A few years ago, I got some (bad) advice from a friend on a stock to buy. I don't at all pretend to know anything about the stock market, but I figured, "what the hell;" the stock was trading at about a buck a share, and my friend said it had a huge upside, as it was a drug for melanoma, and that's gonna do nothing but increase as time goes by, so the stock had to go up, right? My broker guy laughed at me and said "sure, we can buy it, but you have to understand that something like that is really no different from going to Foxwoods" and putting some money on "red," or playing blackjack without Ben Affleck's card-counting skill, or something. I took a flyer, at my friend's urging. By the time I bought, it was up to almost three dollars. Soon after, it went to over six bucks; the smart investor sells then, having doubled his money, and looks for something else, right? I held, just knowing that it was gonna go through the roof--and it did.
If the roof was in a subway tunnel. The stock immediately plunged, and is now trading in the 80 cent range; I still own some, and out of fondness and bemusement I periodically check on line to see how it's doing. It's not doing well, going up a few cents and then down a few, stubbornly holding its place at 80-something cents. And good for it, I say: we all should know our station in life, and not be ashamed of it. Some of us are Xerox or Apple, some of us are Provectus, and it takes all kinds to make up this crazy old stock market world.
The other day, though, when I was checking it just for a laugh--and because I'm not making money from anything else these days, so I hold out hope from pretty much any quarter, or penny--I noticed one of the columns and columnists featured in the sidebar section. Now this is a financial space, remember, so it's not given to featuring or playing to wild-eyed Leftys like me. But this guy named Paul Farrell, who I assume is an economist of some sort, had a piece about how humans' activities have led to, as he put "Earth sinking," and us with no way to save it. In the piece he excoriated Big Oil and The Koch Bros.--as you know, favorite whipping boys of mine--and basically gave credence to what 99% of scientists know, and that we all should believe, but don't.
"This is really cool," I thought (may have even ejaculated it, but that's another story); maybe there's a glimmer of hope after all. Then I made the mistake of scrolling down to read the responses to Mr. Farrell's column. If you've ever followed a trail ("thread," I think the kids call it) of responses to certain Internet stuff--not mine, obviously; who reads or comments on that shit?--then you've seen what happens. People crawl out from under rocks, from the slime, fossils reconstitute themselves to weigh in and let the writer know just what a flaming, idiotic asshole he is for promulgating such ideas. In this case, the most frequently repeated "fact" was that CO2 is not at all harmful and thus has no effect on Climate Change, or the warming of our frail planet ("frail" because of our assaults, not because of its own properties); any idiot, a number of first responders said, knows that it's not carbon that controls Earth's temperature. "It's the sun, stupid." That's a quote from a couple of these geniuses.
So, okay, the sun is just a giant thermostat floating in the sky, orbiting us periodically. Oh, come on, you think these assholes know that we orbit it? So who's controlling it, turning it up or down on, apparently, whimsical and capricious impulse? Is it God? If so, what a Prick: why would a deity do that shit? Maybe it's Satan--yeah, that's it, Satan. Well, Dante notwithstanding (if you get low enough), we know He likes it Hot. Why then would he have dicked around with it, instead of just pegging it at "Max" and calling it good? Probably 'cause those damned Liberals made him, and that must mean that They have the goods on The Prince Of Darkness, know where his bodies are buried, and thus can control him like a marionette.
Well, anyway, before I spiral totally out of control--and, yes, I could keep going, friends--let's get back to the fact that there are some songs, some music, to get between us and this horrible winter, whatever the cause (which climatologists have been warning us of for years), and to make life more bearable by their very existence (antecedent, Mark?). Music is our salvation, and here are a bunch of "sun" songs to get us through this next stretch:
Ain't No Sunshine Rahsaan Roland Kirk
All Around the Sun and the Moon Joy Of Cooking
Although The Sun Is Shining Fleetwood Mac
As Long As The Sun Bill Morrissey
Big Red Sun Blues Lucinda Williams
Blame It On The Sun Stevie Wonder
Blister In The Sun Violent Femmes
Black Hole Sun Paul Anka (fuck you, Soundgarden)
California Sun The Ramones
Colors Of The Sun Jackson Browne
Don't Let The Sun catch You Cryin' Dr. John
Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me Joe Cocker
First Day Of The Sun Darden Smith
Get In The Sun Joan Armatrading
Good Day Sunshine Fabs
Sun Loves Moon Nick Robertson
Sunlight The Youngbloods
Good Day Sunshine Souvlaki
Happier Than The Morning Sun Stevie Wonder
He Likes The Sun Tanita Tikaram
Hello Sunshine Aretha Franklin
Here Comes Sunshine Grateful Dead
Here Comes The Sun/ The Inner Light Fabs
Hunters Of The Sun John Stewart
I'll Follow The Sun Fabs
Lost Her In The Sun John Stewart
Lucky Old Sun John Stewart
Miss Sun Boz Scaggs
Morning Sun Jesse Colin Young
Sitting In The Midday Sun The Kinks
Sun King Fabs
So, anyway, all my life I've been accused of being cynical, acidulous, acerbic, and bilious. Yet listen to the songs: they're "full of moon" (cf Joni Mitchell, "The Last Time I Saw Richard"). Anyway, see ya Tuesday, noon till two, on WOOL.FM, or wool.fm on the webs. And I haven't harangued you for a while: If you're reading this, become a member. Brilliance--or mediocrity--doesn't come free, you know.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
"Blow Up Yer TV..."
When I was a carefree lad in collitch in 1971, one of the posters I had on my dorm room wall depicted a creepy little man wearing filthy coveralls, face pressed up against the window which the poster was made to look like, apparently peering into the room. He looked a little like Michael-J.-Pollard-as-Charlie-Manson, if you can picture that. I thought the poster was hilarious, although it looked just real enough to be pretty creepy.
See, once upon a time, that was the only sort of invasion of privacy we really had to fear: the occasional Peeping Tom. It was often just kids being kids, but even when it wasn't it was still more or less harmless. Sure, it could be unsettling, could maybe even get you chased by an angry homeowner or the cops. But there was no real danger to one's person, or one's identity or personal information.
Then, humans being oh-so-clever and inventive, we began to invent new ways to poke and probe into each other's lives, to violate the heretofore sacrosanct right to privacy. Among the innovations were "bugs," tiny microphones which could be easily hidden in a room and enabled someone some distance away to listen in on whatever conversations occurred in that room, and wiretaps, devices placed inside phone receivers to allow conversations to be listened to and even taped, unbeknownst to the caller. Because individual voices mattered back then, there was at least an attempt to regulate and control the use of these devices, to preserve one's right to some semblance of privacy.
Over time, of course, we came up with ever more sophisticated devices and means to gather information on and from unsuspecting citizens. There were remote listening devices, which looked something like hand-held satellite dishes, and gathered sound into an antenna to be recorded without need of even placing a device in someone's home. Things got really good with the advent of cellular communications, of course, wherein any fairly sophisticated electrono-geek could know where anyone using a cellphone or computer was at any given time, and of course we now know that the NSA has been collecting data at will from all of us. If you own an electronic device, you basically can't hide from anyone with the knowledge and technology--and desire--to find you. I heard David Ignatius, columnist for The Washington Post, and thriller novel writer, speak a few years ago. He said that at any meeting of anyone anything near covert, people would not just turn off their cellphones, as they could still be traced then, but would remove the battery.
Now comes word that so-called "smart" TVs are listening to us. Samsung recently issued a warning to customers to be careful about what they say in front of their smart TVs when using the "voice activation" feature. Seems that, when that feature is activated, the TV can "listen" to what is being said. "If your spoken words include personal or other sensitive information, that information will be among the data captured and transmitted to a third party," says Samsung (italics mine). The language itself is chilling enough, I think: "captured" and "transmitted;" cold, clinical and possessive, and distributable. But the fact that Samsung won't reveal the identity of the "third party," or what that party might do with the data which will be collected is what I find freakiest. Privacy is gone, friends, like the other dinosaurs a victim of a collision with a heretofore unknown or unforeseen body.
Unless you're smart enough to stay away from all the gadgetry. I have a friend named Dave--no, not you, Dave--who refuses to have a computer, and so never gets these delightful missives from me. I don't know if he has a cellphone, although I doubt it. It's easy to see him as a paranoid or a Luddite, but it's folks like him who stay under the radar as much as it's possible to, today. He may be one of the ones who can elude The Man longer than the rest of us. Ridiculous, you say? Total paranoia? Let's hope so. "Orwellian" is an oft-used, and oft-misused, term, but jeez, it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore its truth. On the up side, maybe we'll make the planet uninhabitable even to the 'bots who'll inherit it.
Some tunes to enjoy, then, from that scientific/technological morass and the stuff we've been enduring climatologically here in New England. Here they be:
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Gil Scott-Heron
Kicking Television Wilco
Television Man Talking Heads
Marquee Moon Television
Antichrist Television Blues Arcade Fire
Television Eye John Mayall
What Happened To TV? The Greyboy Allstars
Stuff You Gotta Watch Muddy Waters
Watch Your Step Elvis Costello
Watch Your Step Cold Blood
You Better Watch Yourself Dion
Night Watch Fleetwood Mac
Voices Carry 'Til Tuesday
Hush Hush Big Bill Broonzy
Honey Hush Roomful Of Blues
Hush Joy Of Cooking
Hush Deep Purple
Hush Toni Childs
Spanish Pipedream John Prine
The Spy The Doors
Roam And Spy Steve Tibbetts
All Your Secrets Yo La Tengo
(We Have) No Secrets Carly Simon
Secrets Bobby Womack
See ya Tuesday from noon till two, 91.5 FM, wool.fm.
And remember: "We can't talk here...."
See, once upon a time, that was the only sort of invasion of privacy we really had to fear: the occasional Peeping Tom. It was often just kids being kids, but even when it wasn't it was still more or less harmless. Sure, it could be unsettling, could maybe even get you chased by an angry homeowner or the cops. But there was no real danger to one's person, or one's identity or personal information.
Then, humans being oh-so-clever and inventive, we began to invent new ways to poke and probe into each other's lives, to violate the heretofore sacrosanct right to privacy. Among the innovations were "bugs," tiny microphones which could be easily hidden in a room and enabled someone some distance away to listen in on whatever conversations occurred in that room, and wiretaps, devices placed inside phone receivers to allow conversations to be listened to and even taped, unbeknownst to the caller. Because individual voices mattered back then, there was at least an attempt to regulate and control the use of these devices, to preserve one's right to some semblance of privacy.
Over time, of course, we came up with ever more sophisticated devices and means to gather information on and from unsuspecting citizens. There were remote listening devices, which looked something like hand-held satellite dishes, and gathered sound into an antenna to be recorded without need of even placing a device in someone's home. Things got really good with the advent of cellular communications, of course, wherein any fairly sophisticated electrono-geek could know where anyone using a cellphone or computer was at any given time, and of course we now know that the NSA has been collecting data at will from all of us. If you own an electronic device, you basically can't hide from anyone with the knowledge and technology--and desire--to find you. I heard David Ignatius, columnist for The Washington Post, and thriller novel writer, speak a few years ago. He said that at any meeting of anyone anything near covert, people would not just turn off their cellphones, as they could still be traced then, but would remove the battery.
Now comes word that so-called "smart" TVs are listening to us. Samsung recently issued a warning to customers to be careful about what they say in front of their smart TVs when using the "voice activation" feature. Seems that, when that feature is activated, the TV can "listen" to what is being said. "If your spoken words include personal or other sensitive information, that information will be among the data captured and transmitted to a third party," says Samsung (italics mine). The language itself is chilling enough, I think: "captured" and "transmitted;" cold, clinical and possessive, and distributable. But the fact that Samsung won't reveal the identity of the "third party," or what that party might do with the data which will be collected is what I find freakiest. Privacy is gone, friends, like the other dinosaurs a victim of a collision with a heretofore unknown or unforeseen body.
Unless you're smart enough to stay away from all the gadgetry. I have a friend named Dave--no, not you, Dave--who refuses to have a computer, and so never gets these delightful missives from me. I don't know if he has a cellphone, although I doubt it. It's easy to see him as a paranoid or a Luddite, but it's folks like him who stay under the radar as much as it's possible to, today. He may be one of the ones who can elude The Man longer than the rest of us. Ridiculous, you say? Total paranoia? Let's hope so. "Orwellian" is an oft-used, and oft-misused, term, but jeez, it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore its truth. On the up side, maybe we'll make the planet uninhabitable even to the 'bots who'll inherit it.
Some tunes to enjoy, then, from that scientific/technological morass and the stuff we've been enduring climatologically here in New England. Here they be:
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Gil Scott-Heron
Kicking Television Wilco
Television Man Talking Heads
Marquee Moon Television
Antichrist Television Blues Arcade Fire
Television Eye John Mayall
What Happened To TV? The Greyboy Allstars
Stuff You Gotta Watch Muddy Waters
Watch Your Step Elvis Costello
Watch Your Step Cold Blood
You Better Watch Yourself Dion
Night Watch Fleetwood Mac
Voices Carry 'Til Tuesday
Hush Hush Big Bill Broonzy
Honey Hush Roomful Of Blues
Hush Joy Of Cooking
Hush Deep Purple
Hush Toni Childs
Spanish Pipedream John Prine
The Spy The Doors
Roam And Spy Steve Tibbetts
All Your Secrets Yo La Tengo
(We Have) No Secrets Carly Simon
Secrets Bobby Womack
See ya Tuesday from noon till two, 91.5 FM, wool.fm.
And remember: "We can't talk here...."
Monday, February 9, 2015
No Needle, And The Damage Done
Two weeks in a row now I've been able to make reference to that Neil Young song: last week it was in regard to so-called Deflategate, that cataclysmic event which threatened the very fabric of our society, i.e. the National Football League. This time it's about something a little more serious, seriously: the Anti-Vaccination League.
It's hard to believe that we even need to have a discussion in 2015 about the efficacy of and crucial need for vaccinations. And yet I'm sure you've read or heard recently about an outbreak of measles which began in Disneyland, of all places. Maybe it was in "Yesterdayland." Turns out that SoCal is an area ripe for such a thing, as it is a hotbed of the "vaccinations are bad" school of parenting. People who grew up being vaccinated as a matter of course, and thus were protected from a wide range of illnesses, crippling and life-threatening viruses like polio, like measles, rubella, diphtheria, mumps, whooping cough and many others have decided that their children, for some reason, don't need the same protections. Their "reasoning" verges on the unexplainable, if not outright child abuse, to me.
Some of the fears around vaccination may have originated with Jenny McCarthy, MD, PhD, and Playmate of the Year (only one of those titles is real; can you guess which?), who claimed that vaccines caused autism, a claim that has since been debunked by essentially the entire medical community. Another propagator of anti-vaccine nonsense was former Representative and Republican Presidential candidate Michele Bachmann (R-Idiocy), who claimed that the vaccine for HPV caused mental retardation. Among other things, Ms. Bachmann also said that Melissa Etheridge's cancer was caused by her lesbianism, that carbon dioxide is harmless, and that scientists support the concept of Intelligent Design. She, herself, was standing behind the door making up stupid assertions the day the intelligence part was handed out. These are clear instances of Bachmann Turning Overwrought.
It's easy to dismiss people like McCarthy and Bachmann because they're ill-educated, ignorant idiots. But recently, as the Never-Ending Presidential Campaign began to return from dormancy, some from the ASP (Anti-Science Party) began to crank up the vaccine-is-evil rhetoric again. Chris Christie and Rand Paul (who is, in fact, a real MD, albeit an ophthalmologist, not an epidemiologist, and who still can't read the writing on the wall) spoke to the issue, both advocating parental freedom in choosing whether or not their kids were vaccinated. So my kids, and your kids, and every other responsible parent's kids should be put at risk because some few misguided, at best, parents choose not to? Does that make them Pro-Choice? Just askin'.
The amazing thing is that those statements were even too much for John Boehner and Mitch McConnell to tolerate, and they, along with many other Repugnicant so-called leaders repudiated them. Hokey Smokes, Bullwinkle: Some small evidence that Repugs don't universally reject science across-the-board! Some good can come out of any situation, apparently, although Boehner said, while lighting his 33rd cigarette of the day, that "I don't know that we need another law" about the issue, and McConnell described himself as "a big fan" of vaccinations. Man, that's some pretty strong stuff, huh? Can'tcha just see him on the sidelines at a clinic, pleated skirt and pompoms aflutter, leading the "Give me a 'V,' gimme an 'A', gimme a 'C'," etc., cheer? My heart does cartwheels.
This crazy old world just keeps gettin' crazier and crazier. Thank god for music, and for these songs in particular this week:
Soul Vaccination Tower Of Power
The Needle And The Damage Done Neil Young
The Needle And The Spoon Lynyrd Skynrd
The Needle Has Landed Neko Case
Needles and Pins The Ramones
Pushing The Needle Too far Indigo Girls
Silver Threads And Golden Needles Linda Ronstadt
Stick A Needle In My Eye John Prine
Disease Katy Sullivan
Disease Of Conceit Dylan
Down With Disease Phish
Industrial Disease Dire Straits
Social Disease Elton John
Science Tanita Tikaram
Political Science Randy Newman
She Blinded Me With Science Thomas Dolby
Risky Business John Abercrombie
The Risk Warren Zevon
Bad Risk Sly & The Family Stone
As A Matter Of Fact Dirk Hamilton
The Facts Of Life Talking Heads
The Natural Facts Sister Rosetta Tharpe
The Rumor The Band
Rumors Josh Ritter
(Someone's Been) Telling You Stories Dan Fogelberg
Lives In The Balance Jackson Browne
Idiot Wind Dylan
See ya Tuesday, then, from noon til two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or wool.fm on the webs, the best little radio station goin'. Meantime, don't do anything rash.
For a much better view on this business, by a real writer, check out Katie Burns's column in The Concord Monitor from this past Sunday, February 8. I think you'll see why I have an affinity for her work.
It's hard to believe that we even need to have a discussion in 2015 about the efficacy of and crucial need for vaccinations. And yet I'm sure you've read or heard recently about an outbreak of measles which began in Disneyland, of all places. Maybe it was in "Yesterdayland." Turns out that SoCal is an area ripe for such a thing, as it is a hotbed of the "vaccinations are bad" school of parenting. People who grew up being vaccinated as a matter of course, and thus were protected from a wide range of illnesses, crippling and life-threatening viruses like polio, like measles, rubella, diphtheria, mumps, whooping cough and many others have decided that their children, for some reason, don't need the same protections. Their "reasoning" verges on the unexplainable, if not outright child abuse, to me.
Some of the fears around vaccination may have originated with Jenny McCarthy, MD, PhD, and Playmate of the Year (only one of those titles is real; can you guess which?), who claimed that vaccines caused autism, a claim that has since been debunked by essentially the entire medical community. Another propagator of anti-vaccine nonsense was former Representative and Republican Presidential candidate Michele Bachmann (R-Idiocy), who claimed that the vaccine for HPV caused mental retardation. Among other things, Ms. Bachmann also said that Melissa Etheridge's cancer was caused by her lesbianism, that carbon dioxide is harmless, and that scientists support the concept of Intelligent Design. She, herself, was standing behind the door making up stupid assertions the day the intelligence part was handed out. These are clear instances of Bachmann Turning Overwrought.
It's easy to dismiss people like McCarthy and Bachmann because they're ill-educated, ignorant idiots. But recently, as the Never-Ending Presidential Campaign began to return from dormancy, some from the ASP (Anti-Science Party) began to crank up the vaccine-is-evil rhetoric again. Chris Christie and Rand Paul (who is, in fact, a real MD, albeit an ophthalmologist, not an epidemiologist, and who still can't read the writing on the wall) spoke to the issue, both advocating parental freedom in choosing whether or not their kids were vaccinated. So my kids, and your kids, and every other responsible parent's kids should be put at risk because some few misguided, at best, parents choose not to? Does that make them Pro-Choice? Just askin'.
The amazing thing is that those statements were even too much for John Boehner and Mitch McConnell to tolerate, and they, along with many other Repugnicant so-called leaders repudiated them. Hokey Smokes, Bullwinkle: Some small evidence that Repugs don't universally reject science across-the-board! Some good can come out of any situation, apparently, although Boehner said, while lighting his 33rd cigarette of the day, that "I don't know that we need another law" about the issue, and McConnell described himself as "a big fan" of vaccinations. Man, that's some pretty strong stuff, huh? Can'tcha just see him on the sidelines at a clinic, pleated skirt and pompoms aflutter, leading the "Give me a 'V,' gimme an 'A', gimme a 'C'," etc., cheer? My heart does cartwheels.
This crazy old world just keeps gettin' crazier and crazier. Thank god for music, and for these songs in particular this week:
Soul Vaccination Tower Of Power
The Needle And The Damage Done Neil Young
The Needle And The Spoon Lynyrd Skynrd
The Needle Has Landed Neko Case
Needles and Pins The Ramones
Pushing The Needle Too far Indigo Girls
Silver Threads And Golden Needles Linda Ronstadt
Stick A Needle In My Eye John Prine
Disease Katy Sullivan
Disease Of Conceit Dylan
Down With Disease Phish
Industrial Disease Dire Straits
Social Disease Elton John
Science Tanita Tikaram
Political Science Randy Newman
She Blinded Me With Science Thomas Dolby
Risky Business John Abercrombie
The Risk Warren Zevon
Bad Risk Sly & The Family Stone
As A Matter Of Fact Dirk Hamilton
The Facts Of Life Talking Heads
The Natural Facts Sister Rosetta Tharpe
The Rumor The Band
Rumors Josh Ritter
(Someone's Been) Telling You Stories Dan Fogelberg
Lives In The Balance Jackson Browne
Idiot Wind Dylan
See ya Tuesday, then, from noon til two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or wool.fm on the webs, the best little radio station goin'. Meantime, don't do anything rash.
For a much better view on this business, by a real writer, check out Katie Burns's column in The Concord Monitor from this past Sunday, February 8. I think you'll see why I have an affinity for her work.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Who Let The Air Out....
...of our sanity?
On Thursday, Jan. 22, in the Year Of Our Lord 2015, these things happened, among many others: Senate Republicans sought to stop an investigation into CIA torture in Gitmo; a pipeline in North Dakota leaked 3 million barrels of salt water, apparently a by-product of oil drilling there, at a time when Senate Republicans are pushing hard to force the opening of the Keystone XL pipeline; 49 Senate Republicans refused to acknowledge the existence of man-made climate change; two Japanese prisoners were threatened with beheading by ISIS (and have since been killed); it was the 5th anniversary of the Supreme Court's worst ruling (so far), Citizens United. The Koch Brothers (remember when we were talking about The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers?) have recently said that they intend to spend 1 Billion (yes, that's with a "B") dollars to try to buy the next president. I feel like we're just playing out the string: how about you?
It was also, interestingly, the anniversary of one of the Court's best rulings, Roe v. Wade, made during more enlightened times. And as usually happens on that day, along with the usual anti-abortion rallies held in Washington, the new Republican majorities tried to flex their conservative, punitive muscles and pass stricter anti-women's-rights laws, limiting abortion rights further. The law they wanted to pass in this case, in contrast to the usual symbolic stuff, actually would have put tighter restrictions on abortions. The white men in charge were forced to scuttle that plan, though, because enough Republican women legislators (or, as the Republicans call them, "Legislatresses") said they wouldn't vote for such a bill as it was too restrictive, anti-woman and, worst of all would look bad to millenials and anyone else with a brain, who then would be unlikely to vote for the Rs.
My favorite quote from this fiasco comes from Tony Perkins (no, not that one--he daid, although I think we could use him to put a hatchet through somebody's head right about now--maybe even mine), the head of the conservative Family Research Council who said that there were "a lot of misconceptions" about the bill. Words are meaningless, I guess.... That came after Perkins met with Rep. Steven Scalise of Louisiana, who was recently in the news because it turns out he's spoken to David Duke-led white supremacist groups at fund-raisers. But my digressions digress: you go, Republicanettes. Imagine: putting what's right above what's partisan. You just never know what a woman's gonna do, huh?
So, anyway, all that stuff happened, and obviously much more, as or more important. But what was the big story of the day, of the week, the thing that led not just local but national news, for chrissakes? The waggishly-named "Deflategate." A "story" about the amount of air in some footballs used in a playoff game. Reporters fell all over themselves to cover the press conferences held by Dr. Evil and Maxi-Me, Bill Belichick and Tom Brady. Press conferences about air. Not the worsening air that we're all breathing, the heated air that's gonna change life on Earth forever, but the air inside--or not-- some footballs. And as the "story" has continued, various and sundry have weighed in on it, from MIT professors to Bill Nye, The Science Guy (who is unabashedly rooting for the Seahawks; there's your scientific impartiality). Belichick even had a second news conference in which he laid out his new-found scientific learnin', although any Right-thinking person knows that science is bad. Thank goodness we have our priorities Right, and how fortunate are we to have the worst problem facing us revolve around a game, albeit The Most Important Game Ever. Dr. Pangloss would rejoice, for we truly must be living in the best of all possible worlds.
So for this week's radio show, although it'll be somewhat anticlimactic (not anticlimatic, like the Koch-swilling GOP) coming post Super Bowl XLAX, or whatever, I'm playing pressure songs, ball songs, squeeze songs, and Mel and Tim's wonderful and overlooked soul classic "Backfield In Motion." The playbook for the week looks like this, then:
Got Me Under Pressure ZZ Top
Heavy Pressure Tanita Tikaram
High Blood Pressure Geoff Muldaur
Inner City Pressure Flight Of The Conchords
Pressure Billy Joel
Pressure Neil Young
Pressure Drop Robert Palmer
Pressure Drop Toots & The Maytals
Pressure Zone Beck
Under Pressure Bowie/Queen
Just Squeeze Me Duke Ellington
Just Squeeze Me Duke Robillard/Herb Ellis
Squeeze Me Maria Muldaur
Ball And Chain Van Morrison
Ball Of Confusion The Temptations
Ball And Chain XTC
Ball Of Fire Ernest Ranglin
Ball And Chain Big Brother & The Holding Co.
Ball Of Fire Tommy James & The Shondells
Let's Have A Ball Ry Cooder
Mudfootball Jack Johnson
Wrecking Ball Gillian Welch
Wrecking Ball Emmylou Harris
Backfield In Motion Mel & Tim
Hope to see you on Tuesday from noon til two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or wool.fm on the webs. And try to remember: it's just an effin' game....
On Thursday, Jan. 22, in the Year Of Our Lord 2015, these things happened, among many others: Senate Republicans sought to stop an investigation into CIA torture in Gitmo; a pipeline in North Dakota leaked 3 million barrels of salt water, apparently a by-product of oil drilling there, at a time when Senate Republicans are pushing hard to force the opening of the Keystone XL pipeline; 49 Senate Republicans refused to acknowledge the existence of man-made climate change; two Japanese prisoners were threatened with beheading by ISIS (and have since been killed); it was the 5th anniversary of the Supreme Court's worst ruling (so far), Citizens United. The Koch Brothers (remember when we were talking about The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers?) have recently said that they intend to spend 1 Billion (yes, that's with a "B") dollars to try to buy the next president. I feel like we're just playing out the string: how about you?
It was also, interestingly, the anniversary of one of the Court's best rulings, Roe v. Wade, made during more enlightened times. And as usually happens on that day, along with the usual anti-abortion rallies held in Washington, the new Republican majorities tried to flex their conservative, punitive muscles and pass stricter anti-women's-rights laws, limiting abortion rights further. The law they wanted to pass in this case, in contrast to the usual symbolic stuff, actually would have put tighter restrictions on abortions. The white men in charge were forced to scuttle that plan, though, because enough Republican women legislators (or, as the Republicans call them, "Legislatresses") said they wouldn't vote for such a bill as it was too restrictive, anti-woman and, worst of all would look bad to millenials and anyone else with a brain, who then would be unlikely to vote for the Rs.
My favorite quote from this fiasco comes from Tony Perkins (no, not that one--he daid, although I think we could use him to put a hatchet through somebody's head right about now--maybe even mine), the head of the conservative Family Research Council who said that there were "a lot of misconceptions" about the bill. Words are meaningless, I guess.... That came after Perkins met with Rep. Steven Scalise of Louisiana, who was recently in the news because it turns out he's spoken to David Duke-led white supremacist groups at fund-raisers. But my digressions digress: you go, Republicanettes. Imagine: putting what's right above what's partisan. You just never know what a woman's gonna do, huh?
So, anyway, all that stuff happened, and obviously much more, as or more important. But what was the big story of the day, of the week, the thing that led not just local but national news, for chrissakes? The waggishly-named "Deflategate." A "story" about the amount of air in some footballs used in a playoff game. Reporters fell all over themselves to cover the press conferences held by Dr. Evil and Maxi-Me, Bill Belichick and Tom Brady. Press conferences about air. Not the worsening air that we're all breathing, the heated air that's gonna change life on Earth forever, but the air inside--or not-- some footballs. And as the "story" has continued, various and sundry have weighed in on it, from MIT professors to Bill Nye, The Science Guy (who is unabashedly rooting for the Seahawks; there's your scientific impartiality). Belichick even had a second news conference in which he laid out his new-found scientific learnin', although any Right-thinking person knows that science is bad. Thank goodness we have our priorities Right, and how fortunate are we to have the worst problem facing us revolve around a game, albeit The Most Important Game Ever. Dr. Pangloss would rejoice, for we truly must be living in the best of all possible worlds.
So for this week's radio show, although it'll be somewhat anticlimactic (not anticlimatic, like the Koch-swilling GOP) coming post Super Bowl XLAX, or whatever, I'm playing pressure songs, ball songs, squeeze songs, and Mel and Tim's wonderful and overlooked soul classic "Backfield In Motion." The playbook for the week looks like this, then:
Got Me Under Pressure ZZ Top
Heavy Pressure Tanita Tikaram
High Blood Pressure Geoff Muldaur
Inner City Pressure Flight Of The Conchords
Pressure Billy Joel
Pressure Neil Young
Pressure Drop Robert Palmer
Pressure Drop Toots & The Maytals
Pressure Zone Beck
Under Pressure Bowie/Queen
Just Squeeze Me Duke Ellington
Just Squeeze Me Duke Robillard/Herb Ellis
Squeeze Me Maria Muldaur
Ball And Chain Van Morrison
Ball Of Confusion The Temptations
Ball And Chain XTC
Ball Of Fire Ernest Ranglin
Ball And Chain Big Brother & The Holding Co.
Ball Of Fire Tommy James & The Shondells
Let's Have A Ball Ry Cooder
Mudfootball Jack Johnson
Wrecking Ball Gillian Welch
Wrecking Ball Emmylou Harris
Backfield In Motion Mel & Tim
Hope to see you on Tuesday from noon til two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or wool.fm on the webs. And try to remember: it's just an effin' game....
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Railin' About Raelynn, or "Reductio Ad Absurdum(b)"
Or maybe also "ad nauseum." Okay, I know that it's ridiculous to single out one song in the history of music and call it "the worst ever, even worse than anything that might yet come." But that's how I felt the first time I heard the execrable God Made Girls, and I think I hafta stick with that assessment.
This is the time of year when I spend as much time as possible in my excavator, thinning the woods around my house (God did a terrible job: there's just too much of everything, and it doesn't look at all like a park, so it's left to me to make it look the way it's s'posed to), building brush piles, cleaning up debris from ice storms, etc. I wear radio headphones while I work, but the damn things are so twitchy, and I get so many stations up here on top of the hills, that the station keeps changing depending, often, simply on how I turn my head. Consequently, I'm exposed to some pretty horrible music, stuff I'd never hear otherwise. That's how I found God Made Girls.
It's "sung" by someone named Raelynn, who was apparently an American Idol non-winner. The first time, I just heard a verse or two, not the whole thing, but enough to simultaneously make me dumfounded and enraged. Then last weekend, within the space of 15 minutes or so I heard the damn thing 3 times on three different country stations (and shouldn't there be a limit to how many of those things there are? It's aural waterboarding, is what it is.). So I did some research, and herewith are the "lyrics," reprinted without permission:
"God Made Girls"
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt,
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand so God Made Girls
Somebody's gotta make him get dressed up,
Give him a reason to wash that truck,
Somebody's gotta teach him how to dance,
So God made girls.
He needed something soft and loud and sweet and proud
But tough enough to break a heart
Something beautiful and breakable that lights up in the dark
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singing in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to our own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls.
Somebody's gotta be the one to cry
Somebody's gotta let him drive
Give him a reason to hold that door so God made girls
Somebody's gotta put up a fight,
Make him wait on a Saturday night
To walk downstairs and blow his mind,
So God made girls.
Something that can wake him up and call his bluff and drag his butt to church
Something that is hard to handle
Somethin' fragile to hold him when he hurts
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singin' in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to our own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt,
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singin' in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to our own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt (and God made girls, yeah)
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand
So God made girls
I did immediately check the calendar, and apparently it's still 2015, and so all that I remember having happened in women's struggles in the last 50 years did happen, and the glass ceiling is there and real, and women's healthcare and reproductive rights are still in jeopardy, and the ERA still can't be passed, and women still earn way less than men for the same work, and on and on and on. Turns out, though that many are stubbornly trying to hold on to 1958 ("Goddam it, we had 'em all in a box once, but somuvem leaked out. Let's see if we cain't get 'em back fer good, now") and all you have to do, "girls," is be cute/pretty, flirtatious, coy, and just rock that poor, emotionally vacant, slovenly-except-for-your-influence, tough-as-nails-except-when-you-allow-him-not-to-be Marlboro Man's world. It's often said that men's brains are between their legs, but so, evidently, is women's power. Maybe that's the great equalizer we've been looking for in the Battle Of The Sexes. Glass ceiling? It's just another (wo)man's floor: stand up there, girls, like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, give the guys a good view, and they'll fall all over themselves to give you, still, what they want.
Jesus, you can't make this stuff up--except someone did. Her name is Lori McKenna, a singer/songwriter from Stoughton, MA, of all places. I figured it (prejudicial thinking fully exposed here) had to be someone from the South, and not necessarily a woman. But no, it's a woman from the Northeast, someone who's received pretty good notices over the years for her songs and performances. And she's totally in denial about what this song says, does, implies, is about. In an article in Rolling Stone, McKenna says, "We were careful to champion the things that we loved about that girl [in the song] and it being so RaeLynn," says McKenna, who notes the song isn't about being subservient to or looking good for men. "To me, it's way more powerful than that. If we're making him do anything, we're making him be a better person," she says with a laugh. "And we tried to say that in a fun way...."Yesterday, I picked up seven 13-year-old girls to come over here for lunch with my daughter, and right when they got in my car 'God Made Girls' came on the radio. I videotaped them all screaming it in my car and sent it to Raelynn. To those girls, that song is empowering."
And that's just the point, isn't it? That's still the way for girls to see themselves as empowered, now, in 2015, after all that's happened in women's struggles? It's like Jamie Foxx today making a biopic of Stepin' Fetchit and using that to show black empowerment: through, somehow, total subservience to whites? How can McKenna be so disingenuous as to say "the song isn't about being subservient to or looking good for men?" All she's gotta do is read her own words to see how ridiculous that assertion is. And God's apparently in on this whole deal, conspiratorially smug as he tells the boys he's " 'bout to rock (their) world." How fucked is that? Clearly it's time for women to just give up; the fix is in all the way to the Top.
Unfortunately, too, the song has one of those insidiously catchy melodies and choruses, and the boilerplate arrangement so pervasive in pop/country. I'm bettin' that those factors, along with the fact that so many innocent/unthinking boobs (not sexual slang, there) will love it such that it'll be a bazillion-seller and on every jukebox left in the country. And how long before Ford or Chevy buys it for a truck commercial? All guy's drive 'em, I guess, and only wash 'em when forced to by some manipulative, withholding, controlling sweet young girl, around whom they are helpless otherwise. Paints a beautiful picture of us, huh? We crawled from the ocean, despoiled the earth, and became nothing more than we'd really always been: walking genitalia, looking to manipulate each other by "virtue" of the power vested in our crotches. How pathetically cynical to perpetuate that stereotype.
And so, labia and genitals, I chose a bunch of songs to play this week which have a rather unclear or at best loosely-tied theme: something about girls, and what that term means and how it's worn and how it affects, at least in my mind. Here they are:
Big Girls Don't Cry Four Seasons
Boys & Girls Alabama Shakes
Catholic Girls Frank Zappa
Disney Girls (1957) Beach Boys
Fat Bottomed Girls Queen
Don't Give That Girl A Gun Indigo Girls
Girls Got It Bad Amy Rigby
Girls Just Want To Have Fun Cyndi Lauper
Girls Talk Dave Edmunds
Girls!Girls!Girls! Liz Phair
Girls... Marshall Crenshaw
American Girl Tom Petty
The Busy Girl Buys Beauty Billy Bragg
City Girl Joan Armatrading
In My Girlish Days Maria Muldaur
Perfect Girl Sarah McLachlan
Stupid Girl Neil Young
Unhappy Girl The Doors
Cynical Girl Marshall Crenshaw
Daddy's Little Girl Al Martino
Factory Girl Rolling Stones
The Fat Girl Lyle Lovett
Girl Fabs
Girl Tori Amos
Girl The Wild Colonials
Girl Blue Stevie Wonder
The Girl In The Other Room Diana Krall
The Girl Stands Up To Me Now Jonathan Richman
Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon Neil Diamond
Girl to Be On My Mind Crosby & Nash
I Kissed A Girl Katy Perry
It's Different For Girls Joe Jackson
Last Of The Good Straight Girls Susan Werner
Local Girl Neko Case
Lonely Girls Lucinda Williams
Pretty Girls Neko Case
Stupid Girl Garbage
(You're) Having My Baby Paul Anka
What a motley crew, or murderer's row, depending on your view. You'll note that, in spite of some of the dreck that is here, conspicuous by its absence is the song that started it all. I couldn't bring myself to play it, so you have to go to YouTube or your own music collection (and please don't tell me if that's your source) to hear it. It's a great blueprint for raising a daughter, is all I know.
Hope to see you Tuesday on the radio: it'll be a fun-filled two hours, with a chance to win a dream date with Annette Funicello or Sandra Dee.
This is the time of year when I spend as much time as possible in my excavator, thinning the woods around my house (God did a terrible job: there's just too much of everything, and it doesn't look at all like a park, so it's left to me to make it look the way it's s'posed to), building brush piles, cleaning up debris from ice storms, etc. I wear radio headphones while I work, but the damn things are so twitchy, and I get so many stations up here on top of the hills, that the station keeps changing depending, often, simply on how I turn my head. Consequently, I'm exposed to some pretty horrible music, stuff I'd never hear otherwise. That's how I found God Made Girls.
It's "sung" by someone named Raelynn, who was apparently an American Idol non-winner. The first time, I just heard a verse or two, not the whole thing, but enough to simultaneously make me dumfounded and enraged. Then last weekend, within the space of 15 minutes or so I heard the damn thing 3 times on three different country stations (and shouldn't there be a limit to how many of those things there are? It's aural waterboarding, is what it is.). So I did some research, and herewith are the "lyrics," reprinted without permission:
"God Made Girls"
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt,
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand so God Made Girls
Somebody's gotta make him get dressed up,
Give him a reason to wash that truck,
Somebody's gotta teach him how to dance,
So God made girls.
He needed something soft and loud and sweet and proud
But tough enough to break a heart
Something beautiful and breakable that lights up in the dark
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singing in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to our own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls.
Somebody's gotta be the one to cry
Somebody's gotta let him drive
Give him a reason to hold that door so God made girls
Somebody's gotta put up a fight,
Make him wait on a Saturday night
To walk downstairs and blow his mind,
So God made girls.
Something that can wake him up and call his bluff and drag his butt to church
Something that is hard to handle
Somethin' fragile to hold him when he hurts
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singin' in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to our own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt,
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singin' in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to our own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt (and God made girls, yeah)
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand
So God made girls
I did immediately check the calendar, and apparently it's still 2015, and so all that I remember having happened in women's struggles in the last 50 years did happen, and the glass ceiling is there and real, and women's healthcare and reproductive rights are still in jeopardy, and the ERA still can't be passed, and women still earn way less than men for the same work, and on and on and on. Turns out, though that many are stubbornly trying to hold on to 1958 ("Goddam it, we had 'em all in a box once, but somuvem leaked out. Let's see if we cain't get 'em back fer good, now") and all you have to do, "girls," is be cute/pretty, flirtatious, coy, and just rock that poor, emotionally vacant, slovenly-except-for-your-influence, tough-as-nails-except-when-you-allow-him-not-to-be Marlboro Man's world. It's often said that men's brains are between their legs, but so, evidently, is women's power. Maybe that's the great equalizer we've been looking for in the Battle Of The Sexes. Glass ceiling? It's just another (wo)man's floor: stand up there, girls, like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, give the guys a good view, and they'll fall all over themselves to give you, still, what they want.
Jesus, you can't make this stuff up--except someone did. Her name is Lori McKenna, a singer/songwriter from Stoughton, MA, of all places. I figured it (prejudicial thinking fully exposed here) had to be someone from the South, and not necessarily a woman. But no, it's a woman from the Northeast, someone who's received pretty good notices over the years for her songs and performances. And she's totally in denial about what this song says, does, implies, is about. In an article in Rolling Stone, McKenna says, "We were careful to champion the things that we loved about that girl [in the song] and it being so RaeLynn," says McKenna, who notes the song isn't about being subservient to or looking good for men. "To me, it's way more powerful than that. If we're making him do anything, we're making him be a better person," she says with a laugh. "And we tried to say that in a fun way...."Yesterday, I picked up seven 13-year-old girls to come over here for lunch with my daughter, and right when they got in my car 'God Made Girls' came on the radio. I videotaped them all screaming it in my car and sent it to Raelynn. To those girls, that song is empowering."
And that's just the point, isn't it? That's still the way for girls to see themselves as empowered, now, in 2015, after all that's happened in women's struggles? It's like Jamie Foxx today making a biopic of Stepin' Fetchit and using that to show black empowerment: through, somehow, total subservience to whites? How can McKenna be so disingenuous as to say "the song isn't about being subservient to or looking good for men?" All she's gotta do is read her own words to see how ridiculous that assertion is. And God's apparently in on this whole deal, conspiratorially smug as he tells the boys he's " 'bout to rock (their) world." How fucked is that? Clearly it's time for women to just give up; the fix is in all the way to the Top.
Unfortunately, too, the song has one of those insidiously catchy melodies and choruses, and the boilerplate arrangement so pervasive in pop/country. I'm bettin' that those factors, along with the fact that so many innocent/unthinking boobs (not sexual slang, there) will love it such that it'll be a bazillion-seller and on every jukebox left in the country. And how long before Ford or Chevy buys it for a truck commercial? All guy's drive 'em, I guess, and only wash 'em when forced to by some manipulative, withholding, controlling sweet young girl, around whom they are helpless otherwise. Paints a beautiful picture of us, huh? We crawled from the ocean, despoiled the earth, and became nothing more than we'd really always been: walking genitalia, looking to manipulate each other by "virtue" of the power vested in our crotches. How pathetically cynical to perpetuate that stereotype.
And so, labia and genitals, I chose a bunch of songs to play this week which have a rather unclear or at best loosely-tied theme: something about girls, and what that term means and how it's worn and how it affects, at least in my mind. Here they are:
Big Girls Don't Cry Four Seasons
Boys & Girls Alabama Shakes
Catholic Girls Frank Zappa
Disney Girls (1957) Beach Boys
Fat Bottomed Girls Queen
Don't Give That Girl A Gun Indigo Girls
Girls Got It Bad Amy Rigby
Girls Just Want To Have Fun Cyndi Lauper
Girls Talk Dave Edmunds
Girls!Girls!Girls! Liz Phair
Girls... Marshall Crenshaw
American Girl Tom Petty
The Busy Girl Buys Beauty Billy Bragg
City Girl Joan Armatrading
In My Girlish Days Maria Muldaur
Perfect Girl Sarah McLachlan
Stupid Girl Neil Young
Unhappy Girl The Doors
Cynical Girl Marshall Crenshaw
Daddy's Little Girl Al Martino
Factory Girl Rolling Stones
The Fat Girl Lyle Lovett
Girl Fabs
Girl Tori Amos
Girl The Wild Colonials
Girl Blue Stevie Wonder
The Girl In The Other Room Diana Krall
The Girl Stands Up To Me Now Jonathan Richman
Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon Neil Diamond
Girl to Be On My Mind Crosby & Nash
I Kissed A Girl Katy Perry
It's Different For Girls Joe Jackson
Last Of The Good Straight Girls Susan Werner
Local Girl Neko Case
Lonely Girls Lucinda Williams
Pretty Girls Neko Case
Stupid Girl Garbage
(You're) Having My Baby Paul Anka
What a motley crew, or murderer's row, depending on your view. You'll note that, in spite of some of the dreck that is here, conspicuous by its absence is the song that started it all. I couldn't bring myself to play it, so you have to go to YouTube or your own music collection (and please don't tell me if that's your source) to hear it. It's a great blueprint for raising a daughter, is all I know.
Hope to see you Tuesday on the radio: it'll be a fun-filled two hours, with a chance to win a dream date with Annette Funicello or Sandra Dee.
Monday, January 5, 2015
I Hear Dead People--Everywhere
Hello, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and welcome to The Broadly Eclectic's salute to dead people, specifically musicians who've passed on in the past year. There are relatively few that I could find and was willing to play (none of them women!) and, somewhat surprisingly, given the ages of those musicians of my generation, and the "care" they took of themselves, there were no really huge names. Probably the biggest stars to fade out this year were Pete Seeger (and he was past 90), Joe Cocker and Jack Bruce. But a number of just slightly lesser lights also moved on, and they're all gonna get recognition this week.
There's Ian McLagan, keyboard player extraordinaire, best known for his work with Small Faces (and later Faces) which he co-founded, the Stones, Billy Bragg--ah, 'most everyone worth playing with. Another famous sideman, Bobby Keys, also died last year. He too played with just about everyone, from the Stones to Joe Cocker to Delaney and Bonnie and on and on. Even if he didn't have some memorable sax passages he deserves to be immortalized for having gotten kicked out of The Rolling Stones for partying too much and ingesting too many substances: The Rolling Stones, for chrissakes. The final straw purportedly involved a groupie and a bathtub full of Dom Perignon, but it was just one groupie, in fairness. Well, you can decide if that was fair or not, I guess, based on some archaic and prudish moral code.
Paul Revere (nee Paul Revere Dick, no kidding; I think dropping the "Dick" was a good call) also died in 2014. I had mostly forgotten him and The Raiders, but they had a few garage-band-ish hits in the 60s, all done up in their Revolutionary War/Sgt. Pepper garb, tri-corner hats and all. They were also essentially the house band for a Dick Clark show called "Where The Action Is" and which ran daily for nearly two years, telecast in the afternoon, of all times, usually filmed on a beach with no apparent electric connection for instruments or mikes. Things were different then.
And finally, I have to single out Phil Everly, who virtually invented harmony singing, at least as far as the Rock Era is concerned. He and his brother Don were maybe also the first of the battling brothers in rock music, followed by the Davies bros. of the Kinks and the Gallaghers of Oasis, siblings who just couldn't get along well enough to keep their respective bands together, often fighting physically and ultimately ending up not speaking to each other. Oh, I guess you need a pretty healthy ego just to make it in showbiz, and those egos can be tough to keep in check, and boys will be boys, after all (cf. Bobby Keys, above).
Well, after that wicked uninspired (and uninspiring) lead in, here are the tunes I'll spin this week:
Into The Mystic Joe Cocker
Debris Faces/Ian McLagan
Maybe I'm Amazed Ditto
Mystifies Me Ian McLagan & The Bump Band
Glad And Sorry Ditto
Can't You Hear Me Knocking Rolling Stones (Bobby Keys)
Brown Sugar Ditto
I Got The Blues Ditto
Live With Me And Again
Theme For An Imaginary Western Jack Bruce
What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted Jimmy Ruffin
I Wanna Be Your Dog The Stooges (Scott Asheton, drums)
Kicks Paul Revere & The Raiders
Hungry Ditto
Just Like Me Ditto
I Wanna Be Sedated The Ramones (Tommy, the drummer)
Blue Mood Johnny Winter
It's All Over Now Bobby Womack
Rhumba Man Jesse Winchester
Zyryab Paco De Lucia
Waist Deep In The Big Muddy Pete Seeger
This Land Is Your Land Pete Seeger
Cathy's Clown Everly Bros.
Snowflake Bombardier Phil Everly
Bye Bye Love Everlys
('Til) I Kissed You Everlys
All I Have To Do Is Dream Everlys
No More Mr. Nice Guy Alice Cooper(Dick Wagner, guitar)
Only Women Bleed Alice Cooper (Dick Wagner, guitar)
All this tribute will take place Tuesday, noon till two at the usual spot, 91.5 FM, wool.fm.
Next week: The worst song in the history of music, of humanity, of the planet, pre- and post-humanity. And it just came out last year! I can't wait.
There's Ian McLagan, keyboard player extraordinaire, best known for his work with Small Faces (and later Faces) which he co-founded, the Stones, Billy Bragg--ah, 'most everyone worth playing with. Another famous sideman, Bobby Keys, also died last year. He too played with just about everyone, from the Stones to Joe Cocker to Delaney and Bonnie and on and on. Even if he didn't have some memorable sax passages he deserves to be immortalized for having gotten kicked out of The Rolling Stones for partying too much and ingesting too many substances: The Rolling Stones, for chrissakes. The final straw purportedly involved a groupie and a bathtub full of Dom Perignon, but it was just one groupie, in fairness. Well, you can decide if that was fair or not, I guess, based on some archaic and prudish moral code.
Paul Revere (nee Paul Revere Dick, no kidding; I think dropping the "Dick" was a good call) also died in 2014. I had mostly forgotten him and The Raiders, but they had a few garage-band-ish hits in the 60s, all done up in their Revolutionary War/Sgt. Pepper garb, tri-corner hats and all. They were also essentially the house band for a Dick Clark show called "Where The Action Is" and which ran daily for nearly two years, telecast in the afternoon, of all times, usually filmed on a beach with no apparent electric connection for instruments or mikes. Things were different then.
And finally, I have to single out Phil Everly, who virtually invented harmony singing, at least as far as the Rock Era is concerned. He and his brother Don were maybe also the first of the battling brothers in rock music, followed by the Davies bros. of the Kinks and the Gallaghers of Oasis, siblings who just couldn't get along well enough to keep their respective bands together, often fighting physically and ultimately ending up not speaking to each other. Oh, I guess you need a pretty healthy ego just to make it in showbiz, and those egos can be tough to keep in check, and boys will be boys, after all (cf. Bobby Keys, above).
Well, after that wicked uninspired (and uninspiring) lead in, here are the tunes I'll spin this week:
Into The Mystic Joe Cocker
Debris Faces/Ian McLagan
Maybe I'm Amazed Ditto
Mystifies Me Ian McLagan & The Bump Band
Glad And Sorry Ditto
Can't You Hear Me Knocking Rolling Stones (Bobby Keys)
Brown Sugar Ditto
I Got The Blues Ditto
Live With Me And Again
Theme For An Imaginary Western Jack Bruce
What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted Jimmy Ruffin
I Wanna Be Your Dog The Stooges (Scott Asheton, drums)
Kicks Paul Revere & The Raiders
Hungry Ditto
Just Like Me Ditto
I Wanna Be Sedated The Ramones (Tommy, the drummer)
Blue Mood Johnny Winter
It's All Over Now Bobby Womack
Rhumba Man Jesse Winchester
Zyryab Paco De Lucia
Waist Deep In The Big Muddy Pete Seeger
This Land Is Your Land Pete Seeger
Cathy's Clown Everly Bros.
Snowflake Bombardier Phil Everly
Bye Bye Love Everlys
('Til) I Kissed You Everlys
All I Have To Do Is Dream Everlys
No More Mr. Nice Guy Alice Cooper(Dick Wagner, guitar)
Only Women Bleed Alice Cooper (Dick Wagner, guitar)
All this tribute will take place Tuesday, noon till two at the usual spot, 91.5 FM, wool.fm.
Next week: The worst song in the history of music, of humanity, of the planet, pre- and post-humanity. And it just came out last year! I can't wait.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
True Originality, Arising From Interpretation: Joe Cocker And Alchemy
In some ways Joe Cocker, who died last week at 70, was a man out of time. A simple laborer from Sheffield, England, primarily known for its steel (Sheffield Steel was the title of one of Cocker's albums, in fact), Cocker began his working life as a gas pipe-fitter. As we all hope, though, talent will out: Cocker burst onto the music scene in 1969 with two albums--which wasn't unusual in those times; I think people maybe just worked harder-- With A Little Help From My Friends and Joe Cocker! which immediately established him as a unique (Ray Charles comparisons notwithstanding) voice and, shall we say, an idiosyncratic live performer. What also set him apart, in those times, is that he wrote almost none of his own material.
Back in the day, of course, there were, really, only interpreters of others' songs. Sure there were anomalies such as some of the blues guys, like Robert Johnson, and Mel Torme did write "The Christmas Song," which he also performed, but for the most part writers and singers were two distinct groups and came together only on record. Sinatra, Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, all the famous vocalists, relied on the Cole Porters, Harold Arlens, Yip Harburgs, all of the Tin Pan Alley songsmiths to provide them with their material. That tradition continued mostly unchanged into the 60's with the Brill Building songwriters like Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Boyce & Hart, Neil Diamond, Sonny Bono (!), Gerry Goffin & Carole King, Greenwich and Barry, Leiber and Stoller, Mann and Weil: the list goes on and of familiar names who were contract songwriters, churning out hit after hit for others to perform.
The shift to performers writing their own material probably had its beginnings as did, arguably, rock 'n' roll, with Chuck Berry, and was taken to new levels, as were most things in that era, by a couple of fellas named Lennon and McCartney. Publishing, see, was where the real money was. A songwriting credit on a hit album was a goldmine, as royalties roll in year after year from every performance of your credited song. That's why you stopped seeing covers on Beatles and Stones records, for the most part, and why John and Paul would reluctantly throw George a bone of one song per album, which eventually resulted in All Things Must Pass; Harrison had all those songs stockpiled, and when the Fabs split everyone was stunned by the wealth of his material. Well, he was finally in charge.
So the Joe Cockers of the music world became anomalies, "mere" interpreters of others' material. And yet, and yet: whose version of "With A Little Help..." would you rather listen to? Ringo singing lead on the original, endearing as it is, or Cocker's all-stops-out throat-wrencher? With whom do you identify "Feelin' Alright? Traffic, and Dave Mason's original version, which is great in its own right, or Joe's cover? "Something," "...Bathroom Window," "Darlin' Be Home Soon," all were done quite satisfactorily for most folks' needs, but Joe Cocker made them his, even through--or maybe partly because of--his often indecipherable delivery. There are passages in nearly every Joe Cocker song, especially early in his career, that I defy anyone to translate, maybe even if you already know the originals. Dylan's "Dear Landlord," from Cocker's second album, for instance: it's absolutely indecipherable, but it really doesn't matter--and it's a Dylan lyric, for chrissake.
The reason he was able to put such an indelible stamp on the songs he sang, I think, is that he was inseparable from them: He was the song, and the song was him. Cocker inhabited the songs and they inhabited him simultaneously, a Mobius strip of sound, sight and emotion. He was transported by the music and his performance, to the point where his very body became possessed, moving involuntarily as it tried to let out all the emotion that even that amazing voice was incapable of expressing on its own. If you've seen early videos of Cocker performances, maybe especially from Woodstock, then you know whereof I speak. Sweating profusely from the energy he expended, hair drenched, hands and arms flailing seemingly uncontrollably, mimicking the movement of hands on a guitar neck or a keyboard, tugging at his hair, he was the very personification of uncontrollable, unvarnished, all-encompassing emotion. Those performances are perhaps the closest secular--if, indeed, music can rightly be called "secular;" I think it is mystical and holy-- embodiment of the Sufi dervishes, whose unrestrained, wholly-given dancing is an attempt to reach religious ecstasy. Joe Cocker's performances showed that he was already there, in his own musical/secular/mystical trance.
And so the passing of another great, another icon from my youth, a circumstance which will of course only increase in frequency in the coming years, leads me to this week's show, a tribute to Joe Cocker, someone whose like we really may never see again. I'm going to play his first two albums in their entirety, maybe mostly 'cause that's how I have to hear 'em. The last, stinging guitar note in "Lawdy Miss Clawdy, leads necessarily and inexorably into the fuzz-tone guitar crescendo intro to "She Came In Through The Bathroom Window," for instance. To separate them would be criminal. I'll supplement those albums from among this list:
The Letter (The Boxtops, originally)
Many Rivers To Cross Jimmy Cliff
The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress Jimmy Webb
Into The Mystic Van Morrison
Let's Go Get Stoned Ray Charles
Cry Me A River Julie London, et al
You've Got To Hide Your Love Away The Fabs
The Weight The Band
Put Out The Light Joe Cocker (!)
Jamaica Say You Will Jackson Browne
See you on Tuesday, from noon till two, on WOOL-FM, 91.5, or www.wool.fm on the net.
Back in the day, of course, there were, really, only interpreters of others' songs. Sure there were anomalies such as some of the blues guys, like Robert Johnson, and Mel Torme did write "The Christmas Song," which he also performed, but for the most part writers and singers were two distinct groups and came together only on record. Sinatra, Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, all the famous vocalists, relied on the Cole Porters, Harold Arlens, Yip Harburgs, all of the Tin Pan Alley songsmiths to provide them with their material. That tradition continued mostly unchanged into the 60's with the Brill Building songwriters like Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Boyce & Hart, Neil Diamond, Sonny Bono (!), Gerry Goffin & Carole King, Greenwich and Barry, Leiber and Stoller, Mann and Weil: the list goes on and of familiar names who were contract songwriters, churning out hit after hit for others to perform.
The shift to performers writing their own material probably had its beginnings as did, arguably, rock 'n' roll, with Chuck Berry, and was taken to new levels, as were most things in that era, by a couple of fellas named Lennon and McCartney. Publishing, see, was where the real money was. A songwriting credit on a hit album was a goldmine, as royalties roll in year after year from every performance of your credited song. That's why you stopped seeing covers on Beatles and Stones records, for the most part, and why John and Paul would reluctantly throw George a bone of one song per album, which eventually resulted in All Things Must Pass; Harrison had all those songs stockpiled, and when the Fabs split everyone was stunned by the wealth of his material. Well, he was finally in charge.
So the Joe Cockers of the music world became anomalies, "mere" interpreters of others' material. And yet, and yet: whose version of "With A Little Help..." would you rather listen to? Ringo singing lead on the original, endearing as it is, or Cocker's all-stops-out throat-wrencher? With whom do you identify "Feelin' Alright? Traffic, and Dave Mason's original version, which is great in its own right, or Joe's cover? "Something," "...Bathroom Window," "Darlin' Be Home Soon," all were done quite satisfactorily for most folks' needs, but Joe Cocker made them his, even through--or maybe partly because of--his often indecipherable delivery. There are passages in nearly every Joe Cocker song, especially early in his career, that I defy anyone to translate, maybe even if you already know the originals. Dylan's "Dear Landlord," from Cocker's second album, for instance: it's absolutely indecipherable, but it really doesn't matter--and it's a Dylan lyric, for chrissake.
The reason he was able to put such an indelible stamp on the songs he sang, I think, is that he was inseparable from them: He was the song, and the song was him. Cocker inhabited the songs and they inhabited him simultaneously, a Mobius strip of sound, sight and emotion. He was transported by the music and his performance, to the point where his very body became possessed, moving involuntarily as it tried to let out all the emotion that even that amazing voice was incapable of expressing on its own. If you've seen early videos of Cocker performances, maybe especially from Woodstock, then you know whereof I speak. Sweating profusely from the energy he expended, hair drenched, hands and arms flailing seemingly uncontrollably, mimicking the movement of hands on a guitar neck or a keyboard, tugging at his hair, he was the very personification of uncontrollable, unvarnished, all-encompassing emotion. Those performances are perhaps the closest secular--if, indeed, music can rightly be called "secular;" I think it is mystical and holy-- embodiment of the Sufi dervishes, whose unrestrained, wholly-given dancing is an attempt to reach religious ecstasy. Joe Cocker's performances showed that he was already there, in his own musical/secular/mystical trance.
And so the passing of another great, another icon from my youth, a circumstance which will of course only increase in frequency in the coming years, leads me to this week's show, a tribute to Joe Cocker, someone whose like we really may never see again. I'm going to play his first two albums in their entirety, maybe mostly 'cause that's how I have to hear 'em. The last, stinging guitar note in "Lawdy Miss Clawdy, leads necessarily and inexorably into the fuzz-tone guitar crescendo intro to "She Came In Through The Bathroom Window," for instance. To separate them would be criminal. I'll supplement those albums from among this list:
The Letter (The Boxtops, originally)
Many Rivers To Cross Jimmy Cliff
The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress Jimmy Webb
Into The Mystic Van Morrison
Let's Go Get Stoned Ray Charles
Cry Me A River Julie London, et al
You've Got To Hide Your Love Away The Fabs
The Weight The Band
Put Out The Light Joe Cocker (!)
Jamaica Say You Will Jackson Browne
See you on Tuesday, from noon till two, on WOOL-FM, 91.5, or www.wool.fm on the net.
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