And they wile away the hours
In their ivory towers
Till they're covered up with flowers
In the back of a black limousine
Happy Birthday to Joe South!
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Twenty
Twenty years gone. I can still remember how the cold Connecticut air smelled and how its sharpness made my cheeks sting. I remember the end. Horrible words, tears, rage, hurt. An intentional indiscretion as an easy means of cutting ties. This outcome had brewed, not exploded. Little things are huge to confused and young 20-somethings. Small changes and big emotions can easily erode a foundation and down comes the house when enough footing has washed away.
Oddly, Nirvana played a small part. She knew the weird CDs and tapes I had, fetish stuff for a guy to have on his headphones. Disturbing names, static, and white noise. All distortion and heavy and dread.
The autumn before it was healthy, boyish baseball love, juxtaposed with visceral metallic noise. Quirky but tolerable. I got occasional side-glance looks, those big brown eyes with whites as clean as snow, that I could read. The eyes questioned my mental fitness. How can I listen to that? I don't get it. She bit the side of her lip a lot and made rows on her forehead. What she had once dismissed as a quirk now loomed large in her eyes. She needed to plan her exit for this reason among the least, too many big reasons at the most. A good enough excuse.
Had Nevermind been released at another time or never been released, it wouldn't have altered that outcome. It was the sound of fury and confusion blaring through the speakers at the same time I had swallowed a big pill that wouldn't go down my throat without sticking.
On occasion even great automobile racers can park their pretty little red, two-seat, Italian sports car under the wheels of a filthy big rig while traveling at great speed. Tragedy is inevitable when you drive twice the posted speed limit on a two lane road with the top down, just to hear her squeal with fear and joy. Moonlight drives are often fatal and lovers can be thrown clear from the wreckage. A random shoe left in the middle of the road to alert passing cars. Neither of us were professionals, we were just amateurs, just kids acting like naughty grown-ups.
I crawled from the wreckage with all the damage I could take and had violent sonic landscapes to contemplate while my bones mended. Within 2 years this blond soul mate, the strange angel who didn't know what the hell he was trying to say, would be gone. The other noisemakers were corralled, the sharp edges were sanded smooth. I have no idea what she was doing while I sat and considered what comes next after the noise became quiet.
Nostalgia and sentimentality mean little if you don't have damage to show for the memory. Something to remind you that life is serious and there are penalties to pay for recklessness, even the youthful variety.
For several years after I left Connecticut, I often thought of her as I plodded through the daily routines of work, rest, and growth. Memories slowly faded. Then the thoughts of her entirely stopped. A new song, a new car, a new love. Now the broken bones from this latest wreck are mending and I sometimes think back in large, round numbers, the long-range memory center.
It's odd. Some vacuum has her, a void. No trace. All for the better I suppose. Let the memory stay youthful forever. Strange...I've always loved women with brown eyes. Now I'm not sure if I really understood what I read when I looked into them. Perhaps they were reading me better than I ever suspected?
Ah, but I still have Nirvana.
Oddly, Nirvana played a small part. She knew the weird CDs and tapes I had, fetish stuff for a guy to have on his headphones. Disturbing names, static, and white noise. All distortion and heavy and dread.
The autumn before it was healthy, boyish baseball love, juxtaposed with visceral metallic noise. Quirky but tolerable. I got occasional side-glance looks, those big brown eyes with whites as clean as snow, that I could read. The eyes questioned my mental fitness. How can I listen to that? I don't get it. She bit the side of her lip a lot and made rows on her forehead. What she had once dismissed as a quirk now loomed large in her eyes. She needed to plan her exit for this reason among the least, too many big reasons at the most. A good enough excuse.
Had Nevermind been released at another time or never been released, it wouldn't have altered that outcome. It was the sound of fury and confusion blaring through the speakers at the same time I had swallowed a big pill that wouldn't go down my throat without sticking.
On occasion even great automobile racers can park their pretty little red, two-seat, Italian sports car under the wheels of a filthy big rig while traveling at great speed. Tragedy is inevitable when you drive twice the posted speed limit on a two lane road with the top down, just to hear her squeal with fear and joy. Moonlight drives are often fatal and lovers can be thrown clear from the wreckage. A random shoe left in the middle of the road to alert passing cars. Neither of us were professionals, we were just amateurs, just kids acting like naughty grown-ups.
I crawled from the wreckage with all the damage I could take and had violent sonic landscapes to contemplate while my bones mended. Within 2 years this blond soul mate, the strange angel who didn't know what the hell he was trying to say, would be gone. The other noisemakers were corralled, the sharp edges were sanded smooth. I have no idea what she was doing while I sat and considered what comes next after the noise became quiet.
Nostalgia and sentimentality mean little if you don't have damage to show for the memory. Something to remind you that life is serious and there are penalties to pay for recklessness, even the youthful variety.
For several years after I left Connecticut, I often thought of her as I plodded through the daily routines of work, rest, and growth. Memories slowly faded. Then the thoughts of her entirely stopped. A new song, a new car, a new love. Now the broken bones from this latest wreck are mending and I sometimes think back in large, round numbers, the long-range memory center.
It's odd. Some vacuum has her, a void. No trace. All for the better I suppose. Let the memory stay youthful forever. Strange...I've always loved women with brown eyes. Now I'm not sure if I really understood what I read when I looked into them. Perhaps they were reading me better than I ever suspected?
Ah, but I still have Nirvana.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Ooh La La
A recent Guardian article discussed the decline of Indie or guitar driven rock. Yes, rock and guitar based music has been in a sales and artistic decline for quite a while, but I wonder if our notions regarding the state of new music is based on flawed assumptions and the usual suspects for assigning the blame?
Yes, the record companies have done a poor job of artist development, but they have always had a hit or miss track record of doing this. Several weeks back I posted excerpts from a 1964 interview with Nat "King" Cole where he blasted the industry for it's failure to develop and nurture talent. 1964 was, of course, year zero of the British Invasion and the beginning of a long prosperous stretch for the labels. The record companies shoulder some of the blame, but not all of the blame as so many would love to assign.
In an era of file sharing and pop culture obsession with music downloads we should probably consider the effect of sensory overload that many young and aspiring artists may be experiencing. When every song by every artist is readily available, on demand, and accessible from any location in the world, coming to grips with so many musical ideas is almost impossible to fathom.
How can a young artist immerse themselves in a select handful of influences and genuinely study, absorb and understand concepts when thousands of ideas bombard them daily in the stream of popular culture, mass marketing, and the constant pounding of peer pressure? Quantity is never a replacement for quality. An overview is never as wise as in-depth study; specialization is a necessity for young artists. Experimentation and expansion is something to be addressed once semi-established. You cannot push new boundaries if the basic skills are not resting on strong foundations.
Something has gone wrong on a basic level. Chemistry and charisma is missing. You don't have to be the second coming of Bob Dylan, you don't need to be a better guitarist than Jeff Beck, and you don't need to shock the senses just to slash your name into the collective psyche. The batteries of popular music today seem to be losing their charge, if they aren't outright dead.
I referenced The Faces in the title of this post. They weren't the greatest band in the world, they weren't the most challenging either. What The Faces brought was the energy of a loose band, obviously enjoying the sermon they were preaching to the congregation. They were the feel of a warm and boozy Saturday night in the spring, spent on the town with your girl. The oddly pretty girl, with freshly painted toes and the mischievous little crooked smile.
The members of The Faces were steeped in R&B and displayed the wisdom of musicians who had played this music for years, night after night, nights in dingy little rooms where the only audience was the people you are playing with. Nights fueled with wine and illicit substances and sharing the secrets of the music that left your soul full and warmed. They came together after spending years in other bands, stomping the stage in clubs and theaters across England.
Yes, they were looking for cash and booze and dope and girls and all the fat trimmings, and who's to say today's bands are all that different in that regard? Still, they had the base experience in a sound that inspired them. The joy and love of the music seeped from them like sap oozing from tree bark in summer.
When I listen to so many bands today I hear a disconnect between the music and the lyrics and the people creating the sound, the joy is absent. The love of their music, their own songs, seems replaced with a forced effort to rouse a sing-along experience on thin words. Raunchy, loose riffs have been pushed aside. No one really seems all that comfortable.
As light in weight, and as lacking in mass as The Faces were, in today's musical environment, they would kill. Joy can trump all.
Yes, the record companies have done a poor job of artist development, but they have always had a hit or miss track record of doing this. Several weeks back I posted excerpts from a 1964 interview with Nat "King" Cole where he blasted the industry for it's failure to develop and nurture talent. 1964 was, of course, year zero of the British Invasion and the beginning of a long prosperous stretch for the labels. The record companies shoulder some of the blame, but not all of the blame as so many would love to assign.
In an era of file sharing and pop culture obsession with music downloads we should probably consider the effect of sensory overload that many young and aspiring artists may be experiencing. When every song by every artist is readily available, on demand, and accessible from any location in the world, coming to grips with so many musical ideas is almost impossible to fathom.
How can a young artist immerse themselves in a select handful of influences and genuinely study, absorb and understand concepts when thousands of ideas bombard them daily in the stream of popular culture, mass marketing, and the constant pounding of peer pressure? Quantity is never a replacement for quality. An overview is never as wise as in-depth study; specialization is a necessity for young artists. Experimentation and expansion is something to be addressed once semi-established. You cannot push new boundaries if the basic skills are not resting on strong foundations.
Something has gone wrong on a basic level. Chemistry and charisma is missing. You don't have to be the second coming of Bob Dylan, you don't need to be a better guitarist than Jeff Beck, and you don't need to shock the senses just to slash your name into the collective psyche. The batteries of popular music today seem to be losing their charge, if they aren't outright dead.
I referenced The Faces in the title of this post. They weren't the greatest band in the world, they weren't the most challenging either. What The Faces brought was the energy of a loose band, obviously enjoying the sermon they were preaching to the congregation. They were the feel of a warm and boozy Saturday night in the spring, spent on the town with your girl. The oddly pretty girl, with freshly painted toes and the mischievous little crooked smile.
The members of The Faces were steeped in R&B and displayed the wisdom of musicians who had played this music for years, night after night, nights in dingy little rooms where the only audience was the people you are playing with. Nights fueled with wine and illicit substances and sharing the secrets of the music that left your soul full and warmed. They came together after spending years in other bands, stomping the stage in clubs and theaters across England.
Yes, they were looking for cash and booze and dope and girls and all the fat trimmings, and who's to say today's bands are all that different in that regard? Still, they had the base experience in a sound that inspired them. The joy and love of the music seeped from them like sap oozing from tree bark in summer.
When I listen to so many bands today I hear a disconnect between the music and the lyrics and the people creating the sound, the joy is absent. The love of their music, their own songs, seems replaced with a forced effort to rouse a sing-along experience on thin words. Raunchy, loose riffs have been pushed aside. No one really seems all that comfortable.
As light in weight, and as lacking in mass as The Faces were, in today's musical environment, they would kill. Joy can trump all.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Music For The State Of The Relationship
A woman who willingly goes with you to a Rush concert is a woman who truly tolerates you.
A man who willingly takes you to a Michael Buble concert is a man with ulterior motives.
A man who willingly takes you to a Michael Buble concert is a man with ulterior motives.
Monday, February 20, 2012
What Is This That Stands Before Me?
No minister or pastor or priest could warn their congregation about the dangers of evil as well as the first four Black Sabbath albums. With the original members getting together to make a new album and Tony Iommi battling cancer, and all this in the face of the nightmarish news that never seems to end, it's as though we are being given a chance to hear a new telling of an old warning that we never seem to heed, no matter when it has been given; that Evil exists.
It is no wonder that critics and end-term hippies were completely horrified by Black Sabbath. They were dark, ominous, luridly realistic like a psychotropic audio WeeGee. This wasn't the music you could get high to and come back from the ride with a neon tinged view of mankind or yourself. They spoke of lurking Evil, waiting for your moment of weakness. They pointed bloody fingers at the practitioners of evil arts who want to see the world burn. It was heavy.
Where are we now? More wars with no end in sight. The spectre of mushroom clouds and laughing lunatics who control them still hangs in the air. Starvation, hopelessness, cruelty...they never went away regardless of how well we ignored them. Add in the stench of global economic imbalance and the times are just as ripe for evil to find it's hosts as it was in the 60's and 70's.
I have no idea what Black Sabbath will do on this new album. The tone and mood of today seems fitting for another of their scare the hell out of you albums.
It is no wonder that critics and end-term hippies were completely horrified by Black Sabbath. They were dark, ominous, luridly realistic like a psychotropic audio WeeGee. This wasn't the music you could get high to and come back from the ride with a neon tinged view of mankind or yourself. They spoke of lurking Evil, waiting for your moment of weakness. They pointed bloody fingers at the practitioners of evil arts who want to see the world burn. It was heavy.
Where are we now? More wars with no end in sight. The spectre of mushroom clouds and laughing lunatics who control them still hangs in the air. Starvation, hopelessness, cruelty...they never went away regardless of how well we ignored them. Add in the stench of global economic imbalance and the times are just as ripe for evil to find it's hosts as it was in the 60's and 70's.
I have no idea what Black Sabbath will do on this new album. The tone and mood of today seems fitting for another of their scare the hell out of you albums.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Baby Let Me Follow You Down
What is the greatest source of inspiration? Is it an external influence that completely absorbs your attention? Happiness? Agony? Desire?
Desire.
Desire that stops you in your tracks and sends a signal through your brain. An electrical current which provokes that fleshy matter into a spasm when it realizes something has been missing in your life. The missing loving cup that never empties of sweet wine. Time for a change.
New suit, toss away worn shoes. Old vision working with a new set of eyes. There is a wall in front of you, miles high. You've got the gear to climb and off you go. There is a job to do.
This is time to pull yourself clear of your skin, like your ego is hooked to a steam catapult. Press the button and a rusty suit of armor is ripped away. You are on your own. The goal is driving you, the reward at the end. Selfishness will drag you down, selfless action will propel you up that wall.
You get intoxicated with the desire. Common sense is senseless. Sometimes you're no longer scaling a wall, instead you are in a room without light and one way out. The air is saturated with explosive fumes. You fumble in the dark for the door, the door that gets you back to the job at hand. The fumes overwhelm you, clarity begins to leave your mind and in the last instant before you lose consciousness you remember there is a Zippo in your pocket. I can't smell the fumes anymore, maybe they've left? So you whip out the Zippo, click open the lid and strike it.
That's the last thing you can recall. You slowly become aware once more and to find yourself smoldering, the muse has disappeared and you have no idea what to do next.
So you bum it a bit, grapple with ideas and agonize and in the end come up with nothing except the understanding that sooner or later there will be another signal shooting through your brain. The chase will be back on and the wall will be there again.
A different place, a different girl, a different idea, a different set of words, a different cup, different tasting wine.
Next time you'll remind yourself, don't strike that damn Zippo.
Desire.
Desire that stops you in your tracks and sends a signal through your brain. An electrical current which provokes that fleshy matter into a spasm when it realizes something has been missing in your life. The missing loving cup that never empties of sweet wine. Time for a change.
New suit, toss away worn shoes. Old vision working with a new set of eyes. There is a wall in front of you, miles high. You've got the gear to climb and off you go. There is a job to do.
This is time to pull yourself clear of your skin, like your ego is hooked to a steam catapult. Press the button and a rusty suit of armor is ripped away. You are on your own. The goal is driving you, the reward at the end. Selfishness will drag you down, selfless action will propel you up that wall.
You get intoxicated with the desire. Common sense is senseless. Sometimes you're no longer scaling a wall, instead you are in a room without light and one way out. The air is saturated with explosive fumes. You fumble in the dark for the door, the door that gets you back to the job at hand. The fumes overwhelm you, clarity begins to leave your mind and in the last instant before you lose consciousness you remember there is a Zippo in your pocket. I can't smell the fumes anymore, maybe they've left? So you whip out the Zippo, click open the lid and strike it.
That's the last thing you can recall. You slowly become aware once more and to find yourself smoldering, the muse has disappeared and you have no idea what to do next.
So you bum it a bit, grapple with ideas and agonize and in the end come up with nothing except the understanding that sooner or later there will be another signal shooting through your brain. The chase will be back on and the wall will be there again.
A different place, a different girl, a different idea, a different set of words, a different cup, different tasting wine.
Next time you'll remind yourself, don't strike that damn Zippo.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Flood
I don't understand where the words are coming from, I don't really know what I am trying to say or even do. I was silent for a long time, speechless is a better word. It's not that I had nothing to say, I simply didn't know what to say or why I should even speak. One song got into my mind a few months ago and it wouldn't leave. Like finding a $20 in the pocket of a jacket when you first put it on in autumn, lyrics came to my mind and this is how it started.
Things seem to moving at a different pace for me right now. Living a life in a rural community far from the city, after years of living in a city, is odd. Most days seem to drag and time becomes so very elastic. I can get a lot of work done in a very short period of time and suddenly time changes pace. Suddenly I feel like I have been left behind, that time and age have conspired against me and the race is nearing the finish line while I am still stretching. Panic sets in and the word failure begins to buzz in my head.
It can be very unsettling to experience this but I feel I am learning how to moderate these emotions. When time is moving slowly I have begun to include more creative pursuits to the day. I journal much more regular and find I dig into motives rather than actions. I'm even sketching again and my guitar strings aren't rusting.
These may be fruitless pastimes, they may be distractions from reality, they may even be a masochistic weight that keeps me from reality. Something about doing these things seems to be pushing me forward right now and I cannot explain it. Life seems to be more urgent, but not at all in the ways I had envisioned before.
I still believe that I want everything but I also believe that my idea of what I actually need is evolving. I struggle with wanting to be someplace that no longer wants me. Rejection and failure are massive burdens to carry but the seeds that they grew from were once promising new horizons. They were seeds I worked so hard to germinate and tend. The plant has died and the field gone to fallow.
Renewal is the next step in the cycle.
Now I find myself trying to navigate the future like a man crossing a muddy river. I have a stick in my hand and I poke along the bed of the river as I slowly cross. Trying to find the sinkholes and hidden tree trunks that litter the bottom. All the while I am watching the surface, keeping a keen eye open for anything that may swim toward me.
These things I spend my time with are leading me to another shore. I doubt these are the actual things that will take me to the other side and carry me once I get there, but I have faith that they will help illuminate my way. There are no maps for life, no guide to walk you through in one piece. It is entirely up to you.
Things seem to moving at a different pace for me right now. Living a life in a rural community far from the city, after years of living in a city, is odd. Most days seem to drag and time becomes so very elastic. I can get a lot of work done in a very short period of time and suddenly time changes pace. Suddenly I feel like I have been left behind, that time and age have conspired against me and the race is nearing the finish line while I am still stretching. Panic sets in and the word failure begins to buzz in my head.
It can be very unsettling to experience this but I feel I am learning how to moderate these emotions. When time is moving slowly I have begun to include more creative pursuits to the day. I journal much more regular and find I dig into motives rather than actions. I'm even sketching again and my guitar strings aren't rusting.
These may be fruitless pastimes, they may be distractions from reality, they may even be a masochistic weight that keeps me from reality. Something about doing these things seems to be pushing me forward right now and I cannot explain it. Life seems to be more urgent, but not at all in the ways I had envisioned before.
I still believe that I want everything but I also believe that my idea of what I actually need is evolving. I struggle with wanting to be someplace that no longer wants me. Rejection and failure are massive burdens to carry but the seeds that they grew from were once promising new horizons. They were seeds I worked so hard to germinate and tend. The plant has died and the field gone to fallow.
Renewal is the next step in the cycle.
Now I find myself trying to navigate the future like a man crossing a muddy river. I have a stick in my hand and I poke along the bed of the river as I slowly cross. Trying to find the sinkholes and hidden tree trunks that litter the bottom. All the while I am watching the surface, keeping a keen eye open for anything that may swim toward me.
These things I spend my time with are leading me to another shore. I doubt these are the actual things that will take me to the other side and carry me once I get there, but I have faith that they will help illuminate my way. There are no maps for life, no guide to walk you through in one piece. It is entirely up to you.
Friday, February 10, 2012
There's A UFO Over New York And I Ain't Too Surprised
The best book about The Beatles, ever? Postcards From The Boys by Ringo Starr. Why not? It is entirely written by members of the band, in their own hand no less. It's light and satisfies any sentimentality requirements the reader may have.
No earth shattering revelations can be found in it's pages but it's very existence covers one thing that most Beatles themed books fail to adequately address. All of the members actually loved one another deeply. Seriously, how often have you sent postcards to your family and friends through the years? That type of contact, as simple and almost clockwork regular as it was, spoke volumes of their love for one another.
The best book written about Bob Dylan? It hasn't been written yet, or at least the next volume of Chronicles hasn't been published yet. I really did enjoy Positively 4th St and it is one of the books I've easily resisted the urge to cull for sale, but the first volume of Chronicles really struck me.
Dylan has been analyzed to death, every letter of every word of every line. These days I think about Dylan as a normal person, not as a legend. I play his records more now than I did 10 or 20 years ago and I enjoy them more. I don't analyze his lines and appreciate them more. I just let the man work and the words soak. You can look up and see the sun on almost any day, but none of it compares with the first warm day of spring when you can let the sun warm your body and renew your soul. That's what it feels like to just let it all go.
Then again, maybe John Lennon was right? Everybody's talkin' but nobody says a word.
No earth shattering revelations can be found in it's pages but it's very existence covers one thing that most Beatles themed books fail to adequately address. All of the members actually loved one another deeply. Seriously, how often have you sent postcards to your family and friends through the years? That type of contact, as simple and almost clockwork regular as it was, spoke volumes of their love for one another.
The best book written about Bob Dylan? It hasn't been written yet, or at least the next volume of Chronicles hasn't been published yet. I really did enjoy Positively 4th St and it is one of the books I've easily resisted the urge to cull for sale, but the first volume of Chronicles really struck me.
Dylan has been analyzed to death, every letter of every word of every line. These days I think about Dylan as a normal person, not as a legend. I play his records more now than I did 10 or 20 years ago and I enjoy them more. I don't analyze his lines and appreciate them more. I just let the man work and the words soak. You can look up and see the sun on almost any day, but none of it compares with the first warm day of spring when you can let the sun warm your body and renew your soul. That's what it feels like to just let it all go.
Then again, maybe John Lennon was right? Everybody's talkin' but nobody says a word.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Some Weird Sin
I really screwed up. I shouldn't have picked that Iggy Pop album when I felt I needed something sponge-y. I have a tendency to remember and relate to the adventures in my life to the music I was absorbed by at the time. If I play Sketches of Spain, in my mind I am in Florida again and it's 1986. If I play Tin Machine, in my mind I am remembering a cold winter wind blowing in from the Atlantic while I stumble along Virginia Beach in 1990. Iggy Pop is different for me, I hear him and I am simply young once more.
To think back on nights that now seem reckless, when I was more in control than I realized at the time and closer to the razor thin edge of control than I could now muster; is a powerful memory to resurrect. Striped to the waist, all sinew and lean, moving in angles using math I cannot use anymore.
It is remembering that I saw beauty in the ugly, order in the chaos, and the golden ratio in nothingness. To see the city's ripped backsides was a call to roam forbidden streets.
I'm now battling atrophy on several fronts. I have to keep it at bay for as long as I can. It is there, though, and it seems to sense I am a prime candidate for a future host. Music to inspire you in such a struggle is easy to be found, but listening to something that takes you back several decades to reveal a lost bit of self, can be a bit defeating.
Next time I put Iggy on I'll be better prepared. I'll let Iggy be my standard bearer when I am stronger. I am trying to get there.
To think back on nights that now seem reckless, when I was more in control than I realized at the time and closer to the razor thin edge of control than I could now muster; is a powerful memory to resurrect. Striped to the waist, all sinew and lean, moving in angles using math I cannot use anymore.
It is remembering that I saw beauty in the ugly, order in the chaos, and the golden ratio in nothingness. To see the city's ripped backsides was a call to roam forbidden streets.
I'm now battling atrophy on several fronts. I have to keep it at bay for as long as I can. It is there, though, and it seems to sense I am a prime candidate for a future host. Music to inspire you in such a struggle is easy to be found, but listening to something that takes you back several decades to reveal a lost bit of self, can be a bit defeating.
Next time I put Iggy on I'll be better prepared. I'll let Iggy be my standard bearer when I am stronger. I am trying to get there.
Monday, February 6, 2012
As Paul Westerberg Sleeps
Everyone has one more masterpiece left in them. A reminder of why they were great in the first place. Another chance to point a crooked finger shaped from years of forming chords, saying, "And you thought I was finished..."
Paul Westerberg's only sin was releasing Don't Tell A Soul as a Replacements album instead as a solo piece. It leaves you with no other choice but to gawk at it, trying to find a way to accept or deny it on it's own merit. That is quite a tricky process and ultimately I learned to accept it as a transition piece.
Lyricists working at Westerberg's level are rare, maybe a handful per generation. He never found words, he stitched them together like a tailor, crafting suits that you can always wear. No trendy or high fashion splash, simply beautiful work.
Quirky self-made basement tapes and bizarre alter-ego. He's still out there, waiting for the next moment.
Only one sin in an entire life of making music and not once did he roll us.
Paul Westerberg's only sin was releasing Don't Tell A Soul as a Replacements album instead as a solo piece. It leaves you with no other choice but to gawk at it, trying to find a way to accept or deny it on it's own merit. That is quite a tricky process and ultimately I learned to accept it as a transition piece.
Lyricists working at Westerberg's level are rare, maybe a handful per generation. He never found words, he stitched them together like a tailor, crafting suits that you can always wear. No trendy or high fashion splash, simply beautiful work.
Quirky self-made basement tapes and bizarre alter-ego. He's still out there, waiting for the next moment.
Only one sin in an entire life of making music and not once did he roll us.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Mood Music
AC/DC - What you listen to before sticking up a liquor store.
The Ramones - What you listen to before vandalizing a liquor store.
The Ramones - What you listen to before vandalizing a liquor store.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Wild Eyed Southern Boys
There is Gene Vincent, entering from stage left. He's running to the microphone on one leg and a pair of crutches, a caliper worn on the game leg. He's covered in several guitar cases worth of black leather. He's shaking the lyrics loose from his mind like a man experiencing pleasure from the confessional. Eyes rolled up and staring at the rafters or Heaven or the woman as though from his knees. The Blue Caps flail. It's a comfortable riot.
There is Jerry Lee Lewis, long curly hair hanging across his face, a veil of immodesty. A British boy reaches out to touch his hair, possessed by instincts he could probably never verbalize. Killer denies sharing his essence and jerks back. It is the end of the show but he looks like he is just getting started, where did the party roll next? The English should have rioted.
A ruptured stomach ulcer almost killed the Killer, one did kill Vincent on a California visit to see his daddy.
In an alternate reality, Sam Phillips holds steady when the bill comes due and Elvis doesn't get scrubbed clean by the Sanitary Department at RCA. Maybe he kicks or moderates his love affair that began with Army issued greenies?
There Is Elvis, the Melungeon Sun King of Memphis. Why riot?
There is Jerry Lee Lewis, long curly hair hanging across his face, a veil of immodesty. A British boy reaches out to touch his hair, possessed by instincts he could probably never verbalize. Killer denies sharing his essence and jerks back. It is the end of the show but he looks like he is just getting started, where did the party roll next? The English should have rioted.
A ruptured stomach ulcer almost killed the Killer, one did kill Vincent on a California visit to see his daddy.
In an alternate reality, Sam Phillips holds steady when the bill comes due and Elvis doesn't get scrubbed clean by the Sanitary Department at RCA. Maybe he kicks or moderates his love affair that began with Army issued greenies?
There Is Elvis, the Melungeon Sun King of Memphis. Why riot?
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
If I Should Fall From Grace With God
I see Volkswagon is now flogging their cars on TV to The Pogues song "If I Should Fall From Grace With God". I'm not able to come down on artists as sell outs, those dudes have got to eat and it's not like the Pogues made the kind of cash that U2 can bag with just a single show. I do have to wonder if anyone at the ad agency actually read the lyrics though. Not exactly inspiring for a car buying mood.
The point of including the song, I assume, is less about the meaning of the lyrics and more about accessing the subconscious of the buyer with the tempo and arrangement of the song. That uptempo Irish reel, quick-cut editing, a family on the move with things to do and places to see. Post haste, and all that. If I'm buried neath the sod but the angels won't receive me..is this is a family tune?
The music used in commercials hasn't had an actual relationship to the product being sold for a very long time. No one does a literal interpretation of what's being said, done, or sold on the screen, no catchy jingle. Bury me at sea where no murdered ghost can haunt me.
In the world of advertising I can almost imagine an executive having a database or spreadsheet which lists songs and the products they could represent. I would love to see what they believe "Fairytale of New York" could sell. With the current boulevard of broken dreams state of the economy, perhaps it would be an excellent choice to sell banking or financial services.
Let me go, boys. Let me go, boys.
The point of including the song, I assume, is less about the meaning of the lyrics and more about accessing the subconscious of the buyer with the tempo and arrangement of the song. That uptempo Irish reel, quick-cut editing, a family on the move with things to do and places to see. Post haste, and all that. If I'm buried neath the sod but the angels won't receive me..is this is a family tune?
The music used in commercials hasn't had an actual relationship to the product being sold for a very long time. No one does a literal interpretation of what's being said, done, or sold on the screen, no catchy jingle. Bury me at sea where no murdered ghost can haunt me.
In the world of advertising I can almost imagine an executive having a database or spreadsheet which lists songs and the products they could represent. I would love to see what they believe "Fairytale of New York" could sell. With the current boulevard of broken dreams state of the economy, perhaps it would be an excellent choice to sell banking or financial services.
Let me go, boys. Let me go, boys.
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