Just for gits and shiggles, here are my brief reactions to each of this year's upcoming inductees.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe - Cool! Nina Simone - Wait, she wasn't already in? WTF??? Radiohead - No. The Moody Blues - NO!!! Dire Straits - It's about time. The Cars - IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME!!! Bon Jovi - Whatever The Replacements - Just kidding!
Grrrrr.
Another year. Another Hall of Fame induction without The Mats.
So. Here's a song by them at their best, in celebration of the fact that they seemingly will never ever get in. The kind of song that Radiohead, The Moody Blues and Bon Jovi couldn't create if they worked together, and if they had Paul Westerberg in the studio helping them out every step of the way.
And now, Dan and Scott engage in a brief and informed debate over whether or not Radiohead is deserving of recently being inducted into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame Class of 2018.
Gentlemen, please proceed.
Dan: No. Scott: Nope.
This has been a brief and informed debate over whether or not Radiohead is deserving of recently being inducted into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame Class of 2018. Thank you for reading.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the entire Journey family. I mocked—not without reason—the silly, lazy lyrics to "Any Way You Want It." And then I saw, for the first time, the lyrics to REO Speedwagon's "Don't Let Him Go."
There's a concept in storytelling called a Mary Sue:
A Mary Sue is an original character in fan fiction, usually but not always female, who for one reason or another is deemed undesirable by fan critics. A character may be judged Mary Sue if she is competent in too many areas, is physically attractive, and/or is viewed as admirable by other sympathetic characters.
It originated in fan-fic but it's a pretty well-known term these days in wider literary circles. A character is often unjustly called a Mary Sue if the critic doesn't like the (female) author and wants to score some easy points by claiming the author has simply inserted an idealized version of herself into the story.
I've never encountered a Mary Sue in pop music, that I can recall, but holy shit is that what this song is all about.
I mean:
So you figure that you've got him all figured out
He's a sweet talkin' stud
Who can melt a girl's heart with his pout
He's the kind of lover that the ladies dream about
Oh, yes he is
He's got plenty of cash
He's got plenty of friends
He drives women wild
Then he drives off in a Mercedes-Benz
He's got a long wick with a flame at both ends [editor's note: insert eye-rolling emoji here]
He's hot
But don't let him go
Just give him a chance to grow
Take it easy, take it slow
And don't let him go
Don't let him go
He makes you so angry
He makes you so sore [editor's note: and another here]
The wait may be worth it
But how can you wait any more?
When you're wonderin what you're waitin' for
Baby I don't know
But don't let him go
Just give him a chance to grow
Take it easy, take it slow
And don't let him go
Don't let him go
As I've mentioned many times, I don't care all that much about lyrics; generally speaking, for me they're a tray built to hold the vocal melody. If they're especially great, they can elevate a good song to great and a great song to brilliant. And it's only occasionally that they're so bad they can sink an otherwise fine song—as the great Peter Gabriel once said:
"There have been many great songs which have had really appalling lyrics, but there have been no great songs which have had appalling music."
Well, this song wasn't going to be great no matter what. The band plays the Bo Diddley-inspired beat well enough, the dude with the pink silk shirt improbably rips off a tasty solo on his gorgeous Les Paul, the keyboardist does a creditable Rick Wakeman impression—it's all fine bar band fare. But the lyrics...oh my god, the lyrics are just so damn bad.
I mean, on the most basic level, they simply make absolutely no sense: this guy is that irresistible, he's that magnetic a panty-dropper, despite sounding like a raging douchenozzle. To an objective listener, he's clearly someone who should be treated with utter disdain by anyone with half a brain...and yet, the singer implores, if you just give him a chance, he'll...what? Presumably, faith and patience will be rewarded, but the song (to its minor credit) doesn't really promise any such thing. No it simply admonishes her (presumably) to give him all the time he could possibly need, with the implication being that he'll turn out to be a decent guy in the end. I mean, hey, he's got money, he's got the Mercedes Bends (unh), and he's got a lot of pretty pretty girls that he calls friends. He's hung like a candle—is that a saying?—and, most important, he's pouty.
Okay, listen, I know the end of the 70s/beginning of the 80s was a long time ago, but really? Did girls really think a guy pouting was a good look? I'm thinkin' not so much. That reads to me like a guy who likes to pout and really wishes girls found it attractive and baffled and angry that none of them do.
Speaking of, this guy pisses the listener off, and the listerner's already waited long enough and doesn't even know what s/he's waiting for...and yet, keep on waiting. 'cuz.
Why? Why? Why would you ever give this assclown the time of day, much less another chance?
I don't even know what to say. Other than that Les Paul really is gorgeous. Now for that I'd wait a lifetime. (And have so far.)
So I've known this song for the vast majority of my life. And I've even known the vast majority of the words for all those years. But I'd never actually thought about any of them, or seen the video, until this week, and both are so much greater than I could have expected.
First, there's the intro, which was the third longest 40 seconds of my life, behind only any 40 seconds of the day I spent deep sea fishing on really choppy seas, where every single one of the hundred or so passengers were vomiting until their stomachs were emptied, at which point they continued to dry heave for hours until finally returning to shore blessed short, and the time I had two ruptured discs in my back and felt like the bones in my hip and leg had turned to lava. And right after those comes that intro.
Then there's the first shot of the band, which has bass player Ross Valory in the EFG, with singer Steve Perry and guitar whiz Neal Schon in the middleground and poor original singer/keyboardist Gregg Rolie hidden in the background. But not quite as hidden as superdrummer Steve Smith, who's hidden by Valory's shoulder for absolutely no good reason—had they simply moved the camera about four inches to the left, he would have been visible (as would the rest of the band) and they wouldn't have had to insert the next quick shot of him in the name of fairness. A sign of how primitive early videomaking was? Of how drummers are so unjustly overlooked, despite the occasional exhortation to give the drummer some? An omen of things to come? (The thing to come most soon is the mini-jitterbug kneeshake Perry executes right before the opening verse starts.)
And what an opening verse:
She loves to laugh
She loves to sing
She does everything
She loves to move
She loves to groove
She loves the loving things
I've never really heard—certainly haven't ever paid attention—to that final line. But now I literally laugh out loud every damn time I hear it. "She loves the lovin' things." You're damn right she does. Those lovin' things? She's not just fond of them. Oh hell no. She outright loves them. Oh my great googlymoogly. Poor T.S. Eliot, never mind Smokey Robinson or Roger Waters, must be (sometimes posthumously) positively green with envy at the lyrical concision.
That may be ever so slightly unfair. After all, later we'll learn that they do indeed sing of said lovin' things—this is simply foreshadowing!
And then there's the chorus:
Any way you want it
That's the way you need it
Any way you want it
She said, any way you want it
That's the way you need it
Any way you want it
Which is a bit more ambiguous than I feel comfortable with. How does he need it? And what precisely is this it in question? I don't feel that's ever properly resolved. (And yet, somehow, looking at this gentlemen, I'm okay with that.)
Watching the video, you can see that Perry keeps wanting to make his trademark circular motions, but perhaps he hasn't quite perfected the move. It's always so instructive to be able to retroactively trace an artist's growth.
But then comes Schon's guitar solo...and it's undeniable. The guy can not only play—he's got oodles and boodles of technique—but he knows how to construct a solo that starts strong and builds, with melodies every bit as strong as the song's main melodic theme.
None of which seems to placate Rolie. Except for one blurry shot where he's smiling in the background, the poor bastard (in stark contrast to Valory, who seems to be having the time of his life) looks like he's in hell—his Paul McCartney puppy dog eyes meets Nick Drake's tortured soul making clear he wouldn't be in the band for much longer.
Also, keep an eye out for the quick shot of the board for absolutely no reason whatsoever. A nod to Buñuel, one assumes.
And then there's that last twenty seconds of the video. You're thinking that watching the record return to its resting place is the emotion capper, or perhaps that it's the early music video equivalent of Satre's No Exit...but either way, you're wrong. Because just when you think this primitive video offering can't get any more transcendent, there's that final shot of Perry doing his best Arthur Fonzarelli, which only goes to emphasize just how magical Henry Winkler was, and how difficult to pull off that level of cool really is.
Finally, why the hell is the video—from the official Journey channel—ever so slightly out of sync? What are they trying to say with such an unorthodox presentation? I know it means something, that it's just not just a sloppy oversight. It's got some much deeper meaning and I must know. (I'll even let them explain what the it is.)
I've only ever really known the Earth, Wind & Fire hits, and while I've heard them enough for them to become part of my DNA, the deeper parts of their catalog have most escaped me.
Until today. When I heard this for the first time and immediately wondered how I'd ever lived without it. With the exception of a guitar solo, in just over five minutes it encapsulates all that is good about music.
As I have written in this space before, Election Day brings my music listenings squarely to the doorstep of Bob Dylan. Just because, I guess. Or perhaps because no one American has so consistently written and sang about the American Experience as well or as articulately as Mr. Zimmerman has. And no American Experience is more American than the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November.
Election Day should be the great equalizer for all of us. I know it's a very naive thing to say that it is in fact that, but it should be. One person, one vote. Every gets their shot, one shot, each year to make their voices and opinions heard. One person, one vote. Hundreds of millions of Americans voicing their beliefs on their own, yet no one is alone. At least no one should be. We do it alone, but together. As Americans.
That's why I still love Election Day and still look forward to casting my vote this day every year, just as I have for the last 31 years. And that this year my 18-year-old son gets to vote with me for the first time? Even better.
So with that "alone together" theme, I give you this year's choice of Bob Dylan albums and songs. In my very humble and perhaps misguided opinion, it is one of his three greatest records ever, yet one seldom thought of among his giants. John Wesley Harding.
It was revolutionary for its time 50 years ago when it was released and remains so now. After Dylan's electric hulabaloo. After Blonde on Blonde. After Don't Look Back and the "Dylanization" of the music world. After the motorcycle crash and his self-imposed exile. And he came back with a quiet, folkier yet razor's edge sharp album in JWH that was startling in its artistic and lyrical simplicity. It spoke so loudly of the tumultuous times that 1967 brought and 1968 was about to bring (the album was released just after Christmas), yet did it in measured, at times hushed tones. It remains sui generis in his catalog or anyone else's. A true, endearing work of art by an all-time master.
And today's song is one of the quieter, more solemn tunes from that quieter, more solemn album. "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine." Sung to the same tune as the epic worker's folk tune, "Joe Hill," there's a line in "St. Augustine" that really hit me as I listened to it today, thinking about Election Day and all it connotes for us:
"No martyr is among you Whom you can call your own. So go on your way accordingly, But know you're not alone."
Amen. Through it all we're still here. And today we still vote. So go do it. And know you're not alone.
He hailed from the deepest of the deep south, but that's not where his music came from.
I mean yes, sure it did, at least part of it. Some of what made Tom Petty the musical titan he was came from that Gainesville, Florida upbringing, where the swampy blues clearly took hold of him at an early age. But his music seemed to come from so many other places. From London and Liverpool and from Greenwich Village too. From breezy Southern California to sultry, loping New Orleans and to the earliest cradle of rock-n-roll, Memphis. Tom Petty reached it all.
And today he's gone, way too early at age 66. So let's take a moment to remember just how great, and I am talking GREAT with a capital G-R-E-A-T, this man really was.
He grew up influenced by the biggest of the big, as many American baby boomers were, people like Bob Dylan and Roger McGuinn and Roy Orbison. And by the middle of his career he was having his own influence on them. You saw it when he toured with Bob Dylan in the mid-80s, when he played with Dylan and Orbison for one amazing shining moment with the Traveling Wilburys, and every time a smiling and appreciative McGuinn took the stage with him. Because when you're a talent like Tom Petty—songwriter, bandleader, guitar player and oh my God YES, singer—it has a tendency to touch everyone. Even your heroes.
But for a man with such an identifiable sound—the nasally tenor, the Byrdsy jangle, the ability to go from sweet to raunchy in the blink of an eye (think of the dramatic vocal and musical turns he made so often, like on "Refugee" and "Here Comes My Girl," something literally no one did as often or as well)—it really was hard to pin him down into one category or musical style. It was a byproduct of the stunning confidence he always seemed to carry—at least with his music, anyway—and a true sense of devil-may-care fearlessness.
It's why a proto-punk-pop ripper like "Don't Do Me Like That" appears alongside an anthem like "Refugee" or a bopping melody like "Century City" on Damn the Torpedoes. It's why maybe his greatest song, the pure crystalline McGuinn splendor of "The Waiting," can appear literally side by side with the near-metal of "A Woman in Love" on Hard Promises. Or why his greatest Roy Orbison-inspired ballad, the ethereal, irony-drenched "Free Fallin'," is right there alongside the Stonesy romp of "Runnin' Down a Dream" on Full Moon Fever. And nearly 20 years after his recording career began, on the remarkable Wildflowers album, he was able to blend gorgeous balladry (the title track), with the kind of barroom raver that would have made Bob Seger proud ("You Wreck Me") and still have time for the bluesy shuffle of "You Don't Know How It Feels."
On the first great song of a career that had just so damn many of them, 1976's pop splendor of "American Girl," Petty wrote and sang this fairly simple lyric:
"After all it was a great big world With lots of places to run to."
It never struck me until today just how much that easy, seemingly throwaway defined who Tom Petty was. Musically speaking he had just so much to say, and so many different ways to say it. He surrounded himself with a truly great band in the Heartbreakers (it's hard to imagine a more instinctive or talented backing band than Mike Campbell, Benmont Tench, Howie Epstein and Stan Lynch)—where he, like Bruce Springsteen with the E Street Band, was the clear Alpha Dog. Yet he seemed just as it ease playing alongside his idols in the Wilburys or onstage at Bob Dylan's 30th anniversary concert surrounded by the likes of not only Dylan and McGuinn and George Harrison, but Neil Young and Eric Clapton as well. Wherever he was, Tom Petty was in control. Greatness has a way of doing that to you.
In fact Tom Petty made it look so freaking easy at times, such simple and sweet melodies abounding with such (on the surface) simple and sweet lyrics that it was sometimes easy to miss what was lurking beneath. Let's take one magnificent song as an example.
People have laughed affectionately at lines like the ones in "Free Fallin'," where it almost seems like he's making it up as he goes. ("She's a good girl. Crazy 'bout Elvis. Loves horses. And her boyfriend too.") But TP, as always, knew what he was doing, and no songwriter of his generation or others was a good at playing possum as he was. Because it's all a set up for the one of the greatest lyrical turns in rock-in-roll history. And one that took just five words.
"And I'm free. Free fallin'."
In the first line we have the very definition of rock-n-roll rebellion, right? Following lyrics on such familiar Southern California banalities like horses and shopping malls, we get the rally cry of "I'm free." And we picture Chuck Berry and Bruce Springsteen and Johnny Cash proudly strutting their true, unabashed American birthright of breaking away on their own terms. And for a moment we're lost in it.
But then comes the kicker.
"Free fallin!"
Everything changes with those two words. He's done running away on his own terms. Now instead, he's plummeting to earth without a bit of control. He's lost, taken by the gravity of everything around him and with the only looming certainty being the surface of the earth getting closer and closer as he falls, an ending as un-romantic as any he could have imagined just a few approaching seconds away. While the lyric begins in the absolute spirit of rock-n-roll freedom, it ends with what we can only imagine will be a literal thud, a million miles from anything that could be described as the rock-n-roll idealogy, And Petty does it all, and says it all—spanning a world from unlimited possibility to sheer hopelessness—in just five words.
Awesome.
I saw Tom Petty just once in concert, in the late summer of 1989 on his Full Moon Fever tour, and to be very honest, while I've always been a big fan of his, my primary reason for going that night was my beloved Replacementswere the opening act. There were actually more than a few people who were there just to see the Mats that night, many of whom left after their 45-minute ramshackle set (which is chronicled on the Shit, Shower & Shave bootleg.)
I stayed; damn right I did. And I thought they were nuts for leaving. Because even though you couldn't find two bands at more opposite ends of the spectrum—the cool, polished, eminently tight and professional Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers belied in every way the loose, sloppy and wholly undisciplined nihilism of the Replacements—how could I not? He was just too damn good!
He didn't disappoint. It was a roughly two-hour set that showcased everything great about Tom Petty. From his love of covers (he opened with "So You Wanna Be a Rock-n-Roll Star" and had a very pleasing go at the Gram Parsons-era Byrds' "You Ain't Going Nowhere") to the estimable material from the then-new album ("Running Down a Dream," which closed the show, was a particular live cooker, and the solo acoustic "Yer So Bad" was a delight) to all of those amazing standards (the anthemic "Rebels" towards the end and "American Girl" at the beginning, plus sprawling versions of "Breakdown" and "Don't Come Around Here No More," to name just a few), it was one of the most enjoyable of the many, many concerts I have seen in my life. Today I am especially glad I got to see him live, even if just once.
But the best part of the show, at least to me, came relatively early on, maybe 7-8 songs in, when he did "The Waiting." First of all, doing what could objectively be called possibly his greatest song ever so close to the beginning of a full-length show was a ballsy move. And one you don't see many megastars making.
But it was the way he did it. It's a perfect pop song, period. A perfect recording, a jingly and jangly love opus that starts high and ends higher and just gets better and better each time you hear it. But on this night, as well as many other nights on and around this tour, he did it acoustically. With very little help from the Mike, Benmont, Howie or Stan. It was just him out there, doing an earnest and threadbare version of something everyone came to hear, yet maybe didn't expect it like this. And it was, well, amazing.
(Here he is doing it about a year earlier).
The voice. The confidence. The musicianship. The self-assurance that what he was doing was maybe not what the audience expected to hear, but what he knew they wanted to hear. He had it all that night. Because Tom Petty always had it all.
I'll close with some of his own words, from another one of his later-career gems and one of my favorites, "Walls." Which say what I think all Tom Petty fans are thinking about the man and his music today, as simply, sweetly and appropo as ever:
"Some things are over Some things go on Part of me you'll carry Part of me is gone"
It was one of the most memorable music-related experiences of my life. I don't remember the first time I heard, say, Revolver or Who's Next or London Calling. But I surely recall the first time I heard Nirvana. A co-worker had the "hello hello hello how low" section of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as his outgoing voicemail message, and even over the obviously extremely low-fi telephone system, it was absolutely mesmerizing. I called back until I got him in person.
"What is that?" I needed to know.
"It's Nirvana," he said, his tone of voice ever so slightly duh.
I wasn't listening to music at that point—not only was my stereo (and CDs and LPs) several hundred miles south of me, I didn't even have a boombox or Walkman, so for the first time since well before my teenage years, I was entirely out of the loop, when it came to new music. "Who...wha..." I said, charmingly.
He took pity on me, and dropped off the cassette a short while later. My officemate, who had very good but very snooty taste in music, was highly skeptical, as always, but popped it in his office boombox anyway, and cranked the volume knob.
That opening captivated me instantaneously...although I was a bit confused. They were opening with a cover of "Louie Louie"? That's weird.
And then those drums. My god those drums. Sounding bigger than Everest, deeper than the Mariana Trench, louder and faster and punchier—if such a thing were possible—than even the mighty Bonzo himself.
And then the distorted guitars and then the dramatic drop in volume and that bassline and those two chiming notes, mysterious and commanding and incisive...and that voice. A voice that sounded brand new and older than a giant sequoia. Words which were largely understandable and yet collectively incomprehensible and yet somehow ultimately all the sense in the world.
And that chorus. Even the first time, it was instantly familiar while being utterly fresh.
I remember looking over at my officemate at one point, and his eyes were wide in a "yeah, I'm hearing this too—holy shit, am I really hearing this? You're hearing this, right?" kinda expression.
Most watershed moments are only clear in retrospect. But it's not rose-colored glasses when people say they remember how Nirvana changed everything, and it was so obvious and immediate and most of us knew it was happening in real time. It was that powerful and undeniable. And (good god) 26 years down the line, the thing that kicked it all off has lost none of its power. The greatest works of art rarely do.
Peter Gabriel has made no secret of the fact that he didn't care for Bob Ezrin's production of "Here Comes the Flood" on PG's first solo LP. I always thought Gabriel was way, way off-base with that assessment. Does it get ever so bombastic and over the top towards the end? Sure. But Dick Wagner's guitar is magnificent and Allan Schwartzberg's drums sound like the apocalypse itself, and I mean that in the best possible way. Hell, I wish the apocalypse would be half that badass...and yet somehow tasteful at the same time. (I mean, is there anything worse than a gauche apocalypse?)
Now, it's a magnificent song, irrespective of its arrangment. So the Robert Fripp-produced recording they did later? Wonderful. The solo version he did on Kate Bush's 1979 Christmas special? Wonderful.
This version?
I have never had any issue with my rock and roll going big—I'm not sure I could love Elvis, Dylan, the Beatles, The Who or Springsteen as much as I do if I did, never mind my various prog guilty pleasures—and if it sometimes misses the mark, well, hey, that's the risk you run by swinging for the fences, right?
But it's hard to listen to that intimate reading by the older Gabriel and deny that it's got a power every bit the equal of the debut version, albeit in a far more restrained but no less effective for that manner. (The fact that his voice sounds better than ever there doesn't hurt, of course.)
As my brother Jeff continues to make more and more progress every day recovering from a stroke, here's something bound to make him smile. One of his favorite bands (The Ramones) doing one of their best songs in pretty much the most Ramone-y way possible. Little is said, little is changed, just nonstop energy and sneers to go along with the irresistible beat. Rock-n-roll, baby. #TapperStrong
And boy howdy, as a dancer, Joey sure was...one hell of a good lead singer.
and how delightful was that? Sure, Anne Murray's not exactly a heavy-hitter, artistically, but as a pop-loving child of the 70s, I've always had a serious soft spot for her, especially after reading about her learning the hardest of ways why you never want to try to follow Bruce Springsteen on stage, especially not in New York City.
(This was during the brief period after Vini "Mad Dog" Lopez had left the band, when the fantastic Ernest "Boom" Carter was on drums. Springsteen was on fire, of course, and a quarter of the audience left as soon as his set was done; not only was Murray booed when she started her set, by the time her set was over, only a quarter of the crowd was left. Not coincidentally, that was the last time any artist ever even considered letting Bruce Springsteen open for him/her.)
Was that extra little walkdown filigree added to title line really necessary? I don't think so, but hey, quibbles. A more serious annoyance is the fact that they reverse the order of the first two lines, but then, absolutely everybody (except Dylan himself) does that, probably because that's how the lyrics were officially registered. Still, have none of them ever paid attention to (almost) any of Dylan's own recordings? Vexing.
[Yes, I know, in the very early days he would sometimes since it in the printed order, which is undoubtedly why the lyrics were printed in that order. I do not accept this excuse. Rejected!]
I found it an interesting choice for Dylan cover. 'cuz, sure, it's one of Dylan's very greatest songs—and when you consider the rest of us oeuvre, that's a mouthful, and especially staggering considering he was about 21 when he wrote it—but it was never a single for him, much less a hit. Nor was it a big hit for anyone else, unlike so many of his other songs, which were commercial and artistic successes, of course, for the likes of the Byrds and Jimi Hendrix and so on.
Only it turns out it was a successful single, first for Peter, Paul & Mary (who I try to avoid like the plague, hence my semi-deliberate ignorance), going to #9 in 1963. And then even more amazingly, going to #12 two years later and selling over a million copies. Oddly, that later cover seems little more than a footnote now.
Or maybe not so odd, once you hear the damn thing.
As a pop-loving child of the 70s, I have a soft spot for Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons. But this...this is not good. Abomination is probably too strong a word. Probably. But maybe not. Yes, it was apparently recorded as a joke. It's not a good one.
There's going to be a lot written about how Glen Campbell was one of the greatest guitarists ever, and that's true. There'll be a lot written about his studio work, his time with the Beach Boys, his huge success in the late 60s and 70s, his television shows, and the terrible sadness of his final years.
And there's going to be a lot written about the Jimmy Webb songs he recorded, as well there should be. A lot of people have called "Witchita Lineman" the greatest pop song ever. I'm not sure I can go along with that...and yet it's pretty hard to disagree. The late Sir William Joel of Long Islandington once described it as "a simple song about an ordinary man thinking extraordinary thoughts" and that's pretty spot damn on. It came about because Campbell had already had a hit with Webb's "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" and, like Chuck Berry had the previous decade, he clearly saw the commercial value in using a specific location as a hook, so much so that he asked Webb for "another town song." "Do me another song that makes me long for home," Campbell told the songwriter and damn if Webb didn't do exactly that in spades.
If there's a more romantic couplet than
And I need you more than want you And I want you for all time
“My country, right or wrong; if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right.”
In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people By the relief office I seen my people As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking Is this land made for you and me? Nobody living can ever stop me As I go walking that freedom highway Nobody living can ever make me turn back This land was made for you and me
The animated effects, the deliberately herky-jerky framerate, the neon juxtaposed against the Patrick Nagel-like black and white, the drum machine, the chiming synths, the cheesy humor at the very beginning, the Miami Vice outfits...and of course, Rod the Mod at his Jaggerian pranciest. And if there's an artist in the world who has less standing to sing this nice guy anthem, I don't know who.
DT and I were talking a while back about post-Keith Moon Who LPs, as well as subsequent solo albums from various Who members. And I recalled that the Pete Townshend-written Roger Daltrey track "After the Fire" was really good.
But what I didn't recall was that the video itself gives Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" a serious run for its money when it comes to Most 80s Video Ever.
Sure, that's some earnest damn emoting at the beginning there, but then, Roger's always been a heart-on-the-sleeve singer. (And, if biographies are to be believe, guy.) And, yeah, you might think that one dramatic whiparound was enough, never mind seven. That's right, seven; I slowed the video down to half-speed, just to make sure my tally was right—although, admittedly, on the last one, he does a 270, rather than a 180, so I'm not positive if it counts. But what makes the opening work for me is how much drama he gets out of...lighting a match. Yeah, he later uses that match to spark a genuine conflagration, but that's in the future. At the moment the match is lit, it's just a surprise Spanish Inquisition-like appearance of...a match. And not even one of them really big mamajamas, neither; it's just a simple bog standard match, like used to be on the counter for the taking in restaurants and hotels and convenience stores. And yet the gravitas, the drama—it is simply glorious.
Some givens: yes, B.B. King sings great. Of course he does—he's B.B. damn King. And, yes, he plays magnificently. Of course he does—as mentioned, he's B.B. damn King.
But the thing that about this gem that makes me laugh every damn time is how the vocals convey just how much he takes it in stride.
Like getting hit by a falling tree? He sounds about as put out as if an errant leaf blown on a breeze stuck to his leg.
It all began with a small smile. And the bluest eyes I'd ever seen.
It's a cliche, of course, to talk about love at first sight, to say you knew from the moment you saw your husband/wife that he/she was the one for you. And in my case it wouldn't necessarily be accurate. I can't confess to reading my fortune with such letter perfect precision the moment I saw her 27 years ago. But I can say this: the blonde hair, that little smile in my direction, those eyes. They made me not want to look away. Maybe I couldn't see the future, but I could see that smile, those eyes.
Today, 25 years to the day we were married, I still can't read the future, but I can say this much; the present still looks mighty fine with her in my life. And if the future brings us as far as tomorrow, that looks pretty fine too.
"So tonight I'll ask the stars above, How did I ever win your love?"
That's from John Hiatt's "Angel Eyes," also made popular-ish in 1990 by Jeff Healey with his aching and passionate rendition. Funny thing about songs that become "your song" with the one you love, you don't exactly know it's "your song" the first time you ever hear it. Or even the 20th. Well, maybe if you're extremely lucky, or if you're Marty McFly's parents, you know the very moment you hear a song it was meant to be the song that connected two hearts together inseparably for all time. It just doesn't usually work that way.
In the summer of 1990 I was 21 years old and a very recent college graduate. I was barely shaving every other day, let alone every day like I sadly must do now. I was clean-shaven and skinny, barely 160 pounds on my 6'1 frame. I had just been hired at my first ever real bona fide job as a reporter at a mid-sized daily newspaper outside of Hartford, CT. I was making a little money (not much, but a little) and was living with friends in a crowded but adequate little apartment. And I was single, unhitched. I thought at the time I had everything I needed; a job, a place of my own, a few bucks in my pocket and no attachments.
I spent that summer carefree and pretty much carelessly blissful, or so I thought. My last "girlfriend" had come months earlier at the end of my senior year and I told myself it was my time to have some adult fun. I thought myself funny, charming and somewhat (I guess) attractive. So I spent those summer months playing the proverbial field, dating and goofing around. My time, and everything else, was my own, and for a short while it felt like I had all I needed.
Only yeah, no. I learned something pretty stark after those few months. I wanted more than this. I was young and a little naive and idealistic. I wanted to be a writer and a poet and to cash in on my romantic's heart. No, I wasn't dreaming of falling in love, but I was smitten with the idea of being hit by that thunderbolt and having someone else with me who was hit by it just as hard. Look, I was 21 and had no clue what I wanted, truth be told. But I knew I wanted something and I wanted it to be amazing.
I would frequently go out with friends that summer to bars and to parties, even the occasional road trip, and "Angel Eyes," that song, was without a question part of the soundtrack of that summer. I loved the song, and what's more, I noticed when it was on. I listened intently to the longing and the beauty of that underdog's tale of found love. I heard something of myself in it for whatever reason. And I couldn't get it out of my head.
Now I'm the guy who never learned to dance Who never even got one second glance Across the crowded room was close enough I could look but I could never touch So tonight I'll ask the stars above How did I ever win your love? What did I do? What did I say? To turn your angel eyes my way?
When I met Doreen it was in the heart of that summer, late July to be exact. It was in the newsroom. She was one of the first people I met that day and she was given the (unenviable) task of showing me around that day, giving me the five-cent tour and, it seems, making sure I didn't break anything. That's when I first saw that smile, those blue eyes. I thought she was exactly what she was, beautiful and funny and warm. I had no idea what was to come.
She was a little older than I was but we hit it off right away, the same sense of humor and a lot in common. Not only could I count on her counsel and advice now and again as I was getting my start, but I found we shared common interests. Funny, one of the first things I recall was we both loved legendary northeast band NRBQ and talked lightly of going to see them sometime. But it was a work friendship and not much more. Or so I thought.
And then suddenly it wasn't that anymore. I was thinking about Doreen all the time, her face and hair and those eyes and the way she seemed to make me feel a little better when she talked to me. When I heard "Angel Eyes" play on the radio I began to think about her (y'see, kids, back in the day we actually listened to music on the broadcast radio, but I guess that's another story for another time).
One night I got drunk with one of my closest friends and told him about her. He told me to make my move, so to speak. To go for it, the way friends do. But that wasn't my style, at least not right away. Instead I stumbled home that night, stone drunk, and wrote a poem about her. A lot of it was gibberish, but the final line was pretty clear, "I am ready."
Our first date happened largely by accident on of all things a Monday night. October 29, 1990 to be exact. Three days past my 22nd birthday. Neither one of us planned it; we just happened to be working late and decided to go out for a drink. Over drinks we talked about getting a bite to eat and she invited me to her apartment for a quick-fix pasta dinner. Perfect; I had to go out later that night to cover a story anyway, so a nice quick meal and some great conversation with a friend was ideal. Yes, at this time I knew how interested I was in her, but despite the recent drunken poetic declarations I'd put to paper, I was nowhere near ready to tell her that, I didn't think.
And then there we were, sitting and talking and suddenly her hand was in mine. I remarked at how small her hands were and we had a laugh about that; it was honestly something I hadn't noticed before. It probably took us a good few seconds to realize we were holding hands, but then at once we both seemed acutely aware of it.
That's when I threw all caution to hell, swallowed up every ounce of courage I had, leaned over and kissed her. And she kissed me back. It likely lasted five seconds but seemed to last for hours. Probably because I wanted it to.
That's when we looked at each other, that warm smile of hers suddenly warmer than anything I'd ever seen or known, and I had to think of something to say. "You're a writer, jackass," my mind told me as it sprinted 10 miles ahead of my body. "Say something a writer would say!"
But all I could come up with was this:
"God, I've been wanting to do that for a long time."
She responded in kind, "I've been wanting to do that for a long time too."
That was our love story. So much followed and continues to follow, amazing days and nights together, our engagement seven months later, our wedding 13 months after that, our life together. Sickness and health, great times and hard times, the birth of an amazing son, changing careers and traversing all of those paths life puts before you. All of it followed that first kiss, and it all has meant so much 25 years and beyond, moving down the road together.
But our love story was told in that kiss, in that moment. It shone like moonlight through her smile and danced through my soul as it reflected in those beautiful blue eyes of hers. It was our first moment and remains the window to every moment that has followed.
So tonight I'll ask the stars above How did I ever win your love? What did I do? What did I say? To turn your angel eyes my way?
It wasn't too long after that first moment, maybe a few weeks, that we were together and "Angel Eyes" came on the stereo. My song, the song that sounded exactly like the thing I was looking for even though I had no idea what that thing was. Before I could point out how much I loved this song she spoke.
"Oh my God! I love this song!" she exclaimed.
Yes, it was meant to be. We danced to it for our first dance at our wedding on June 6, 1992. That's 25 years ago today. We don't need any song to remind us what we mean to each other, how happy we are, but whenever we hear it we both are transported back to those early days together. And we are both so grateful for what we found in each other.
We've been together 27 years, married for 25, and are both signed on for at least twice of that to come. At least. And it all started with a smile that has never left me, and those eyes that remain as blue and perfect as the day I met her.
Happy anniversary to the love of my life. As the man sang, "What did I do? What did I say? To turn your angel eyes my way?"
The original version, throaty and raw and wondrous.
And the version we both first fell in love with, in all its ethereal beauty.
Soundgarden. Audioslave. And one very very memorable session with fellow bandmates and friends called Temple of the Dog, which did two things: 1) Delivered "Hunger Strike," one of the best and most iconic songs of the 1990s, and 2) Kinda resulted in the formation of a band known as Pearl Jam.
The man did a lot and indeed left a mark. And damn could he sing.
Some people just look like rock-n-roll, in addition to sounding like it.
Chris Cornell was no doubt one of those people. He so very, very was.
RIP Chris. You'll be missed.
And for the record, this was one of the scariest and most unforgettable videos ever made. It still is.
One of the great things about punk, past all of the anger and the pathos and the defiance and so much else, is that so many of the standard bearer punk rock songs, when you cut to the core, are just so melodic. Think Patti Smith at her best. Or the Stooges with "Search and Destroy," among others. Or basically the entire Ramones catalogue. The list goes on, from "London Calling" to "American Idiot" and everything else in between. All of these young (and not so young) punks had something loud and urgent to say, but dammit if you couldn't sing along with it while they did. Or even, in some cases, dance to it.
That's what I love about today's entry in our occasional "Favorite Song Friday" series.
Favorite Song Friday: People Who Died — The Jim Carroll Band
This is punk rock. I mean this is punk rock with a capitol damn P. Jim Carroll was many things and was really really good at all of them. He was a neo-beat poet who grew up worshiping the likes of Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. He was a best-selling author whose The Basketball Diaries remains as visceral a depiction of the urban nightmare of despair and addiction as anyone has ever written. He hung with and had the respect of the the proto-punk New York crowd, the likes of Patti Smith and Lou Reed and Robert Maplethorpe. He was a young basketball star who lived through addiction and survived addiction, with the scars to prove it. And in his spare time he fronted a punk/new wave band, The Jim Carroll Band, that while they weren't quite The Clash or The Ramones or Black Flag, for a brief while in the early 80s they were pretty damn good and a pretty damn clear representation of what New York City punk rock was really all about. Carroll's poet's soul, his storyteller's mind and, yes, his punk rocker's heart resulted in at least one truly great piece of punk artistry, "People Who Died."
There's not much more to this song that a churning 4/4 beat, a breakneck bassline, a couple of very tasty guitar solos and an eight-stanza glimpse into Jim Carroll's personal definition of hell. "People Who Died" is a literal list of what the title says; people in his life who died young and painfully, either from disease, ODing, war, murder or suicide. Every inch of the eight verses (three of which are repeated at the end) gives us a rapid-fire memorial of people in life whom he lost.
Carroll doesn't really bother trying to sing, he more raps and rasps his way through the hyperpaced list of the lost. And the words are so tragic and gripping you practically want him to stop, to say "No mas." But then comes the chorus and the song shifts from the frenetic poetic dirge to a fist-pumping rally cry to the lost. "Those are people who died, died!" he shouts/sings, "Those are people who died-died! They were all my friends! And they died!"
You shouldn't be able to dance to those words. Or sing along with passion to those words. Or allow those words to liberate you and make you rise from street-level where all the dead bodies lay to a place beyond death and despair where actual life can be celebrated. There's no way that should be possible in a song that is so riddled with death from opening to close. But you can. You can because Jim Carroll didn't just write down a list of people who died. He wrote a song to remember, mourn and, yes, celebrate them.
And read the lyrics. This is gutter poetry at its very finest, something only someone who had lived it and somehow emerged from it could possibly write:
Teddy sniffing glue, he was 12 years old Fell from a roof on East 2-9. Kathy was 11 when she pulled the plug 26 reds and a bottle of wine. Bobby got leukemia, 14 years old He looked 65 when he died, he was a friend of mine. Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! They were all my friends! And they died! G-burg and Georgie let their gimmicks go rotten So they died of hepatitis in Upper Manhattan. Sly in Vietnam took a bullet to the head Bobby OD'd on Drano on the night he was wed. They were two more friends of mine, two more friends that died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! They were all my friends! And they died! Mary took a dry dive from a hotel room Bobby hung himself from his cell in the tombs. Judy jumped in front of a subway train Eddie got slit in his jugular vein. Eddie, I miss you more than all the others - and I salute you brother! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! All of my friends, they died! Herbie pushed Tony from a Boys' Club roof Tony thought his rage was just some goof. But Herbie sure gave Tony some, some bitchin' proof. And Herbie said, "Tony, can you fly?" But Tony couldn't fly. Tony died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! They were all my friends! And they died! Brian got busted on a narco rap He beat the rap by rattin' on some bikers. He said, "Hey I know it's dangerous, "But it sure beats Rikers." But the next day he got offed, by the very same bikers! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! They were all my friends! And they died! Teddy sniffing glue, he was 12 years old Fell from a roof on East 2-9. Kathy was 11 when she pulled the plug 26 reds and a bottle of wine. Bobby got leukemia, 14 years old He looked 65 when he died, he was a friend of mine. Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! They were all my friends! And they died! G-burg and Georgie let their gimmicks go rotten So they died of hepatitis in Upper Manhattan. Sly in Vietnam took a bullet to the head Bobby OD'd on Drano on the night he was wed. They were two more friends of mine, two more friends that died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! They were all my friends! And they died! Mary took a dry dive from a hotel room Bobby hung himself from his cell in the tombs. Judy jumped in front of a subway train Eddie got slit in his jugular vein. Eddie, I miss you more than all the others - this song is for you my brother!
Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! Those are people who died, died! All of my friends, they died!
Jim Carroll died in 2009 at 60, far too young but, I suppose, way longer than he may have ever expected to live given his descent in his young life into heroin and hell. But he left behind a diverse and indelible canon of work that any writer would have been proud to call their own.
"People Who Died" was part of that canon. A big part. A song for the dead and dying. Written and delivered by someone who was and remains very much alive in a world he helped to shape.
Call this a guilty pleasure song, I guess. Or maybe it's a really really good song. I mean, I think it's a really really good song. So that should count for something, right?
I've always been a little funny when it comes to Donovan. I tend to err on the side of appreciating him more than I think others of my generation do. Which is to say, people who were nowhere close to being alive when many of his biggest songs like "Catch the Wind," "Mellow Yellow," "Sunshine Superman" and the song I am writing about today were written. And barely alive when his career peaked and started to fade by the late 60s. But some obvious annoyances notwithstanding, like his tendency towards overwroughtedness in his voice and his seeming penchant to take himself way too seriously at times, he was a pretty solid songwriter who had a fine understanding of melody and was never afraid to take chances. So sue me. I like Donovan!
(Actually, don't sue me if you don't have to. My kid starts college this fall and that's really the last thing I need).
So. "Season of the Witch." Yeah, guilty pleasure or not, I love it. So there it is. No, I don't know what's talking about or singing about. His talent for writing sweet and moving lyrics (like the lovely and aforementioned "Catch the Wind") kinda takes a vacation in this one. ("When I look out my window, so many sites to see" is the kinda line that would merit an "Incomplete - please elaborate" if turned in for a high school English class. And the rest of it just seems to be filler until we get to the title line.) That annoying voice thing comes back, sounding like someone trying to sound grown up as he orders his meal in a really fancy restaurant. The music, however, is outstanding. It starts with these haunting, twangy guitar strands that seem to lean more on a band like the Yardbirds than on the usual Donovan hippy-dippy-trippy stuff. There's a seething nature to the way the bass lopes menacingly underneath it, like an animal waiting to strike. Even those damn lyrics and that damn singing voice don't get in the way of the music setting an eerie stage. And when Mr. Leitch then goes up a register and actually "sings" for realsies the way we know he can, the song starts to get fully realized. It's almost like he's setting a trap and waiting patiently for it to be tripped as the music builds behind him.
But then, oh man. Once he gets to the "chorus," repeating the "stitch" line three times before that spring-loaded trap releases and we are hit like a right-cross with the payoff: "Must be the SEASON OF THE WIII-III-ITCH," all bets are off. The song becomes as commanding and overpowering as any of that era. And dammit if that isn't a great rock-n-roll moment right there. It's got everything we love about music. Tension, mystery, delightful moments of interplay and one mother of a punchline. And at each chorus, when Donovan employs this time-tested trick, it works like gangbusters; every time the song reaches its highest height with the thrice-repeated title line, it's as fresh and startling as the first time we've heard it. Well done, sir. Well done.
Lastly there's the guitar. Which starts as forboding little fills but when Donovan rips out that "witch" line, there's some awesome guitar work going on alongside it, a jangle that seems to be the marriage of blues and electric folk and seems to be borrowed from the likes of the Animals and (here's that band again and, hint hint, remember I said this) the Yardbirds. It's some serious chops and technique on display here, and honestly, I didn't think Donovan had it in him; nothing he's done before or after really reminds me of this kinda playing. I mean, he seems to be a fine acoustic guitarist, but this doesn't sound like him.
Because as I have now learned, it isn't. It's this little fella here:
Mayhap this was common knowledge to some, that Jimmy Page played on many of Donovan's tracks during this time (including "Sunshine Superman") but it was news to me. I mean, I knew he was a coveted sessions player in his pre-Yardbirds days and even during, but never ever knew this was his handiwork until very recently. And I was as delighted as I was fershimmeled. Huh!
So there we go. Great rock-n-roll, as least as far as I'm concerned. Guilty pleasure or not. And regardless of whatever the hell he's talking about.
This is one of two Cliff Richard songs that I loved when I was a kid, yet only discovered was by Sir Cliff some time within the past few years, decades after I'd first learned of the British Elvis.
Great tune. But boy howdy that spinning dance at the end, followed by the lumbering side to side shuffle is...not Elvis-like.
Well, all right. Rickie Lee Jones makes this Bowiest of songs her own. And while she goes the unplugged route, she doesn't slow it down (or, god forbid, turn it into an anemic shuffle—that's right, Slowhand, I still love you, but I also still haven't forgiven you for what you did to your own greatest creation), but manages to keep a surprising amount of the original's energy.
This cover is interesting in its execution, yes, but also because while it's obviously immediately recognizable, I can't help but feel if it were the only version you knew, it'd be nearly impossible to reverse-engineer it to get the original.
This is one of the greatest, most apropos covers I've ever seen, up there with Springsteen covering Dylan and R.E.M. covering CCR, from the trademark Green Day energy and sound to the oddly appropriate lackluster approach to the lyrics.
"If you tried to give rock-n-roll another name, you might call it 'Chuck Berry.'"—John Lennon Chuck Berry is gone. He died today at the age of 90.
In a musical genre where old age is much more wishful thinking that anything based remotely in reality, Chuck beat the odds and fooled 'em all, like he always did. He outlived basically everyone who came up with him in the early days of rock-n-roll and so damn many who came up under his influence. 90 years in rock-n-roll is an ice age, and era, so much more than a lifetime. And still it hurts so much that he's gone. Gone too soon. RIP Charles Edward Anderson Berry. And damn. It's hard to say that Chuck Berry invented rock-n-roll, because so many people played a part in this magical and in many ways still indescribable invention that we now call rock-n-roll. Did Chuck invent it? Did Elvis Presley? Did Roy Brown and Louis Jordan and Big Joe Turner? Did Hank Williams? Did Ike Turner? Did Jerry Lee Lewis? Hell, did the amazing Big Mama Thornton? Yes to all. And no to all. Rock-n-roll emerged from the lava, from the magma. Thanks to giants like all of those mentioned above and others. Thanks to people with the talent, the vision and, yes, the balls of Chuck Berry. Here's what we know. If Chuck Berry didn't invent rock-n-roll—and I am not contending he did (see above paragraph)—he sure as hell refined it. He did what Miles Davis did to jazz. What Marvin Gaye did to soul. What Johnny Cash did to the American songbook and what Michael Jackson did to pop. He wasn't the first, but it's really hard to argue that anyone did it better. And in Chuck's case, that anyone did it better for longer. Here is what I will say tonight, while mourning a man I never met (I saw him in concert once in the late 1980s, something I now am just so damn grateful for) but have listened to devoutly and worshipped since I was just a young white boy in Catholic high school 30+ years ago. Chuck Berry invented rock-n-roll guitar. Chuck Berry invented rock-n-roll songwriting. Chuck Berry invented rock-n-roll as therapy for the twisted, haunted soul. And Chuck Berry invented a sound. A sound so unique, so whole, so complete and so overpowering that the only way to describe it is "the Chuck Berry Sound." What Chuck Berry did was he took everything his brilliant ears and body ingested and made it into something more. The blues and doo-wop and boogie woogie and jazz and country and gospel and the sweetest soul sounds you ever heard. And he took them all and he added those elements that only he had, those tortured and lovely and brutal things lurking inside his brain, and he strapped on his Gibson guitar and he mixed them all together in a musical jambalaya that no one had ever tasted before, and he hooked us in one bite. From the opening, ear-splitting strains of "Maybelline" on through, he fed us rock-n-roll like no one had ever heard or imagined before. And in doing so he foretold so much of what was to come. From the Beatles and Rolling Stones who worshiped him to Jimi Hendrix who bled him, from Stevie Wonder who channeled him in unimaginable sensory ways to Chuck D. and the forerunners and geniuses of rap and hip-hop who used his streetwise tales and too-cool-for-school skat-a-tat lingo to blaze their own trails, Chuck Berry saw it all. Maybe he's not the father of rock-n-roll (or maybe he is). But to me, anyway, he is more. He's the father of the 20th century sound. And beyond. As an equal parts musical fanatic and sports fanatic, the best comparison I could always make to Chuck Berry was Magic Johnson. Outsized and overbearing, playing the same old game in a way we never imagined it could be played. To picture Magic is to picture Chuck—the effervescent smile and devilish gleam in their eyes, always one step ahead of everyone else, seeming to make it up as they go but always in such dynamic and rhythmic control, 1,000 different ways to wow us waiting at their fingertips. And at the end, a wink. And a promise of more to come. Magic Johnson leading the fast break and firing a no-look pass was the first cousin to Chuck Berry's duck-walking across the stage and stretching it all out in the spirit of unbridled musical ebullience. The songs explain it all far better than I ever could. The sheer fun of "Too Much Monkey Business." The epic travelogue of "The Promised Land." The torrential sadness of "Memphis." The very raison d'etre of rock-n-roll stardom that was "Johnny B. Goode." The statement of purpose(s) of "Roll Over Beethoven" and "Rock-n-Roll Music." The rumbling fever of "Downbound Train." The rebellion of "School Days." The outright glory gush of "Back in the USA." The aching of "Carol" and "Nadine." The youthful joyride of "You Never Can Tell." The naughty wink of "My Ding A Ling." On the tale rocks, on the train rolls. Take those Chuck Berry creations and dozens of others and put them under glass. Paint them in oils. Preserve them in amber. Their likes we will never see again. And that we did get to see and hear them, for 60+ years, makes us so lucky. So damn lucky. Hail, hail rock-n-roll, Mr. Berry. Thanks to you our hearts are beatin' rhythm and our souls will always, always be singin' the blues.
So I'd known this existed for a while but hadn't watched it until just now and hokey smokes is it ever so much better than I'd anticipated. Roger Waters' voice sounds surprisingly supple, the band is expectedly red hot, and the graphics are not surprisingly top notch.
This post is not exactly going to be one that in the business world they call a "value-add." There's not a ton of new ground I'll be covering here, and I hope that is OK with you, dear reader(s).
It's fairly obvious and simplistic. Just my favorite song by one of my absolute most favorite bands that ever lived.
I listened to the song (actually to the entire Don't Tell a Soul album this morning) on my ride into work today. No real reason why, other than it had been a while. And this was the first Mats album I ever fell in love with; my love affair with everything else they did would literally come seconds later. But "Achin' To be" always struck me as a great rock-n-roll band at their very very greatest.
Did it rock as hard as the Replacements were capable of rocking? Nope.
Was it a touch more produced than a lot of their vintage stuff? Yep.
Was it representative of their total work? Which is to say if an alien landed tomorrow and gave you one song to define for him or her who the Replacements were (and wouldn't that just be an awesome reason for an alien coming to Earth? Seriously!), would this be the song you'd play? I don't think so. I really don't. Not with this out there. Or this. Or even this. Or this.
Anyway.
Still it is just so raggedly beautiful, so jaggedly heartfelt and, yes, aching. There's not an ounce of strut or pose in the band here, particularly not from the inimitable Paul Westerberg. His voice is tired and raw, as it always was, but there is a longing underneath. Like these are words he just has to get out and has only a tiny window of time to do it. The rest of the band is perfectly in form; Tommy Stinson does his thing by adding some pop to the loping bassline, Slim Dunlop adds a few small country licks into the mid-tempo mix, and Chris Mars kept perfect time just the way Chris Mars always did. Combining that with Paul's peerless songwriting and shattered glass voice, this is what I mean when I say while this might not represent the quintessential Replacements song, it does show them doing it as well as they ever could.
And if you're like me and buy into the theory that Paul really was singing about himself here, only with flopping the gender and putting it into the third person to throw us all off the trail, then read these lyrics again. And tell me you're not achin' to be right there with him. Hearing every single syllable and, what's more important, getting it. Getting it all.
Well she's kinda like an artist Sitting on the floor Never finishes, she abandons Never shows a soul And she's kinda like a movie Everyone rushes to see But no one understands it Sitting in their seats She opens her mouth to speak and What comes out's a mystery Thought about, not understood She's achin' to be Well she dances alone in nightclubs Every other day of the week People look right through her "Baby doll, check your cheek." And she's kinda like a poet Who finds it hard to speak The poems come so slowly Like the colors down a sheet She opens her mouth to speak and What comes out's a mystery Thought about, not understood She's achin' to be I've been achin' for a while now, friend I've been achin' hard for years Well she's kinda like an artist Who uses paints no more You never show me what you're doing You never show a soul Well I saw one of your pictures There was nothing that I could see If no one's on your canvas, Well I'm achin' to be She closes her mouth to speak and Closes her eyes to see Thought about and only loved She's achin' to be Just like me
I was reading a discussion the other day about who the greatest prog keyboardist of the 70s was: Keith Emerson or Rick Wakeman? And what about Patrick Moraz? Where does he fit in?
I don't nearly enough about keyboards or Emerson to have any kind of an educated opinion. I know I certain prefer both Wakeman's and Moraz's playing, given that Close to the Edge is absolutely one of my favorite albums ever, and Fragile's not far behind, and for that matter, I have recently come to appreciate Relayer despite the fact that Bill Bruford doesn't play on it, but he didn't play on the two albums he made with Moraz and I like those too. Meanwhile, I've never had much desire to hear any ELP beyond what was frequently on the radio and didn't even enjoy that handful of tunes all that much.
Still, there's no question that when it comes to technique, Wakeman, Emerson and Moraz stand head and shoulders above the other most famous prog keyboardists, Tony Banks and Rick Wright, and that's assuming you even consider Pink Floyd a prog band. (You should.) Both are certainly fine players, but neither come close to the kind of technical excellence so freely displayed by Wakeman and Emerson.
And yet. For all their unquestioned chops, and for all I adore Close to the Edge and it and Fragile have enriched my life, I have never heard Rick Wakeman play anything as lovely, as melodious, as absolutely perfect for its setting as the solo Banks plays from 2:49-3:10, never mind Keith Emerson.
And we haven't even touched about the stuff he wrote with Genesis—which is to say, most of Genesis' output. (That's at least a slight exaggeration. Sometimes he only co-wrote stuff.) But, I mean, "Cinema Show"? "Apocalypse in 9/8"? "After the Ordeal"? I mean.
So. Best keyboardist? By most criteria, Banks isn't even close to being in the running. But I would surely pick just about anything he ever wrote with Genesis over not only just about anything ever written by Wakeman or Emerson, I'd pick just about anything he's ever written over just about everything written by those guys.
(Full disclosure: Rick Wakeman seems like he's been pretty much one of the coolest guys on the planet since at least Hunky Dory.)
I'll tell ya, I'd pay good money, or give up one of my kids—and possibly all of 'em (hi, Max!)—for an album of Dave Gilmour singing minor key Dick van Dyke songs.
Toss in him doing "Pure Imagination" and I wouldn't have to pay anything, 'cuz I'd die of happiness.
Oh, 70s. You sweet, sweet, naïve decade. When a guy who looks like this jamoke can become a megastar with a song like this...that he didn't even write.
My guess is that Beach Boy Bruce Johnston had absolutely no problem with few people knowing he wrote the song claiming he writes the songs, and even fewer problems cashing the many enormous checks.
You know, I've never understood the main criticism that song seemed to get, which is the absurd arrogance of my man Bears claiming he invented music, when it's crystal clear that the song's narrator is, in fact, God, or at least some omnipotent being. Which, yes, Barry Manilow is damn close to being, but even he's not quite all the way there.
First Chris Squire, then Greg Lake and now John Wetton. The list of great prog bassists from the 70s is getting mighty short. (Mike Rutherford and Roger Waters, you guys take care of yourselves, hear?)
Wetton had an interesting career. After being in perhaps King Crimson's finest lineup—with sincere apologies to the early 80s version—he toured with Roxy Music and then joined the big at the time but seemingly now virtually forgotten Uriah Heep, before forming prog supergroup UK with old Crimson bandmate Bill Bruford. When that didn't pay off with the kind of financial windfall many were expecting, he tried again, this time with Yes guitarist Steve Howe, Yes and Buggles keyboardist Geoff Downes and of course prog rock's answer to Buddy Rich, Carl Palmer. And boom: the money finally rolled in.
It wasn't really prog, of course, more like AOR pop rock, and that's fine; there's never too much catchy music around. But it was easy to forget just what a fine musician Wetton was when he was playing material as catchy but unchallenging to someone as proficient as he. So to remember him, we're going with this odd one-off supergroup, combining Steve Hackett, guitarist for almost all of the best Genesis albums, Ian McDonald, a member of the first King Crimson incarnation, later founding member of Foreigner, and the writer of this song, Chester Thompson, former drummer for Weather Report and Frank Zappa and, of course, touring drummer for Genesis, and Wetton himself.
