Speaking of Jackson Browne, here's a little piece I did from the Moms Demand Action rally commemorating the first anniversary of the Sandy Hook shootings. With part of a new Jackson Browne song about gun violence.
Amazon gave me a free month of Amazon Prime and I've been watching tons of movies they have available to stream for free.
One of them was ROADIE (the 2011 movie starring Ron Eldard, not the 2012 short with Jack Black and Kyle Gass or the 1980 movie with Meat Loaf):
The movie itself is all over the place, but there are at least two fantastic performances in it (Eldard and Bobby Cannavale) and it's definitely worth watching if you've got the time.
There's a scene in the movie where Eldard (fired after more than two decades as a roadie for Blue Oyster Cult) and his High School girlfriend (now married to the guy who bullied Eldard in High School) listen to what at first seemed like a fantastic pastiche of pretentious blue-eyed soul.
Imagine my surprise to learn that the band Eldard was obsessed with was a real band, the Good Rats. And they were exactly the kind of band I might have been obsessed with when I was growing up - a woulda/coulda/shoulda been stars band from Long Island who never gave up their dream.
The song from the movie is far from flawless (but that just enhances its appeal in my opinion), but it drips heartache and yearning all through the performance. From 1976's Rat City in Blue, please enjoy the Good Rats (featuring the late, great Peppi Marchello):
If I didn't know this was the flip side to the single of Elton John's "Step Into Christmas," I'd assume it was the work of some demented sub-Monty Python British comics trying to come up with the worst Xmas song ever.
Perhaps only the 1970s and a voice like Greg Lake's could produce this next song.
Its mixture of pseudo-profundity and vagueness seem perfectly matched to Lake's bombastic voice that seems to be saying something really amazingthat you can't quite put your finger on. (Which is all the more appropriate since the lyrics were written by Peter Sinfield, a poet, songwriter, and co-founder of King Crimson.)
I used to hear this all the time on the radio, but it seems to have fallen out of favor recently.
But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy it now... even if it's just a guilty pleasure.
I'm reading the new Graham Nash autobiography Wild Tales: A Rock & Roll Life on Kindle. There's a lot of multimedia included, so when he talks about the first song he sang with David Crosby and Stephen Stills, you can actually hear it.
You know you're not supposed to take the car out of state.
So you drive it all the way to the edge of the state. And you stop.
And you rest there. Sleep for a few hours at the rest stop.
Ignore the stories you've heard. The kids murdered at the rest stop.
The guy who opens his car door and finds a hook on the door handle.
The bodies never found... and the ones found in the woods.
You should really stay in a motel. But you won't be there that long.
You're heading further. Six hours past the border.
Six hours past where you're allowed to go.
To a small airport. A tiny airport to meet a plane that's late.
This is years before 9/11 and the security is lax. They let you keep the car by the curb for two hours. The guards come and talk to you, but they're friendly. They don't care if you move the car or not.
Times have changed since then. The small airport was rebuilt and expanded at a cost of fifty million dollars.
The guards now shoo you away if you park for more than five minutes.
The car companies now put GPS devices on their vehicles and know instantly if you take their cars out of state.
But the rest stop is still there. And there's still no sign of the guy with the hook for an arm.
And the guy who drove up there and went to the small airport?
I wrote this four years ago -- and edited it just a little for today.
Today is John Lennon's birthday. If he'd lived, he would be 73 years old.
That's almost impossible to imagine. And out of all the celebrities who've died in my lifetime, I took his death the hardest. (I never met him, I didn't even like all his music, but there was something about his spirit that I connected with at a very deep and fundamental level.)
In the same way, I connect with Iceland in a very deep and fundamental level. There's something amazing and spiritual about Iceland and it's reflected in their lifestyle, their music, and in their amazingly beautiful scenery.
Every year, Iceland holds a huge music festival in October called Iceland Airwaves. Every year I vow to get there, but I haven't made it yet.
In 2006, Yoko Ono started construction on the Imagine Peace Tower, on a small island just off the coast of Reykjavik, Iceland. Since this project combined John Lennon and Iceland, I followed its progress closely.
The "tower" consists of a wishing well, on which is written the phrase "Imagine Peace" in 24 languages. Under the base of the wishing well are more than a half-million handwritten wishes Ono collected from people all around the world.
In 2007, the tower was unveiled. Each year on John Lennon's birthday, the monument becomes a "tower of light" as 15 searchlights are bounced through mirrors and prisms to create a beam of light that stretches more than 12,000 feet into the sky. The tower of light is kept lit each year until December 8 (the day John Lennon was killed).
If you can't make it to Iceland, you can see live streaming video of the tower here.
Visit the official Imagine Peace Tower website online here.
Or take a look at a great time-lapse video of the tower from 2011 (complete with aurora activity around 12 seconds in):
On a block where you could sometimes park. If you were lucky.
Across from the coffee shop that was always crowded and served huge pots of tea.
And the Thai Place.
And the other Thai Place.
It was one of those places people who liked spirituality and paganism and Druids would speak about in hushed tones.
She went in all the time. Bought books. Drank green tea. And breathed in the incense.
I waited for her. Outside.
Until that one day that I ventured inside. Smelled the Patchouli. Looked through the many different types of massage therapists whose cards were up on the cork board.
And in the back of my mind, I heard this song.
And thought of monsters. Dancing.
And while I could tell you I found her in the metaphysical section, anyone who ever went to that store knows the whole store was the metaphysical section.
I went back there today.
The bookstore's gone.
The Thai Place is now a trendy boutique. The other Thai Place is now a shoestore. The coffee shop closed, reopened as a different coffee shop, and now is a different coffee shop with hookahs at the tables on the sidewalk.
The shady tree fell down and the street is now permit-only, so you can't even park there.
The monsters no longer dance there. They've moved somewhere else.
I'm pretty sure they'd want me to find them.
And maybe she'll even be there. In the metaphysical section, naturally.
I Swear I Found the Key to the Universe in the Engine of an Old Parked Car
Any Trouble, the great probably-should've-beens who had the misfortune of being on Stiff Records at a time when everyone else on Stiff Records was considered the next big thing, play around Bruce Springsteen's tempo on their debut album Where Are All The Nice Girls from 1980.
I'd never heard this before tonight, but here it is:
Long before Sigur Ros was a glimmer in the eye of whatever Icelandic lava-sprite birthed them, Bryan Ferry, Andy Mackay, Phil Manzanera (and sometimes Brian Eno) were sculpting sonic soundscapes that seemed to stretch forever through the wispy fog of memory.
And so... from early 1981, here's the only UK #1 single from Roxy Music.
Out the window were beautiful mountains that still had spots of snow on them in late July.
And this song came on over the sound system:
I found myself choking up. Wishing John Lennon were still around. Not that I'd met him. Not that I knew him.
"It's okay," he said in my mind. "Whenever you need it, you've still got the old records."
"That's not enough. I want to know what you'd have to say. I want to hear the music you would have made."
"Sorry," he said. "Can't help you there. But you can say things. You can make music."
"I can't make music," I said. And I sat there for a while listening to him sing and being sad. "Don't you miss it?" I finally asked.
"They say we're all energy. And energy can't be created or destroyed. It just changes form." Then he laughed. "Christ, I sound like George now."
I looked out the window. "The beauty reminds me of what was lost," I say.
"I get that. But it wasn't lost. It's just been transformed. Now you can be angry and feed on the energy of anger for years. God knows I did. Or you can see the beauty and go towards it. I know you gotta make your own decisions, but that's what I'd would do if I were you."
So I close the laptop and leave the coffee shop. Go out towards the mountains.
Imaginary John Lennon is right. Energy can't be created or destroyed.
Apparently, Faye Hunter (bassist for Let's Active in their jangle-pop heyday) has died at the age of 59. One report says she committed suicide after years of being primary caregiver for her sick mother.
I always thought of Let's Active as a band from an alternate reality.
The didn't quite understand what most music was, but they had a slightly warped perspective that, with the right amount of energy and exuberance, could be shaped into something that was almost recognizable, always compelling, and always just slightly out of reach.
In a kinder, more just world, they would have been superstars. Instead of cult heroes.
And our society isn't well equipped to take care of cult heroes. Especially when their time in the sun is over.
Condolences to her friends, family, and music lovers everywhere.
Sure, there are many pressing problems facing this country.
But if I were President, one of the things I'd do in my first 100 days would be to declare a National Day of Celebration for Don Dixon and Marti Jones.
I'm very happy to announce that my book of essays No, Mr. Bond, I Expect Your Dreams to Die will be available later this month (as both a paperback and an ebook).
From the Department of Wonderfully Bad Mid-1970s Videos
Start with a song from a martial-arts exploitation movie.
Starring George Lazenby, the guy who stepped in as James Bond in the movie Sean Connery thought was too sappy.
Then recruit a former prog-rock band whose first album featured a slightly rocking version of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring."
Then film a video where the band is inexplicably playing in front of a desert highway. And intercut with scenes from what seems like the worst Holiday Inn gig ever.
And add a scenes where the band boards a stairway that should lead to a plane (that isn't there) from a company called Pariah Airlines.
Oh, and drown the whole thing with tons of echo & reverb.
What's not to love? (And, not surprisingly, this was huge in Japan.)
Loveland pass has an elevation of 11,991 feet above Sea Level.
Denver, Colorado, about 60 miles away, is about 5600 feet above Sea Level.
That's an average grade of 2% for 60 miles, although the road at its steepest point is about a 15% grade.
So, no matter how you slice it, no matter how badly you're fleeing from a drug-deal-gone-bad, making it to Loveland pass in under half an hour is quite the accomplishment.
Happy 68th birthday, sorry it's a few days late...
When I was a kid, I bought the triple-record soundtrack to Woodstock. The one with the liner notes that all the flaws were left in the live recordings, saying "Consider them like the scars in fine leather, proof of the origin and authenticity of the material in which they are found."
And in the legend of Woodstock, there's always talk of Richie Havens. Out there with an acoustic guitar. Improvising an ode to something that hadn't yet begun. Something that would start. Something that hasn't yet been completed.
As announced here, Scott Miller (of Game Theory and Loud Family fame and the author of Music: What Happened?) has died far too young at age 53.
This seems so wrong on so many levels... Please send all your best wishes, thoughts, love, and prayers (in whatever combination works best for you) to his family and friends). It's not enough -- it's never enough -- but it's all we can do.
Here's a rerun from two years back:
They Suggest Piano Lessons for Young Beauty Queens
The days got longer, the pants got shorter, and the sun got warmer.
And the plans started hatching. Where we'd go. Who we'd visit. What we'd eat.
Then the couples shattered, stretched, and broke.
And another summer had arrived. This one different. This one less carefree, more serious.
This time the end was in sight. And for most of us, it wasn't filled with joy and gladness. It was filled with doubt and despair.
The internships were horrific, hours of torture bookending endless drinking. More and more, conversations would begin with "Can you believe people live like this?"
The phone calls were more tense.
The concerts were harder to plan.
The standing Tuesday night Frisbee games moved to Thursday, then to Saturday afternoon, then to never.
The interruptions -- which had made each previous summer bearable -- now became something we dreaded.
There was a chill everywhere, even when it was over 100 degrees and the wind was blowing inland off the tides of shorelines gone.
The ones who'd already left were divided into two groups: the ones who admitted their unhappiness and the ones who could hide their unhappiness.
We didn't know what was happening... only that it was important.
And, as we struggled to wring the last drop of May out of the air, we couldn't wait for June to come. Everything would change.
Of course, back then, we thought we could come back anytime we wanted.
You could argue that Enigma Records was the coolest label in the world in 1985.
I wore most of the oxide off a 1985 cassette sampler from Enigma, driving far too fast on roads in 21 different states in a French car constructed (poorly) in Kenosha, Wisconsin. (Who knows, the tape might still be around in an old shoe box or still in the glove compartment that car, which I haven't owned since the 90s.)
I don't remember much about the cassette, but it had songs on it by Don Dixon, Game Theory, the Smithereens, the Dead Milkmen, and (if memory serves) Mojo Nixon.
If I had the tape right now (okay, and if I had a car that could play tapes), I'd get on the nearest highway right now, roll down all the windows, blast the rest of the oxide off it at high levels of volume, and drive approximately 123mph.
You think you're doing something. You insist you're doing only that thing.
But you're not.
You're doing something else. The opposite of what you thought. What you insisted.
And if someone points it out to you, you object.
You rant and rave. You rail against it.
You don't want to hear it. Don't want to consider it.
You wear down anyone who points it out to you.
Until they give up.
Until they go away.
Until they think four times before bringing it up again.
You live your life with blinders on.
And insist you're the only one who sees the whole picture.
Needless to say, this doesn't help anyone. Especially you.
When this was recorded, George Harrison was too weak to play guitar. He was probably too weak to sing properly, but he sang it anyway. Eight weeks later, he was dead.
And Sam Brown just knocks this out of the park in the Concert for George. But you already knew that.
Is it just me or does this sound like it should be performed only when there's a full moon, only in a graveyard, and only by a backing band consisting of brain-hungry zombies?
The stories cascade down, shaken loose from part of my brain.
The girl with the scratches from her cat who wore bandaids all over her face.
The impossibly beautiful girl whose smile lit up the back room of the restaurant at the party.
The girl with hair so long it could wrap around her body three or four times.
The summer I was working in the library and noticed that there were four women who worked there who seemed normally sized in most ways except for their insanely large posteriors.
The pre-internet spread of misinformation.
The post-internet spread of misinformation.
The misunderstandings.
The misappropriations of affection.
The way the rain prods the part of my mind that leads to dreaming.
The memory of certainty that is so much stronger than the certainty of memory.
And it coalesces. With a sudden realization.
That maybe the complexity of the girl you loved so long ago was all in your mind.
Maybe she wasn't that hard to figure out. You were just looking at the wrong thing.
And maybe, just maybe, she was mumbling gibberish, not singing in French.
In case you've never heard this speech, it's worthwhile. And if you haven't heard it recently, it's worth another listen.
A few quick thoughts for today, which marks both the (public) celebration of a Presidential Inaugural and the (official) celebration of the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr.:
May we all rise to the challenges we face.
May we all remember who we are as individuals whose choices matter. And as members of the community of human beings.
May we have the courage to speak from the heart and rise to the occasions as they arise.
And may we all realize that we are all flawed, but that our past (however good or bad) need not keep us from greatness.
I was reading Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. And the girl on the bus noticed. And she commented on it.
Said the Green Knight was a feminist parable. That the metaphorical beheading of womankind and the subsequent return in a year and a day was clearly a reference to menstruation.
Went on to describe the way each of the battles in the poem represented a different dysfunctional romantic relationship.
She spoke in great detail and with sharp command of the text. Each of her major theses was supported by multiple references to specific stanzas. And argument, like each stanza, was laid out so it ended with a bob and wheel. The "bob" was a short line, followed by the "wheel," a longer line infused with internal rhymes.
I don't even remember why I had the book. It must have been assigned reading for some course I was taking. I can't imagine I would have picked up the book on my own.
But I don't remember any of that.
I remember her necklace -- an oblong piece of jade on a silver chain.
I remember her scarf -- purple, with green stripes.
And I remember her description of the appropriate punishments for each of the metaphorical sins committed by the men represented in the dysfunctional romances she felt were represented in the poem.
And I remember how she smiled after she finished her analysis.
And how she gave me her phone number.
After her discussion of beheadings and combat, and sword-fueled menstrual cycles.
I folded the paper with her number in it. And I put it in the paperback. And I read the rest of the poem.
And lost the book.
Exactly one year and a day later, I was back on the same bus.
I remembered the conversation and looked around for the girl.
In 2006, Yoko Ono started construction on the Imagine Peace Tower, on a small island just off the coast of Reykjavik, Iceland. Since this project combined John Lennon and Iceland, I followed its progress closely.
In 2007, the tower was unveiled. Each year on John Lennon's birthday, the monument becomes a "tower of light" as 15 searchlights are bounced through mirrors and prisms to create a beam of light that stretches more than 12,000 feet into the sky. The tower of light is kept lit each year until December 8 (the day John Lennon was killed).
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