You Can Have Her: A Slightly More Upbeat Listening Project

Most of the time, I seek music out, follow it around, hunt it down. But sometimes, on those rare occasions, it seems to seek me out; a particular song will follow me. It could be a song I had never heard, or one I hadn't heard in a while, or just one that I had quite appreciated before. It strikes you at a very deliberate moment, at least, seemingly so. And when emotion is tied to music, it is elevated to a place of veneration in my soul, and is then inextricably linked forever. For whatever reason, the song, "You Can Have Her," of which I had two versions already in my collection, that I never really thought much of, or even put the two of them together; but it was upon hearing Roy Hamilton's gospel-inspired version that the song clicked for me. What follows is a considerably less morose listening project than my past attempts, but the subject matter is not exactly jubilant, albeit the tunes are markedly more sanguine, there is a slight incongruence between the lyrics and music. The celebratory aspects of the song, I suspect, come from the realization of their partner's true nature, and the subsequent washing-of-hands that follow those kind of revelations. There is a certain burst of adrenaline that only comes from that kind of mental freedom. Succinctly put, "Good riddance," or coarsely put, "Fuck off, you lousy, low-down, two-bit dick-face." It's one hell of a release. So, throw your hands up to the heavens and let your soul be released of its demons; if only for a mere moment.

You can't really go wrong with ol' Satchmo.


Jerry Lee Louis- The yodels and ad-libs (Old Blue Eyes' swingin' 60's, lounge-y ad-libs immediately come to mind) Jerry injects along with a bit of that white-washed gospel feel makes this version a worthwhile listen.


I hate to keep using poor Johnny Rivers as my prime example of watered-down black music for white people, I mean he's no Pat Boone or anything, but I have a strange compulsion to. Plus, he seems to have covered every God-damned standard and not-so-standard ever recorded, so it kind of opens the door for that. His sound is distinct though, and I keep coming back, even though I find it for the most part, unremarkable. There must be something to that, some innate appeal...


The Righteous Brothers attempt at "You Can Have Her." No real surprises here; typical Righteous Brothers arrangement and sound. If you only heard this version, you would most likely be moved by the soulful voices, but my subjectivity is tainted on this one.


A kitschy 60's-pop version with a faint rock-a-billy tinge, by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates


I was looking for a full-on rock-a-billy version of this song of the era, to no avail. I did, however, come across a neo-rock-a-billy, punk-ish, honkey-tonkin' version by the Frantic Flintstones, which will leave you to want for naught.


This is a sort of over-produced, cheese-tastic 70's-era Elvis impersonator by the name of Orion doing the song. My preference is the Vegas, lounge-y Elvis anyway, and supposedly he did actually record an acoustic version of this song in the 70's but it only exists on hard-to-find bootlegs, and in memories. There is something about the kitsch factor of Elvis impersonators still in existence, that I just kind of dig, too.


A country version by Charlie Rich, with what I might classify as a slight Elvis undertone, actually. A good segue, in any event. And that picture is fucking priceless...What is always over to the left?


A campy recording by George Jones and Johnny Paycheck. If I close my eyes I do feel like I am in a dive honky-tonk somewhere deep in Texas, though. You can almost hear the rowdy crowd, "Woo-hoo-ing" and a-whistlin' along with the sound of beer bottles smashing in the background.


In my opinion, the definitive country version is done by Waylon Jennings. But I am partial to him anyway. This was one of the versions that sat neglected in my library before the epiphany. And may I just say, Sweet Jesus, I may be a fan of beards in general, but Waylon is damned handsome under all that scraggle.


One of a few bluegrass versions I discovered by the Canucky Bluegrass Boys.


This is a 60's Swedish cover and the only female version I could find, that I just stumbled upon. It is pretty f-ing cherry.


Dickey Bett's and Great Sourthern's concert version from the late 70's. I like it's smooth southern rock groove, and obviously his guitar-playing is enviable. The studio recording of this was the other half of the over-looked song in my archives. It is a solid rock version.


Roy Hamiliton's "You Can Have Her" is the most soulful and definitive of the lot. Not only due to the gospel arrangement, but his voice has so much power and raw emotion. It's slightly reminiscent of Jackie Wilson. Plus I am a sucker for a sexy, deep, bass voice. I just can't help it.

Put Your Little Hand in Mine: A Playlist for the Last Breed of Quixotics

As I contemplate the idea of romance being dead in America society at large, I am reminded of the zenith of sweet and sentimental love; holding of hands. Hands have always been a bit of an obsession of mine. I am immediately drawn to a man's hands when I first meet him. Are they over-sized and calloused, from years of work, or are they soft and delicate; adroit and manipulative? What would they feel like running across my porcelain surface? Would they just barely graze over or would they grasp firmly, almost to the point of pain? I have always been fanatical about my own hands, as well. I need them to be perfectly clean and dry, lotioned up, with my nails painted. I get squeamish about touching door-handles and shaking people's hands. I do have a perfect handshake, so I've been told. There is much to be gleaned from a person's handshake. Those limp, dead fish ones are the worst; they show disinterest and inefficacy. While the crush-crush-your-fingers-into-a-fine-powder handshake immediately reveals insecurity; overcompensation for perceived inadequacies. I have this bad habit, of picking and biting the side of my thumb, though. It is an anxiotic barometer. The more nervous, worried or non-nihilistic I am, the worse my thumb will look. I am fooling with it right now.

I wrote a bit on the power of hands a few blogs ago; on their ability to caress just as easily as to strangle. The ultimate symbol and last line of defense of good versus evil. So, I wanted to create a playlist that interprets some of these esoteric concepts of the mightiest of extremities. As a young girl, to me the epitome of my fantasies on love were always walking hand in hand somewhere with my imagined lover. I don't know why that so often flashed in my mind, but that's what I would dream about. Not kissing or hugging or sex, but holding hands. I guess I've never really let go of that fantasy. It's only grown more revered and monolithic the further it seems to get from actualization. Is holding hands the last dying symbol of romance? A musical attempt at an answer.

I Want to Hold Your Hand- The Beatles


Clap Hands- Tom Waits


What a Little Bit of Love Can Do- Jeff Bridges "Put your little hand in mine..."


Cherry Bomb-John Cougar Mellancamp Just for the one line, "Holdin' hands meant something, baby."


Hold My Hand, Hold My Heart- That Thing You Do! Soundtrack Here's that wall of sound scmaltz you were waiting with bated breath for...


With These Hands- Clint Walker (Jesus, who wouldn't let that sexy hunk of man let them do whatever he wanted to them? Good gravy.)


Put Your Hand in the Hand- Loretta Lynn


Will Jesus Wash the Bloodstains From Your Hands-


Take My Hand, Precious Lord- Elvis Presley


I Washed My Hands in Muddy Water- Charlie Rich


Touch the Hand- Conway Twitty


Who's Gonna Hold Her Hand- Cumberland Trio


These Hands- Johnny Cash


Daddy's Hands- Holly Dunn and Dolly Parton


Grandma's Hands- Bill Withers


Mojo Hand- Lightnin' Hopkins


Hold Your Hand in Mine- Tom Lehrer


Raise Your Hand- Janis Joplin


Hand of Fate- The Rolling Stones


Devil's Right Hand- Steve Earle


Left Hand Black- Danzig


Hand That Feeds-Nine Inch Nails


Red Right Hand- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds


Hand of Kindness- Richard Thompson


Hand in Hand- Dire Straits


Never Let Go- Tom Waits

Toast and Jam:Maybe I can actually make a living at this

Good evening and bienvenidos. For the 3/4 of the room that don't know me and would like to refer to me as something other than "that tall one," I'm Francesca, the bride's self-deprecating cousin and forever-indebted friend. I'm going to try and stumble my way through this toast without turning on the waterworks, but chances are, I'm going to look like Alice Cooper by the end of this, with mascara running in obsidian streaks down my blubbering face. I've written a few humble words to try to venerate this beautiful bride. I say humble because the succeeding flowery adjectives and schmaltzy lines, though heart-felt and firmly mounted in the highest esteem, are, but mere shadows compared to actuality. I found it hard to articulate just how wonderful and meaningful Amber is, not just to me, but to anyone that knows her. To know her, truly is, to love her. So it is with deference and modesty that I attempt to do her justice here tonight.

Am is one of the kindest, warmest and most caring people you could ever be lucky enough to come across in this jaded and dizzying world. She is empathetic and sweet; bubbly and vivacious. She has the most fabulously infectious laugh that makes you want to laugh right along with her. She has this remarkable way about her, you just can't help, but be happy around her. She is so positive and full of life that it just radiates and flickers like a glinting column of white hot sun cutting through the tempestuous, iron-grey storm clouds of a dreary and mirthless afternoon. The juxtaposition of which is so brilliantly effulgent, you almost have to avert your eyes. I've always envied her endearing, subtle innocence. It has been the ideal temper to my pervasive cynicism.

We've not only grown up together, but have shared more experiences that I can possibly recount in a hefty volume, let alone a toast, however garrulous or rambling. But there are definitely some particular memories that shine like beacons in the dark recesses of my mind. I'll never forget the trips up north in those scorching July summers of our youth. I definitely will never forget the putrid smell of milk rotting in the noon-day sun as it soaked into the thirsty polyester fibers of the mini-van's thick carpeting, that you mistakenly got blamed for, even though it was totally Grandma. I just happened to be listening to "Georgie Boy" by Rod Stewart the other day. I was immediately transported back to those rose-tinted north bound trips and found that I had tears in my eyes. Those are still some of the best memories I have on record. The countless sleepovers, where we would stay up to watch Saturday Night Live back in its prime, singing the "Turkey in a Shoe" song over and over. I don't know how many times we rewound the "lay by the bay" scene in Happy Gilmore and laughed our asses off until two in the morning. As it turns out, "Grizzly Adams did have a beard." Or the time in middle school where we sat in my basement eating raw fund-raiser cookie dough out of a three pound tub and contemplated life. God, we were just kids then, but, of course, we thought we had it all figured out. I still maintain that some of those afternoon sugar-high induced revelations were pretty spot-on, though. We've contemplated life many times since and no matter how far away we were or how busy our separate lives seemed to be, whenever we got together, it was like no time had passed at all, like nothing had changed. We were still those two goofy kids fighting over Barbies and playing Mall Madness. It was like coming home.

Whether she knows it or not, this girl saved my life once. She unknowingly pulled me back from the brink of a gripping, despondent melancholy just by sharing a box of Golden Grahams and a few laughs with me one cold, wintry afternoon, not so long ago. It was her simple kind gesture and thought that finally cracked my icy catatonia. Her warmth and compassion were the much-needed tonic to my morose stupor. But that's just Amber. Like I said, she just has that way about her, that hard-to-define luminescence that makes you feel good and immediately at ease whilst in her aura.

I absolutely believe it's those little nuances that define the content of one's character. And Amber, honestly, has more character and heart pouring out of her than anyone I've ever known. I don't know how to vehemently express just how much you mean to me. I can say with conviction, that I am a better person for knowing you, though. With your sparking copper eyes, your olive-tanned skin and the aforementioned attributes, you truly are a beautiful person both inside and out. You are undeniably an all-weather friend, there for both the good times and bad, through feast and famine; sun or sleet. You've helped me more than you will ever know. Moreover, I just have had so much God-damned fun with you throughout the years. You are so much more than my cousin, more than my friend, you are my sister; my sister-in-arms. I'm so glad you've found that one person you can spend the rest of your life with, that fulfills you, that makes you soul-satisfyingly happy. I'm so honored to be a part of this day and in some small way share in this future memory with you.

And to the groom, a little advice: always check for bones in her pizza, keep on eye out for big, fat, slimy toads in the road and most importantly, take damn good care of her because she really is one-in-a-million. I love ya, Am. I wish you both all the happiness of five lifetimes, because God knows you deserve it. So let's raise a glass to these lovebirds and to the most potent of all elixirs, love itself. May love's fire burn eternal in the attics of your heart and the cellars of your soul. With the being said, let's fiesta. Bottoms up!