These came up in conversation with my Dad, so I just want to link them here for him:
This is the Blue Band's version of Thriller that's been watched a ton. They're in "costume," so to speak: this version is far more about the choreography. Their rendition here isn't musically very good at all, frankly.
This version is far too short, but shows them off much better: the players themselves are actually dancing, and it's far more together musically.
Here's one made about all their different fashion appearances not so long ago (though I can't find the one I intended to share, I might add). Other finds: their trombone players just screwing around and doing a pretty good rendition of "Low Rider," a better view of one of their full performances, and the traditional entrance of the drum major.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
jazz time
I've had "It Don't Mean A Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)" stuck in my head all day.
I've had an afternoon of being stressed out about various commitments, but being efficient enough to get them done. And it occurred to me (because of the song) that if I'm not enjoying them, I shouldn't do them. This is a hobby, not an obligation. Though in this case hobby becomes obligation, especially when either money's exchanged or someone's sending me something in the mail, assuming I'd also be sending them something. But the vast majority of the worst of it will be done after tomorrow.
I'm sure it means something for me professionally too, weirdly enough. I had the fortune to have a Friday entirely clear of meetings. Normally, I'd take that as a vacation day, since they occur so rarely, and that's the best time to do so, but there's far too much to be done for that to happen this past Friday.
But I got so much done. It felt fantastic. And that's why I sometimes go in on weekends, just to be able to get stuff done. I can't do it during normal business hours sometimes.
Jazz has been in my head pretty steadily for about a week. It started with my co-DJ-in-crime playing "Scatman" last Sunday. It's an old pop song with a jazzy bit to it, with the chorus repeating "I'm the Scatman." My co-DJ-in-crime questioned the lyrics, referring to the toilet humor definition of scat. I had to tell him about the other definition and what it was used for. Ever since then, my brain's been flipping jazz tunes out of the depths at me. It's as if my brain radio's gone entirely static except for the jazz stations. I should really just burn some to CD. That usually purges the problem right quick.
"Right quick," I might add, was picked up from a co-worker who moved up here from--Georgia? South Carolina? somewhere like that--the south, anyway, pretty recently. I'm working with him pretty closely these days and end up picking up his terminology. "Pull the door to" I never got until he explained it, for example.
In any case. Off to make some carrot ginger soup for dinner.
I've had an afternoon of being stressed out about various commitments, but being efficient enough to get them done. And it occurred to me (because of the song) that if I'm not enjoying them, I shouldn't do them. This is a hobby, not an obligation. Though in this case hobby becomes obligation, especially when either money's exchanged or someone's sending me something in the mail, assuming I'd also be sending them something. But the vast majority of the worst of it will be done after tomorrow.
I'm sure it means something for me professionally too, weirdly enough. I had the fortune to have a Friday entirely clear of meetings. Normally, I'd take that as a vacation day, since they occur so rarely, and that's the best time to do so, but there's far too much to be done for that to happen this past Friday.
But I got so much done. It felt fantastic. And that's why I sometimes go in on weekends, just to be able to get stuff done. I can't do it during normal business hours sometimes.
Jazz has been in my head pretty steadily for about a week. It started with my co-DJ-in-crime playing "Scatman" last Sunday. It's an old pop song with a jazzy bit to it, with the chorus repeating "I'm the Scatman." My co-DJ-in-crime questioned the lyrics, referring to the toilet humor definition of scat. I had to tell him about the other definition and what it was used for. Ever since then, my brain's been flipping jazz tunes out of the depths at me. It's as if my brain radio's gone entirely static except for the jazz stations. I should really just burn some to CD. That usually purges the problem right quick.
"Right quick," I might add, was picked up from a co-worker who moved up here from--Georgia? South Carolina? somewhere like that--the south, anyway, pretty recently. I'm working with him pretty closely these days and end up picking up his terminology. "Pull the door to" I never got until he explained it, for example.
In any case. Off to make some carrot ginger soup for dinner.
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