"Aujourd'hui Maman Est Morte"

I remember reading that first line of Albert Camus's The Stranger in French class years ago in high school.  Tasked with translating a section of the book, I immediately got to work: I went to the library and took out the English version. While this was obviously cheating, I don't regret it because, instead of seeing a small piece of the book through the dirty lens of my poor French reading ability, I was able to consume the entire book in a couple hours.  A difficult, challenging work, it opened my mind to a school of thought well outside my small town experience. The protagonist Meursault, a true anti-hero, is in many aspects a deplorable character, and not someone to emulate. However, Camus used his experiences and actions to explore the role of man in the universe. I was enthralled.

I'm not a scholar of French literature, and this is not going to be a treatise on the philosophy of Camus.  But on this inauspicious day when my own mother has died, I recall one detail of the book: Meursault's eventual downfall was partially caused by his inability to "properly" mourn his mother.

But what is the right way to react to such an immense loss?  Tears and outward emotion are a typical response, but, much like my mother, I take no comfort in tears.  (Stoic always, I don't recall having ever seen her cry.) Instead, because I'm a writer, I will put down in words what an amazing woman she was, and how difficult were her struggles.

Some of the earliest memories of my mother were of her hugging me while wearing her blue bathrobe, enveloping me in warmth.  What I felt in those moments has echoed in my memories over the years, leaving an ache of nostalgia.  Ma always made me feel loved and supported, something that never changed throughout my life. However, the manner of that love and support would evolve with the coming of darker times.

My father was an alcoholic (something I wrote about several years ago).  I won't go into details about that here, but I will say that when my mother no longer felt that I was safe in our home, she sent me to live with my grandmother, Nan.  This was a blessing and relief for me.  I spent my high school years living with Nan in a happy home, loved and supported by yet another amazing woman. I could go on with wonderful stories about her, but here are just a few: because I hated breakfast food, she would cook me a hamburger before school; because she was concerned about the rareness of the deli beef she used to make my lunches, she would fry it in a pan before deeming it fit to be in a sandwich; and when I needed reprimanding, she wouldn't hesitate to twist my ear, pulling me down to her height to read me the riot act.

As good as this change was for me, I learned over time how difficult it was for my mother.  She sent me away to give me a better life, but always felt that she let me down because of it.  Back at home, with my father not working but still drinking away our savings, Ma started to work at a laundromat for minimum wage.  Always petite, she lifted bags of hotel laundry half her weight all day long.  I still remember when she visited us at Nan's farm how red and cracked her fingers were from constant exposure to bleach. Through all this hard work, and despite my father, my mother managed to keep the house.  This lessen in the value of hard work would always stay with me.

Because of financial struggles, my mother was unable to contribute any money for my college education, once again feeling that she let me down.  I managed to get a scholarship to go to school in Boston, and did my best to convey to her that, despite her inability to assist me financially, her love and support had allowed me to focus and work hard enough to earn the scholarship.  She would continue to insist that my successes were due to my hard work alone, but she deserves much of the credit.

Far more valuable than money was the role my mother would fill as I attended college and then went into the work force and adult life.  Wise and patient, she would give me constant advice and voice her confidence in my abilities.  There was no challenge or struggle that a quick call to my mother wouldn't improve.  I'm sure one of the most difficult things I'll go through in the coming days and weeks is wanting Ma's advice and realizing that it's lost forever.

I wish I could focus on all the wonderful things about my mother, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the hardships she endured.  Life with my father was thankless and difficult, and those years took a toll on her.  But she held onto her home and endured until my father's death during my freshman year in college.

However, even after his passing, my mother struggled with anxiety that made her hesitant to leave home.  I don't know if this was because of my father, or an innate condition, but it kept her from getting out into the world. There were many things that she wanted to see, and many people she wanted to visit, but she couldn't bring herself to travel.  Someone from a younger generation would seek medical help for this, but my mother was from a different time, and did what she always did instead: struggled on using only her strength.

I know this anxiety created a distance between her and others that assumed disinterest or selfishness prevented visits or attendance at functions. Despite her great unease, she called on her strength to make it to my wedding, her first stay in a hotel.  I could see how anxious she was, but I will always remember the comfort I felt having her sleep in the bed next to mine the night before the wedding.  And the next day, we danced to this song, and while I never saw her cry, her eyes did well up.  One of my favorite memories.

I'm not a person to have regrets, but I have always regretted not being able to help Ma with her anxiety.  She missed out on so many things she wanted to do, and  often felt lonely while stuck in the mental prison that kept her in her home.  I wish I could have helped others understand her struggle better, and I'll have to live with my failure to do more.

The beginning of the end was a lung cancer diagnosis, leading to long months of decline and pain.  I won't talk much of this, as I'd rather expunge it from my mind as much as I can. But I will say that I was able to share my heart with her and left nothing unsaid at the time of her passing.  My mom, stoic to the end, proclaimed, "Let's not get sentimental" as I told her of how much she had done for me and how much I loved her.

I refuse to let the last thing I write about be hardship and struggle.  I know Ma found happiness in her children and their children, something she had difficulty conveying but could be heard with the right kind of ears.  She also brought a little bit of the world she wanted to see into her home, starting a menagerie of tropical fish that came from all the oceans she would never visit.  She enjoyed expanding her collection and would watch the fish for hours on end.  Ma would excitedly talk about them during every visit, especially when she was able to breed the fish and raise babies.  That's how I choose to remember her: happy and excited, with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

With the right kind of eyes, my love for my mother can be read in the words I wrote.  But I will eschew subtlety to proudly proclaim that I love my mother dearly, to the utmost capacity of my heart.  She was a remarkable woman, and despite her struggles, was always there for me when I needed her. She loved me completely and unconditionally.  I couldn't have asked for a better mother, and I hope that Camus is wrong and that I will see her again one day.

Impersonal Pieces of Data

I should call more often.  It's the right thing to do, the loving thing to do. And certainly, I often intend to, and never explicitly decide not to.  But I know in the back of the mind how I'll feel when I hear her broken voice, her complaints of pain. How someone else's suffering can hurt more than anything you experience yourself if you love that person enough.  And if anything is certain, it is that I love her.

So I find myself at the end of the day realizing I forgot to call, long after it's too late and she won't have the strength to talk.  Not an intentional oversight, of course.  Time just got away from me. That's what I tell myself to feel better, but it doesn't work.  I feel weak and cowardly, awash in self-loathing.

So I build a scaffolding of schedule to hold myself to, so there's no excuses, no way to hide from such minimal duty.  These are the days I will call, and that's the way it is.  I take a deep breath before I pick up the phone, prepared to feel the ache of powerlessness. I budget time after each call to recover, ashamed to require such a luxury when I'm not the bedridden one.

There are visits, of course. But I won't talk of these as some things are too personal and private to share. Though I will admit the worst parts of those visits replay in my mind, the machinations of a guilty conscience that exerts itself during some happy moments.  The human mind compartmentalizes to help us cope and continue to exist while bad things are happening, but it also holds a tormenting presence that finds such mental trickery reprehensible.  It's a house divided against itself.

My wife, supportive and loving, wants to help me but struggles with how matter-of-factly I deal with things.  "I feel depressed," I will tell her with same tone I'd use to remark on the weather.  Whatever storms of feeling are below the surface, they manifest themselves as impersonal pieces of data.  As someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, she doesn't know how to help when I process my emotions in this way, communicating them like an impartial spectator recounting an event on the news*.

I'm saying all this because I don't want to say any of it, and forcing myself  to talk about these feelings is (probably) a healthy thing to do, even if it makes me feel silly and exposed. There has to be some strength in admitting weakness, even if it doesn't feel that way, and strength is exactly what I need right now.

* I've written about some of the more difficult aspects of my childhood that may be part of the reason for this.  

The Myth of Happiness

Every holiday season, cards and e-mails arrive with tales of success and happiness. Similar news is heard at holiday parties or during chance meetings. All is well! Couldn't be better! Things are great for everyone, it seems, as if we live in a world that Frank Capra created. Recurring interactions of equal depth will reinforce this perception. The news is always good. Everyone is just swell.

But a pattern keeps occurring: when confiding in close friends, facile exchanges cease and the truth of struggles and difficulties emerge. Troubles can be found beneath the wholesome PR sheen of the quick update.

No stranger to struggle myself, I'm disheartened and surprised to discover how many friends and loved ones are having tough times. It makes me wonder if anyone really is happy, and what would give us happiness. Is life simply unbearably hard, or do many not possess the tools to navigate it easily? Have we been trained by saccharine fiction to expect life to hold simple resolutions and happy endings? Has our world evolved into a place that can no longer sustain us mentally? And why do we try so hard to conceal our struggles? Is it because we're trying to hide them from others, or ourselves?

I have no answers.

Perhaps I just happen to know many unhappy people, and most others are truly happy. I may feel this way only because I've become jaded and cynical. But if I'm wrong, it's after years of bearing witness to misery. The only way to know for sure is to push past the PR to get to the truth.

So tell me: are you happy?

The Death of Books

I never thought I'd see this day: I'm abandoning physical books for an e-reader.

Before I explain why, I have to talk a bit about my previous internal digital battle: to mp3 or not? When the original iPod came out, I was dead set against it. I had my collection of hundreds of cds with their beautiful booklets full of art, photos, and lyrics. And the low sound quality of mp3s just wouldn't suffice. I can only describe the sounds on a nice pair of headphones as "harsh."

So, for a while I happily toted my portable cd player and a small holder of cds in my backpack. Then, I decided to upgrade to a portable unit that could play mp3 cds. Just as an option, of course. No way would I turn my back on cds!

Eventually, I decided to put some of my favorite albums on a mp3 cd just to have more variety available on my travels. It was during the process of ripping and burning (why must mp3 parlance have to be so violent?) that I realized that you can use different bit rates, and with decent settings, mp3s actually sounds as good as cds. (256 kbps vbr is my current setting of choice.)

That solved the sound problem, but no way in hell was I giving up my cd fetish. The look, the feel, the smell. How could I give it up? Funny thing is, after I started ripping all the cds I bought, they stayed on the shelf after the initial rip.

With much of my mp3 resistance melted away, the iPod and the gigs of music it could carry was inevitable. The new way was here. I shed a tear for my beloved cds and moved on.

Fast forward to now. There was no way in hell I was giving up my beloved books. The look, the feel, the smell. (Heard this one before?) And as a writer, there was an even stronger fetish: I want one of these with my name on the shelves one day. Why would I participate in the group murder that e-Readers represent?

While a piece of plastic will never truly replace a book, e-Readers have come a long way. They may not be as good as a real book, but they are an acceptable way to read (I grudgingly admit after playing around with Nooks and Kindles and iPads with a somewhat open mind.) And the real deal maker for me is the end of bookshelves.

I can hear the collective gasp from my fellow readers and writers. We need our bookshelves! We want to turn every room of our homes into libraries! I understand completely. My office is crammed with books, as well as board games. The living room is full of cds and dvds. There is a great comfort in hoarding the things we love, building a warm nest around ourselves.

But take a step back. I know it's hard to do. But what do you really care about? It's those beautiful words, and whether they're on a piece of paper you can fondle or a digital screen shouldn't really matter. Get rid of the confines of space, and it's possible to have even more of those words literally at your finger tips.

The elephant in the room is the effect the e-reader will have on bookstores and writers. The former is a cause for sadness, but I see the latter as an opportunity.

For bookstores, when every book is bought digitally, only the big boys that control the digital world will survive. All those great indie bookstores will slowly fade away. While that's unfortunate, I have to sheepishly admit that I buy almost all my books from Amazon anyway, so when all those cool bookstores go out of business, it's not like I'll have more blood on my hands.

For writers, however, I think a great opportunity is coming. Look at what mp3s did to the music industry. There are more opportunities for musicians now than ever before. Self publishing of music is possible, and cool indie online music stores have cropped up. I see something similar coming for writers. I have purchased pdfs directly from writer's sites, and when the reading public has less of an aversion to the digital screen, options will increase. All those indie minds out there will band together and find a way to create cool virtual indie bookstores.

You may wholeheartedly disagree with my assessment, but regardless of what any of us feel, we can't stop change. Demand will dictate supply, and those that adapt can have an exciting place in this brave new world.

Hiding Behind Fiction

My previous post was about my first public reading. I initially thought that I'd blog about the experience soon after, but in reality, I had far too much to process to talk about it until now.

The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.

Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.

When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.

"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"

I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.

"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."

As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.

"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."

As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.

"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."

I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.

On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.

"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."

After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.

I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.

"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."

I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?

"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.

You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."

It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.

But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.

It's the only way to end the war inside my head.

My First Public Reading

On May 22nd, I will be reading an abbreviated version of my non-fiction piece, "Rewind" at art2art. This will be my first public reading.

Here are a few thoughts about such an auspicious occasion:

I'm a genre fiction writer

Not only am I a genre fiction writer, but I'm damn proud to be one. While I enjoy and have great respect for literary writing, it's not my calling. My stories slither in my head, and refuse to be contained in a real world setting.

However, while the tales I want to tell invoke the supernatural, they're not examples of the bad genre fiction that have trained many literary writers to turn up their noses (at least I hope they're not). To me, genre fiction is a way to write about real people struggling with real problems through the fresh perspective of a fantastical prism.

For example, three short stories I'm working on now deal with, respectively, depression, alcoholism and adultery. Supernatural elements play second fiddle to these central themes, which to me is essential in elevating genre fiction to something more than an easy escape.

I'm not a non-fiction writer

Apart from blogging, I don't write non-fiction pieces. "Rewind" is the one exception, and if you attend art2art and hear me read it (or if you convince me to give you a copy), you'll see that it's more of a documentary of my childhood experiences than a constructed work. Memories flowed to the screen, written in such a way to best express how those memories felt to me.

The response from those who have read the piece has been very positive, and it is so painfully honest that it just makes the most sense to be my first public work. This will be the one chance to see the real me before I hide behind my fictional characters forevermore.

Why I'm scared shitless to read "Rewind" in public

There will be no place to hide when I'm reading about the worst parts of my life. We conceal our pasts carefully, only sharing them reluctantly, and soon I'll be publicly revealing mine to any that will listen.

But, as I explained to someone with whom I shared the piece, "You can’t create art if you hide parts of yourself. The parts you want to hide are where the art resides."

And I just officially quoted myself. About art. Pretty damn pretentious, I must admit.

Why I'm not afraid to fail

I have come to terms with my inner critic.

He's one tough son-of-a-bitch. He hates everything I do, and ridicules it in the meanest way possible. For a long time he kept me from writing, and even after I began, he prevented me from admitting I was a writer.

I've tried my best to kill him off, but that bastard refuses to die. So I've learned to live with him with two simple mantras: "It's impossible to be perfect," and "It's okay to be human."

Keeping this in mind allows me to write without competing with the world. It doesn't matter whether I'm great or terrible. Being great or rich or famous aren't the reasons why I write.

With those heavy burdens discarded, the only way I can fail is if I stop writing.

Why I write

I'm a professional software developer, which is a reasonably lucrative trade that I also happen to enjoy. I have plenty of fulfilling interests and hobbies that keep me busy. So why write, when it's so damn hard and time-consuming and most definitely not lucrative? Any explanation I could give is a poor approximation of what Kurt Vonnegut once said:

"Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer. Many people need desperately to receive this message: I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone."

That is why I write. As simple as that.

My Favorite Albums

Now that songs are just something you shuffle on your iPod, the age of the album is dead.

I have always been an album guy, and have fought the implications of the mp3 age, but even I find myself often just listening to a song or two instead of an entire album before moving on to another band. There was a time when I'd put a cd on and just listen start to finish. Back when artists had to actually worry about making enough good music to fill an album.

So in a sad celebration of a bygone age, I'd like to tell you about my favorite albums.

These albums are fairly diverse, but share some common traits. Foremost, they all have strong emotion. I react to music where an artist is showing true feelings, whatever they may be.

Emotion by itself is, of course, not enough to elevate an album to greatness. These albums also express those emotions through powerful lyrics and enthralling music. Lyrics are so important to me that I'll share a sample lyrics from each album that resonate with me.

So with no further adieu, in alphabetical order, some of my favorite albums.

Boys for Pele by Tori Amos

I have to admit, Tori Amos has always frightened me a bit, After all, if I'm to believe the album title, she wants to throw me in a volcano (google it). I was also never sure if the references she made to fairies was just being cutesy, or if she really frigging believes in Fairies.

Regardless of this (and some may say irregardless, because they're idiots), this album is phenomenal. The songs feature her on piano or harpsichord (yes!) with minimal accompaniment, and are uniformly haunting and mesmerizing. It's also a break-up album, which loads the album with the emotional outcry I yearn for in music.

The one knock I have is that the lyrics can get a bit surrealistic (what's this about the Pope's rubber robe?), but when she plays it straight, they hit like a punch to the stomach:

You say you packed my things
And divided what was mine
You're off to the mountain top
I say her skinny legs could use sun,
But now I'm wishing
For my best impression
Of my best Angie Dickinson
But now I've got to worry
Cause boy you still look pretty
When you're putting the damage on

Funeral by Arcade Fire

An album written in response to a series of funerals band members had to attend, Funeral drips with feeling. I'm a sucker for the moment in the song when the singer's voice breaks with emotion. When Win Butler sings, "Then we think of our parents, well what the hell ever happened to them?!" that's exactly what happens. Considering the inspiration for the album, it's just one powerful moment in an album full of them.

Sample lyrics:
You change all the lead
Sleepin' in my head to gold
As the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn,
The song I've been trying to sing

In the Aeroplane by the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel

Perhaps my favorite album of all time (and "Two Headed Boy" is a contender for my favorite song of all time). It has everything I look for, though the lyrics can lean a bit too surreal, much like Tori. Still, I love to put on my headphones and listen to this start to finish.

Sample lyrics:
And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see
Love to be
In the arms of all I'm keeping here with me, me

P.S. This album also has the two most angst-filled lines in music history, imho:
Your father made fetuses with flesh licking ladies
While you and your mother were asleep in the trailer park.

P.P.S. Their only other album really sucks. Sigh.

Midnight Organ Fight by Frightened Rabbit

Depression after a hard breakup seems to be a gold mine of inspiration. That's what this album tells me. It takes some effort to get me to think, Dude, you're more fucked up than even me. You need a hug! but this album pulls it off.

But even as Scott Hutchinson wallows in misery, whether comparing himself to an emotional leper, or beseeching someone to sleep with him even if she doesn't know his name because he needs "human heat," there's the glimpse of hope that for me is the most powerful aspect of melancholy music. If the album was a series of, "Everything sucks and I'm going to kill myself," why would anyone listen to it?

Instead, we have these lyrics:
Am I ready to leap
Is there peace beneath
The roar of the Forth road bridge?
...
These manic gulls scream it's okay
Take your life give it a shake
gather up all your loose change
I think I'll save suicide for another year

O by Damien Rice

A guy with a guitar and minimal accompaniment singing his heart out. What else can I say? Bonus points because he's Irish.

Sample Lyrics:
What I am to you is not real
What I am to you, you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains
And I'll ask for the sea

Plans by Death Cab for Cutie

I could say a lot about this great album, but it's all trumped by the time in my life when I got to know it. It was as if I was meant to hear this album at that time, to share hard feelings with someone else.

So all I can say is, as my grandmother lay dying in a hospital bed, I heard these words:
'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said, that "Love is watching someone die"

Turn on the Bright Lights by Interpol

Interpol is easily my favorite of the rash of "retro" bands that came out a few years ago. They took the Joy Division mantle and ran with it. The album can feel a bit cold and distant, but that can convey as much as a voice cracking with emotion.

Sample Lyrics:
You are the only person
who's completely certain
there's nothing here to be into

Undertow by Tool

I've always been a fan of heavy music, but too often it's generic and juvenile. Variations on either "fuck you" or "I'm an elf prince" set to the same old guitar riffs you've heard for the last 30 years just doesn't cut it.

Back in the early 90s, I caught a video on a late night music show, and I was absolutely stunned. The music was heavy, but unlike anything I'd heard before. The lyrics were personal and introspective. And the video itself... holy shit. A new high-water mark in heavy music had been reached in my view.

It took a while to find the album since they hadn't hit it big yet (but they soon would.) When I finally did find it, the entire album was at the same high level. And more amazing videos would follow.

Sample lyrics:
Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start this over
Why can't we drink forever?
I just want to start this over
I am just a worthless liar
I am just an imbecile
I will only complicate you
Trust in me and fall as well

The Wall by Pink Floyd

If I have to pick the album that has affected me most, this is it. Never is music more powerful than when it shows you that someone else has had similar experiences to you. When I first heard The Wall, I knew that I wasn't the only person that felt the way I did. You learn as you get older that everyone is struggling with demons, but when you're a teenager, everyone else seems to have it together. I knew I didn't. And apparently Roger Waters didn't have it together either.

The most important aspect to this album to me, however, is that it is a mountain you climb as you progress in your life. At least that's what happened to me. When I was an angry teenager struggling in what felt like a hostile world, the album seemed like a blueprint: If I build a wall around myself, no one can hurt me anymore. I'll be safe.

Then one day, when you're older and have gained more perspective, when you reach the peak of the mountain and see what's on the other side, you realize this is just what the album is cautioning you not to do. Roger Waters had built that wall, and it was a terrible mistake. The day I realized this, my life was changed. And that's why this is such an amazing album.

Sample lyrics:
All alone, or in two's
The ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall
Some hand in hand
And some gathered together in bands
The bleeding hearts and artists
Make their stand
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall

With All Due Respect by The Young Dubliners

This is an album of classic Irish folk songs (and a couple Pogues songs) done as rock songs. Being Irish, and a lover of Irish music, this one is a slam dunk for me. Especially since Irish music has the emotion I seek in spades.

Sample lyrics:
On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day
...
Oh I loved too much and by such, by such
Is happiness thrown away

(I have to say I love the repetition of "by such," which implies to me such emotion that the singer is catching his breath and has to start the line over. Of course, it's probably just filling a measure, but I prefer my interpretation.)

The consistent greatness dilemma

Several of my favorite bands are not on this list, and these bands of course have made some of my favorite albums. The problem is, I can't pick one of their albums as a favorite. So instead of listing of several albums by each band, here are a bunch of bands that have too many great albums to list (and some that suck, so be warned):

Eels
The Frames
Hayden
Iron Maiden
Jethro Tull
Okkervil River
Radiohead
Josh Ritter
Bruce Springteen