Last month I bought a record player. After the Colfax Marathon, I wandered in to Twist and Shout and found a 1980’s Sanyo with an orange light that turns on when the arm is down.
I knew nothing about record players except that I wanted one and this was the one I wanted. Paul, an unpretentious and likable employee, explained the player’s parts and what to do with them. I don’t remember most of what he said, but I felt better that he said it.
Merriweather Post Pavilion is the only record I own. I bought it that day. Earlier, Kellen advised that I buy my top ten favorite albums to start my collection. I don’t know what my top ten favorite albums are, but I do know that “My Girls” is my favorite song.
I first heard “My Girls” on Rob’s record player in Chicago. He busted in the apartment after work, marched to the record player and said, “Listen to this song.”
We sat in silence as the electronic keyboard spun into rhythm, and then those lines: “There isn’t much I admit I need/a solid soul and the blood I bleed. With a little girl and by my spouse/I only want a proper house.” Enter bass, vocal harmony, claps and woots, layer upon layer. The song moved unlike anything I’d ever heard. When it was over, I asked Rob to play it again.
I have played “My Girls” more than 100 times on iTunes; every time I hear it, I picture Rob and our apartment’s red walls and Chicago’s skyline. It helped me forget about unemployment and inspired me to write.
My record player still has no speakers, but I do have more records. Tonight I went on a shopping spree: She & Him, Atlas Sounds, Dinah Washington, and Middle East. Dinah’s the only one I know well; the others I know in bits and pieces and I’m curious to hear more. More importantly, I’m eager to find the one that will define Denver, 1108 York, summer 2010, and all those along the way.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Waiting for Danny's
A few weeks back, during darts and Shuffle the iPod, “Real Life” by Tanlines played and Josh asked why bars didn’t play this kind of music.
His comment reminded me of a favorite Chicago bar, Danny’s, which did play music like Tanlines and Rye Rye and Delorean and Diplo Rhythm. There, music was not ambiance; it was the reason for being. There, I discovered new songs or old songs with a fresh twist, a mix of dance floor and house party and hip Wicker Park DJs.
Danny’s encouraged collective music discovery, rather than solitary online discovery. At Danny’s, I tested a song’s energy in real time as I bounced, swayed and head-banged.
We can do this at concerts – it’s better, really – but it is transient. Memorable concerts pass through cities once every few months; fantastic bars with fabulous DJs are forever.
I wish Denver had a Danny’s. Similar to Austin, Denver could be a music city, but has yet to establish a mainstay music/dance venue. DJ Rockstar Aaron tries, but the only song I discovered at Rock Bar was “Party in the USA.” Rock Bar trumps LoDo’s tired club tracks, but playlists vary little from Friday to Saturday, December to June.
Music is a deeply personal experience, even more powerful when shared with friend and a moving crowd. For now, my friends and I must settle for Rock Bar and Shuffle the iPod as we wait for Danny’s to show up.
His comment reminded me of a favorite Chicago bar, Danny’s, which did play music like Tanlines and Rye Rye and Delorean and Diplo Rhythm. There, music was not ambiance; it was the reason for being. There, I discovered new songs or old songs with a fresh twist, a mix of dance floor and house party and hip Wicker Park DJs.
Danny’s encouraged collective music discovery, rather than solitary online discovery. At Danny’s, I tested a song’s energy in real time as I bounced, swayed and head-banged.
We can do this at concerts – it’s better, really – but it is transient. Memorable concerts pass through cities once every few months; fantastic bars with fabulous DJs are forever.
I wish Denver had a Danny’s. Similar to Austin, Denver could be a music city, but has yet to establish a mainstay music/dance venue. DJ Rockstar Aaron tries, but the only song I discovered at Rock Bar was “Party in the USA.” Rock Bar trumps LoDo’s tired club tracks, but playlists vary little from Friday to Saturday, December to June.
Music is a deeply personal experience, even more powerful when shared with friend and a moving crowd. For now, my friends and I must settle for Rock Bar and Shuffle the iPod as we wait for Danny’s to show up.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Five Reasons to Love Denver, Part II
5. City rooftops Friday night, endless surprises in Breckenridge on Saturday.
4. Baby blue skies Saturday; snow storm Sunday; spring again Monday.
3. Colfax Avenue, once called "The Wickedest Street in America." There's the mafia bar, Kerouac's hangouts, the beautiful theaters-turned-live-music-venues, the 1980s motel bar/dance club, the giant record store, the shady bicycle shop. So much character, so much to explore.
2. Capital Hill, Uptown, Wash Park, Cheesman Park, Highlands. Old houses, narrow streets, front porches, so many trees.
1. Michel, Pablo, Sara, Ellen, Danny, Kellen, Joe, Frank, Josh, Bryna (here and there), Stephanie, Katie and so many more.
4. Baby blue skies Saturday; snow storm Sunday; spring again Monday.
3. Colfax Avenue, once called "The Wickedest Street in America." There's the mafia bar, Kerouac's hangouts, the beautiful theaters-turned-live-music-venues, the 1980s motel bar/dance club, the giant record store, the shady bicycle shop. So much character, so much to explore.
2. Capital Hill, Uptown, Wash Park, Cheesman Park, Highlands. Old houses, narrow streets, front porches, so many trees.
1. Michel, Pablo, Sara, Ellen, Danny, Kellen, Joe, Frank, Josh, Bryna (here and there), Stephanie, Katie and so many more.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Five Reasons to Love Denver
5. Sky full of stars nearly every night, from everywhere in the city.
4. Big names, small venues: Phoenix, Band of Horses, Spoon at The Ogden, Bluebird, or Fillmore.
3. City Park, Cheesman Park, Confluence Park, Cherry Creek Trail.
2. Vail in the morning, Rock Bar in Denver at night.
1. The best job in the world at The Children's Hospital.
5. Sky full of stars nearly every night, from everywhere in the city.
4. Big names, small venues: Phoenix, Band of Horses, Spoon at The Ogden, Bluebird, or Fillmore.
3. City Park, Cheesman Park, Confluence Park, Cherry Creek Trail.
2. Vail in the morning, Rock Bar in Denver at night.
1. The best job in the world at The Children's Hospital.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Finding a Bookworm in Downtown Denver
While exploring downtown Denver recently, I happened upon Tattered Cover, an independent bookstore my friend Bryna told me about. Located past the foot traffic of the 16th Street Mall, this charming bookstore invited me in with its “Indie Bound” sticker on the door, its noises and smells reminiscent of cozy school days and cloudy Saturdays.
With its hardwood floors and soft lighting and Victorian-style furniture, Tattered Cover is just the place I imagine when someone says, “curl up with a good book.” The first floor bustles and the in-house café warms the space with espresso and cookies. New books of all shapes and sizes fill the varnished shelves and tables, never crowded, never overstocked. I spend twenty minutes browsing just inside the doorway, remembering what it’s like to lose myself in thousands of stories all at once.
Unlike some corporate mega-store, Tattered Cover tells its own stories, the space itself just as important as the books it sells. I look up from an Obama picture book and watch a lonesome fifth grader find friends in her favorite chapter book. I watch a couple browse the table of film literature and a disheveled man dream of a different life in the travel section. Their stories feel like my own.
I continue through the store, making my way to the grand staircase in the back, its dark banister inviting me upstairs. Quieter, the second floor bookshelves are neatly organized in a strange pattern, creating alcoves and dark corners. It seems every corner I turn offers some new genre I’d forgotten about: philosophy, gardening, detective mysteries. Fluorescent post-its color the shelves like confetti, staff recommendations leading readers places they’d never imagined. It’s as if I’m ten again, wandering children's literature at the Brown County Library, deciding which teenage hero will be my friend, which town my new home, which plot my new life.
All afternoon, I explore Tattered Cover, stories upon stories upon stories. I want to know all the characters, learn the narrative rhythm of the writers, uncover the mysteries. I read a staffer’s opinion of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, consider some pop fiction paperback that will rot my brain, and spend more time than I should in Children’s Literature.
That first day at Tattered Cover brought out a passion for books I hadn’t seen since fifth grade. Maybe a symptom of living alone, or being without cable, or trying to become a better writer, my thirst for reading is like never before. I can’t get enough of it; I read under the covers and stay at cafes longer than I should, engrossed with fictional towns and murder-mysteries, Austen romances and teenage vampires. I analyze characters and prose, knowing exactly why I love it and how I would have done it differently.
Starting my career as a writer, about to become a storyteller myself, I see how fitting it is that I reconnected with my inner bookworm, now hopelessly enamored by books. This is who I am, who I have always been, and it seems Denver – indie bookstores and all – was just the place to remind me.
With its hardwood floors and soft lighting and Victorian-style furniture, Tattered Cover is just the place I imagine when someone says, “curl up with a good book.” The first floor bustles and the in-house café warms the space with espresso and cookies. New books of all shapes and sizes fill the varnished shelves and tables, never crowded, never overstocked. I spend twenty minutes browsing just inside the doorway, remembering what it’s like to lose myself in thousands of stories all at once.
Unlike some corporate mega-store, Tattered Cover tells its own stories, the space itself just as important as the books it sells. I look up from an Obama picture book and watch a lonesome fifth grader find friends in her favorite chapter book. I watch a couple browse the table of film literature and a disheveled man dream of a different life in the travel section. Their stories feel like my own.
I continue through the store, making my way to the grand staircase in the back, its dark banister inviting me upstairs. Quieter, the second floor bookshelves are neatly organized in a strange pattern, creating alcoves and dark corners. It seems every corner I turn offers some new genre I’d forgotten about: philosophy, gardening, detective mysteries. Fluorescent post-its color the shelves like confetti, staff recommendations leading readers places they’d never imagined. It’s as if I’m ten again, wandering children's literature at the Brown County Library, deciding which teenage hero will be my friend, which town my new home, which plot my new life.
All afternoon, I explore Tattered Cover, stories upon stories upon stories. I want to know all the characters, learn the narrative rhythm of the writers, uncover the mysteries. I read a staffer’s opinion of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, consider some pop fiction paperback that will rot my brain, and spend more time than I should in Children’s Literature.
That first day at Tattered Cover brought out a passion for books I hadn’t seen since fifth grade. Maybe a symptom of living alone, or being without cable, or trying to become a better writer, my thirst for reading is like never before. I can’t get enough of it; I read under the covers and stay at cafes longer than I should, engrossed with fictional towns and murder-mysteries, Austen romances and teenage vampires. I analyze characters and prose, knowing exactly why I love it and how I would have done it differently.
Starting my career as a writer, about to become a storyteller myself, I see how fitting it is that I reconnected with my inner bookworm, now hopelessly enamored by books. This is who I am, who I have always been, and it seems Denver – indie bookstores and all – was just the place to remind me.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It’s Always Sunny in Denver
According to locals, Denver’s best asset is its sun. “It shines more than three hundred days a year,” they’d tell me. “More than San Diego, more than Honolulu.” Outside, a blizzard whirled past the windows as they first told me this, and I doubted them.
I grew up believing that monotony was the adverse affect of constant sun, and that we who enjoyed four seasons only did so because of snow and rain and overcast skies. Storms made for excitement; persisting through dark afternoons and snowy springs made for incurable gratitude. Without appreciating how awful life was without sun, I could never appreciate how glittering life was with it.
I grew up wary of ever-sunny paths, of their blandness, of their emptiness. Traveling shiny avenues flanked by palm trees seemed appealing until compared to the complexity of the challenging path, one requiring perseverance and resilience, one that leaves you interesting and changed. Those on the path flanked by ice and fog are stronger for keeping alive the dimming optimism through the darkest spots.
So I keep doubting – while secretly believing in – this place in the snowy Rockies, whose winters don’t feel like solitary confinement and whose summers are as reliably bright as a Pacific island. Could I really wake up most mornings greeted by warmth, no matter how cold outside? In that same day, could I also say goodnight to the sun, gracefully sliding behind the mountains, casting calm shadows through trees full of leaves or bare with snow? Could I get used to this life, soon blind to how safe and predictable my life has become?
Already I am divided between cynicism and unconditional optimism. I grew up where the sun didn’t always stay long enough to shine when I most needed it – that canoe trip, that day at Lake Michigan, Fourth of July fireworks. I learned to expect the disappointment of a rained-out afternoon, knowing that a day beginning with sun didn’t always end with it.
In Denver I wonder if the sun is a curse. Maybe one day the sun won’t shine here, and Denverites will look back and regret those wasted moments indoors. Maybe Denver’s four seasons are bland, their vibrancy having faded like a poster on a sunny wall. I worry about some Pleasantville nightmare, where dark secrets fester in the sun’s shadows, growing increasingly lethal for every day they go without exposure.
And yet, every day feels like a celebration, equally perfect for outdoor weddings and pool parties; for long walks and bike rides; for baseball games and pickup games. Everything seems possible in the light. I don’t feel the burden of overpowering the constant darkness. It’s hard to hate life when there’s no doubt of the sun’s imminent and lovely return. How can my worries not slip away with the breeze that carries through the budding trees? How can trouble seem close with clear skies that stretch to infinity?
I look back and see the highlights of my Chicago life overshadowed by a series of disappointments that left me kicking and screaming for a brighter future. So I drop the skepticism and bask in the sun, looking forward to the golden sun and blue skies that seem to promise just that.
I grew up believing that monotony was the adverse affect of constant sun, and that we who enjoyed four seasons only did so because of snow and rain and overcast skies. Storms made for excitement; persisting through dark afternoons and snowy springs made for incurable gratitude. Without appreciating how awful life was without sun, I could never appreciate how glittering life was with it.
I grew up wary of ever-sunny paths, of their blandness, of their emptiness. Traveling shiny avenues flanked by palm trees seemed appealing until compared to the complexity of the challenging path, one requiring perseverance and resilience, one that leaves you interesting and changed. Those on the path flanked by ice and fog are stronger for keeping alive the dimming optimism through the darkest spots.
So I keep doubting – while secretly believing in – this place in the snowy Rockies, whose winters don’t feel like solitary confinement and whose summers are as reliably bright as a Pacific island. Could I really wake up most mornings greeted by warmth, no matter how cold outside? In that same day, could I also say goodnight to the sun, gracefully sliding behind the mountains, casting calm shadows through trees full of leaves or bare with snow? Could I get used to this life, soon blind to how safe and predictable my life has become?
Already I am divided between cynicism and unconditional optimism. I grew up where the sun didn’t always stay long enough to shine when I most needed it – that canoe trip, that day at Lake Michigan, Fourth of July fireworks. I learned to expect the disappointment of a rained-out afternoon, knowing that a day beginning with sun didn’t always end with it.
In Denver I wonder if the sun is a curse. Maybe one day the sun won’t shine here, and Denverites will look back and regret those wasted moments indoors. Maybe Denver’s four seasons are bland, their vibrancy having faded like a poster on a sunny wall. I worry about some Pleasantville nightmare, where dark secrets fester in the sun’s shadows, growing increasingly lethal for every day they go without exposure.
And yet, every day feels like a celebration, equally perfect for outdoor weddings and pool parties; for long walks and bike rides; for baseball games and pickup games. Everything seems possible in the light. I don’t feel the burden of overpowering the constant darkness. It’s hard to hate life when there’s no doubt of the sun’s imminent and lovely return. How can my worries not slip away with the breeze that carries through the budding trees? How can trouble seem close with clear skies that stretch to infinity?
I look back and see the highlights of my Chicago life overshadowed by a series of disappointments that left me kicking and screaming for a brighter future. So I drop the skepticism and bask in the sun, looking forward to the golden sun and blue skies that seem to promise just that.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Cafe Denver
I noticed it when I discovered 17th Street. On corners, in houses, it was unmistakable, that feeling of belonging, of good conversation, the nostalgia of college and a hint of Europe. I felt invigorated, inspired to write, and couldn’t wait to discover more. This thing that made me fall in love with Denver, that made it feel like home, is its blossoming café culture.
Denver is hardly famous for a cafe culture nor often characterized as “European.” Rocky Mountains, progressive attitudes, green space, and a western style define it – sidewalk cafes and good coffee? Maybe not. But as I walked along 17th Street that day in March, my future in Chicago now in question, I passed the independent coffee shops and they invited me in, warmed me up, and had me soon considering a future in Denver.
While each café is uniquely its own, they all share a sense of community. This is where Denver gathers, chatting away an afternoon with a friend or a dog, watching life float along the sidewalk and in the street. This is where the city reads, writes, and philosophizes, where it makes new friendships and rekindles old ones.
Denver’s café culture is locally grown; its coffee shops located in old houses and used bookstores. Mostly independent, they face little threat from those cookie-cutter corporate cafes. The shops in Denver welcome pets inside, despite the ample seating outside. They have creaky floors and fireplaces and worn-in sofas. Some are Russian with vodka-themed drinks; others are hippie with psychedelic curtains and fluorescent green walls. The baristas at Denver’s cafes ask my name and about my day, give free refills, and invite me to come again. Best of all, they recognize me when I return.
These qualities are certainly not unique to Denver, although a city with a community-centered café culture is quite telling. These cities value local businesses and encourage their success. They value neighbors and neighborhoods, leisurely afternoons and a home-away-from-home. They enjoy congregating somewhere other than bars, malls, and overpriced restaurants. They value good coffee and the simple life.
Most of the time I wrote in Chicago was at a coffee shop. There, cafes were merely a place to plug in and get my writing done. Tables were hard to come by and it often took two or three attempts at two are three different coffee chains to find one. I never felt that any place was mine, and my memories there are impersonal and replaceable.
In Denver every cafe has a table just for me and I feel comfortable taking it. I belong here and this is a community to which I want to greatly contribute. It is my home and I look forward to sharing it with you from the table of great café.
Denver is hardly famous for a cafe culture nor often characterized as “European.” Rocky Mountains, progressive attitudes, green space, and a western style define it – sidewalk cafes and good coffee? Maybe not. But as I walked along 17th Street that day in March, my future in Chicago now in question, I passed the independent coffee shops and they invited me in, warmed me up, and had me soon considering a future in Denver.
While each café is uniquely its own, they all share a sense of community. This is where Denver gathers, chatting away an afternoon with a friend or a dog, watching life float along the sidewalk and in the street. This is where the city reads, writes, and philosophizes, where it makes new friendships and rekindles old ones.
Denver’s café culture is locally grown; its coffee shops located in old houses and used bookstores. Mostly independent, they face little threat from those cookie-cutter corporate cafes. The shops in Denver welcome pets inside, despite the ample seating outside. They have creaky floors and fireplaces and worn-in sofas. Some are Russian with vodka-themed drinks; others are hippie with psychedelic curtains and fluorescent green walls. The baristas at Denver’s cafes ask my name and about my day, give free refills, and invite me to come again. Best of all, they recognize me when I return.
These qualities are certainly not unique to Denver, although a city with a community-centered café culture is quite telling. These cities value local businesses and encourage their success. They value neighbors and neighborhoods, leisurely afternoons and a home-away-from-home. They enjoy congregating somewhere other than bars, malls, and overpriced restaurants. They value good coffee and the simple life.
Most of the time I wrote in Chicago was at a coffee shop. There, cafes were merely a place to plug in and get my writing done. Tables were hard to come by and it often took two or three attempts at two are three different coffee chains to find one. I never felt that any place was mine, and my memories there are impersonal and replaceable.
In Denver every cafe has a table just for me and I feel comfortable taking it. I belong here and this is a community to which I want to greatly contribute. It is my home and I look forward to sharing it with you from the table of great café.
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