"...Hail, Hail, The Angst's All Here..."

Loves me some words.

Been putting them together, in one form or another, for as long as I can remember.

And I can remember pretty far back.

Near as I can remember.

And, every now and then, I find myself inspired to add a word or two to the mix.

Just such an inspiration occurred today.

Courtesy of Lana Del Rey.

Here's a quick "whatsheallabout" from Yahoo Music.

How dumb do you have to be to announce to the world that you're a "gangsta Nancy Sinatra"? But Del Rey appears to be dumb like a fox, in that way. And, also, a fox, if we must say so ourselves. Not everyone is crazy about her plumped-lip look in the video for "Video Games," but 12 million video views (and counting) later, she's doing something right. That shrewdness isn't just in her knack for self-marketing, but also the real craft heard in that knockout single, a funereal ballad which makes her lover's fondness for World of Warcraft sound like the stuff of very high tragedy. We'll have to wait till her full-length album comes out in January to find out if her boots were really made for walkin'.


I gave Diva D-R another look/listen while digesting that little description and, somewhere around the two minute mark of her melodrama, the new word popped.

Debut momentarily.

Though she's ostensibly the latest, the lady Lana is not the lone purveyor of this particular song style.

Not by a long shot.

But, it was that Yahoo's description of said style that put me on the path to generating a new genre'.

A genre' that counts, among its subscribers, such talents as Christina Perri, Adele, even, if you stretch the point a parcek or two, Taylor Swift and, of course, now, Lana Del Rey.

Young ladies whose primary presentation is pretty much equal parts love and lament, melodic and melancholic, romantic and regretful.

In other words, a whole lotta angst goin' on.

Which is just fine and dandy, thank you, because, let's face it, there's only so much Michael Buble' one can absorb before the blood sugar cries out for dark chocolate.

The core audience these young ladies has recruited will faithfully sway and swoon, if only internally, to the pretty pathos and the relatable ruminations, never burdened by the perspective of older listeners who will struggle, from time to time, with the continued conflict of hearing dark and dramatic "reflections on a life of heartbreaks" from someone who was in elementary school less than five years earlier.

But, hey, Bob Dylan was only, like, twelve when he was doling out the admonitions of changing times to people five times his age.

So, I say, you go, girls.

Atta way to articulate.

Oh, and as for the new word that came to life in my lobe?

I agreed, and chuckled, at the Yahoo writer's opening opine about the Lana D R's self image as a "gangsta Nancy Sinatra".

Which, frankly, is like calling yourself a "macho Adam Lambert."

But, I understand the spirit of what she's going for.

And I think she actually came pretty close to pegging it.

She was just off a tad.

Mses. Del Rey, Perri, Adele and assorted other prolific poetesses yet to ponder and present, may I suggest that "gangsta" is close, but no cigar.

Allow me.

Angsta.

Happy to help.

"...Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid, On, John, Paul, George and Ringo..."

Amidst the bargain jargon and super sale slang flying around like snow in a New England sky this time of year, there is a word, instantly evocative of the season, that tends to get lost in the shuffle.

At least, until the last lock on the last door of the last open store is finally clicked somewhere along the way Christmas Eve.

Joy.

As in "...to the world..."

I was reminded of that today in a place doing something you don't often associate with epiphanous holiday moments.

Walking the treadmill.

Listening to The Beatles.

One song, amidst a variety of songs by a variety of singers on the IPod, put there for their groove, feel, mood, etc, ostensibly to keep me feeling upbeat as I work out, tone up and slim down but which, in fact, simply, and thankfully, do me the service of distracting me long enough to exercise for thirty minutes without wanting to load the treadmill into the trunk and drop it off in some unwatched dumpster on my way to the nearest DQ.

Go for the burn, my ass.

Winter is all about blizzards, baby.

The kind that come with chunks of Oreo.

And, this time of year, candy canes.

So, as I kept up a nice 3.2 MPH pace to the dancing and dining sounds of Michael Jackson, Nickelback, The Kinks, Shawn Colvin, Adam Lambert and Tammy Wynette, among others (hey, I wasn't born buff, but nobody can say I wasn't born eclectic), along came John, Paul, George and Ringo.

And a song that invariably, even after almost fifty years, evokes a smile and a little lightening of the load.

In the strangest way, as well, it also triggered that little previously mentioned holiday epiphany.

Because it caused me to be reminded of something that's missing, in large measure, from both the holiday season...and the current popular music culture.

Joy.

Sure, many folks find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins showing up at Christmas time, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore?

And I'll spare you the diatribe about Black Friday madness and Christmas crazies and mall mental cases and let you reflect, yourself, on how buried or not, in all that sugar coated sludge, real laugh out loud joy there is in your holiday season.

Meanwhile, I realized, somewhere along the 26th minute of the 3.2 MPH as the Fab Four sang, that the same thing could be asked about pop music.

Sure, many people find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins in pop music, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore amidst the thump and the beat and the groove and the lyrics that either send a wave of angst washing over us like that big ass ocean wave that turned George Clooney and the gang upside down a few years back or so often imply, or simply offer upfront, the concept that we should "fuck like rabbits...and then maybe get to know each other"?

And just so the youngers don't leap to the tired old argument that my line of thinking is simply tired and old, understand this.

I'm not talking about morality.

Or hip quotient.

Or even cultural relatability.

I'm just talkin' about joy.

A feeling of delight and/or exuberance that comes without the baggage of angst or sexuality or social relevance or cultural connection?

And just makes you feel good...before, during and after.

With no buyer's remorse coated in a thin varnish of fear that you're going straight to Hell for drinking it, shaking it, making it and/or faking it.

And, truth be told, even The Beatles evolved fairly soon after into that next, more angst filled, phase.

But, while it lasted, this particular phase of artistic creation radiated pure joy.

And was a joy to hear.

The song has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.

But given the spirit that it evokes, I'm ready to make a pretty good case that it belongs right there on the Muzak with Rudolph, Frosty and the Holly Jolly of your own choosing.

Joy to the world...

...and I feel fine.