Musik Polis

I might be the only person in the world who associates Radiohead with Stockholm in the winter.

But from now on, when I listen to this album, I will remember huge snowflakes silently drifting outside the window of my sleek minimalist hotel room. And steamy cafe lattes. And words with oomlauts and strange symbols. And lots of cigarette smoke.

As mentioned in my main site (LynnZee.com), I lost about 10 years of music when I had my kids. I just stopped listening, although some decent bands did seep in. Sometimes I heard stuff in passing and thought "Wow, I like that..." never to hear it again, the music eclipsed by diaper changes, nap times, and the need for sleep or an orderly house. Anyway, for the past year I've been trying to catch up with the 10 years of music I overlooked. And Radiohead falls into that category.

The band first came to my attention recently via Wil Wheaton's blog. I put it on my list of "music I want to check out," but never got around to it until the OK Computer album waited serendipitously in my room here at the Hotel Rival in Stockholm earlier this week.

I've come across several now-favorite bands/albums in this way; in reading blogs or articles. For instance, I'd never heard of Fugazi until Keanu Reeves mentioned the band in an article. He mentioned all the groups I loved in the late 80s and early 90s (Joy Division, Violent Femmes, The Clash, blah blah blah) and Fugazi. Fugazi, who the hell is that? And then I discovered -- oh yeah, the group that did Waiting Room (a song I loved at the time but had no reference for). Not to mention The Pixies (damn, that's who did that Monkey Gone to Heaven song, sheeeeiiit). It has been so great filling in that gap in my musical knowledge, because the last thing I want to be is a dinosaur.

Anyway, I can't even begin to tell you how well Radiohead goes with a snowy afternoon in Stockholm.

So well, in fact, that I went into a sort of trance and wrote a new poem.

OK, it's rough. I usually don't publish my rough work. But what the hell. First of all, this has nothing to do with me personally. People often think that poems are always personal. Well yeah, some are, but then some are fiction -- just based on an idea or an image. And that's what this one is. I'll polish it up and probably even change it to some extent when I get home. But for now, here it is:


Stockholm, February, 5:15

It got too loud
so I made it snow
soft white flakes
to cushion the blows
to silence our steps
and make us sleep
among the frozen
poppies, so when
we open our eyes
to a world in
monochrome,
overexposed
you would be
the warm yellow
light bathed in
reds and blues, so
you would be
the great crackling
fire in the
warm cushioned
room, the only thing
I saw, the
only one my
heart could not
refuse.