"Teardrops"

If I die tomorrow, this crazy journey will have been worth it because of "Teardrops."

Robinella sang it for me tonight. In some ways, it's the best (early) birthday present a guy could get. It's a sad song, poignant and melancholic, but it always sends me to the stratosphere.

It sounded so pretty -- Robin knocked it out of the park -- and as I listened, I thought about all the things that didn't work out. I will turn 31 on Friday; guess that's put me in an introspective mood.

One thing I like about that song is that it is so honest. "I know I won't make it if you don't love back; please, love me for all that I lack."

Isn't that what we ask of a lover? "I'm not perfect, but love me anyway." I guess I adore that song because it verbalizes feelings I'd otherwise never be able to tell a woman.

When it's hard to tell the nighttime from the day, I think about all the friends I have, all the fun times, all the crazy things I've done. And it makes the darkness visible.

I don't know. I fly up into the ether, wondering when I'm going to come down ("When are you going to land?"), and then I crash. But, hell. I'll deal with it.

I go about my day, try not to think about the nights, laugh it up, bluffing the world by rarely showing my hand.

And some nights, Robinella sings "Teardrops," I skyrocket into the stratosphere, and it's a memory to hold onto when I come down to earth.

Funny how the raindrops don't make a sound...

OK, I should apologize to my friend and favorite singer Robinella for paraphrasing her original tune "Teardrops" in my title. But it always comes to mind whenever I hear this Chopin prelude.

It's 2 a.m. and, as usual, I can't wind down. Have this problem every night anymore. I hate to take sleeping pills, or drink one of the cliched sleep-inducing beverages, or smoke a puff or two on my pipe, to try to relax.

I did all of those tonight. Nothing worked.

So, I'm sitting in the chair in my home office, feet up on the ottoman, listening to "Raindrop" -- Chopin's Prelude Op. 28/15 in D Flat Major. It's heartbreaking and sweet, which is why it made me think of that Robinella song I love.

Don't know much about classical music. Well, other than the basics and what any audiophile picks up here and there.

My dear friends Dean and Allison Harned and I have gone to hear the Knoxville Symphony a time or two over the last couple of years. It's been both an education and a grand experience. There is something almost spiritual about live music. (I recommend the KSO's Sunday Chamber concerts.)

The liner notes in this CD say that Chopin predominantly wrote pieces designed for the solo piano. Then it offers a description that gives a hint as to one reason why I have always been attracted to his work.

"Chopin's gift was emotion rather than intellect, instinct rather than analysis."

It reminds me of something former Shopper music critic Amanda Mohney once told me.

"You're a 'Kind of Blue' kind of guy," she said. "I prefer 'Bitches Brew.'"

She was referring to two classic Miles Davis albums. The former is emotional and tugs at your heart; the latter is experimental and appeals to the intellect. Amanda must be quite observant -- either that or I am an open book. Nine times out of 10, my initial response to something is usually with the heart rather than the head.

It doesn't appear that Chopin was afflicted with the artists' disease. Which was good to hear for a change. Apparently he died on the same day as Edgar Allen Poe. Who knew?

I'm beginning to feel a little more mellow, listening to Chopin's falling raindrop, lost in its poetry.

Don'tcha just love good music?

I'm off to sleep. Peace out.

A painter passing through...

Made a curious observation yesterday.

My two favorite singers in the whole wide world -- Robinella and the late Eva Cassidy -- are also artists. It makes a difference, me thinks.

Artists bring a certain aesthetic to their worldview anyway. Combine the aesthetic with music and it often creates something quite special.

Robin's best work paints quite a picture. ("Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound/When they roll down my cheeks and they fall to the ground/They slip through the cracks of my broken heart/Ever since we drifted apart...")

I'll never forget the first time I heard that song. Don't think I've still gotten over it.

Eva Cassidy was more of an interpreter than a composer. I'm not sure she ever wrote her own music. But the feeling is there.

Sometimes a singer becomes one with a song. They envelop each other, become inseparable, joined together amid the rhythm and the rhyme.

Eva Cassidy seemingly did this every time she opened her mouth. Listen to her sing Sting's "Fields of Gold" or especially the Robert Burns poem "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose," and you'll feel it. Time stops; you don't ever want the seconds to start ticking again.

The best singers, in their way, are painters passing through our lives, using their canvas to paint word pictures that make us happy, or sad, or introspective.

When the two actually merge... well, just listen to the music and shut your eyes.

You'll see what I mean.

A new collection of Eva Cassidy recordings, "Somewhere," released this fall, includes her rendition of "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose." Robinella's "Teardrops" can be found on her 2006 album, "Solace for the Lonely."

Now I'm crowdin' 30 (and still wearin' jeans...)

Wow.

That's an understatement I know, but it would take the talent of Shakespeare to describe how wonderful it all was last night at Barley's. Best birthday I've ever had.

Been a little ambiguous about turning 30. Just because, you know? But with the new condo and everything, uncertainty has given way to anticipation.

Then last night I celebrated early with my best pals at Barley's, which of course on Sunday nights means RobinElla. If you haven't yet caught her set, rearrange your schedule and do so soon. Very soon. Cause she's just so darn good, folks.

The best part? Well, it's hard to say. Don Williams' "Listen to the Radio" is always a favorite. Robin soars on Merle Haggard's "Natural High" and touches your heart on the weepers "Anymore" and "These Dreams of Mine."

But my favorite had to be "Teardrops," hands down the best song I've ever heard, especially when Robin dedicated it to one of her biggest fans for his birthday. I still haven't come down from way up there in the ether somewhere.

Life is good, folks. This precious, wonderful, crazy roller coaster ride contains such joy, divinely simple moments that make you glad to be alive. I couldn't have scripted a better night if I had written it myself.

Here, let me sing these lyrics while I still can, but don't let the melancholy fool ya. Turning 30 will be OK. This party's just getting started.

I'm leaving the last word to Don Williams...

I got my first guitar when I was 14, now I'm crowdin' 30, and still wearin' jeans...

The mirror

I was reminded last night of what really matters in life, proof positive that the sweetest joys of this journey have nothing to do with silver or gold.

Oh, I felt so bad over the holidays. Rough cold. Really didn't want to get out of bed, but work and familial obligations -- not to mention sanity -- required that I do otherwise.

But when my friend Andrea called up to suggest dinner and music at Barley's, I forgot about the cold for awhile.

I've been letting things bother me lately. Everything and nothing. Know what I mean? That, and recent disappointments, have left me feeling like I'm singing to empty tables, to quote my man Sinatra.

Sometimes it does you good just to talk -- about anything and nothing at all. And when the words are peppered around your favorite kind of music, well, talk about a double whammy.

Seems like here lately I've tried to dissect the reasons why music (and books and film and whatever else) remains a big part of my life, carrying with it the ability to lift the spirits, and make one forget all about those empty tables. And I think it's, at least in part, because the good songs -- the ones that actually mean something -- make you feel less alone in this great big world of ours, reminding you that others have traveled down a similar road themselves.

And, heck, it's so much fun too. My favorite singer pulled a couple of gems out of her bag of tricks last night, fine covers of Lenny Welch's underrated "Since I Fell For You" and Smokey Robinson's "Tracks of My Tears." RobinElla's eclectic taste is a constant delight.

Listening to the happy rhythms, ("Teardrops" never sounded so beautiful as the moment when Billy Contreras took the mournful lead on his fiddle, making you feel it), and talking my way through some of the emptiness -- well, it made me realize again what life is all about.

It will never be fame and fortune, earthly possessions or political power. It will never be about impressing others, drawing attention to yourself, showing off, telling lies, breaking hearts.

No, for me, life will forever be about good friends and good music, endless sunsets and "Starry Night." It's wrapped up in listening, not worrying so much about yourself, stopping to smell the roses and doing good deeds without others watching.

Maybe my favorite TV private investigator Thomas Magnum said it best:

"The best mirror you'll ever have is the face of a friend."