Something tells me that 2009 is going to be a bad, bad year.

I know, I know – not the best attitude to start the new year with (“with which to start the new year?”). I am usually a believer in the theory that positive thinking affects positive outcomes and vice-versa. But since I started thinking about the concept of 2009 – of 2009 as a new year, a fresh start – about fifteen or twenty minutes ago, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with a sense of dread.

2008 was a mixed year for me. The good: resold my book, got a “promotion” at work, saw – in person (!) – the Phillies win a world championship, drove cross-country with my dad and my brother, and lived with the phrase “rock out with your cock out” pretty much all of April and May as I said “See you later” to NYC. Pretty solid. The bad: moved to Los Angeles, which, let’s face it, has essentially crippled me as a person – socially, creatively, and psychologically. Truly, the damage that this move has done to me cannot be understated. So there’s that. Which is kind of a bummer.

Still, on the whole, 2008 cannot be considered a lost year. Really, if any one of those cool things had happened – the book being revived, the promotion, the Phils’ win, or the cross-country drive – I think the year would still qualify as a “W”. All four at once is nothing short of a blessing.

Which brings us to 2009…

I can’t explain it in any other way than to say that I’ve had a pretty good run for the past 29 years, and my come-uppance is long overdue. Yes, moving to LA was a major kick in the pants, but I will be back in NYC full-time, back where I belong, by October at the latest. And if there is a silver lining about the travesty of my LA life it’s that it’s become the rehab that I thought it would: I don’t drink as much, because I don’t have many friends and so I don’t go out; I’m saving a ton of money, because I don’t have many friends and live so far away from the friends I do have but don’t want to get a DUI after hanging out with them; and I’m learning to appreciate life in a new and different way – I don’t think I’ll ever pull the “I don’t go above 23rd Street” line when I move back to NYC after commuting 2.5 hours a day. It’s funny, though – if I was leaving Los Angeles with anything, I assumed it would be an STD or a coke problem, not a greater sense of perspective. But I digress…

Somehow, in some way, I’m going to get what’s coming to me in 2009. I dare not even speculate what this means specifically, because that’s a road I don’t want to go down. But hear me now: 2009. Not gonna be a good one for old Uncle Jason. The come-uppance awaits – and it is really, really pissed off.

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Now that that wonderful piece of humor writing is finished (I mean, yikes), instead of doing some recap of 2008, below is a Six Songs: Special 2008 edition. All the songs below are songs that I either heard or got into in 2008. This doesn’t mean that the songs were released in 2008, just that they were new to me. Basically, if I had to make a 2008 playlist for myself (of only six songs), this would be it.

(Note: I’ve pimped out some of these songs on here before, but I encourage you to listen to them again, for the first time.)

Six Songs

“Poke” Frightened Rabbit
If sadness is a “bad” emotion, why is it that we are so drawn to it, specifically in art? I typically do not like to be sad, but arguably my most listened to playlist is “Sad As Fuck,” which, as the name implies, makes me sad as fuck. Do we need a good cry/sad feeling as a sort of release to maintain an emotional equilibrium? Does such sad art make us feel better about our own not-so-bad-now condition? Are we so spoiled as a civilization and a culture that we seek out sadness in art because real sadness no longer exists for us (i.e. I don’t think Jews in the Holocaust or serfs in sixteenth century England would consider creating a “Sad As Fuck” playlist)? Are we just a bunch of inherently miserable fucks who would rather secretly wallow in our own pity, wrapped up in a blanket with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, than run through a meadow holding hands with our lover? I do not know; I only took one psych class in college for about a week before dropping it and switching to “Intro to Sign Language,” in which I got an A-. At the time, a smart move on my part. But now, we are unable to answer these questions. So, sorry about that. My bad.

Aurally, this song is beautiful, ethereal, nearly perfect. It may sound cheap or incomplete to explain it thusly, but it is not so much a song, as in words tied in and blended with music, but an experience, as in when I turn it on I feel one way, and when it is over, I not only feel another way, but I feel this other way very, very deeply. In addition to the pure sound of the song, after a listen or two, it becomes clear that the lyrics are profoundly, devastatingly sad (a small sampling):

I might never catch a mouse and present it in my mouth
To make you feel you’re with someone who deserves to be with you.
But there’s one thing we’ve got going and it’s the only thing worth knowing
It’s got lots to do with magnets and the pull of the moon.

–snip–

Well we can change our partners – this is a progressive dance,
But remember it was me who dragged you up to the sweaty floor.

These words make me want to fall deeply in love, then fall horribly out of love, then fall deeply in love again, then fall even more horribly out of love. And, as stated, I typically do not like to be sad.

So a word of caution: listen at your own peril. And make sure you have a fresh pint of Oatmeal Cookie Chunk in the freezer.

(…)

(OK – enough with the sadness. Let’s focus on romance.)

“Wedding Bell” Beach House
As an overweight, hairy man with a penis no more formidable than your average contact lens case and only a very basic, limited working knowledge of female genitalia, I need all the help I can get when m’lady and I decide, hand-in-hand, to enter the musty realm of lovemaking. To this end, I have been perfecting the “Let’s Make Out or Something” playlist for several years now. This playlist was borne out of necessity; in college, I needed something to mask the sounds of my grunts and snorts while making love, lest my roommates think that two boars were fucking while they studied in the next room (well, one boar and a mannequin and/or sack of potatoes). What started as a mix CD featuring such songs as Phish’s “Waste” and a few choice U2 numbers (“All I Want Is You”, “Trying To Throw Your Arms Around the World”, etc) has evolved into a sophisticated collection of songs whose aim is to cultivate a mood that is romantic and conducive to making out without being too obvious (all this despite the title of the mix).

This song is easily the marquee 2008 addition to the LMOOS list. Dreamy, wispy, romantic without hope (“Oh, but your wish is my command”), I cannot imagine a scenario in which playing or listening to this song would not lead to making out, likely in under thirty seconds. It is not too far-fetched to conceive of walking around the city with this song loaded into a boombox, turning it on every few blocks, and watching those around you fall helplessly into each others arms, powerless against the desire to seek out physical affection from the nearest possible source. The song is just that lovely, and for this reason, is a tremendous asset to the LMOOS playlist.

As I approach 30, I have come to accept the fact that if a woman mutters “Wow” while she and I are in the bedroom, it is not because of my almost-technically-assault fingering, my poorly misguided attempts at cunnilingus, or my one-two-three-and…scene! genital-to-genital penetration, but because, invariably and always, she really digs the song that’s playing. And seriously, I am totally ok with that – I’m just happy to be getting laid.

“Emily Jean Stock” Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
This song = NYC in winter. Not the NYC of Fifth Avenue or Rockefeller Center, but the NYC of the Bowery between Delancey and the Manhattan Bridge or the NYC of 1st Ave between Houston and 4th Street. Weird to the point of being slightly alarming, but ultimately harmless and charming (“You look so neat/Every day is your birthday”). I hear it, and I’ve got a good buzz on, and it is 3am, and I am walking through the streets of the East Village and then down the Bowery to my old place, eating pizza, unable to walk in a straight line, thinking how strange and lovely it is that everything is so quiet, as I burn the roof of my mouth because I’m too drunk and too hungry to just wait for the damn slice to cool off.

“Hellodrama” What Made Milwaukee Famous
The band’s name could not be more obnoxious, but the song could not be more catchy. I pimped this one before and what I said still holds true: if I could start a band that would highlight my Elvis Costello-meets-Weezer leanings, this is exactly what our first single would sound like. I mean, exactly. I’m guaranteed to turn the volume all the way up when this song comes on in the car, which is a compliment of the highest order.

“Bring It On Home To Me (Live from Harlem Square Club)” Sam Cooke
I never thought I’d say “I wish I could have been a black man in 1963,” but if it meant I could be at this show, I think I’d take the whole racism and struggle thing and just figure it out. It’s unfair to single out one song from this album; to be appreciated, the whole album, all ten songs and thirty-four minutes, must be listened to in order to properly follow the building enthusiasm of the crowd, the growing power and confidence of the band, and the increasing swagger of Sam himself. But this song, the eighth on the album and the set, represents the zenith of the evening. Sam is…well, Sam is totally fucking spectacular, feeding off the crowd’s energy, the very pinnacle of performer without comprising the unique beauty and power of his voice. You can easily hear the crowd singing along with him, particularly at “Buried, buried in my grave!” line, and the call-and-answer “Yeah!” session toward the end had me doing 70mph after midnight in the November night of the Jersey shore and later, vodka cran in hand, sitting at the kitchen table just before the sun came up, screaming right back at Sam – I’m not sure that my hearing has fully recovered from listening to this song so loudly. Easily one of the best live performances I’ve ever heard, a singular piece of music history, and a must-have for any soul music fan (or any music fan, really).

(After reading this over, what I have written does not do justice to the “Live at the Harlem Square Club” album. I am sad about this, but also can do no better. If you were standing next to me right now, I’d give you $10 to download the whole thing. But you’re not, so you’re going to have to figure it out on your own. My last word: it is not possible to be disappointed by this music.)

“Whole Lotta Rosie” AC/DC
The best guitar player I ever met was (and still is) my buddy Mike, who I lived with the summer between my junior and senior years in college. Mike was a rock star almost accidentally: he was 6’5″, jacked, sported an unkempt mohawk, loved studying and visiting India, and absolutely crushed (in addition to being a virtuoso guitar player). I s’pose that many would describe him as a “character.”

At the time I was playing bass in college band called Royce, and, while it was fun, I didn’t really care for the music. My favorites were Elvis Costello and Squeeze; we covered Tool and Helmet extensively. Though I had been playing guitar for several years, I picked up bass to play in the band and was ok, passable, at it. The singer of the band would email a song for us to learn, I’d get the tab, download the song, and work it out. Done and done. I was in the band for the camaraderie, the free booze and the blowjob (singular – thank you Kathy at Middlebury), but not the music.

In order to help me get better at bass, Mike and I would “jam” together, usually creating nonsense songs while bombed with the help of our friend (and lyricist) Dan, songs with titles like “Monkey Man”, “Masturbation (Shit On My Chest)”, “Choco Taco”, “It’s Not My Fault I Like to Drink (It’s Not My Fault I Like to Puke Some)” and of course, the heart-wrenching “Later, Powers”, written after our buddy’s dad forced him to move out after we got an eviction notice and a $24,000 fine for damage we did to the apartment (long story).

But through all the booze-fueled sessions, the most important thing that Mike taught me was also something very simple: the best way to improve both your feel and your speed was to crank up the stereo and play along with whatever song you’re trying to learn. Sure, there’d be moments of ugliness, as you lagged behind riffs and butchered large chunks of solos, but sooner or later, you’d pick up the feel and be rocking right along. Despite the fact that I had been playing guitar for seven or so years and had been in a band for almost one, I had learned all of my songs playing just my instrument without accompaniment (stupid, I know). Mike’s rather obvious nugget not only improved my playing but also made it a lot more fun.

And then I heard this song and my penis nearly exploded.

This is a very powerful song to begin with. When a buddy asked for a few recommendations for his work-out playlist, I offered this song, with the caveat that he will likely break whatever machine he is using and possibly his own hands when this song comes on (seriously, it is that intense). I was so moved by this song when I first heard it a few months ago that I felt a strong desire to name my first-born daughter Rosie, even though the song itself is about a fat chick who fucks like a maniac. But because I’ve made out with two girls named Rose/Rosie, I can’t do it (I have a rule that I can’t name my daughter after anyone I’ve made out or done it with, which means she won’t be named Rose/Rosie, Heather, or Josh).

Last month, while packing for a three-week vacation back east, this song came on the old iTunes. I paused it before I hurt something and decided to do something I had never done before: plug in my guitar and play along with it.

I went online to get the tab and saw that the song itself, the rhythm part at least, is pretty easy – just good ol’ fashioned simple power-chord rock n’ roll. I plugged in my guitar, turned on my amp, and then put the song on my Bose iPod uber-speakers as loud as it would go.

As soon as I played the first chord with Angus & Co, three women in my neighborhood instantly orgasmed. By the time Bon screamed “You can say she’s got it all!”, my penis had already grown seven inches and was threatening my life (in both Spanish and English). By the second verse, I had somehow managed to beat up three former death row inmates and my balls were roughly the size of softballs (but much, much harder). Because of the solo, approximately eight months from now, several children will be born in the 90278 zip code with beards and propensities for 16oz cans of Budweiser, boobies, and the Philadelphia Eagles. When the song finally finished, I dropped down to do some push-ups and accidentally destroyed certain areas of northern Mexico.

So yeah, if you’re going to add this to your work-out mix, just be careful. For God’s sake, be careful.