Jem and the Holograms was, hands down, my favourite cartoon.
Not just because Jem was a hardcore rocker chick who knew how to kill it on stage (and her boyfriend Rio was pretty easy on the eyes, too), but girl had it together.
By day, she's your average, unassuming Jerrica Benton, manager/owner of Starlight Music. By night (or showtime, whatever time of day beckons her performing persona), she is Jem - lead singer, rock group front-woman, and hologram, summoned by commanding Synergy (a holographic computer, of course) via remote micro-projectors in her earrings (obviously).
The 3D projection of Jem can also create fellow holograms around her (by way of her earrings, too - fashion AND functionality!) and together they are a band of musical holographic hotties.
This was back in 1985.
And aside from creating the winning combo of unnatural hair colours + music = success (in case you're wondering why Nicki Minaj makes sense), Jem and the Holograms pioneered what could very well become common practice.
Jerrica Benton's dad was the brainchild behind Synergy (which was designed to be "the ultimate audio-visual entertainment synthesizer"), and I'll bet that never in a million years would he've conceived of the notion that his truly outrageous invention could potentially create a trend in the future of stage shows.
Well guess what, Mr. Benton? It only took 24 years from the time your daughter's group disbanded to the moment your vision was brought to life, in front of millions of eager entertainment-hungry Coachella fans around the world.
Although the technology behind Tupac Shakur's holographic performance at the annual music and arts festival wasn't quite conjured up by a Synergy subsidiary, the result was just as compelling.
Earlier this week the Wall Street Journal reported that the technology used to bring Tupac back is actually based on a 19th century visual effect known as Pepper's Ghost...The back-in-the-day optical optical illusion is pulled off with an angled piece of glass on which an image is reflected. "A piece of glass can be both transparent and reflective at the same time, depending on how it's situated relative to the audience," (illusion designer Jim) Steinmeyer told the Wall Street Journal...In the case of the Dr. Dre-orchestrated 'Pac performance, a Mylar screen was used instead of glass. An HD overhead projector shot a moving computer-generated image of the rapper onto a reflective surface on the stage floor. The moving image was then bounced up onto the Mylar screen, which was angled so the crowd wouldn't notice. -- Rob Markman, rapfix.mtv.com.
The holographic technology used to create Tupac's posthumous concert appearance created such a thrill in concert-goers, and now the potential to build on this momentum seems to be swelling.
Fleeting mentions of a Tupac tour (Tusoon?) have been thrown about. Why stop at the 'Pac?
At first, I thought it seemed borderline hokey. And then I thought, "Damn, I'd cut out one of my own kidneys and hand it over to the underground market myself if I thought I could see all four Beatles play a show*."
What IS the future of the live show then? Forget bigger amps and pinker hair - I'm thinkin' MJ's comeback tour could very well become a "reality".
The future of the industry aside, we should pay our respects to the pioneers of this potential, the true JEM of this exciting "new" direction.
(*disclaimer: I will not be removing any of my organs, nor will I support any other persons or groups in their endeavours to extract it themselves. !!!)
SoundTracking: Fading Like A Flower (Roxette) - yep, bought my tickets during the pre-sale today! September 7th! Just a little stoked!
I was 13 yrs old. At the zenith of my hair-brush-mic, lip-sync-in-the-mirror performances.
I had already nailed Mariah Carey's Vision of Love, and thanks to MuchMusic (Canada's answer to MTV), I knew, visually, how to successfully incorporate the nuances that made a performer a performer - the smiles and glances to acknowledge your back-up singers, the head nod to the guitarist when he busts out a killer riff. Heck, I even came up with a few of my own extraordinary moves (the "flip-and-whip-your-mic-in-the-air-and-catch-it-on-the-beat-and-keep-singing-without-mishap").
That one took lots of practice.
I even had a scenario: it would be the end of the lunch hour in the school gymnasium, which would be packed with students who were wrapping up with intramurals. And as they were putting away the sporting equipment, I would climb up on stage, grab a mic and just start singing. Or it would be a Talent Show at some Sunday afternoon tea (in the school gymnasium). Some students would do lame magic tricks for the parents and staff, some kids would play an instrument. But I would take the mic, despite the perplexed look of my peers ("What? Is Cat gonna sing?").
Or a school dance (in the gym).
Or an assembly.
It didn't matter - it was always the gymnasium, and no matter the scenario, there was always - ALWAYS - a talent scout there. (WHY NOT.)
And I would blow everyone away with my Whitney Houston-esque vocal abilities.
After the initial shock of the crowd hearing moi singing subsided, they would uproariously cheer and clamour for more, and I would be signed on the spot by the fedora-wearing talent scout and whisked away in the limo that was waiting outside the gym, taking me straight to the recording studio to begin my lifelong singing career (this is pre-Idol days here, folks - I was clearly way ahead of my time).
But I grew tired of Mariah's octave-jumping and trying to pull off Bryan Adams' tunes. I needed some new inspiration.
And then, it happened.
Roxette's Joyride album was released.
And NOW I instantly had an imaginary partner - I WAS PART OF A DUO.
But this was different - this music, the blending of harmonies, their unique look and distinct sound - this was special.
This took the whole fictional-gymnasium-singing experience to an entirely new level. Now I found myself incorporating the air guitar and air keyboards. And I was good.
I developed an instant love affair with this Swedish sensation and their poppy brand of ear candy. Of course I'd heard their music before. My brother (though he may now deny it) owned Look Sharp! (which housed such hits as The Look, Dangerous, and Dressed for Success, and which I inevitably "borrowed without intent of returning"). But now, with Joyride, I was a bonafide fan. Hooked.
Next thing ya know, my hair brush became replaced with shampoo bottles (suddenly I was on tour - got some confidence, wasn't just singing in my room anymore), remote controls, bottles of salad dressing - whatever was in reach when Roxette came on the radio.
I bought all their cassette singles. I religiously played nothing but their music. Per and I were an absolute HIT when I'd bring him up on stage in the school gymnasium. And when I was outta line, and my parents had to enforce discipline, they knew how to really put a stranglehold on my independence: "Hand over your Roxette tapes." My dad was ruthless, I thought. I always kept one or two singles behind to listen to quietly at night.
And then, something happened - something so unexpected and unfathomable and wonderful and sleepless-night-inducing: Roxette announced a worldwide tour, including Winnipeg! February 22, 1992!
My very first concert (well, technically this would have been my second concert, but I'm not counting Roy Orbison - I was 4 or 5yrs old when my parents brought me along to that show). For weeks leading up to this momentous event, my diary was FULL of newspaper clippings about the upcoming show, pictures of Per Gessle (the Rox in Roxette), lyrics to my favourite Roxette songs that I felt were relevant to the day I'd had at school - anything that would have/could have been related to the show. I recall my dad waking me up on the morning of concert day, opening my bedroom door and doing his rendition of Joyride with his infamous shoulder-shrugging, finger gunpoint dance.
I'm pretty sure I didn't eat all day. Was too excited. Not knowing what to expect, not being able to fully comprehend the fact that, in just a few short hours, I would be witnessing a show of such magnitude that I would be forever changed. My music idols would be breathing the same air as me. Mind = blown.
Show time. I would have peed my pants with excitement - heck, I probably did - and wouldn't have even cared. I was at a concert. A Roxette concert. It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Beyond anything I could have ever dreamed up. Giant beach balls were crowd surfing the masses at the Winnipeg Arena, skimming the fingertips of cheering fans as colours, lights and sounds swirled around me. My favourite songs were being played out in front of me, filling my eardrums with such bass never before experienced, on a sound system that was a bajillion times louder than the little ghetto blaster that sat on top of my dresser back home.
That sound would leave my ears ringing for days, and my emotions soaring high for weeks.
Marie came out on stage wearing a Winnipeg Jets jersey for Dressed For Success. I still didn't care about hockey, but at least now I wouldn't be so dismissive of it going forward. (Marie Fredriksson wore a Jets jersey! Cool!)
I was getting pushed by the people behind me as they danced and threw their arms up in excitement. I probably pushed people in front of me for the same reason.
It was surreal. Pure unadulterated ecstasy.
And then the show ended. And us Joyriders went home and tried to sleep that night, still reeling from excitement. And then days and weeks came and went, and with the passage of time came new loves (Bono, for one).
As the years passed, the Joyride posters were replaced with certificates and awards. I pushed Roxette aside, but never forgetting what they were to me - what they did for me.
Fast forward 20 years - my former obsession has resurfaced.
Roxette is touring - and after 20 years, they are coming back to Winnipeg.
I find myself cautiously giddy; as my first ever concert experience, and remembering the frenzied bliss it brought, I am reluctant to taint the memory with a Roxette show I may not appreciate as much. They've released albums since Tourism (the follow-up to Joyride) that I neglected to check out. The 33yr old Cat is a bit more frugal - I would put money down in a heartbeat for a Roxette show that is guaranteed to mimic the experience I had 2 decades ago. What if I don't know half the songs they perform? Won't it be a disappointment? Maybe I should just leave my Roxette-ness to revel in the memory of what used to be.
It's been YEARS since I've listened to their songs.
But as I sit here, revisiting Roxette with YouTube clips, I notice my fingers finding the familiar staccato of the notes as I play the imaginary keyboard that was, just moments ago, my kitchen table.
I can still sing along, word for word, without missing a beat. I realize this music is just like an old friend, we can pick up right where we left off. It's as though no time has passed between us.
The 33yr old Cat may be reluctant.
But the 13yr old Cat is looking for the nearest hair brush - time to play Marie again...
I don't sing at karaoke (unaided by alcohol, anyway). I barely sing in my car.
But I sing to Roo every night.
And she always requests the same lullaby - Golden Slumbers. That's my girl.
She's at a point now where she could just sing it to me, but instead, she lines up all her "babies" (her stuffed animals) so that everyone can hear the "show".
Last night, she interrupted the song because Bobs needed a ticket for some popcorn (?!). And then Baby Kitty Cat needed to stretch. Once Golden Slumbers is finished, Bingo (as per usual) requested Hey Jude, and Purpy needed to hear Let It Be before she went to sleep.
After the performance, I kissed Roo (and all her babies) good night, closed her door halfway (at Baby Jaguar's request), and hunkered down around the corner on the couch in the living room, waiting for what usually follows: about 20 minutes of her climbing out of bed and sneaking out of her room to peek around the corner at me, waiting for me to catch a glimpse of her, smile (which I typically do, and she knows this, because it's just s'darn adorable), and taking advantage of this free pass to meander into the living room and climb up on the couch beside me.
And, as expected, last night was no exception.
Only this time, I managed to keep the camera poised and ready to capture the slumber-less slumber my lullaby was supposed to induce.
And, as expected, today us girls are utter zombies.
But the memory has been made.
And now, caffeine ain't doing the trick.
Did The Beatles record a song about afternoon naps?
ADDENDUM: It has been brought to my attention that The Beatles HAVE, in fact, recorded a song that most appropriately reflects my current state of mind (thanks Chris!)
SoundTracking: I'm So Tired (The Beatles) (on REPEAT) ;)
I've had the absolute good fortune of participating in weekly discussions about the general evolution of rock 'n roll, spearheaded by local author and rock historian John Einarson, for the past 10 weeks.
Now, John's funnelling the focus to his homeland - reigning rock music in from a worldwide scope down to Manitoba's relevance in, and contribution to, the scene.
Shakin' All Over: The Manitoba Music Experience will explore the roots of popular music in the province including rock 'n roll, country, blues, folk, aboriginal and jazz.
I wanted to spread the word to anyone in the area who might be interested in participating in this fascinating four week foray that delves into the roots of MB music from the 1950s up to present day.
Just as I predicted, I found more chocolates than my daughter did.
;)
Also half-way through tackling what didn't appear to be a Martha Stewart-esque dessert at first, and had I known it was so involved, I would have agreed to something simpler instead - say, store-bought pie (with the packaging discarded so I can take full credit, obviously). But we're at the mid-point now of this ridiculously fancy cake, and nothing has spontaneously combusted yet.
Yet.
And to round out my morning, I was lucky enough to acquire a copy of an EXTREMELY rare Guess Who bootleg, and with a currently empty house and cranked speakers, I'm able to successfully work on my air drums with reckless abandon.
The moment was a fleeting one, but the lesson learned has persevered.
And the lesson pretty much single-handedly destroyed what I'd spent years building up.
The message, conveyed to my 4yr old in less than a few seconds: Mommy can shove it.
In case you decide not to read the background story here, let me give you the Coles-notes version:
- last month, we met Winnipeg Jets' Blake Wheeler and Bryan Little.
What I neglected to mention in my original post about this public meet-and-greet was that Bryan Little, Jets #18, centre-extrodinaire, vandalized my property. And that reckless act led to yesterday's defacement and the excuse that accompanied it.
Jets lovers, don't hate, just stay with me here....
(I should mention this now: despite the tone of my post, I'm not AT ALL pissed off at Little - it's just fun to blame a kajillionaire for what truly was a sweet, innocent act that unpredictably led to the demise of my property!)
Rewind to St. Patrick's Day, only a mere few weeks ago. Despite the meltdown Roo went through over not getting to wear her Christmas dress, I made sure she showed up to the meet-and-greet at the Winnipeg Pet Rescue Shelter in her brand spankin' new Jets jersey.
Like, BRAND new. Just cut the tags off that morning.
By the time us gals showed up, we were shuttled to the front of the line. Our hands were stamped, our donation to the shelter was made, and while trying to juggle our stuff around and pull out of our bags what we were going to get signed, Roo decided she would become concerned that the lady who stamped her hand had stamped TOO hard.
A true kerfuffle ensued! The line was moving quickly, people were getting processed and moved along like Big Macs at a McD's drive-thru during the lunch rush. While still attempting to manage everything, before we knew it, it was OUR turn. I was trying to get my phone out to snap a few pics (for posterity's sake and bragging rights), and, simultaneously, trying to convince Roo that she DIDN'T need to go back to the end of the line to get a NEW stamp on her hand. Before I knew it, we were up. Show time. Roo and I had been practicing her GO JETS GO! chant in the car all the way there, but instead of impressing the athletes with her adorable raving fan-ability, all she could do was complain to Bryan Little about the stamp on her hand!
Lemme say this: both guys were great. Patient, cordial, friendly - if there was any arrogance that accompanies fandom, they either suppressed it or lack it completely. I was quite impressed. So while I was getting my Jets t-shirt out for them to sign, and while Roo was nattering to Little about the stamp, he, in a very pleasant and kind manner, with a big ol' million watt smile, leaned across the table and said, "Do you want me to sign your jersey?"
Now I really should have that talk with my 4yr old about not always saying YES to questions that complete strangers ask her. But anyway, that's what she did.
And so that's what he did.
He leaned across the table, Sharpie in hand, and signed her jersey.
Of course, I don't mind. In fact, I'm glad one of us thought to get that done; however, in retrospect, what if I was saving that jersey to be autographed by someone else? (I wasn't...) But he just took it upon himself to put his Herbie Hancock, in permanent ink, on my daughter's clothing!
(Calm down, Jets fans, I jest - I love that Little did that! Again, if you can't poke fun at kajillionaires, who can you poke fun at?)
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon.
Things became awfully quiet when Roo was, only moments before, laughing it up with one of her games while I was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. When the silence was a bit too much to bear, I called out to her.
"Mommy! Come see what I did!" she responded, just bursting with excitement.
Never words you want to hear your 4 yr old say after they've been quiet for a while.
Followed her into the office and found this:
My first instinct, oddly enough, was to laugh (NEVER let them see you even remotely smirk with this kinda stuff - that opens up a whole new world of unintentional hurt for your furniture, your walls, anything that could use the Roo touch!).
But instead, I hid that irresistible culprit of a permanent marker. And then I took the pic. (And then I turned my back to her and tried my hardest to NOT let her hear me laugh.)
I was sure I told her this when she first began colouring: paper. Only on paper. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
So then we sat down and talked about it.
"Now listen Pumpkin: markers, pens, crayons, pencil crayons, sharpies - all that stuff is JUST for paper, ok? Never use them on anything else, promise?"
Roo responded without hesitation: "Not even on clothes, Mommy?"
"Noooo, not on clothes at all, ever."
"But what about that man with the pen at the place where the puppies were and then he put his name on my shirt? He used marker on clothes, so I can use marker on clothes, too, right, Mommy?"
Sigh.
In my own personal battle with Little (again, because he's super sweet and crazy rich and ridiculously talented and my conflict is completely unwarranted but I'm curious to see how long this lasts), Bryan Little: 2, Me: 0.
The diverse range of human activities, and the products of those processes, is an artistic expression of emotion. Art doesn't always have to be something tangible. I believe you don't always have to experience it with one of your five (or six, if you're Haley Joel Osment) senses. If it provokes passion or sentiment, it's art.
Forgiveness and the admittance of guilt is, to me, an art. The ability is in us all, but not all of us choose to explore, apply, and appreciate the beauty of it.
For me, yesterday, I indulged in the art of release.
Of redemption.
And I feel at LEAST 27lbs lighter.
With the realization that immortality is reserved for Larry King and vampires, I've decided to heed Dr. Phil's formidable question, "Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?" and "So how's that workin' out for you?".
So yesterday, I decided I'd pull up my socks, set aside my pride and deal with what had been subconsciously bringing me down for so long. And today, I woke up feeling such a wave of peace and happiness (that I'd forgotten existed on this level) wash over me, and I'm grateful for the joy I can carry with me to the grave. (That "wave" could also be attributed to the meds, but for the purposes of this blog post, I'm going with Forgiveness for $800, Alex.) ;)
The reason I'm sharing this is because I have faced the reality that life can turn on a dime, and there are too many people living with the unnecessary pain of regret and guilt.
Forgiveness is freeing. It's healing. It's a personal and deeply effective experience that can change your life.
And despite the new-found joy I am living, my only regret is that I wasted so much time not having done this all sooner.
(Disclaimer: this does NOT apply to the crazy aunt who bought you that shitty sweater for Christmas. She can go to hell.) ;)
I still believe all you need is love, but I don't believe that just saying it is going to do it. I still believe in the fact that love is what we all need.
In the middle of a gigglefest with little Roo, while I was rockin' supper on the stove, she asked what I was making.
"Hello Kitty stew," I said, straight-faced, adding that I was missing one main ingredient. I gave her a few seconds to deduce what I was talking about before she broke into a fit of laughter and condescension. "Hello Kitty isn't an ingredient, Mommy!"
She said it with such a tone of disdain in her voice that I decided to stick it to her as I got up from the couch and proceeded into her bedroom. She followed, naturally, but her belly-laughing slowed her down from catching up as I plucked Hello Kitty from Roo's bed and brought the pink plush into the kitchen.
I had a few moments to hide Kitty in the cupboard while I rattled the lid on the pot on the stove. By the time Roo made her way into the kitchen, Hello Kitty was nowhere to be seen, and the covered pot on the stove was bubbling violently under its lid.
A few nervous giggles ensued, and then I pulled chicken fingers out of the oven.
"I don't want (inaudible mumbling) Hello Kitty!" she exclaimed suddenly, through gigantor insta-tears. OY! I jumped up to grab the stuffed feline down from inside the cupboard, and showed her I was just teasing - Roo curled up in my lap and just sobbed.
It was very reminiscent of the time, nearly 4 yrs ago (check out the pic), when we took her to the zoo - her FIRST zoo experience - and a peacock cawed (or whatever sound it is arrogant asshole peacocks make to scare infants) at her.
Only this time, tonight, I was responsible for her making that cute-but-not-cute scrunched up face full of tears.
(It really kinda was quite cute...)
I felt like such a jerk mom. I promised to buy her a pony.
Anyhoo, I found one of them. One of my old blogs. After tonight's loss, and the official confirmation the Winnipeg Jets are outta the running for the playoffs (insert pouty face here), I subconsciously stumbled upon this long-lost find - it's a post about the first-ever NHL game I attended.
I'd all but forgotten about it. Not that it wasn't memorable per se. I had just set the memory of it aside.
It was January 2006 - a time before the notion that the Jets were coming back was even a blip on Dono's radar, we took a trip out to Ottawa to catch a Senators game (Dono's team of choice).
I was not a hockey fan. I really was just going along for the sight-seeing.
I think my revisiting this memory is significant, because it's the start of my journey from a "what the heck does offside mean?" non-hockey fan to present-day "what the heck does offside mean?" home team enthusiast.
Instead of posting a direct link to the old blog in question, I've just decided to pull the ol' copy-and-past trick here.
So now, as someone who, after 33 years, has finally made her dad proud to claim all 3 of his children as hockey fans, I give you:
Fresh Legs and a Fresh Man - the story of Gropey McJazz-Hands
I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to a man Donovan and I have cleverly - and appropriately - dubbed Gropey McJazz-Hands.
Gropey is a man that I had the (mis?)fortune of sitting beside at the newly-named Scotiabank Centre (the arena formerly known as the Corel Centre) for the Ottawa Senators game on Monday night.
Now Gropey started off a quiet, simple man, joining us in the 300 section of the arena just after the first period started, taking the empty seat on my right. He was your typical Senators fan - donning his Sens jacket and matching cap with pride. His elderly charm became apparent, and was enjoyed immensely by Donovan and myself, whenever our home team made a good play: instead of clapping, he would raise his arms up in a perfect 90-degree angle perpendicular to his body, and give the Sens an approving display of jazz hands while shouting words like "Fabulous!", "Wonderful!", and "Absolutely splendid!"
As the first period came to an end, Donovan and I stood up and prepared to leave our seats for a few minutes, and Gropey decided to stand up and leave his seat, too. But he didn't leave before (and this is how he got his name) putting his hand on my side and sliding it down to my hip for an extended, and completely unnecessary, amount of time.
"Donovan, that man is groping me," I whispered in Donovan's ear, as I urged him along the line of people to get me out of Gropey's engrossing grasp. "What the? I'm gonna say something!" Donovan chivalrously replied. "No, it's ok, let's just go," I begged.
So we left our seats, and Gropey went his seperate way.
We didn't see him again until the start of the 3rd period.
This time, the sweet and once-charming old Gropey we first came to know and love was no longer...this time, Gropey had turned into a drunken and completely obnoxious "fan", who reeked of booze and whose jazz-hands could now be likened to out of control grand mal seizures! His arms no longer stayed at the once-familiar 90-degree angle - oh no, they were straight up in the air, and everytime he waived his jazz-hands, he screamed like a maniac.
"YEEEAAAHHHH!!!!! HOORAY!!!"
Those jazz-hands were just a-going!
Then something happened - Donovan and I aren't sure what was going on on the ice - but Gropey decided to lean over me, his hand on my thigh, as he slurred to Donovan above the noise of the crowds around us, "They took it back! Did you see that? They must have gone upstairs and complained!"
"Yeah, I guess so, " Donovan replied, admitting to me that he had no idea what Gropey was talking about. He spied Gropey's hand on my leg, and again begged me to let him say something, or at least switch seats with him, but I declined, citing the end of the game was near as my reason for staying put.
And that's when "Fresh Legs" comes into play....Gropey was very pleased with himself, that, despite his gross intoxication, he was still able to commentate the game from his seat to the people around him (namely Donovan and I).
"See that? They're playing smart....they put those fresh legs out on the ice now, that's some smart playing. Those fresh legs are smart. Look at those smart, fresh legs go!"
FRESH LEGS!!!!
So cut to the end of the game - the Sens are in the lead 4-3 with a few seconds to spare. 3...2...1...the buzzer sounds, and excitement fills the arena as Sens fans harmoniously jump to their feet and cheer! Donovan and I leap out of our seats and high five each other - then Gropey leans in and high fives Donovan (and we're talking the double high-five here, both hands...too bad Gropey was too drunk to hit either of Donovan's hands!). So I turn to Gropey (he's standing right there, looking at me...I have to do something....)....awkward pause....the world seems to slow down and almost come to a complete stop. But you know what, I say to myself, this is a hockey game, and here's just a drunk fan having fun, and we had fun laughing at him.
I laugh and open my arms to embrace him - hey, why not, good times were had by all and our team won - and that's when the grope of all gropes happened.
He grabbed my boob and pretty much hung on for a few seconds.
Too much in shock - and afraid of the fight that would ensue if I told Donovan - I just moved away and pushed Donovan out through the throngs of people, as far away from Gropey as we could get!
And that was the last we saw of Gropey!
Good thing I came across that old post....what a great memory to relive....I feel kinda cheap (and oddly enough, pretty damn good about myself, too.........)
Jem and the Holograms was, hands down, my favourite cartoon.
Although the technology behind Tupac Shakur's holographic performance at the annual music and arts festival wasn't quite conjured up by a Synergy subsidiary, the result was just as compelling.
