Due to a few technical difficulties, this blog platform became hard to manage. I now do my blogging over at Time for Good Behavior, mostly focusing on music and other less inflammatory material. Of course, I still have strong thoughts about the city blowing millions of dollars on hare-brained projects pushed by wealthy developers, wealthy contractors, and bush-league politicians, but I’ve lost my determination to voice those thoughts to those who don’t want to hear them. The political thing was good fun, and I’m proud of most of the positions I took, but now I’m focusing more on the positive.
On first, shallow listen, this album reminded me of early-eighties new wave – the fun, mostly thoughtless music that I enthusiastically enjoyed in college. More specifically, it reminded me of Fun at the Zoo, a non-influential band from Colorado College that a friend shared with me via vinyl EP. Such antiquated fun! Back in the day, the music was clever, hooky, upbeat and fun.
Radiator Hospital keeps the hyper drums, the jangly guitars, and the utter danceability, but, damn, who pissed on their cornflakes?
The first hint that something is amiss comes from the front man’s voice, as aggressively flat as a mountain-top strip-mined for coal. Sam Cook-Parrott is no Sam Cooke – he calls to mind the nasal flatness of John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats.
Then you listen to the lyrics, and no wonder he’s not belting them out with energy and pop inflections you would anticipate from the party-band music. “When I walk out my front door, I feel the rain as it hits my face. I see the broken flower vase. I see the leather and the lace. One last bird is flying to the tree; the water’s weighing down its wings. I see the way your body language changes. I see the way you look at me and the pain it brings.” Well, alrighty then, I guess I shouldn’t be expecting to hear those lyrics in the tones of Adam Ant or Thomas Dolby.
Maybe the key contrast is the energetic music and the downer lyrics sung flat. I think the contrast is necessary – the album would be an unbearable slit-your-wrist exercise in moping without it, and it would be dishonest bubble gum if they matched the music with “I just wanna dance” lyrics.
The great thing about this album is that the contrast works brilliantly. The music has your head bobbing like a teenager, but the mind in that head is dealing with broken relationships, the harm you cause to those you love, and the failing idealism of adulthood. Here’s a quotation from the lead singer, reflecting on the difference between this album and their prior album, Something Wild:
This is not a happy or idealistic album. I think the overriding message of Something Wild, even with the sad songs, was that you can still hope and dream. I think this record is the opposite. What happened in the outside world while you were dreaming?
The closing track on the album, Midnight Nothing, encompasses the conflict:
“It was a little after midnight when the first few drops fell. Did you feel them honey, or did you feel nothing? I’m forgetting faster than I ever thought I could. I’m learning I can give up trying to do good. The stars out here shine pretty, they are numerous and pure. I never cry, I never scream, I know I should.
There’s a lot of great writing on this album, and the lyrics are lacerating and sincere. “I could be strong for you. I could be wrong for you. I could be anything you’d like. I’m not fine, but I’m alright.” That’s good stuff. There’s a lot of good stuff in this album.
You can get this album from the band’s website, and name your own price. Since it was something new from a band I had never listened to, I only paid $8. I should have paid more for the enjoyment it has given me!
Next up: Brill Bruisers, by the New Pornographers (out Tuesday)
This album is polished, cool, über-professional and well-written. The musical performances are perfect, the background vocals are spot-on, and Jenny Lewis occupies a unique point in the triangle of rock, pop and country. The album is great, really great. Robin agrees, and her review lauds Jenny Lewis’ varied and personal songs.
But . . .
There’s something missing here for me. Everything is so perfectly enunciated, the harmonies exactly perfect that the album lacks a real soul. She covers some rocky, gritty territory – 9/11, her own infidelity, her ambivalence toward maternity, drug use – but nothing shakes her out of her pitch-perfect controlled presentation. She is the anti-Janis Joplin – Jenny Lewis uses pretty much the same calm tone of voice to cover the whole range. I think Jenny Lewis would be my new favorite female artist if she hung out for a while with Chrissie Hynde and loosened up a bit.
So, I’m quibbling with her perfectionist streak. And, really, that is only noticeable if you listen carefully to the entire album. Individually, each of the songs is either very good or great. In fact, this album probably has the highest percentage of really great, interesting songs of any album we’ve reviewed. If my only complaint about an album is that it is too perfect, you’re probably safe to disregard me and go ahead and love it.
One of the highlights on the album is “She’s Not Me”, in which she yearns for a lover who is settling for someone “easy” after she
destroyed it all
When I told you I cheated
And you punched through the drywall
I took you for granted
The murmuring guitar behind the vocals on that one is a highlight, too.
“Just One of the Guys” runs over some emotionally-challenging ground with a jaunty melody. Lewis sings of her ambivalence about having a baby.
No matter how hard I try to be just one of the guys
There’s a little something inside that won’t let me!
No matter how hard I try to have an open mind
There’s a little clock inside that keeps tickin’!
There’s only one difference between you & me:
When I look at myself all I can see
I’m just another lady without a BABY
No matter how hard I try to be just one of the guys
There’s a little something inside that won’t let me!
No matter how hard I try to have an open mind
There’s a little cop inside that prevents me!
The song is a masterwork of ambivalence, and could be one of my top songs of the year.
Lush strings open the last song and title track of the album, The Voyager, and it is a great song, full of yearning and mystery and loss. It’s a beautiful way to end an album full of difficult situations.
Next up: Torch Song, by Radiator Hospital
The problem with trying to be open-minded about trying different genres of music is that every now and then you collide with something you just can’t like, even though there’s nothing wrong with it at all. “Put Your Needle Down” is a great title for an album – at least for those of us who remember the connection between needles and music – and the critics love it, but it just didn’t grab me.
If you love music by the Everly Brothers and well-wrought harmonies by women singing songs that could have come off the radio in 1960, this album will appeal to you.
There’s nothing really bad I can say about this album – and that’s pretty unusual for me. But, here’s further evidence that I’m not just being a narrow-minded jerk – Robin didn’t like it either! She has a huge bias in favor of pretty-voiced women singing vocal-dominated tracks. You should see her swig chamomile tea when Carole King sings “Boys in the Trees” (oh, wait, was that Carly Simon? – my bad).
I want to assign flaws to this album, but I can’t. It wasn’t monotonous – the Sisters covered a pretty good range of styles with aplomb. It wasn’t self-absorbed crap – the songs were approachable and understandable. It wasn’t anything bad at all – it just didn’t grab me.
There’s something to be learned here, I think, about the limits to my own taste. I don’t like sweet potatoes or pineapple. I can’t argue that those are bad foods – people with good taste love both of those foods, but I don’t. The Secret Sisters are sonic pineapple for me. Go read the positive reviews and if you think you would enjoy cleverly written songs sung well in traditional styles by pretty female voices, you should probably get a copy of this album. But I think I’ll take a pass, if that’s alright.
Next up: Voyager, by Jenny Lewis
This album is like having a serious talk with an old friend who has eaten a pound bag of skittles and slammed a pint of espresso. Touching and meaningful, but out of control and a bit deranged. It’s brilliant, fun stuff, and it gets better each time you listen to it. Robin likes it, too, but that’s partially because she’s fascinated by Lazarettos, which were quarantine areas for people with communicable diseases. She’s a Public Health nerd who appreciates great music, so this is right up her alley.
Everything I have to say about this album ought to come with an asterisk, because as much as I loved it, I only listened to the MP3 version. It wasn’t till this morning that I found out about the Ultra Vinyl edition, which sounds like a complete mind-blower, with one side playing from the inside out, 3 different speeds, dual grooves that give you different intros to a song, tracks on the label, a hologram and more.
Jack White is obsessive about his music, as in, just this side of the nuthouse passionate about what he’s doing. It doesn’t surprise me that some are calling the album unhinged and messy, but they’re saying more about their unwillingness to go there than they are about the album itself. This album throws everything at you, and if you’re not able or willing to catch it all, I wouldn’t blame the pitcher.
The album starts off in classic style with “Three Women”, a funky and fun tribute to infidelity with three (red, blonde hair, and brunette) women, and closes with a bit of common-sense braggadocio –
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking
What gives you the right?
Well, these women must be getting something
Cause they come and see me every night”
It’s a joyful romp with exuberant guitar work throughout. In the next song, “Lazaretto”, the title track justifies his unwillingness to settle into one groove for the album – “And even God herself has fewer plans than me/But she never helps me out with my scams for free, though/She grabs a stick and then she pokes it at me.” This guy is clearly driven to create. If you’re keeping score, this one goes from rap to rock via a great guitar solo and strains of violin.
The most wonderfully insane song on the album is “Black Bat Licorice”, which starts out with a female vocalist telling him to “Behave yourself”, but he shakes loose from that advice and goes nuts with grinding guitars and jumpy bass work. His lyrics deal with the line of insanity, and he yearns for a more peaceful existence away from the voices in his head – “Don’t you want to lose the part of the brain that has opinions?/To not even know what you are doing, or care about yourself or your species in the billions.”
This album is not pure adrenaline – it has its slower songs, such as the closer, “Want and Able”, a folksy parable that addresses desire and ability as two characters, and ends with an awful lyric that makes you go back and listen again to this manic album of loss and pain:
Now, Want and Able are two different things
One is desire, and the other is the means
Like I wanna hold you, and see you, and feel you in my dreams
But that’s not possible, something simply will not let me
At only 39 minutes, this is a short album, but it’s probably the biggest album I’ve listened to all year. Musically, it features an absoute virtuoso working his hardest at a creative peak. Lyrically, it’s serious but not self-serious, and there’s a lot of fun in it. I know after spending one week with this album that it is going to stay with me as one of the best albums in my collection.
Up next: Put Your Needle Down, by The Secret Sisters
First, sorry for the extended unexcused absence. Visiting children, insane work schedules, business travel and sheer distraction knocked us off our weekly schedule. But we’re back, and Chrissie Hynde takes us way back.
In reviewing this album, you can go one of two ways. First I should point out that this is simply a dose of Chrissie Hynde as herself. Unlike George Michael calling in a symphony, or Snoop becoming a Lion, or Band of Horses going acoustic, this is Chrissie Hynde sounding a lot like she did when I kind of fell in love with her in the early 80s.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
It’s bad because there’s no progress – no growth – no freshness.
It’s good because it’s music that sounds great and feels even better.
Either view has its merits, but I’m sticking with the good side. It’s Chrissie freaking Hynde, for Pete’s sake, and her voice still has that velvety touch of aching and that snarling toughness. Nobody can argue that this album is anything less than a solid rock and roll effort. It could be argued that there isn’t anything on it that will become a classic like “Back on the Chain Gang” or “Brass in Pocket”, but I’m not so sure that’s true. A few of these songs have stuck with me for the past several weeks, and if you listen to this album, you’ll probably have a few stick in your brain. “Dark Sunglasses”, “Adding the Blue” or “You’re the One” are worthy of prime placement on anyone’s playlist.
This is billed as a solo album, but it’s not one of those self-indulgent “artiste” things where Hynde went off and played hermit alone with a bunch of instruments. This is a collaboration, including excellent instrumentalists and even a cameo from Neil Young in “Down the Wrong Way”.
Even better than bringing in Neil Young was the appearance of John McEnroe. Yes, that John McEnroe! And, if you’re a longtime lover of Hynde and the Pretenders, you’ll remember when she blasted off “Pack it Up” with “You’re the pits of the world!” – a quotation of bad-boy tennis star John McEnroe from Wimbledon in 1981. McEnroe does a creditable job working the guitar in “A Plan to Far”.
Go ahead and point out that John McEnroe is washed up as a tennis player, if you want to be a jerk about it. Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy the music and be happy that Chrissie Hynde is still having fun with her bass-driven rock songs. I liked her sound in 1980, and I still do.
Maybe Chrissie Hynde could show some growth by taking up the piano and singing about arteriosclerosis, but I’m glad she’s 62 and still rocking. She’s still “special”, if you ask me.
Robin didn’t enjoy this album nearly as much as I did, and she questions the sincerity of a hooky, bouncy Chrissie Hynde. Honestly, she makes some good points, but Robin was always too nice to fully embrace the black leather snarl of someone like Chrissie. Some things never change, and I’m okay with that. (PS: Robin says this makes her sound like a wimp. It’s not a fair characterization, if so. She was listening to Frank Zappa when I was listening to Billy Joel.)
Up next: Lazaretto, by Jack White
Vari-Colored Songs is the best example of why I LOVE the fact that half the albums of our weekly series are chosen by Robin. I would never have chosen this album. Even if I had stumbled across it and listened to a few songs, I’m pretty sure I would not have given it a chance to win me over the way it has. Robin has great taste, though, and it is different enough from mine that it brings me places I would never go otherwise. I count myself lucky to have a partner in this project and in all others who helps me see and react to a broader world.
Why would I have been close-minded to this album if left to my own devices? Perhaps because the cynic in me struggles with the earnestness of a project like this. Leyla McCalla is a classically-trained cello player who tours with the Carolina Chocolate Drops. This album comes from a Kickstarter project in which she wrote: “What began several years ago as an inspired idea to set a Langston Hughes poem to music, has since flowered into a very personal exploration of African-American and Haitian history through song. Vari-Colored Songs is an album that has been waiting at least 5 years to be made! The moment is ripe and the momentum is strong!!!”
You’ve got to admit the cynical me has a point. Langston Hughes tends to bring out the worst in people, and a middle-aged white male Irish-Polish-American might not find much flowering in a “very personal exploration of African-American and Haitian history through song.” I mean, the cynical me has no problem at all with Leyla McCalla, born in New York to Haitian parents, doing personal exploration, but I’ll be just fine sticking to my own personal exploration through the Elders and maybe some Flogging Molly. I think there’s a bit of cultural segregationist in each of us at some level. Perhaps not, in which case there’s my confessional.
But Robin signed me up for this “very personal exploration,” like it or not, and sure enough, I wound up enthusiastic about stuff way outside my normal zone. This is a great album with arrangements that are so naked that it feels voyeuristic to listen in on them. She has a tremendous warm voice that she trusts to engage naturally – no histrionics or bogus vibrato. It is personal, as promised, but welcoming.
Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the album is how well the poetry of Langston Hughes adapts to song form. I have an almost unlistenable CD of WB Yeats’ poetry performed by the Waterboys (see, I told you about that Irish side of me!) where they approach the poems as something separate from themselves. They treat them reverently and, as a result, the album is not much more fun that a dusty seminar. In songs like Songs for a Dark Girl and Too Blue, though, Leyla McCalla just flat out inhabits the poems and makes them her own. Too Blue is downright funny – and McCalla was wise to perceive the humor in the poem and bring it out front and center.
TS Eliot, a fellow Missourian to Langston Hughes, wrote that “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.” (Go read the article if you like that quotation – the author was annoyed by the frequent misquotation attributed to Picasso, and tracked down the truth.) I’m not sure that McCalla really makes Hughes different – I think she enhances him and makes us love his words on a different level.
There’s much more than Langston Hughes on this album – several Haitian folk songs and some great string music. They’re so enjoyable that my mind doesn’t even struggle to decipher the foreign language – I wind up just shutting that part of my brain down and enjoying the sound.
Next up: Stockholm, by Chrissie Hynde (We have a lot going on in the real world this week, and this album won’t be released till Tuesday, so we might wind up taking a week off. Or not. We’ll see!)
In this series of reviews, I’ve often liked an album and bluntly stated to everyone out there that they should go buy it. This isn’t one of those albums, even though I enjoyed it a lot. If punk is not your cup of tea musically or if you’re going to struggle with the subject of transgender life, you’re probably not going to like this album. I enjoyed it a lot, but I won’t be handing it out for Christmas gifts the way I did A Charlie Brown Christmas one year.
The lead singer of Against Me! is Laura Jane Grace, though she used to be Tom Gabel until she began the medical journey necessary to become a woman. Tom Gabel and Against Me! were already a successful punk band – I was confused when I heard tracks off this album, because the only album I knew from this album was The Original Cowboy, from when the lead singer sounded more male.
This music is not for everyone, but if you give it a try, there’s a decent chance you’ll find yourself sing-shouting “They just see a faggot” or crooning “You don’t worry about tomorrow anymore/Because you’re dead”. That’s one of the funny things about punk or hip-hop music – they lead middle-aged, balding, middle-class chubby guys to forget all that for 3 or 4 minutes, and inhabit a completely different space.
The completely different space of Transgender Dysphoria Blues is not a “nice” place to visit, so don’t buy the album if you’re not willing to listen to tales of death-focus, gender-struggle, anger and suicide. I’d be hard-pressed to say why I enjoy the album so much – is it morbid curiosity, empathy, or vague remembrance of the darker thoughts of teenaged years? While shifting from male to female is not something universal, being pissed off at the world to the extent of “I want to piss on the walls of your house” expressed an emotion even this “gone mild” personality can recall.
For me, the most upsetting song is “Two Coffins” – also the prettiest acoustic number on the album. In it, Laura Jane Grace tenderly sings of her little daughter, and how they will both eventually die: “In the dark of our graves/ our bodies will decay/ I wish you’d never change.” Damn! I certainly know the bittersweet feeling of watching my children grow and wishing they could stay young and sheltered longer, but this song takes that universal parental emotion to a much creepier place. I wish the joyous lyric “How lucky I ever was to see/The way that you smiled at me/Your little moon face shining bright at me” weren’t immediately followed by “One day soon there’ll be nothing left of you and me”. This is unsparing music, to say the least.
And that has always been part of the weird attraction of punk rock for me. It smacks you upside the head with your own boundaries of what can be said. That’s a shared trait with good hip-hop, but whereas hip-hop tends to shock you with violence and misogyny, punk tackles politics, death, existence and, in this particular album, gender.
Sometimes the attitude is downright perversely funny. There’s something kind of funny about “Drinking with the Jocks”, even though the song is about alienation. “Osama Bin Laden as the Crucified Christ” is dark, dark humor with its in-your-face shock value.
Yikes, I’m at 550+ words, and I haven’t really talked about the sound, which I love. My recollection of punk is that the musicianship tended to be more energetic than competent, but Against Me! is a tight band with a catchy sound. I mentioned the prettiness of “Two Coffins” – you could rewrite that song with gentle lyrics and have an acoustic alt-country hit. Other songs feature drums that are exuberant, and some really enjoyable guitar work. This may be the best sounding punk album that I’ve ever listened to. Faint praise, indeed, but the music on this album ranks up there as really good rock music. I’m looking forward to seeing them live later this summer.
Next up: Vari-Colored Songs: Tribute to Langston Hughes, by Leyla McCalla
I read somewhere that an interviewer asked St. Vincent why she named her album eponymously, and she explained that MIles Davis wrote in his biography that the hardest thing in music is to sound like yourself. She feels like this album sounds like her, so she named it St. Vincent.
That’s a fine notion, and a good explanation, but it morphs into something a little more weird when you recall that St. Vincent’s real name is Annie Clark. Without pushing the point too hard, I think it could be argued that the album St. Vincent is one step away from truly personal, but it’s a damned good invention. I think it’s another instance of St. Vincent being just a touch more subtle and clever than most people recognize.
My suggestion that she’s kind of playing with us is borne out, I think, by the many references to her stage life in the album. In Severed Crossed Fingers, there’s “When your calling ain’t calling back to you/I’ll be side-stage mouthing lines for you.” In Prince Johnny, “We’re all sons of someone’s/I wanna mean more than I mean to you/I wanna mean more than I meant to him/So I pray to all to make me a real girl.” In Digital Witness she complains, “Digital witnesses/What’s the point of even sleeping/If I can’t show if you can’t see me.” I could pull more examples from the lyrics, but she explains what she’s getting at in an interview I found: “Anything that knows it is being watched changes its behaviour. We are now so accustomed to documenting ourselves and so aware that we are being watched and I think psychologically that takes a strange toll . . . ”
Enough of the talk of self-awareness – this is a great album. So great that it’s hard to choose a favorite song, or even a least-favorite song. They’re all kind of brilliant, and they cover a wide range of style from a touching soft homage to her mother (“I Prefer Your Love”) to jaunty dance tunes and ethereal sound splashes.
Robin seems pretty enthralled with this album – and, who knows, it might lead her to pick up her own guitar and imitate some of St. Vincent’s work?
I want to be cautious about tossing comparisons around, because I think it’s insulting to artists to say that they sound like someone else when they are trying to communicate in their own fashion. How many male singer/songwriters get referred to as Dylan or Young or Petty if they sound a bit nasally, even if they’re dishing out reasonably fresh treatments to different themes?
That said, I want to give you an idea of what you’ll hear when you buy this album, as you really should. “Huey Newton” shares sonic similarities with “”You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette, but it’s a lot more fun. “Rattlesnake” sounds like Annie Lennox in a cathedral. “Digital Witness” has Blondie in its bloodline. But, truly, St. Vincent puts her own spin on these masters – she’s not imitating anyone, and why would she?
One other aspect of this album that I found refreshing and encouraging is her use of sexuality. The very first words you hear on the album are, “Follow the power-lines back from the road/No one around so I take off my clothes/Am I the only one in the only world?” The great thing is, though, that she doesn’t go that way with the song – the nakedness is merely a factual element of her sense of fear and vulnerability in nature. She’s not singing about being naked so that she will come off as some sexy vixen – she felt like communing with nature and got scared by the sound of a rattlesnake. You might be able to do some Freudian analysis on that song, but it is proudly NOT coquettishly sexy. It’s great to see a contemporary pop singer flat out refuse to play sexy for us. Then, she follows it up by starting the next song with “Oh, what an ordinary day/Take out the garbage, masturbate/I’m still holding for the laugh.” She’s daring us to try to box her into some sexy starlet pigeonhole, because that’s not who she is.
Annie Clark is profoundly self-aware and wildly intelligent, so, yeah, I think she’s jerking our chains when she says “I sound like myself on this record.” She knows she sounds like St. Vincent.
Next up: Transgender Dysphoria Blues, by Against Me!
EBT is simply one of the best restaurants in Kansas City, with no qualifications necessary. It achieves its preeminence with nary a nod toward culinary fashion or glance at what they are doing on the coasts. If everything old is new again, then EBT deserves a fresh wave of admiration for daring to remain steadfastly focused on serving outstanding food with spot-on service.
It’s too easy to write EBT off as a museum piece – a relic of the slightly post Mad-Men era. The conclusion is a short hop, not even a jump, given that the space includes actual relics from the long-gone Emery Bird and Thayer downtown department store, and the restaurant is located in the lobby of Kansas City’s most old school banking institution, UMB. Yes, there is a museum-like quality to the space, and the space only enhances a classic menu.
Some could look at this menu and conclude that EBT has fallen behind the times, but that would be a mistake. Instead, the menu should be admired for its display of discipline in focusing on the elegant classics that have withstood the test of time. It would be a simple thing to jazz up the Pepper Steak by substituting something trendier like venison or at least bison, and the chef might earn hipster points if he used to rye whiskey instead of brandy, but that’s not what EBT is about. It’s great to show creativity and to riff off the classics, but EBT is dedicated to actually doing the classics.
When I say that your grandparents would love EBT, I’m not implying that the fresh-baked rolls and exquisitely crisp buttered garlic toast points are dull or old-fashioned; I am saying that your grandparents will recognize a sense of composure and dignity not often found in a hype-driven restaurant world. When they wheel up the cart to make the Caesar salad tableside, it’s not an homage, it is a well-presented freshly dressed salad with meticulously dried lettuce so that the pungent anchovy-laced dressing will cling to every leaf. Bone-dry lettuce is a detail that gets overlooked in 99% of restaurants where salads are pre-chilled and gather condensation on the way to your table. EBT does it right, and is one of the very few in KC who even know there’s a difference.
As you can see from the menu, this classicism doesn’t come cheap, but it does come with outstanding service. Paul took great care of us, and the hostess kept our water glasses and bread plate full. (I forgot to mention the whipped butter – so good for spreading! Why do other restaurants slap a chunk of stiff cold butter in front of you and expect you to figure out a way to consume it without shredding your bread?) It was half-price wine night, and we relied on Paul’s recommendation of a hearty red which turned out to be Simi’s “Landslide”, a tannic counterpoint to my rich, rich, rich Osso Bucco. Robin had the appetizer portion of vegetable risotto with diver’s scallops as her entree, and the scallops were caramelized on the outside with a perfectly cooked interior. She proclaimed them among the best she’s ever had.
We walked in joking about lime jello and meatloaf. We walked out “wowed” by a fantastic meal from an overlooked gem of a restaurant. Rye, Julia(n), Story, the American, Bluestem and Justus Drugstore will continue to capture attention and ink with their great razzle-dazzle meals, but if you want to sit down to the classic Kansas City restaurant experience without a micro-green or piece of artisanal offal in sight, head down to 435 and State Line. And bring your parents or grandparents, too.