Author: loveletterstorocknroll

Dear Rock ‘n’ Roll,

I’m prompted to write you in preparation for record store day, hence the timing of my letter. While I’m not overly keen on records as vinyl production is a highly toxic endeavour, I imagine the ideal behind the day is celebrating independent sellers, music listeners and moreover the celebration of passing on the legacy of fucking good music. This may hearken back to before my time – in the heyday of rock and roll – when every man, woman, group or guitarist was out there cutting records, seeking fame in a response letter from some radio personality somewhere. Back when a 45 could tell a tale of heartache, produce a foot-stompin’ joy, or just start faraway hips a-shakin’. In those earlier days it was local, it was word-of-mouth and it was airplay that sold records, that made legends and that kept coffers full. So my letter today is a telling you about my side of the rekindling of our romance, about that local word-of-mouth and airplay led to falling in love with you, my dearest rock and roll, all over again.

It starts, as many a romantic tale, in lean years. I was lost, confused, unable to be inspired by the options in front of me. When I settled into Melbourne town I came to the conclusion that people of my generation must have grown up, made money, were an easily definable advertising demographic, and were calling the pop-culture shots. They who wistfully view the 90’s as music’s heyday were supported in that faux love affair by every mid 90s alt-rock/grunge/nu metal act and their roadie getting lots of mainstream airplay and opportunities to tour extensively. A cultural dearth. In those times I consoled myself with electro, drum and bass and the white stripes like a hermit surviving on squirrel, trout and moss. And then something really weird happened. I started listening to the radio. Yes, the RADIO. And soon I discovered that here in Melbourne, radio unexpectedly but thoroughly KICKS ASS.

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Now this isn’t mainstream commercial radio. Unapologetically, top 40 radio still sucks. Katy Perry, Iggy Azalea and FUN! do not sound better the more they are pounded into your brain ad nauseam with witty disc jockeys spouting about their parenting and travel foibles in between. And the classic in “classic rock” wears off when you hear “Smoke on the Water” for the fifth time in one day. My only previous half-decent experience with radio was listening to the local PBS/NPR station based on Lancaster, PA. That station has daytime programming of classical music (which I appreciate is beautiful and takes amazing skill to sounds the way it does, I just don’t like it) and the evenings had Syndicated NPR, where you could hear decent mainstream ‘indie’ music. The kind of music the rest of the world outside of Lancaster County listens to, city music.

But I digress.

Here in Melbourne we have the perfect confluence of factors for such a wondrous manifestation of musical luck. We have an amazing live music scene which, when you live here, sounds really cliché because everyone says it. But the fact of the matter is you have a choice of at least 10 bands plus other places with DJs on a WEEKNIGHT. Music of all sorts and lots of venue to hear it in.

We are also lucky enough to have a national radio station to do news, coherent conversation radio (the anti-thesis of Fox-style talkback) and classical, as well as several radio stations in people’s native language. This isn’t in itself great, but it means is that there’s room for just independent music-playing radio stations out there.

And so, this maelstrom of resonant circumstance has meant we in Melbourne are lucky enough to have not just one but two swinging, soulful, eclectic and totally independent radio stations. And they were that the catalyst that cleared the scales from my eyes and drove the humdrum out of our rekindled love affair.

They have a variety of programming, usually in one to two hour blocks that have a weekly schedule. One has lots of talking current events programs about film, the arts, music culture, politics, indigenous issues, LGBTIQ issues, your whole gamut of your left-wing leaning, learned if not somewhat middle-class bourgeois programming. The other just plays music, but all over the shop programming. Acid country. An hour of old school hip hop. Two hours of eclectic beats. A program of a cappella, gospel and early fifties guy and girl group smoothness. Tune in at any one time and you just don’t get it, but taking it on the whole you appreciate all that it can offer.

The highlight of the programming day came in Soultime. Two hours of northern soul on a Wednesday afternoon. I was again smitten. I looked into your eyes, and felt that teenage crush that kept my hips swinging and my feet tapping. Here was music that slapped me in the face with freshness that was had lasted fifty+ years. Fast, upbeat, you could dance to it and hot damn if it didn’t plaster a giant smile all up over my gob. Yes, the gods smiled and saw that it was good.

So I started listening regularly, devoutly. And on either side of the show I started listening to the radio in general. When I got home at night, cooking dinner, in the morning on my commute. I stopped listening to mp3s, cds and the like in the car and listened to what was on. Great part about two stations is that when one isn’t your cup of tea, there’s always an alternative.

And the more I listened the deeper and more meaningful our relationship grew. New music, new styles. I learned new and deeper levels of our love. Like experimenting with different lovers and lovemaking techniques, I found my legs wrapped around disco, rocksteady, psych-rock fuzz and all kinds of completely random shit. Did I mention fuzz – slow, drony psychedelic-sweet fuzz? Oh yeah, baby, you know how to make me shoulders shiver and mah leg a-quiver.

One day I heard my friend’s band on the radio. WOW thought I. I had seen them live, which was one thing, but to hear them on the RADIO? Surely only big names get played there. And so, the more I listened, the more I started getting in touch with my local music scene. Each program has a space for a gig guide. Bands could contact the show that related most to them/their fans, and ask them to read off their gigs. I can go and dance to this awesome music? Fuck Yeah! The fact you can hear a band on the radio, go see them at a local venue for a couple of bucks, buy their music (records and CDs) and it’s all in your own city, how great is that?

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Local radio turned me onto music, turned me onto local bands, gets me out to see local bands, keeps me awash with new music. And able to actually find something I LIKE, something I LOVE, not just the best of a bad lot, or more sadly the exact same something I’ve been listening to since I was a teenager. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Pearl Jam and I saw Ben Harper and The Cure last year who are all awesome, but they are but just one part of my Rock & Roll Universe.

Without local independent radio I wouldn’t have experienced the driving, frenetic, kick-ass Rock and Roll(!) of King Gizzard and Lizard Wizard live and in person. I would have never heard the screaming GRLL angst in ‘Jet fuel can’t melt steel beams’, laughed at the wry, sardonic drone of modern day life as waxed by Teeth & Tongue. I wouldn’t have felt the inviting warmth as Seedy Jeezus and Wolf & Cub wrapped me in their bear-coat of heavy fuzz as it effused through the PA. I wouldn’t have made such good international pen pals with Sharon Jones, Fela Kuti, or William Onyeabor, Sergent Garcia and Moondog.

So on this record store day, Rock and Roll, I would like to thank you not for your records, but for you being you, reaching out and touching people making new friends, relighting old flames, and adding so much to my life. Thank you for PBS and RRR.

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I love music. I love dancing. Music and Dancing truly make me happy. You make me happy. You make me smile to myself thinking of how gorgeous you are, smiling with the knowledge that you’ve made a special place for me, invited me in your world, and I am so thankful for you continuing to keep our love fresh, strong, and beautiful.

Love,
Jeff

[Now all you voyeurs out there reading this get out the house, find some music that makes you move, and boogaloo till ya puke! x -j]

Reflections on Columbia House etc.

Hi friends,
We’re still working on generating content for Record Store Day. In the meantime, please know that we would L-O-V-E it if someone would write something about joining (or even better scamming) any of the former music club subscription services like BMG, Columbia House, etc.

For inspiration we offer up the following video:

Love,
LL2RNR

Busy working….

Hi there,
We’re busy working on some Record Store Day goodies for all of you. In the meantime, here’s a lovely piece by Carl to get you in the mood:

https://carlcafarelli.blogspot.com/2016/01/main-street-records-brockport-ny.html

P.S.
If you would like to write something for the blog focused on Record Store Day, here are some prompts for you to consider:

1. The first album you ever bought
or
2. Your favorite record or music store
or
3. Your favorite format for listening to music (or perhaps a history of formats you have loved)
or
4. Something else that we haven’t thought of that would be even better than anything we ever could have imagined

Please send these to us in the form of short blurbs (unless you want to write a full letter) by 3/31 or no later than 4/4. Add pictures etc. if you dare.

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Jason…I can’t do this anymore,

“No matter how dark the storm gets overhead…”

Somewhere between the peak-self-involvement of my early twenties and losing myself in some desperate search for direction and stability, I found you.

“Help does not just walk up to you…”

But you did…your album appeared in my hands, forced a pause, bowed my head and emptied my lungs so i could breathe again with purpose and intention. My hands moved like your hands, my head rocked to your great lake waves and rust belt beats. I saw my hometown in your songs the way people would see my late mother in my face as I aged. Familiar tones and undeniable relationship droned on and on. Your journey became our journey and we walked hand in hand.

“Think about what’s darkening my life…”

I explored your back catalog and thought I knew how dark it could get. I saw you play these songs for a few dozen folks and then disappear out back with that bottle you had before the show. I followed your next albums, you grew, you changed, and i held you even closer for those facts. I always came back to that black and white collection of songs, though, the origin of “us.”

“When i die, put my bones in an empty street…”

It’s been three years now. I tried to write this on the anniversary of your demise, but i couldn’t handle the grief. I realized then that this has to end. I can’t hang on to the past. You left, Jason. I found you. I came to you. I followed and listened and both your words and your chords carried me over the biggest life changes i ever made – BUT YOU LEFT.

“Paralyzed by the emptiness…”

Grief doesn’t fill the space. Special edition anniversary vinyl doesn’t either. My hands move like your hands, I play your chords and hear your words in my head, but this will not sustain us. It’s time for me to move on. Yes, I know you weren’t well. Yes, I know your journey was your journey and mine was mine – but we started out so close and crossed paths at such an important time. You never sounded the same. I left so much behind. You slowly unraveled. I put myself back together. The monument of “Didn’t it Rain” still stands in black and white on my shelf, waiting to be played yet again.

“I will help you try to beat it…”

I tried that bottle. My hands moved like your hands. I played your chords and used your words. I took a drink and tried the songs again. I wanted to understand your addiction and emptiness but only found my own. I took a drink and played the songs again. I looked for you in every minor keyed strum. I took a drink again.

“Don’t write my name on a stone…”

My journey is mine and your journey has ended. It’s time we had some space. The record is going back on the shelf. I don’t live in your rust belt anymore and i haven’t for some time now. I raise my drink to you, though. Cheers, and goodbye, old friend.

-anonymous

Best Search Terms from 2016

First things first, this blog relies on people willing to spill their hearts and guts into letters (that are then posted on the internet).

That being said, if you are reading this post right now you should seriously be considering writing a letter or a Flashback Fives (a.k.a. FF). Go. to. Submissions!

In the meantime, while you begin crafting said letters or FF, here is a list of our favorite search terms people used to find our blog (interestingly enough, WordPress gives blog owners access to such fascinating information).

See if you can figure out which letter or post matches to the search term. It’s fun!

2016 Search Terms

“tall blonde singer with john prine”

“damon albarn + sneering”

“letter to a friend for green day”

“broken heart letter”

“naught love letter”

“hard nails by vj jingo”

“so many people in uk with droopy eyes paul mccartney”

and last, but not least

“l doo wop my hope this summer girl our love your ring on my chain”

Dear antibodies that are attacking my thyroid,

I’ve been aware of your activity in my body since approximately 2011. So, that’s around 6 years of knowing you. I can’t say that it’s been enjoyable getting to know you. In fact, I would say that it has been a most unpleasant experience.

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Initially, I had no clue that you existed and/or that you were systematically trying to take down my thyroid. To be honest, I don’t know that I even really knew I had a thyroid. Until, I started to feel really really shitty. By shitty I mean that I couldn’t get through a day without breaking into a post-5-mile-run-type-sweat after doing a simple task like walking through a store or walking up a flight of stairs in my house. By shitty I mean that there was this one point where I was trying to eat soup and my hand was shaking so badly and I was seriously concerned that I might have Parkinson’s like Freddie Roach (no disrespect intended). By shitty I mean I had these experiences of waking up around 3 or 4 a.m. drenched in sweat with my heart pounding in my ears and out of my chest. I had no clue what was happening. They fitted me with a heart monitor despite the fact I was in my early 30s. I would sometimes feel slightly better after I ate something and so I wondered, did I have diabetes? Luckily, the first doctor that I saw, who did not know me from Adam (since I generally avoid doctors), recognized that these symptoms weren’t due to mental health (which they certainly could have considered based off of my symptoms) and ran some blood work. Diagnosis: Thyrotoxicosis a.k.a. Hyperthyroidism a.k.a. Grave’s Disease.

Now, at this point dear reader you’re probably wondering, am I on the wrong site? I thought this was a blog about music, not medical issues. And you are correct! This is a blog dedicated to music. This is NOT a medical blog. Please, be patient and bear with me. I’ll get to the music part eventually. Can I give you some advice? Whatever you do, do not google Grave’s Disease. Okay, you’ve probably already done it. And you’ve probably already looked at some of the same images I also viewed initially. You know what I’m talking about. The ones of people with eyes popping out of their heads like some sort of novelty squeeze toy you would find at Spencer’s Gifts in your local mall.

The good news is that my eyes haven’t popped out like that (yet). Additional good news includes the fact that there is a medicine for Grave’s Disease and my body tolerates it (Yay!). The bad news is that gland doctors (who are more politely referred to as endocrinologists) have a real thing about keeping people on this medication. They like to wean you off of it to see if you will go into remission or relapse. Then, when you relapse they try to convince you to take one of two more permanent routes of treatment which are (1) swallow radioactive material which will be absorbed into your thyroid which theoretically nukes it into oblivion (crazy…right?) or (2) allow some stranger with a scalpel and credentials to slit your throat and take the darn thing out.

BUT WAIT!!!!!! This is a letter to those vicious antibodies. Back to you, you confused and nasty little suckers.

After a great deal of research I have learned that this thing that you’re hell bent on attacking in body, my thyroid, is not so much like an organ (such as the heart, liver, lungs) but is much more like something from the deep sea that just happens to be attached to the inside of my throat. Apparently it’s squishy, not unlike a jelly fish. Continuing on with this deep sea creature analogy, it also seems important to note that like a starfish that loses an arm, the thyroid can indeed grow back even if you try to blast it into some nuclear oblivion and/or scrape it away like a blob of grape jelly that leaked out of your PB&J sandwich and onto your rug. To be clear, I don’t plan to remove it with nuclear warfare or via surgery.

Okay, finally, here’s where the music part comes into play. All of my life I have loved music. As a little kid I was exposed to “Solid Gold Saturday Night” via the radio during weekend outings to restaurants and shopping plazas with my family. I can still remember the phone number jingle that you could use to call in requests. 1-800…..634-5789 doo da doo doo da doo, 634-5789!!!!!

My Dad had the American Graffiti soundtrack on 8-track. I may have been the only girl in elementary school in the mid to late 1980s who knew about Wolfman Jack, let alone actually cared about him. I. loved. music. My senior year I had a (pretty severely belated) revelation that despite the fact that I had only really exerted any effort in my preferred classes in high school (English & Art) that I probably should figure out what I wanted to do with my life/time post-graduation. As I remember it, I made the the decision to go to college (something my parents were not pressuring me to do) after laying on my bed and listening to numerous Beatles albums back to back. Paul and John had faith in me. They would approve of me studying writing. Even if it wasn’t guaranteed to yield a “real” job. If the lads believe in you, you can accomplish anything.

So here’s the deal antibodies; every time you launch another round of attacks on that gelatinous starfish wrapped around my vocal chords and I don’t have the proper medication to keep you at bay I know things are going seriously south when I stop wanting to listen to music. That is indicator numero uno that I need to call up that gland doctor in Beverly Hills (Prince reference).

From November 2016 to Januaryish of 2017 things got really bad. I knew they were bad because I had zero desire to listen to pretty much anything. No doowop. No Beatles. No girl groups. No demos. No live Replacements bootlegs. Nothing (except maybe a little Tom Petty and a little Neil Young). My turntable got dusty. I wondered why Weird Al never did a spoof of the Aerosmith song “Livin’ On The Edge” with the title “Livin’ On The Couch” because it required a great of effort for me to do anything but spend time on the couch. Proposed lyric, “You can’t stop yourself from sleeeeeeping.”

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Mid-January I finally convinced my endocrinologist, who reminds me of the main bad Nazi whose face melts at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark (I say this with affection), to put me back on medication. Within a week I was like one of those elderly people featured in that documentary Alive Inside. One minute sitting listlessly in a chair, eyes glazed. The next minute tapping my feet to the beat, waving my hands in the air and crying.

The first letter I wrote for this blog was focused on Jens Lekman. Suspiciously he has a new album out approximately 1 year later. The opening track “To Know Your Mission”* manages to encapsulate everything I love about music. Most specifically, it highlights and simultaneously captures joy and transcendence.

In short; continue to wage your war antibodies. I won’t give up! I will drive to Philadelphia in March to see Jens Lekman live. You can’t stop me!

Eat my dust,
April

* I don’t want to spoil anything for anybody, but Jens is totally on top of his game on this new album. He’s doing all the classic Jens stuff (beautiful singing, clever/witty lyrics, referencing himself in songs, sampling things so well you don’t even know that he’s using samples, making you cry in your car etc. etc.) and he’s doing it PERFECTLY.

Things We Love (Still Celebrating Our 1 year Anniversary)

You love music. But what do you really, really love about music?

I have a sound in my head.

If you want to be highfalutin’, you could say it’s an audio equivalent of Plato’s Forms, an abstract ideal that represents the perfect sound, beyond human realization, just outside our mortal ability to craft and replicate in this mundane real world. If you prefer to remain grounded to the planet we inhabit, you can call this sound a mere (?!) joyous reflection of every song I’ve ever heard, every tune I’ve ever loved, and every fantasy I’ve ever entertained of the promise of pop music.

But it’s neither. It’s an AM radio, tuned to an imaginary station that never existed. It’s as real as dreams, as corporeal as passion, and as timeless as memory, experience, grace, hope, ambition, disappointment, and love. It kinda sounds like The Beatles in 1965. Also James Brown. The Ramones. The Bay City Rollers. Otis Redding. Chuck Berry. The Everly Brothers. The Sex Pistols. Paul Revere & the Raiders. Prince. The Go-Go’s. The Isley Brothers playing “Summer Breeze.” KISS singing “Shout It Out Loud.” The Monkees being The Monkees. The Flashcubes. God, The Flashcubes!

What do I really, really love about music?

Everything.

I can’t narrow it down more than that. I love the way music makes me feel, even when the feeling is melancholy, like how The Kinks’ “Days” reminds me that I recited the lyrics of that song at my Dad’s funeral, or when some random tune recalls past betrayals, lies, or heartbreak. Lyrics. Hooks. Harmonies. The drum, the bass, the guitars. “It’s My Life” by The Animals blows me away every time I hear it, its self-assured wall of melody unerringly prompting me to marvel at the precise, perfect placement of each note, each lick. Everything in its place. “Twenty-Four Hours From Tulsa.” “On Broadway.” Badfinger’s “Baby Blue.” Bowie’s “Life On Mars?” “God Only Knows,” and the entirety of Pet Sounds.  “In The Midnight Hour.” “Laugh, Laugh.” “Freedom” by Wham!, ferchrissakes. “I Only Want To Be With You.” “I Wanna Be With You.” “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend.”

On my blog, I have an ongoing series called The Greatest Record Ever Made. Notice the singular rather than the plural “records;” an infinite number of records can be The Greatest Record Ever Made, as long as they take turns. (“September Gurls.”) You live your life within each song as it plays. (“The Tears Of A Clown.”) Your faith is fully invested, without reservation, and your belief is rewarded with each never-ending spin. (“Kick Out The Jams,” muthas and bruthas.) The allegiance is eternal, immortal…at least, until the next song plays.

Do you believe in magic? I do. And that means I’m unable—unwilling—to dissect music’s appeal. That would be like trying to tell a stranger about rock ‘n’ roll. Well, actually, I’m eager to do that. But my discourse will retain its reverence, its delight, its wonder, its awe. My cranial transistor is tuned to Sly Stone, Alice Cooper, Suzi Quatro, Rotary Connection, Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, The Shangri-Las, P.P. Arnold, The Smithereens, The Four Tops, and to a bunch of singers and groups I haven’t even heard yet. But I will. I’ll hear ’em all. What do I really, really love about music? My God, what is there not to love? And how would we even know how to love if we didn’t have it?

The beat’s cool, too. I do dig the beat.

Carl

Things We Love (Our 1 year Anniversary)

A Valentine for Tom Petty, from April

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2017 seems like a good year as any to send you a Valentine being that I’ve been enjoying your music for at least 3/4 of my lifetime. You see, throughout 2016 and continuing now into 2017 I have noticed that I never skip over any of your songs when I’ve got my music library set on shuffle (and believe you me, I do a good deal of skipping).

I’ve also noticed something else, and that is, your tendency to make noises in your songs. What do I mean by noises? Sometimes it’s a “shhhing” or “chhhhhhing” sort of sound, like during the opening of “American Girl.” Other times it’s a bit more of a whine/wail/sort of annunciation of a word as evidenced at the tail end of “Don’t Come Around Here No More.” Your “Ohs” in “Shadow of a Doubt (A Complex Kid)” are always enjoyable. I guess you were feeling pretty enthusiastic throughout the recording of “Damn the Torpedos” because you get some good “Heys” (or are they “Ays”?) in on “Even the Losers” (this seems to be a song of which I somehow never tire). You and Jeff really nailed it by starting out with those “Ahs” on “Yer So Bad.” Finally, there’s a hearty “Oh!” at the start of “Change of Heart” following that nifty riff.

The thing is Tom, when you added all those little noises (which I want to believe you did completely unconsciously) it makes the music feel real, live, true, spontaneous, and maybe most importantly….uncontrollable. I’m sure you’re well aware that all of those aspects can be lost in a studio recording. But, you didn’t let that happen (or maybe you couldn’t? Yes! Please let that be the case!). To my ears you just seem so genuinely caught up in what you’re doing. I can’t help but admire and appreciate your enthusiasm each and every time one of your songs floats to the surface of the digital pool of sounds trapped inside all 4.87 ounces of my magical musical device.

So, in this month of February in the year 2017 I decided now is probably the best time to let you know that I love you and I really do appreciate your enthusiasm.

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Ah ah ah ah ohhhhhhhhh (to be read in style of Mr. Petty).

P.S. On a completely unrelated note, after watching the (4 hour long!) documentary about you and the Heartbreakers, “Running Down a Dream” I am thoroughly convinced that it was Del Shannon who set your house on fire. But, that’s another topic for another time.

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Dear Sparks,

You don’t know me, my name is Eric and I’m one of your biggest fans. I’m not your biggest fan, I know there are individuals throughout the world, I’m thinking of a particular few from Ireland, the UK, and the Netherlands, who have collections and live viewing numbers that put mine to shame. I’m a relatively new Sparks fan having only discovered you in 2004 thanks to a Morrissey-curated CD that came free with an issue of NME (Moz selected “Barbecutie.” Were you returning the favor four years later with “Lighten Up, Morrissey”?). A co-worker of mine at the time was already a fan, he lent me Interior Design as well as a collection of bootleg DVDs of Sparks videos and thus a [healthy] obsession was born.

In the event that this letter is happened upon by an unintended or uninitiated party, say in an estate sale or via a gust of wind, I’ll take a brief moment to provide the basics: Sparks are brothers Ronald and Russell Mael and they’ve released 23 albums since 1971 with their 24th arriving later this year (there are some fans [myself not included] that don’t count their most recent two outings for reasons of nitpicking, the musical/pop opera The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman and their collaboration with Franz Ferdinand dubbed FFS [btw, Franz Ferdinand was another band featured on that Morrissey comp]). Their lineup and sound have constantly evolved over the decades, to oversimplify: eccentric/adventurous glammy rock band that experiments in both genres and styles (1970s) eventually become pioneers of synth-based disco pop music with the help of Giorgio Moroder (late 70s/early 80s) then begin heading in a dancey…

…80s-single direction (1980s) that morphs into some serious electronic pop tracks (1990s) that…

…give way to operatic experiments in repetition and patience (2000s). Russell’s falsetto and…

…fashions are legendary, he is a front man like no other whose importance can’t be diminished even when they’re intentionally playing with role perceptions (see the video for “When I’m With You” [below] or the cover of Pulling Rabbits Out of a Hat). It’s truly impossible to convey the…

…songwriting brilliance of Ronald Mael, the type of guy whose appearance and mannerisms serve as the antithesis to the machismo of tracks like “More Than A Sex Machine” and “All You Ever Think About Is Sex” thus knowingly allowing their humor to be lost amongst the unfamiliar. I could go on and on, but back to me.

I’ve met Sparks fans who choose to only listen to certain stages of your career, but I love it all (never mind the haters, Terminal Jive has some great stuff on it). I see your catalog as a natural and organic evolution that has successfully maintained what I find so attractive about your group: the dark humor, the light sadness, the niche appeal. I love the world of Sparks and the denizens who pass through it, most of which tend to cross over into my own interests. You’ve written songs for filmmakers as esteemed as Jacques Tati, Tsui Hark, and Guy Maddin. And…

…really, how many other rock bands even know who Tsui Hark is? Or Meiko Kaji? Your songs have appeared in films both great (Valley Girl, Fright Night) and not-so-great (Get Crazy, Bad Manners). You appeared in the 70s disaster flick Rollercoaster and, 30 years later, on an episode of Gilmore Girls.

Your songs have been covered by everyone from Siouxsie and the Banshees to Depeche Mode to Morrissey himself. And your musical collaborations have introduced me to so many incredible groups like Belgium’s Telex, France’s Les Rita Mitsuoko, and Lio, the Belgian who is loved in France.

You co-wrote one of the Go-Go’s best songs…

…and in recent years remixed Yoko Ono’s “Give Me Something” into an absolute masterpiece.

As for my Sparks-related accomplishments, I’ve made trips to see you perform live in Tokyo, Stockholm, London (twice), Los Angeles, and several other U.S. cities. A few years back I organized a Sparks-themed evening at the venue I run with Sparks art on the walls and bands covering Sparks songs all night, from an accordion player to a violin quartet (I sang “The Ghost of Liberace” that night, the only time I’ve sung in public; also of note that night was my fellow Sparks fan/friend Paul who recreated your Saturday Night Live appearance in a diorama with taxidermied mice).

When you performed in Philly during the Two Hands, One Mouth tour an attendee came up to me and said that he thought I was to thank for your choosing to perform here and it made me blush. In New York City the following night I was able to secure the “Ronald” sign from your keyboard, a prized possession. My wife and I spent a magical late night with some true Sparks fans after your first evening performing with the Heritage Orchestra at the Barbican in 2014, we sat in beanbag chairs above a bar while a real superfan DJ’d rare tracks for us and I left that night with a collection of Sparks newsletters that dated back far before my introduction to you, a kind gift from the bar’s owner who had seen you perform live that night for I believe he said the 97th time. I was hanging out with some friends after your performance of Ingmar Bergman at the L.A. Film Festival in 2011 when a married couple asked if I wanted to take their six-year-old daughter to try to get backstage and meet you guys. A strange arrangement that seemed fitting, my fake daughter and I took turns taking pictures with Ronald, “She just adores you” I told him.

That was really as close as I’ll ever want to get to meeting you guys in person though, I’ve learned from my 10+ years of curating and programming that it’s best to keep your distance from the people you admire, not necessarily because they’ll disappoint, but because they’ll incite some sort of change. And I like you guys just as you are now, as you were then, and as you will be. Thank you so much for everything you have given me over the years, you have been and will continue to be the soundtrack to my adult life.

Best,
Eric