metrosexual -- I am a metropolisexual.

15. How's my love life?
Jump in the Line by Harry Belafonte from the soundtrack to Beetlejuice. Whee! Conga in the bedroom!!!

OK, who else would benefit from this? Let me tag some other fun folks with blogs: how about Cathy at Where's My Cape?, Becks, Cardo, Kristy, Jenny (because her list will be amusing) and (because she's the one likely to have as much techno on her list as I do) Kata? Your turn!

Well, la-dee-dah

This evening, I heard segments from today's funeral for Corretta Scott King. The eulogies were very powerful or interesting, depending on who was talking. Then, at some point, a choir started singing the song "Ain't Got Time to Die."

And I was taken back to high school, to my freshman year, the one year I was in New York. I had been in the Concert Choir, Baldwin oddly enough having one of the best high school choirs in all of Long Island. (This is a good point to give a shout out to Melinda Edwards -- Doc Ed -- who taught me everything I know about singing, especially to love it.) When the song came on the radio, I remembered that I had sung this -- or had to have learned it back then, because the only part I remembered was the tenor part (and I haven't been a tenor for years. I now heard the song in a completely different context and thought, Wow, what a great song to praise Mrs. King.

And yes, only then did I actually tear up a little.

Why my son is doomed - DOOMED, I tell you!

Xan and I were happily listening to NPR's Fresh Air this afternoon, merrily listening to John McCain talking seriously about the world we live in and how he isn't still smarting about what happened in South Carolina and how we should still stay in Iraq and the like. We both felt rather up to date and I was multitasking by making dinner, getting informed and watching the baby, all at once.

And then, they had to go and review Madonna's new album, Confessions on a Dance Floor. And they played a snippet of her new single, "Hung Up," which re-envisions the hook from ABBA's "Gimme Gimme Gimme" even better than Erasure.

That switch that was triggered at an early age by watching too much Solid Gold was suddenly flipped.

The next thing you know, I run downstairs to find the CD of dance music purchased long ago at the New Orleans Virgin Megastore. (The CD was sold to raise money for AIDS research and features remixes of Erasure's "Oh L'Amour," Depeche Mode's "Everything Counts," Bedrock's "Heaven Scent" and a really cranked up version of Yaz's "Separation." Thank God for gay men.) I pop it in the kitchen CD player, turn the Christmas tree lights blinker setting from "slow fade" to "supa-dupa disco funkay!!" and grab my son. We then proceed to dance, dance, dance all over the house, much to his utter joy. Baby screams of laughter and delight. For almost an hour.

Naturally, this is how my wife found us when she got home.

Reminiscing on Sunday, listening to the Sundays...

It's that little souvenir of a colorful year
That makes me smile inside
So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way
Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise...

First summer of being a dad. Quite the experience. The 4th of July parade, running after politicians, then quietly painting in the backyward while listening to classical music. Long trips to Cape Cod and the North Carolina beach, where you slept for long periods of time, being the best little boy possible until it was just unreasonable for you to be strapped into that chair for so long. Days inside the house, because it was just too hot to go for a walk -- and lots of days where Mom brought you out to dip your feet in Sligo Creek, or your whole body in the little inflatable pool left over from our grad school days in Michigan. Painting and rearranging the laundry room, which lead to an unfortunate avoidance of the weed-haven of the front lawn. Mom dilligently pulling those weeds, hoping it would eventually work out. The wondrously tall stalks of flowers by the fence, taller than even Mom or Dad. Meeting Oma and Opa for the first time, watching their faces light up with your smiles.

You turning over, even if you won't turn back yet. You, laughing your butt off for no apparent reason whatsoever. You, making two hours of crying disappear with a single smile. You, with the most adorable wheezy cry ever. You, being born, becoming you.

Thank you for letting me be here for almost all of it, for having a sabbatical where I got to be more a part of your life than probably any other dad these days. It has been utterly amazing.

Tomorrow, classes begin again.

Here's where the story ends,
Ooooh, here's where the story ends.

Time to turn the page. New chapter begins. Let's go at it together, what do you say?

That rocket you're waiting for? Want to suck on its exhaust?

(This reaction will no doubt please the folks over at Baggage Carousel 4 while causing those who listen closely as well as the newly outed DCLush to, at the very least, roll their eyes at me...)

I occassionally listen to the pop radio that is marketed to my demographic. In the Metro rag Express (a.k.a. Post lite), I read yesterday that Jazon Mraz publicly stated that smoking makes him happy.

And you know what? The moment I read that, I actually felt myself starting to really dislike his music grow. And this grew exponentially as time went on. Now, I'm actually looking forward to turning to a new station when I hear "Curbside Prophet" come on the radio again -- and I kinda sorta liked the ditty at one point (the first 28 times I heard it in a single car ride).

Somehow, New Order's constant, unabashed use of heroin and Rufus Wainwright's confession of rampant drug use don't bother me. But Mraz's public joy he's felt he needs to express for his cancer sticks? That annoys me.

Or perhaps makes me realize just how annoying he really is.

Funny, eh?

Ahora todos -- ¡a cantar!

I have to get this down before I forget it. My mom taught sang this to me when I was a kid and I had forgotten a couple lines:

Los pollitos dicen pío, pío, pío
Cuando tienen hambre, cuando tiene frío.
La gallina busca el maíz y el trigo
Y les da alimento, y les da abrigo.
Los pollitos duermen acurrucaditos
Bajo de sus alas hasta el otro día.

For those of you who don't speak Spanish, the song is about freakin' demanding ingrates who only take, take, take, those whiny bastards!!! Still, a fun song to sing.

OK then...

Chez Middents-Dadak has currently moved temporarily to Cape Cawd for the next week so updates will be really sporadi. On the umpteen-hour ride up from DC, however, I managed to finally listen to Radiohead's OK Computer. I know, it came out and was the big sensation years ago, and Matt Osborn was telling me all about it. Wow, but it really is a really neat album. About time I catch up with the world, eh? At this rate, in three years I'll finally figure out what the whole Coldplay thing is all about...

...and a third

No, the title doesn't refer to number of children -- right now, we have our hands full with the one, thank you very much. In fact, this particular idea would be more appropriate for August. Given that the new semester will be beginning around then, however, I'm likely to forget about it. And it's very random anyway, so what the hey, I'll do it now.

So I turn 33 today, the 25th. (Yay, me!) And 33 isn't really that spectacular or significant a number. In fact, the only thing I really associate with the number is that it's the number of rpms on the vinyl LP records that most of us who are not DJs stopped using so long ago. I, in fact, remember that we took our record player with us to Peru when we moved in 1986 -- but in fact, I don't remember if we took any records with us. Odd.

Anyway, I thought it might be amusing to post the LPs I do remember we had in the house when I was growing up. In no particular order:

• Sergio Mendes and the New Brazil '77 -- I don't remember much about the music on this album, but I remember the cover album features the band on the cover dressed in the Brazilian soccer team's uniform... and on the back cover they're covered in mud with some bandages, I think.
• Christmas Jollies, The Salsoul Orchestra -- You know that I grew up in the disco era if you heard this music, which is painfully happy. I loved this album when I was a kid, which is funny given that I would become addicted to Depeche Mode as a teenager. There is a medley of Christmas tunes on side A that I still sometimes hum a bit of when Christmas rolls around.
• The Carpenters -- I've recently gotten back into the Carpenters, thanks to a large part to Sonic Youth's cover of "Superstar" on the tribute album If I Were a Carpenter. The old tunes turn out to be surprisingly wistful, even though they seem very upbeat. I've found that most of the songs work well as lullabies as well.
• Grease -- Didn't everyone have this? A double album, and at the time I remember wondering why anyone would listen to the second album, which were all the 50s tunes heard in the background in the film. Isn't Olivia enough??!!
• Off the Wall, Michael Jackson -- Nicole Nelson and I bonded at Dartmouth when we both confessed that this was the first album we purchased with our own allowance money. Poor Michael -- if only he hadn;t turned so creepy...
• Live and More and On the Radio, Donna Summer -- I was a huge Donna Summer fan as a kid, learning all the lyrics and either lip-syncing or singing along with them. How I didn't become a drag queen is beyond me.
• Dialogando, Chabuca Granda -- This amazing singer of Peruvian folk-inspired tunes is the only thing I have replaced on CD. I don't remember listening to this as a kid, but when I rediscovered her in grad school, I remembered this album cover when I went to the music store in Lima. Turns out to be an incredible album, just her and a guitar.