NorCal, SoCal and Hot Chocolate's Emma
The weather's gone cold and slightly damp in San Francisco, as if an angry parent came into a house and twisted the heater down on the thermostat because "We're not made of money."
Strangely, more homeless have emerged than just a few weeks ago when it was warmer. On my way for coffee this morning, I tiptoed past ten of them still sleeping, all on the same street within a quarter mile of each other. One slept under a pile of trash, only his shoes were visible. It's hard not to juxtapose it with L.A. where 967 people died on the streets this year alone. The number's projected to go to a thousand. (2020 edit: It passed a thousand.) I don't know if the number of homeless deaths is as high in San Francisco. I would hope not, at the very least because the population isn't nearly as large. But with the staggering prosperity in the Bay Area, it is obvious to anyone with eyes that the money's not being put to good use. And that is a crying shame.
A friend of mine from Brazil is staying in the Mission and is aghast at the open drug use going on. She said in Brazil if someone tried shooting up on the street the way they do here, the cops would be all over them in five seconds. Here, they don't care.
When I wrote New Roman Times, I was intimately familiar with Southern California but only tangentially familiar with Northern California. Having now spent a greater deal of time up here, I could have been a lot more biting but that bit of honesty would have come to the detriment of storytelling. It's always a fine line, deciding how much reality to add, especially in a satire that is supposed to be absurd.
I realize that's a strange thing to say considering how absurd the world's become. But it's important for me to remember I am not writing something only for this moment. Hopefully the word will withstand whatever is happening now or next year or five years from now. Thematically it should hold up regardless of what's happening. The best books are worlds unto themselves. But it does amuse me, seeing humpbacked Tech Bros and Girls walking with their heads down, permantely gazing at their phones. It's no wonder there are so many cell phone thefts in this city.
Today was a medium workload day which meant I could take a somewhat leisurely lunch and fall through some rabbit holes. In my case, that meant listening to some goth and darkwave while simultaneously researching it, mostly on Genius and mostly reading Sisters of Mercy lyrics and interpretations.
Interpreting lyrics is akin to interpreting art. It's a fun and often intriguing, but I have a very narrow conception of what makes for a "good" interpretation vs a "wildly inaccurate," one or "one that shows the author is projecting their own biases rather than understanding the context of the song."
While it is certainly true by Andre Eldritich's own admission that a lot of Floodland was written as a diss (my word, not his) on ex-bandmates, as well as a critique of America and the Cold War one also can't merely subscribe to this as being the only interpretations as once art is out in the world it exists outside the creator's frame of reference or intention. It's a fine line.
Knowing some of the backstory already, I was surprised to discover that the 2006 reissue of Floodland also included "Emma," a cover of a track by the British soul band Hot Chocolate. Everyone knows their song "You Sexy Thing," but they had a string of hits for three decades in their native U.K. And while they may not have done quite so well over here witht he other tracks as their standout track, the song "Emma," is amazing.
It's a sad tale that apparently was inspired by the death of the lead singer's mother. This bit of pathos was done at the suggestion of producer Mickie Most who wanted something beyond just good time jams.
At seventeen we were wed
And worked day and night to earn our daily bread
And every day Emma would go out searching for that play
That never ever came her way
You know sometimes she'd come home so depressed
I'd hear her crying in the back room feeling so distressed
And I'd remember back when she was five
To the words that used to make Emmalene come alive
It was Emmalene
Emma, Emmalene
I'm gonna write your name high on that silver screen
Emmalene
Emma, Emmalene
I'm gonna make you the biggest star this world has ever seen
The song keeps building in intensity with instrumentation. The volume shifts gradually. The dirty guitar solo punctuates, and the organ swells. The chorus goes from her shortened name Emma to her full given-name Emmalene, becoming that more insistent and desperate until we get to the climactic third verse.
It was cold and dark December night
When I opened the bedroom door
To find her lying still and cold up on the bed
A love letter lying on the bedroom floor
It read, "Darling, I love you
But I just can't keep on living on dreams no more
I tried so very hard not to leave you alone
I just can't keep on tryin' no more."
As far as pop songs go it is a downer, but it's also a stunner. I bet Funkadelic in their prime or a band like Ween would do this song some holy justice, too. But hopefully they'd have the sense to stretch it to double the length. This is begging for a monster solo and extended chorus, too.
A live performance from Hot Chocolate below comes with a slide show/video to illustrate the song. Errol Brown had one of the best screams in the business, too.