The sound of that song one can see where the Bad Girls and Hot Stuff songs came from.  They are still danceable, yet they aren’t just these ethereal beats with lots of repetitive vocals (Love To Love You, for example has a minimal lyric) — it’s much more of a full-fledged song, with a danceable beat, much like Bad Girls and Hot Stuff would be on her next album.

Then there’s this song… a sort of disco power ballad:

The album produced just one minor hit, (a song I happen to like very much):

Again, with that song, I think you’ll notice that the sound is more Bad Girls disco than Love To Love You Disco.

Finally, there’s the ballad.  It’s a song that’s bluesy, and soulful, even a bit danceable…and I’ve always wished she’d done an album of songs with a similar feel:

Reblogged from NoonTime Photography:

In 1975, the year after her first album was released, her first U.S. album was released, and a career was launched.  The first single from the album wass the infamous Love To Love You Baby, that long song that took up the entire side one of the album, ran nearly 17-minutes in length, and featured more than twenty simulated orgasms.   There are shorter, edited versions available, remixes, remixes of remixes, and I’m sure you’ve heard the song once or twice.  Sure, it’s catchy, and fun, but, really, it’s not one of my favorites — it’s a long song, with not a lot of lyrics, which, I suppose was part of the intent.

Side Two of the album had a rather different sound, like this song, Pandora’s Box, which sounds more like the songs from her first album:

In 1976, Donna released two albums, A Love Trilogy, and Four Seasons of Love.  The Trilogy album was based on the same formula as Love to Love You Baby, with side one of the album being taken up by one long track, Try Me, I Know We Can Make It, a nearly 18-minute disco dancestravaganza, minus the orgasmic wailings.  The second side contained five songs, one of which is a disco version of a Barry Manilow song (compete with a few more orgasms), though, omitted for this performance:

I include Could It Be Magic because it’s fun, yet, also to say the following: her next album, Four Seasons of Love, sounds much like this song.  There are four songs, one for each season, telling the tale of the four seasons of a love story.  I think it’s my least favorite album, as there’s no variety to it — the songs are pretty interchangeable.  It was an album without any hits.  So, we’ll just skip right by, shall we?  (Sorry, Donna…. still LOVE you though!)

I Remember Yesterday, released in 1977 , is, probably, my favorite album of this period of her career.  It’s concept was to look at music, past, present, future.  For the past, a blend of musical stylest: one song mixes disco with a 1920s flair, and another mining disco with a 1950s beach-party music feel.  Then, there’s the ballad — the first true ballad to appear on one of her albums.   And, what a ballad:

And, then, there’s The Song.  It’s the closing song of the album, and was meant to represent the future. It’s the song that got the whole world dancing, and changed the sound of music forever.  Wikipedia provides an anecdote from David Bowie about the song:

According to David Bowie, then in the middle of recording of his Berlin Trilogy with Brian Eno, its impact on the genre’s direction was recognized early on:

One day in Berlin … Eno came running in and said, “I have heard the sound of the future.” … he puts on “I Feel Love,” by Donna Summer … He said, “This is it, look no further. This single is going to change the sound of club music for the next fifteen years.” Which was more or less right.”^[5]

Let’s count them, shall we:

November-December = 1
December-January=2
January-February=3
February-March=4
March-April=5
April-May=6

Six, yes, six months.

Maybe if you’ve not ever broken into a panic at the thought that you might not make it to the liquor store before it closes, or if you’ve never lovingly caressed a big, full-to-the-rim glass of Scotch of Whiskey, or if you’ve never counted the hours until you could have your next drink, then, maybe, six months without a drink doesn’t seem like a big deal.

But, to me, it’s a really big deal.

Though, in a way, it’s just a sad reminder that I’ve managed to kick yet another addiction.

I spent most of my teenage years, and my early twenties addicted to sex.  I know there are those who think sexual addiction is just an excuse, a way to say “It wasn’t me who cheated, honey.  I just couldn’t control it.  It was like my dick was ruling my brain.”  Let’s be real.  If you’re a man, chances are pretty good your penis has an inordinate amount of control over your brain.  This is not the same as sex addiction.  Being addicted to sex is not just about the sex — it’s about the search for it, the conquest, the interaction, the act, the climax, the shirking of responsibilities because you’re too busy looking, conquesting, having, climaxing.  Sex addiction is just like any other addiction: it’s using something to deaden the pain.  For me, it was about feeling loved and needed, even if it were only for an hour.  I’m not sure that I overcame this addiction, it’s more like I just stopped.  Suddenly having sex in cars, in bathhouses, in the bed of someone you’ve known only ten minutes, suddenly it all seemed to lose it’s thrill.  Maybe it was just the realization that having sex with someone doesn’t mean they need you.  Or love you.  Once I realized that the guy could be having sex with anyone, that I just happened to be in the right place and the right time, that it was convenient and that I was more than willing, well…  what was the point after that?

Then there was the gambling.  That one was tough to kick.  My then partner and I wracked up nearly $90,000 in credit card debt (ahhh… the good old days, when credit cards just showed up in the mail).  Now, not all of that money was for gambling.  There were computers, antiques, books (the one addiction I’ll never break), some home repairs.  But, I think it’s safe to say that at least half of it went into various slot machines around the country.  That addiction was easier to break once my partner and I spilt up — together we fueled each other’s need, apart, I was able to control my impulse better.  It wasn’t easy.  Even now, the sounds of a slot machine can make me reach for my wallet.  But, I know when to stop.

Cigarette smoking has been the toughest.  Sammy Davis, Jr, used to say something along the lines of “I’ve kicked the coke, and the booze, but, the cigarettes just won’t let go.”   And, that’s so very true.  It’s been almost ten years since I quit smoking, and not a day goes by that I don’t want one.  Forget the bullshit people tell you about how good they feel, about how much better food tastes.  Lies.  All lies.  I felt no better, and food tastes the same.  Maybe we just have to lie to ourselves sometimes, claim to feel better, in order to convince ourselves not to go back to the habit.

I feel like I should say that quitting drinking was tough, that it was the roughest thing I’ve done.  It wasn’t though.  It was not fun. I felt like I wanted to die for the first few days, and felt like shit for the next few months. But, I never felt the need to have ‘just one’ to take off the edge.  I think, in the past six months, I’ve had maybe four or five real cravings for some Johnny Walker.  But, the craving didn’t last long.  I do feel better, though, I still don’t sleep — my doctor thought that giving up the booze would make sleep easier.   I sleep better once I get to sleep — but, I think that’s the anti-anxiety medication, rather than the sobriety.  But, easily going to sleep at night–that one still eludes me.

The one thing that is different about having quit drinking is, compared to after quitting the others, I do, actually, feel better.  This particular blog post may not be the best indication, but, I feel as if my creative brain has awoken from it’s slumber.  I feel not just the want, but the need, the desire to write, something I didn’t feel much like during most of my drinking days — though, I will admit, that when one writes after having a few drinks, one feels as if they’re writing the most brilliant shit ever.  I feel a bit more energetic, though the anxiety pills make me groggy.

My thoughts make me groggy too.  If you were reading along with my adoption series, you’l understand that I’ve got some issues, and, writing about them brought them to the surface, scratched open some wounds, though, I’m not sure they were ever healed — just scabbed.  And, being sober, and being on pills that make me not so anxious and uptight, many of the thoughts I was trying not to think about when I was drinking (drink is a great thought suppressor), have floated back to the surface.

I’ve been thinking about the anger I feel about still being alive.  That’s weird, isn’t it?  But, as I’ve said a few times before on this blog, I discovered my HIV status back in the early days, the days when we all assumed we were dead men, that it was just a matter of time.  I’ve watched many people lose their fight, but not me.  I’m still here.  I’m still fucking here, and it makes me mad.  I figured I was going to be dead long before I was this age, so I never planned.  I never thought about growing old.  I never saved for retirement.  I never developed job skills.  Why waste what little time I probably had by doing such practical things?  There were things I wanted to do, books I wanted to read, naps I wanted to take, before I got sick, before I began my long decent to death — one does not die quickly, or easily from AIDS.   So, enjoy what time I had while I was healthy, because I’d be sick soon enough.

And, guess what?  It never happened.  I’m still here.

I’m still fucking here.

I want to get a big WTF tattooed to my forehead.  That’s how it feels.  Most everyone around me that was infected is dead.  But not me.  And, now I have to face a middle-age as a man with little skills, little career prospects, and little chance of amassing enough money to live comfortably in my old age.  In my twenties, after learning about my disease, I was afraid of dying (not death–never death).  I lived with the fear of dying — not death, that’s simply the end — but the dying, the long, slow, agonizing AIDS death I saw so many go through.  Now, in my forties, it’s not dying, but living that terrifies me.

Since I quit drinking, I’ve been thinking about all those things I’d been trying to avoid, hiding in one addiction or another.  I mean, who wants to think about all the issues that stemmed from my brother being unadopted and sent away.  Who wants to think about having been molested as a twelve year old.  Who wants to think about the dumbass schemes, the people I hurt and tossed away?  Who wants to think about all the anger, guilt, fear, terror, sorrow, rage, devastation, and loss that floats around inside me.  For awhile, after I first quit drinking, I was wondering why I started drinking.  After a few weeks, once my body stopped aching from the alcohol withdrawal, I started remembering why the drinks always tasted so good.

No, no… don’t worry.  I should reassure:  there’s no drink in my future.  I don’t care to go down that path again.

I joked about my new addiction to notebooks, poetry books, pens, crayons, art supplies.  It’s not a serious addiction.  I think it’s my cry of help to myself.

We look for magic pills, things that will make all the hurt, anger and pain go away.  The pills don’t make those things go away.  They just mess with the synapses in your brain to keep you from dwelling to long on any one thought.

It’s time.  Not for more running, hiding in another addiction.

It’s time to just empty my brain …  and, maybe this new found creativity will help me rid myself of some of these demons.

So, maybe, if you are a casual, social drinker, going six months without a drink makes you say “So what?”

But, since it’s my blog, I’ll say it again, and maybe one more time again:

It’s been six months since I had a drink.

Six months sober.

Six months.

Happy It Is A Big Fucking Deal Day to me!