I was going to focus on new music this week on my show--and I mean new to the world, not just to me--as I have recently come into possession of a couple of really good records (and yes, I'll continue to call them "records" or "albums;" so sue me) from brand new artists. And then I read yesterday that Jack Bruce had died, and I can't let him pass unnoticed.
The first disc of new stuff is by Andrew Byrne-Hozier, known commercially simply as "Hozier." He's Irish, 24 or so, a multi-instrumentalist (and recently featured in Rolling Stone), and, if you know him at all, it's for his song Take Me To Church. Personally, I hear some John Martyn, some Elton John, and even, in the rhythms of some of his songs, K.T. Tunstall. I feel like there are a couple of other references, but that's not terribly important: he's a pretty exciting new talent.
The second newbie, and they're newbie-er than Hozier, is the band Mad Satta. Full disclosure: their lead singer/frontwoman/driving force (as far as I know) is Joanna Teters, the daughter of Alice's best friend from high school (and still a very close friend), and the niece of Alice's HS boyfriend (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). So I have known her, albeit superficially, since she was born. Joanna is a recent graduate of Berklee School of Music in Boston, has gigged around for years, and has just put out this first CD. I don't mean to give short shrift ( whatever that means) to the rest of the band, who are great, but Joanna is the one I know best. In Mad Satta I hear, as I wrote to Joanna, a mix of Steely Dan, Sade, Norah Jones, with Van Morrison horn charts. I hope that's not insulting to her/them; to me, it's pretty heady company in which to be included. It's not to say that they're derivative, simply to say that they've listened, absorbed, and spun out their own stuff very, very well. At this point in human history, after all, it's pretty hard--likely impossible, actually-- for anyone to be totally original.
Finally, there's Jack Bruce. Cream co-founder, bassist extraordinaire, incredible vocalist, stunning composer, great keyboard player, he pretty much had it all covered. He's but the latest in a line of heroes of mine who've passed, a list that will continue to grow, and that I will continue to celebrate until I die, or until they're all gone; I suspect it'll be the the former.
So, nothing terribly profound this week except music. Really, though that's the most profound aspect of my life, I think, except for family, maybe.... Here's the playlist, anyway:
Take Me To Church Hozier
Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene Hozier
Jackie And Wilson Hozier
Someone New Hozier
To Be Alone Hozier
From Eden Hozier
In A Week Hozier
Sedated Hozier
Work Song Hozier
Like Real People Do Hozier
It Will Come back Hozier
Foreigner's God Hozier
Cherry Wine (Live) Hozier
Sattatude #1 Mad Satta
Reach Out Mad Satta
Better Mad Satta
Oh Lord Mad Satta
See Through You Mad Satta
The Makings Of You Mad Satta
By Your Side Mad Satta
Sattalude #2 Mad Satta
Past Lives Mad satta
Epiphany Mad Satta
Dancing On Air Jack Bruce
I Feel Free Cream
Sunshine Of Your Love Cream
SWALBR Cream
Tales Of Brave Ulysses Cream
Sitting On Top Of The World Jack Bruce
Theme For An Imaginary Western Jack Bruce
Out with the old, in with the new.... 91.5 FM, wool.fm, Tuesday noon till two. See you then.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child
'Cause I am. My Mother died 35 years ago, but October 21 is the centennial of her birth. That's tomorrow, as I write this, and I thought I'd honor her memory a little, which is somewhat odd, because I often feel guilty about how seldom I think of her, and I'm not sure why. I even have a photo of the two of us holding hands on the beach at, likely, Kennebunkport, when I was maybe 6, sitting on the windowsill above my desk, looking right at me. She was a wonderful mother, I loved her, I know that she loved me, but gone is gone.
Which doesn't mean I don't remember lots of details from her life, facts which have formed and informed me: she was a first-generation American, born in the house she lived in in North Walpole, NH, to Polish immigrant parents. Zosia Bernadette Prybylo-- such a lovely name, Zosia, although, unfortunately, it was often Anglicized to "Sophie Smith," as Americans are known for our willingness to adapt to others' cultures and languages. Her father died when she was very young, so it fell to her to help support the family when she was 13. She quit school and went to work on the night shift at a brush factory in Bellows Falls, VT, more than a two mile walk from her home, a walk she had to make alone, at night, after a ten-hour shift. She always hated whippoorwills after those years, as her walks home were often accompanied by their eerie and mournful calls--at least to those lonely 13-year-old ears.
On payday she would turn over all but 10 cents of her week's pay to my grandmother, and on Saturday nights--the big night out-- she and her best friend would go to The Chimes Cafe in BF, split a cup of coffee, and watch all the people passing by, going to places she couldn't afford to go--movies, clothing stores, dances-- all pastimes for those better off. Growing up in this state of lost childhood and privation was actually a mixed blessing for my mom, I think; she was necessarily frugal, and never really recovered from those early years of having nothing, but it enabled her to make do with little as needed and, more importantly, to appreciate the things she had when she had 'em, and to instill that into her children. The downside to the trials of her early life were a serious case of insecurity, an inferiority complex, and much self-doubt: those attributes I'm sure she never intended to pass along, but, alas....
I have discussed in an earlier post my mother's depression and how it brought about her premature death, a chance to escape from a life which had become something she simply didn't want to deal with anymore. But she was one of those people John Stewart sings about in "Mother Country," which I attached to the post-alert, and which I'll play in my show, one of "those faces in the old photographs," people just doin' the best they could and who did it "pretty up and walkin' good." Here's to them, and their memories, and to Moms everywhere, living or dead.
And here's a bunch of songs about 'em:
Call Your Mother Johnny Cash
Every Mother's Son Chris Smither
Every Mother's Son Traffic
Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby.... Stones
Hymn To The Mother Charles Lloyd
In My Mother's Eyes Al Di Meola
Mother John Lennon
Mother Pink Floyd
Mother's Spiritual Laura Nyro
Mother And Child Reunion Paul Simon
Oh Mommy Brewer & Shipley
Mother Angel Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
Mother Beautiful Sly & The Family Stone
Mother Country John Stewart
Mother Earth Tom Rush
Mother Mother Kate & Anna McGarrigle
Motherless Children Eric Clapton
Mother Nature's Son Fab
Mother Popcorn James Brown
Never Tell Your Mother She's Out Of Tune Ellen McIlwaine
A Real Mother For Ya Johnny "Guitar" Watson
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child Van Morrison
That Was Your Mother Paul Simon
Your Mother Should Know Fabs
This Is To Mother You Linda Ronstadt & Emmylou Harris
100 Years Ago Stones
My Mummy's Dead John Lennon
Hope you can join me Tuesday from noon till two on 91.5 FM, or wool.fm on the webs.
For this once, "Mother" is the whole word, not just a half....
Which doesn't mean I don't remember lots of details from her life, facts which have formed and informed me: she was a first-generation American, born in the house she lived in in North Walpole, NH, to Polish immigrant parents. Zosia Bernadette Prybylo-- such a lovely name, Zosia, although, unfortunately, it was often Anglicized to "Sophie Smith," as Americans are known for our willingness to adapt to others' cultures and languages. Her father died when she was very young, so it fell to her to help support the family when she was 13. She quit school and went to work on the night shift at a brush factory in Bellows Falls, VT, more than a two mile walk from her home, a walk she had to make alone, at night, after a ten-hour shift. She always hated whippoorwills after those years, as her walks home were often accompanied by their eerie and mournful calls--at least to those lonely 13-year-old ears.
On payday she would turn over all but 10 cents of her week's pay to my grandmother, and on Saturday nights--the big night out-- she and her best friend would go to The Chimes Cafe in BF, split a cup of coffee, and watch all the people passing by, going to places she couldn't afford to go--movies, clothing stores, dances-- all pastimes for those better off. Growing up in this state of lost childhood and privation was actually a mixed blessing for my mom, I think; she was necessarily frugal, and never really recovered from those early years of having nothing, but it enabled her to make do with little as needed and, more importantly, to appreciate the things she had when she had 'em, and to instill that into her children. The downside to the trials of her early life were a serious case of insecurity, an inferiority complex, and much self-doubt: those attributes I'm sure she never intended to pass along, but, alas....
I have discussed in an earlier post my mother's depression and how it brought about her premature death, a chance to escape from a life which had become something she simply didn't want to deal with anymore. But she was one of those people John Stewart sings about in "Mother Country," which I attached to the post-alert, and which I'll play in my show, one of "those faces in the old photographs," people just doin' the best they could and who did it "pretty up and walkin' good." Here's to them, and their memories, and to Moms everywhere, living or dead.
And here's a bunch of songs about 'em:
Call Your Mother Johnny Cash
Every Mother's Son Chris Smither
Every Mother's Son Traffic
Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby.... Stones
Hymn To The Mother Charles Lloyd
In My Mother's Eyes Al Di Meola
Mother John Lennon
Mother Pink Floyd
Mother's Spiritual Laura Nyro
Mother And Child Reunion Paul Simon
Oh Mommy Brewer & Shipley
Mother Angel Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
Mother Beautiful Sly & The Family Stone
Mother Country John Stewart
Mother Earth Tom Rush
Mother Mother Kate & Anna McGarrigle
Motherless Children Eric Clapton
Mother Nature's Son Fab
Mother Popcorn James Brown
Never Tell Your Mother She's Out Of Tune Ellen McIlwaine
A Real Mother For Ya Johnny "Guitar" Watson
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child Van Morrison
That Was Your Mother Paul Simon
Your Mother Should Know Fabs
This Is To Mother You Linda Ronstadt & Emmylou Harris
100 Years Ago Stones
My Mummy's Dead John Lennon
Hope you can join me Tuesday from noon till two on 91.5 FM, or wool.fm on the webs.
For this once, "Mother" is the whole word, not just a half....
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Bully For McDonald's: "You Deserve A Prick Today"
The scene opens on two men sitting side-by-side in chairs, separated by a small attached table on which sits a McCafe coffee cup and a few papers or magazines. A sign on the door identifies the room as a Teachers' Lounge. The man on the left is wearing a windbreaker-type coach's jacket; he's burly, has thick, bushy hair, a thick, bushy mustache, and is reading a newspaper, presumably the Sports section: he's the quintessential PhysEd teacher. The man on the right has a notebook opened on his lap, some sort of lesson plan, no doubt; he's slightly built, has on a checked shirt and a tie, and wispyish curly hair: must be an English or maybe Social Studies teacher. Coach complains about having paid "nearly four bucks" for the coffee he's sipping, in an unmarked, Starbucksy cup. Mr. Chips replies, helpfully, that Coach should try a coffee from McCafe, which is fabulous, and way cheaper. Coach says "Don't mind if I do," picks up and drinks from Mr. Chips's cup. Chips, shocked and prissily outraged, says "I meant you should get your own!" Coach, who has never looked at Chips the whole time, says "I just did," shoves his cup (which sounds hollow and empty) across the table toward Chips, and gulps down more of what has become his McCafe. Chips glares at Coach, helpless and humiliated, and... Fade and Print.
Have you seen this ad yet? It's been getting quite a lot of play, although apparently not enough to have it archived anywhere yet, as I searched everywhere I could think of in order to pass that info along to those of you who don't have TVs but do have computers--and what's up with that, anyway--or for those of you with TVs which only receive PBS (snore).
There are at least two subtexts here that piss me off (the phrase "that pisses me off" appeared above the fold--the inward fold, not the outward, but still...-- on the Names page of today's Boston Globe, which I found quite surprising, but also, obviously, liberating). One is the obvious use of stereotypes: the rugged, manly, athletic, "I'll take whatever I want, dammit" Alpha male vs. the slight, "97-pound weakling," sputtering ineffectual intellectual. Really? In 2014 we still hafta deal with that crap? Next you'll tell me racism and sexism still exist, which assertion is clearly laughable, right? And, BTW, as the cool kids say (I don't want to get pushed up against a row of lockers), isn't it far more likely that the Neanderthal Coach-type would eat at Mickey-D's, rather than the likely-vegan, Earth-hugging wimp, and thus he would already know about the whole coffee thing?
What really got me, though, is that this is nothing but clear-cut, un-reconstituted bullying. The big macho asshole pushes the little guy around, takes what was his, humiliates him, and we all move on? Does the little guy bring in an AK tomorrow, shoot up the place, and we all wonder why? No one at McDonald's or on their ad campaign team recognized or thought about that? That's a sad notion, but what's scary is that maybe they did consider it, and just shrugged it off as harmless or even funny. I'm sure I don't need to go into a discussion of the widespread epidemic of bullying that schools are dealing with these days, but if you're unfamiliar with that, just check it out on your favorite search engine, and read the alarming statistics and stories of those who have suffered at the hands of bullies, and imagine the inner demons/family issues that cause bullies to develop in the first place. And we'll perpetuate that and in effect sanction it, in order to sell coffee. Paul Newman must be spinning. And Nell--have a talk with Ronald, wouldya, and set him straight.
Using that seemingly benign yet subconsciously ugly little slice o' capitalism vignette as a jumping-off point, then, a new playlist springeth forth, forthwith:
Bully Steve Winwood
Bully Of The Town Nashville Dobros
Neighborhood Bully Dylan
Wooly Bully Ry Cooder & Corridos Famosos
Wooly Bully Sam The Sham & The Pharoahs
Mean And Nasty Jason King Band
Mean Mistreater Grand Funk Railroad
Mean Mr. Mustard Fabs
Mean Old World B.B. King
Mean Ole World Blood, Sweat & Tears
Mean Streak John Gorka
Mean To Me Crowded House
This World Is Getting Mean Jim Lauderdale with Donna The Buffalo
Think Aretha
Think For Yourself Fabs
Don't Think About It, Baby Mike Bloomfield
Don't Think About Her Little Village
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Clapton
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Dylan
Excuse Me, I Think I've Got A Heartache Cake
Fool To Think Dave Matthews Band
Gonna Change My Way Of Thinking Dylan
How Do You Think It Feels Lou Reed
I Think I'm Gonna Kill Myself Elton John
I Think I'm Going To Hell My Morning Jacket
No Time To Think Dylan
Think About It The Jayhawks
Think About The People Osibisa
Tuesday, noon till two, WOOL FM, 91.5, and wool.fm. See ya there!
Mea Culpa: I may have been a bit premature about Brady and the Pats....
Have you seen this ad yet? It's been getting quite a lot of play, although apparently not enough to have it archived anywhere yet, as I searched everywhere I could think of in order to pass that info along to those of you who don't have TVs but do have computers--and what's up with that, anyway--or for those of you with TVs which only receive PBS (snore).
There are at least two subtexts here that piss me off (the phrase "that pisses me off" appeared above the fold--the inward fold, not the outward, but still...-- on the Names page of today's Boston Globe, which I found quite surprising, but also, obviously, liberating). One is the obvious use of stereotypes: the rugged, manly, athletic, "I'll take whatever I want, dammit" Alpha male vs. the slight, "97-pound weakling," sputtering ineffectual intellectual. Really? In 2014 we still hafta deal with that crap? Next you'll tell me racism and sexism still exist, which assertion is clearly laughable, right? And, BTW, as the cool kids say (I don't want to get pushed up against a row of lockers), isn't it far more likely that the Neanderthal Coach-type would eat at Mickey-D's, rather than the likely-vegan, Earth-hugging wimp, and thus he would already know about the whole coffee thing?
What really got me, though, is that this is nothing but clear-cut, un-reconstituted bullying. The big macho asshole pushes the little guy around, takes what was his, humiliates him, and we all move on? Does the little guy bring in an AK tomorrow, shoot up the place, and we all wonder why? No one at McDonald's or on their ad campaign team recognized or thought about that? That's a sad notion, but what's scary is that maybe they did consider it, and just shrugged it off as harmless or even funny. I'm sure I don't need to go into a discussion of the widespread epidemic of bullying that schools are dealing with these days, but if you're unfamiliar with that, just check it out on your favorite search engine, and read the alarming statistics and stories of those who have suffered at the hands of bullies, and imagine the inner demons/family issues that cause bullies to develop in the first place. And we'll perpetuate that and in effect sanction it, in order to sell coffee. Paul Newman must be spinning. And Nell--have a talk with Ronald, wouldya, and set him straight.
Using that seemingly benign yet subconsciously ugly little slice o' capitalism vignette as a jumping-off point, then, a new playlist springeth forth, forthwith:
Bully Steve Winwood
Bully Of The Town Nashville Dobros
Neighborhood Bully Dylan
Wooly Bully Ry Cooder & Corridos Famosos
Wooly Bully Sam The Sham & The Pharoahs
Mean And Nasty Jason King Band
Mean Mistreater Grand Funk Railroad
Mean Mr. Mustard Fabs
Mean Old World B.B. King
Mean Ole World Blood, Sweat & Tears
Mean Streak John Gorka
Mean To Me Crowded House
This World Is Getting Mean Jim Lauderdale with Donna The Buffalo
Think Aretha
Think For Yourself Fabs
Don't Think About It, Baby Mike Bloomfield
Don't Think About Her Little Village
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Clapton
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Dylan
Excuse Me, I Think I've Got A Heartache Cake
Fool To Think Dave Matthews Band
Gonna Change My Way Of Thinking Dylan
How Do You Think It Feels Lou Reed
I Think I'm Gonna Kill Myself Elton John
I Think I'm Going To Hell My Morning Jacket
No Time To Think Dylan
Think About It The Jayhawks
Think About The People Osibisa
Tuesday, noon till two, WOOL FM, 91.5, and wool.fm. See ya there!
Mea Culpa: I may have been a bit premature about Brady and the Pats....
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Put On A Happy Face
Senator Lindsey Graham (R-Hyperbole) recently asserted on one of the Sunday morning news shows that ISIS is poised to come to this country and kill all Americans. Every one of us. And, although we are the most heavily-armed citizenry in the world by an almost-unimaginable factor, we are apparently still unable to defend ourselves, and Obama is powerless or unwilling to stop them.
Graham's wild-eyed rantings aside, it's certainly inarguable that ISIS is probably the most universally agreed-upon symbol of Evil on Earth since the Third Reich. They have done and continue to do some jaw-droppingly horrible acts, not least of which the one that makes that commonly used phrase literal--beheading helpless captives. The only way they could have done something worse would probably have been to use the same (apparently) timed-release, lethal-after-a-fashion chemicals used by the US penal system now to execute our prisoners. Then we'd have had to watch the poor bastards writhe, squirm and moan for an hour or two, rather than die instantly.
So ISIS is doing heinous and hideous deeds in the Middle East, and they may be headed here. Ebola, on the other hand, is already here, the first case on US soil recently diagnosed in Dallas, and there is apparently some concern that others close to this first victim may be at some risk. The medical community, of course, assures us that there is no chance of an outbreak here such as the one in West Africa, which has killed more than half those infected, and Sen. Graham hasn't yet weighed in on this, but I certainly expect that there will be much need for re-assurance on this issue.
City planners and urban development officials, at least along the coasts, are beginning now to make plans for the rising of the seas due to Climate Change, and all of the effects likely to follow. Will they do away with ground floors on new buildings? How, then, will people get to the first floor? Stronger and more frequent storms and their concomitant surges are already here, as are higher tides on a regular basis, as are severe droughts and higher temperatures. Plants and animals are having to adapt, mostly by moving north, to a climate which more closely resembles the one they emerged and evolved in.
The income gap worldwide, but particularly in the US, is wider than it's ever been and widening. In 2012, the top 1% made basically 20 times what the other 99% did. Wages have flattened or dropped for the middle- and lower-classes, who can barely keep their heads above water (figuratively, at least for now) while, as they say, the rich get richer. It's a situation that really can't be sustained or, especially, allowed to worsen, yet there seems to be little movement toward addressing this issue. If we don't, there will be blood.
President Obama, cowering and cowardly in the face of the existential threat posed by ISIS (see "the sky is falling!" above) is nevertheless delighted to use drones wantonly for "surgical strikes" against terrorists--often cleverly disguised as children playing or wedding parties reveling. Come to think of it, the sky is falling. Right now we're the only ones making it fall, but how long before some other entity--state or stateless--starts using drones on us from half a world away? How safe are our children, or our "leaders?" Hell, right now all you need to do to get to the president is climb a fence, run to the White House and open the door, although it probably helps to know when the Secret "Service" has most recently received their latest shipment of Jack Daniels and coke (and I don't mean cola). One way or another, we seem determined to be the agents of our own demise.
And worst of all, the Red Sox finished in last place this year, just the second MLB team in history to "accomplish" the feat of going worst-to-first-to-worst. The first was the 1998 Florida Marlins, who traded away most of their championship-winning roster before the next season, thus making the Sox the only team to fail so egregiously while ostensibly actually trying to defend their title. And the Patriots suddenly suck, after years and years of success and heightened expectations of fans. Tom Brady said on Sept. 2 of this year, "When I suck, I'll retire." Welp, ol' Tom's looking an awful lot like a Hoover lately--and I don't mean Herbert.
So there are just a few things a reasonably attentive and moderately well-informed person wakes up to every morning. People have frequently chided me for being too negative, for focusing on and writing about just the "bad" side of life, at least according to common conception. I mean, Jeez, how can one not? Of course there are wonderful aspects to my life, and yours, and pretty much everyone's who's roaming this increasingly overcrowded orb (oh yeah, there's another one....), but, honestly, aren't they overwhelmed by the downside? Make a list: what things make you happy? Then another--honestly considered and counted, now-- of those things which frighten, depress or trouble you when you allow them into your consciousness, and see which one is longer, or whose components seem larger, in the grand scheme. No wonder people turn to alcohol or other drugs, or to religion (see how positive I'm being by not snarkily lumping that in with the first examples?), or shuffle off this coil of their own volition. Besides, as Tolstoy said in Anna Karenina, "all happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." And that's what seems to me most interesting to think about, to write about. I'm not a humbug, just a fortunate, privileged, middle-class white male plumber of darker depths than many find comfortable. And I do it all while sitting in my comfortable office, listening to music I love, gazing out at the riotous colors of the leaves and the impossibly deep blue Autumn sky. I believe that one term for such behavior is Cognitive Dissonance.
So this week, perversity being my wont if not stock in trade, I'm playing a bunch of "Happy" songs. I hope that my musical choices will put a smile on your face, even when my prose does not. Here're the songs:
Don't Worry, Be Happy Bobby McFerrin
Everybody's Gonna Be Happy The Kinks
Feelin' Happy Lee Oskar
Feeling Happy Big Joe Turner
Get Happy Charlie Byrd/ Barney Kessel/Herb Ellis
Happy Al Green
Happy Rolling Stones
Happy Jenny Lewis & The Watson Twins
Happy Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
The Happy Blues Aretha
Happy Go Lucky Marvin Gaye
Happy Jack The Who
We Shall Be Happy Ry Cooder
Happy Song The Rascals
Smile Happy War
Happy Now Poncho Sanchez
Happy Town The Replacements
Happy Trails Quicksilver Messenger Service
Happy Meeting In Glory Ry Cooder
Happy Woman Blues Lucinda Williams
Heavy Makes You Happy Staple Singers
I'm Happy Just To Dance With You Fabs
If You Wanna Be Happy Kid Creole & The Coconuts
Oh How Happy Art Garfunkel
Make Someone Happy Tower Of Power
Only Happy When It Rains Garbage
Put On A Happy Face Blossom Dearie
Sing A Happy Song Taj Mahal
So Damn Happy Loudon Wainwright III
So, So Happy Valerie Carter
Happy 'Cause I'm Coming Home Chicago
Happy Hour News Firesign Theatre
I'll be dancing around the studios of WOOL FM, 91.5 (www.wool.fm on the web) from noon till two on Tuesday. I hope you'll join me to dance and sing along.
Graham's wild-eyed rantings aside, it's certainly inarguable that ISIS is probably the most universally agreed-upon symbol of Evil on Earth since the Third Reich. They have done and continue to do some jaw-droppingly horrible acts, not least of which the one that makes that commonly used phrase literal--beheading helpless captives. The only way they could have done something worse would probably have been to use the same (apparently) timed-release, lethal-after-a-fashion chemicals used by the US penal system now to execute our prisoners. Then we'd have had to watch the poor bastards writhe, squirm and moan for an hour or two, rather than die instantly.
So ISIS is doing heinous and hideous deeds in the Middle East, and they may be headed here. Ebola, on the other hand, is already here, the first case on US soil recently diagnosed in Dallas, and there is apparently some concern that others close to this first victim may be at some risk. The medical community, of course, assures us that there is no chance of an outbreak here such as the one in West Africa, which has killed more than half those infected, and Sen. Graham hasn't yet weighed in on this, but I certainly expect that there will be much need for re-assurance on this issue.
City planners and urban development officials, at least along the coasts, are beginning now to make plans for the rising of the seas due to Climate Change, and all of the effects likely to follow. Will they do away with ground floors on new buildings? How, then, will people get to the first floor? Stronger and more frequent storms and their concomitant surges are already here, as are higher tides on a regular basis, as are severe droughts and higher temperatures. Plants and animals are having to adapt, mostly by moving north, to a climate which more closely resembles the one they emerged and evolved in.
The income gap worldwide, but particularly in the US, is wider than it's ever been and widening. In 2012, the top 1% made basically 20 times what the other 99% did. Wages have flattened or dropped for the middle- and lower-classes, who can barely keep their heads above water (figuratively, at least for now) while, as they say, the rich get richer. It's a situation that really can't be sustained or, especially, allowed to worsen, yet there seems to be little movement toward addressing this issue. If we don't, there will be blood.
President Obama, cowering and cowardly in the face of the existential threat posed by ISIS (see "the sky is falling!" above) is nevertheless delighted to use drones wantonly for "surgical strikes" against terrorists--often cleverly disguised as children playing or wedding parties reveling. Come to think of it, the sky is falling. Right now we're the only ones making it fall, but how long before some other entity--state or stateless--starts using drones on us from half a world away? How safe are our children, or our "leaders?" Hell, right now all you need to do to get to the president is climb a fence, run to the White House and open the door, although it probably helps to know when the Secret "Service" has most recently received their latest shipment of Jack Daniels and coke (and I don't mean cola). One way or another, we seem determined to be the agents of our own demise.
And worst of all, the Red Sox finished in last place this year, just the second MLB team in history to "accomplish" the feat of going worst-to-first-to-worst. The first was the 1998 Florida Marlins, who traded away most of their championship-winning roster before the next season, thus making the Sox the only team to fail so egregiously while ostensibly actually trying to defend their title. And the Patriots suddenly suck, after years and years of success and heightened expectations of fans. Tom Brady said on Sept. 2 of this year, "When I suck, I'll retire." Welp, ol' Tom's looking an awful lot like a Hoover lately--and I don't mean Herbert.
So there are just a few things a reasonably attentive and moderately well-informed person wakes up to every morning. People have frequently chided me for being too negative, for focusing on and writing about just the "bad" side of life, at least according to common conception. I mean, Jeez, how can one not? Of course there are wonderful aspects to my life, and yours, and pretty much everyone's who's roaming this increasingly overcrowded orb (oh yeah, there's another one....), but, honestly, aren't they overwhelmed by the downside? Make a list: what things make you happy? Then another--honestly considered and counted, now-- of those things which frighten, depress or trouble you when you allow them into your consciousness, and see which one is longer, or whose components seem larger, in the grand scheme. No wonder people turn to alcohol or other drugs, or to religion (see how positive I'm being by not snarkily lumping that in with the first examples?), or shuffle off this coil of their own volition. Besides, as Tolstoy said in Anna Karenina, "all happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." And that's what seems to me most interesting to think about, to write about. I'm not a humbug, just a fortunate, privileged, middle-class white male plumber of darker depths than many find comfortable. And I do it all while sitting in my comfortable office, listening to music I love, gazing out at the riotous colors of the leaves and the impossibly deep blue Autumn sky. I believe that one term for such behavior is Cognitive Dissonance.
So this week, perversity being my wont if not stock in trade, I'm playing a bunch of "Happy" songs. I hope that my musical choices will put a smile on your face, even when my prose does not. Here're the songs:
Don't Worry, Be Happy Bobby McFerrin
Everybody's Gonna Be Happy The Kinks
Feelin' Happy Lee Oskar
Feeling Happy Big Joe Turner
Get Happy Charlie Byrd/ Barney Kessel/Herb Ellis
Happy Al Green
Happy Rolling Stones
Happy Jenny Lewis & The Watson Twins
Happy Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
The Happy Blues Aretha
Happy Go Lucky Marvin Gaye
Happy Jack The Who
We Shall Be Happy Ry Cooder
Happy Song The Rascals
Smile Happy War
Happy Now Poncho Sanchez
Happy Town The Replacements
Happy Trails Quicksilver Messenger Service
Happy Meeting In Glory Ry Cooder
Happy Woman Blues Lucinda Williams
Heavy Makes You Happy Staple Singers
I'm Happy Just To Dance With You Fabs
If You Wanna Be Happy Kid Creole & The Coconuts
Oh How Happy Art Garfunkel
Make Someone Happy Tower Of Power
Only Happy When It Rains Garbage
Put On A Happy Face Blossom Dearie
Sing A Happy Song Taj Mahal
So Damn Happy Loudon Wainwright III
So, So Happy Valerie Carter
Happy 'Cause I'm Coming Home Chicago
Happy Hour News Firesign Theatre
I'll be dancing around the studios of WOOL FM, 91.5 (www.wool.fm on the web) from noon till two on Tuesday. I hope you'll join me to dance and sing along.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Bound By The Beauty/Not Fade Away(Reprise)
Close and faithful readers may remember this post, sort of. It first appeared on Sept. 23, 2012 in slightly different form, but with a whole different list of songs. It's one of my favorites, if I'm allowed to say that, and I'm right back in that same place now, so, rather than re-inventing the wheel, I'm riding it again.
I remember it like it was yesterday: I was taking a test in Miss McDonald's (poor, tragic Libby) fifth-grade class when suddenly, for no apparent reason, I sat bolt upright, put down my pencil and looked around the room at my classmates, my teacher, the desks, chairs, blackboard, the clock, and thought "Holy shit" (or something like it--I used bad words even then)-- "I'm in fifth grade already; I'm ten years old!" My near-constant awareness of and absorption in the passage of time, how fleeting is our--and all our loved ones' --time here, an awareness which had likely always been there, but subliminal, was now right at the front of my brain, where it has remained to this moment.
I've had a love/hate relationship with Autumn all of my life, an ambivalence which is directly related to the above anecdote, I'm sure. On the one hand, here in New England, at least, it's the most dazzlingly glorious time of year; on the other, it's a harbinger of the cold and death soon to follow. The trees blaze with vivid reds, yellows, golds and that peculiar hue which is green-going-to-yellow, itself a return, as Frost noted so brilliantly in "Nothing Gold Can Stay," which begins with "Nature's first green is gold...." And the sky: is it just my imagination, or is it actually a deeper blue than at any other time of the year? Late-blooming flowers, fire-red sumacs, even the dun-colored grasses in meadows contribute to the almost overwhelming ecstatic riot of sensory stimulation all around us. You can practically hear the color.
For about two weeks. Then it all changes again. The first colors to go are the birds. Those we've been feeding all summer long, particularly the finches, my favorites because they're most colorful, are suddenly ravenous. The feeders need re-filling constantly, it seems, as the gold, red, and olive green creatures fatten themselves for their arduous flight south. One day, it dawns on us that they've vanished, just like that: "See ya next year, maybe." That happened this past Thursday. The leaves, meanwhile, have continued their inexorable, biologically-driven march to brown and crispy. One night there's a wind-driven rainstorm and the next day they, too, are suddenly gone. We are left bereft of vibrancy, resigned to subdued hues of brown, black, gray and white, of tree and chickadee, stone and snow, broken occasionally by a splash of evergreen or flash of blue jay.
For me, ever since at least the age of 10, this annual demonstration of death, albeit temporary, puts me in mind of the inevitability of real and permanent death. Every goddam year is a metaphor for every other goddam year, right up to the end. It's sorta like having a full-scale map of the world.
Poets, writers, thinkers of every stripe have dealt with this down through the ages, of course. The whole dying-and-rising god thing which has been the basis of so many religions arises (yes, I saw that) from this cycle. If the earth is reborn, why not we? Keats, in To Autumn ("Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness..."), concentrates on the beauty and bounty of early autumn, while Shelley, his friend and contemporary focuses on the other end of the season in "Autumn: A Dirge ("The warm sun is failing, the/bleak wind is wailing."); Andrew Marvell in To His Coy Mistress ("But at my back I always hear/ Time's winged chariot hurrying near," and Billy Collins in, ironically, "On Turning Ten," ("This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself") have obviously felt it too. We all must; I'm curious at what age it really strikes each of us, this awareness, this knowledge. Why are we the only species, so far as we know, which is aware of our mortality? Wouldn't it be better to have no knowledge it was gonna come? Just live your life, find your acorns, eat your grass, your plankton, synthesize your photos, and then BAM, it's done. No dread, no sadness or longing, just the fact, which was there all along, unbeknownst.
Here are some songs to celebrate the beauty and mourn the fading:
All This Useless Beauty June Tabor
Beauty Linda Thompson
The Beauty Of The Days Gone By Van Morrison
The Beauty Of The Rain Dar Williams
Bird Of Beauty Stevie Wonder
Bound By The Beauty Jane Siberry
Came So Far For Beauty Jennifer Warnes
Chi-Wahwah Beauty Ottmar Liebert
For The Beauty Of The Earth Paul Winter Consort
For The Beauty Of Wynona Daniel Lanois
Hesitating Beauty Billy Bragg/Wilco
Temporary Beauty Graham Parker
Thing Of Beauty Hothouse Flowers
Ugly Beauty Friends Of Dean Martinez
Daylight Fading Counting Crows
Fading Away James Taylor
Fading Memory Eilen Jewell
Don't Fade Away Dead Can Dance
Don't fade Away Milla
Don't Fade Away Willie Nelson
Don't Fade On Me Tom Petty
Fade Away Ernest Ranglin
Fade Into Light Boz Scaggs
Fade To Black Dire Straits
Fadeaway The BoDeans
Not Fade Away James Taylor
Not Fade Away Stones
Noon till two on Tuesday, 91.5 FM, www.wool.fm on the webs. See ya there?
Is it a coincidence that we refer to Adam and Eve's transgression as "the Fall?" That's why we're mortal and know it. Damn.
I remember it like it was yesterday: I was taking a test in Miss McDonald's (poor, tragic Libby) fifth-grade class when suddenly, for no apparent reason, I sat bolt upright, put down my pencil and looked around the room at my classmates, my teacher, the desks, chairs, blackboard, the clock, and thought "Holy shit" (or something like it--I used bad words even then)-- "I'm in fifth grade already; I'm ten years old!" My near-constant awareness of and absorption in the passage of time, how fleeting is our--and all our loved ones' --time here, an awareness which had likely always been there, but subliminal, was now right at the front of my brain, where it has remained to this moment.
I've had a love/hate relationship with Autumn all of my life, an ambivalence which is directly related to the above anecdote, I'm sure. On the one hand, here in New England, at least, it's the most dazzlingly glorious time of year; on the other, it's a harbinger of the cold and death soon to follow. The trees blaze with vivid reds, yellows, golds and that peculiar hue which is green-going-to-yellow, itself a return, as Frost noted so brilliantly in "Nothing Gold Can Stay," which begins with "Nature's first green is gold...." And the sky: is it just my imagination, or is it actually a deeper blue than at any other time of the year? Late-blooming flowers, fire-red sumacs, even the dun-colored grasses in meadows contribute to the almost overwhelming ecstatic riot of sensory stimulation all around us. You can practically hear the color.
For about two weeks. Then it all changes again. The first colors to go are the birds. Those we've been feeding all summer long, particularly the finches, my favorites because they're most colorful, are suddenly ravenous. The feeders need re-filling constantly, it seems, as the gold, red, and olive green creatures fatten themselves for their arduous flight south. One day, it dawns on us that they've vanished, just like that: "See ya next year, maybe." That happened this past Thursday. The leaves, meanwhile, have continued their inexorable, biologically-driven march to brown and crispy. One night there's a wind-driven rainstorm and the next day they, too, are suddenly gone. We are left bereft of vibrancy, resigned to subdued hues of brown, black, gray and white, of tree and chickadee, stone and snow, broken occasionally by a splash of evergreen or flash of blue jay.
For me, ever since at least the age of 10, this annual demonstration of death, albeit temporary, puts me in mind of the inevitability of real and permanent death. Every goddam year is a metaphor for every other goddam year, right up to the end. It's sorta like having a full-scale map of the world.
Poets, writers, thinkers of every stripe have dealt with this down through the ages, of course. The whole dying-and-rising god thing which has been the basis of so many religions arises (yes, I saw that) from this cycle. If the earth is reborn, why not we? Keats, in To Autumn ("Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness..."), concentrates on the beauty and bounty of early autumn, while Shelley, his friend and contemporary focuses on the other end of the season in "Autumn: A Dirge ("The warm sun is failing, the/bleak wind is wailing."); Andrew Marvell in To His Coy Mistress ("But at my back I always hear/ Time's winged chariot hurrying near," and Billy Collins in, ironically, "On Turning Ten," ("This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself") have obviously felt it too. We all must; I'm curious at what age it really strikes each of us, this awareness, this knowledge. Why are we the only species, so far as we know, which is aware of our mortality? Wouldn't it be better to have no knowledge it was gonna come? Just live your life, find your acorns, eat your grass, your plankton, synthesize your photos, and then BAM, it's done. No dread, no sadness or longing, just the fact, which was there all along, unbeknownst.
Here are some songs to celebrate the beauty and mourn the fading:
All This Useless Beauty June Tabor
Beauty Linda Thompson
The Beauty Of The Days Gone By Van Morrison
The Beauty Of The Rain Dar Williams
Bird Of Beauty Stevie Wonder
Bound By The Beauty Jane Siberry
Came So Far For Beauty Jennifer Warnes
Chi-Wahwah Beauty Ottmar Liebert
For The Beauty Of The Earth Paul Winter Consort
For The Beauty Of Wynona Daniel Lanois
Hesitating Beauty Billy Bragg/Wilco
Temporary Beauty Graham Parker
Thing Of Beauty Hothouse Flowers
Ugly Beauty Friends Of Dean Martinez
Daylight Fading Counting Crows
Fading Away James Taylor
Fading Memory Eilen Jewell
Don't Fade Away Dead Can Dance
Don't fade Away Milla
Don't Fade Away Willie Nelson
Don't Fade On Me Tom Petty
Fade Away Ernest Ranglin
Fade Into Light Boz Scaggs
Fade To Black Dire Straits
Fadeaway The BoDeans
Not Fade Away James Taylor
Not Fade Away Stones
Noon till two on Tuesday, 91.5 FM, www.wool.fm on the webs. See ya there?
Is it a coincidence that we refer to Adam and Eve's transgression as "the Fall?" That's why we're mortal and know it. Damn.
Monday, September 22, 2014
"Oh, How We Danced..."
I first heard that song, with an appended parenthetical to the title ("...Anniversary Song") on a Jim Capaldi album in 1972. The credited composers were Al Jolson and Saul Chaplin, but it turns out that they adapted the tune from an apparently quite famous Romanian composition, Waves Of The Danube, and Jolson wrote new lyrics, the first line of which is "Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed."
Yesterday I went to a 40th Anniversary celebration for two good friends whose wedding I was an usher in, one my friend of longest duration (Alice once had a young woman write in a composition about her "longest boyfriend;" we assumed that she, too, was referring to duration of the relationship, but I guess you never know...). To protect their identities I'll call them "Roberta (Bert)" and "Eric." Surviving 40 years of marriage is pretty mind-blowing, even if you're not married to Bert for that time; turns out Eric is superhuman. Anyway, it's kind of shocking to have contemporaries celebrating a 40th, given that I'm barely over 40 myself; some sort of time warp somewhere, I guess.
I looked up the socially-dictated, or accepted, traditional 40th anniversary gift, and found that it's ruby. So I wore a ruby-colored shirt to the festivities but, me being me and trying to force my proclivities and obsessions on others, I also put together a CD of all of the songs in my collection whose title contained the word "ruby" or "rubies." Turned out that I thought it was a great collection of songs, so I've decided to build the bulk of Tuesday's show around it. And by the way, when I told Eric that the traditional 40th thing was Ruby, he said "I thought it was Prozac." I told him I was pretty sure that that was for each of the first 39 years.
This week's show, though, will be--and I cast no aspersions here-- like a marsupial's penis: two-pronged (you could look it up...!). For on Saturday night I worked at a Billy Bragg concert at The Opera House in Bellows Falls, VT., and it was fabulous. I know, I should have written something before the show, to entice folks to go, but Mr. Bragg doesn't need that: the place was just 20 tickets shy of being sold out. Bragg is a committed Lefty, an often brilliant (and frequently very touching) songwriter, has something of a signature guitar sound, is very well-read and learned, and tells great stories. In fact, at one point near the end of the show, someone yelled out a request; Mr. Bragg, in as gentle a refusal as I believe I've ever heard, said "Well now, you see, madam, all you need to remember is the title: I, however, have to remember the title, the chords, the key, all of the lyrics, and the usual 5 minute bullshit introduction I probably used to give it." How do you not love that?
So, sort of two disparate playlists this week, perhaps linked by the fact that, as Bragg sings, "There is power in a union:"
Ruby Dave Rawlings Machine
Ruby Ray Charles
Ruby's Arms Tom Waits
Ruby's Eyes Tommy Emmanuel
Ruby Baby Donald Fagen
Ruby Dear Talking Heads
Ruby Heart The Guggenheim Grotto
Ruby Lane Milla
Ruby Lee Joe Cocker
Ruby On The Morning Brewer And Shipley
Ruby Sees All Cake
Ruby Tuesday Dual Sessions
Ruby Tuesday Melanie
Ruby Tuesday Rolling Septuagenarians
See Ruby Fall Johnny Cash
Rubylove Cat Stevens
Rubies & Diamonds Carla Olson & Mick Taylor
Ruby, My Dear Thelonius Monk & John Coltrane
Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town Cake
Oh How We Danced (Anniversary Song) Jim Capaldi
Anniversary Graham Parker
Anniversary Ronnie Lane & Slim Chance
Greetings To The New Brunette Billy Bragg
Ideology
Levi Stubbs' Tears
Must I Paint You A Picture
A New England
She's Got A New Spell
There is Power In A Union
Way Over Yonder In The Minor Key
Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards Billy Bragg
Yeah, three "Ruby Tuesday"'s but they're wicked different, so I'm playin' 'em all.
Tuesday, noon till two, the same old place, or the old Same Place, for you Nick Dangerists:
91.5 FM, wool.fm. And here's to the next 40!
Yesterday I went to a 40th Anniversary celebration for two good friends whose wedding I was an usher in, one my friend of longest duration (Alice once had a young woman write in a composition about her "longest boyfriend;" we assumed that she, too, was referring to duration of the relationship, but I guess you never know...). To protect their identities I'll call them "Roberta (Bert)" and "Eric." Surviving 40 years of marriage is pretty mind-blowing, even if you're not married to Bert for that time; turns out Eric is superhuman. Anyway, it's kind of shocking to have contemporaries celebrating a 40th, given that I'm barely over 40 myself; some sort of time warp somewhere, I guess.
I looked up the socially-dictated, or accepted, traditional 40th anniversary gift, and found that it's ruby. So I wore a ruby-colored shirt to the festivities but, me being me and trying to force my proclivities and obsessions on others, I also put together a CD of all of the songs in my collection whose title contained the word "ruby" or "rubies." Turned out that I thought it was a great collection of songs, so I've decided to build the bulk of Tuesday's show around it. And by the way, when I told Eric that the traditional 40th thing was Ruby, he said "I thought it was Prozac." I told him I was pretty sure that that was for each of the first 39 years.
This week's show, though, will be--and I cast no aspersions here-- like a marsupial's penis: two-pronged (you could look it up...!). For on Saturday night I worked at a Billy Bragg concert at The Opera House in Bellows Falls, VT., and it was fabulous. I know, I should have written something before the show, to entice folks to go, but Mr. Bragg doesn't need that: the place was just 20 tickets shy of being sold out. Bragg is a committed Lefty, an often brilliant (and frequently very touching) songwriter, has something of a signature guitar sound, is very well-read and learned, and tells great stories. In fact, at one point near the end of the show, someone yelled out a request; Mr. Bragg, in as gentle a refusal as I believe I've ever heard, said "Well now, you see, madam, all you need to remember is the title: I, however, have to remember the title, the chords, the key, all of the lyrics, and the usual 5 minute bullshit introduction I probably used to give it." How do you not love that?
So, sort of two disparate playlists this week, perhaps linked by the fact that, as Bragg sings, "There is power in a union:"
Ruby Dave Rawlings Machine
Ruby Ray Charles
Ruby's Arms Tom Waits
Ruby's Eyes Tommy Emmanuel
Ruby Baby Donald Fagen
Ruby Dear Talking Heads
Ruby Heart The Guggenheim Grotto
Ruby Lane Milla
Ruby Lee Joe Cocker
Ruby On The Morning Brewer And Shipley
Ruby Sees All Cake
Ruby Tuesday Dual Sessions
Ruby Tuesday Melanie
Ruby Tuesday Rolling Septuagenarians
See Ruby Fall Johnny Cash
Rubylove Cat Stevens
Rubies & Diamonds Carla Olson & Mick Taylor
Ruby, My Dear Thelonius Monk & John Coltrane
Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town Cake
Oh How We Danced (Anniversary Song) Jim Capaldi
Anniversary Graham Parker
Anniversary Ronnie Lane & Slim Chance
Greetings To The New Brunette Billy Bragg
Ideology
Levi Stubbs' Tears
Must I Paint You A Picture
A New England
She's Got A New Spell
There is Power In A Union
Way Over Yonder In The Minor Key
Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards Billy Bragg
Yeah, three "Ruby Tuesday"'s but they're wicked different, so I'm playin' 'em all.
Tuesday, noon till two, the same old place, or the old Same Place, for you Nick Dangerists:
91.5 FM, wool.fm. And here's to the next 40!
Saturday, September 13, 2014
To Be Or Not To Be--Richard Cory
I haven't weighed in on much of anything, lately; the thing I most want to address, Robin Williams's suicide, may be passe already (what a world, what a world, 24/7 news cycles, beheadings, and all), but I feel a need to speak up for and defend depressives, given that I've already acknowledged belonging to that group in previous posts.
Edwin Arlington Robinson saw it this way:
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Corey, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Bob Dylan once put it another way: "Don't go mistaking Paradise/For that home across the road." Shakespeare said "The eyes are the window to your soul," and The Hollies encouraged us to "Look through any window (yeah)," but our own myopia may be keeping us from seeing what's really inside.
I'm here to say that one can never, ever know what another's life is like. We may look in and see "riches" and "success," but what needs consideration are (is?) the demons within.
Depression is a terrible disease with which to contend. Its symptoms and effects are often not readily apparent, and it's not something with which we all have to live, which I think may inhibit understanding of the disease. Everyone, I daresay, is familiar with with situational depression, which is, I think, more correctly called "disappointment." Who hasn't had to cope with bad grades, or relationships gone awry, or jobs that don't work out, or that we don't get in the first place? Things don't go right for us, we have disappointments, we may sit with them for a while, but we cope, and we move on.
Clinical depression (or what I like to call "My Depression") is a whole 'nother beast. Circumstances don't matter, fame and fortune don't matter: what matters is the inner demons, the inner voices, that tell you that you fall short, that you're not good enough, that, no matter what the outer world sees, the inner world will never, ever, be satisfied. And that, my friends, is what I'm pretty sure Robin Williams was dealing with, as was the fictional Richard Cory, as are many of your friends, loved ones, and acquaintances, whether it's apparent or not. Riches, adulation, what is commonly thought of as "Success" are of no consequence. All of those are conquered, drowned out by the Inner Voice, which in many cases cannot be mollified: "our own worst enemy" is not an idle phrase.
Is this me condoning suicide? Not really. Is this me understanding the circumstances that might lead one to take its own life? Yeah, pretty sure that's it. Judge not, et cetera: as I have asserted here before, we all do what we have to to "make it through this life, if (we) can." And if we can't, others need to understand and make room for that decision. We're all going to the same place, anyway, whether we kill ourselves by rope, or by gun, or by booze or tobacco or other lifestyle choices, or by genetic fortune. As Ben Sidran says "See ya' on the other side." He was referring to an album (What, now?), but it's all the same.
So, am I gonna play something relevant to this post on my show this week? Nah--that'd be quite a bummer n'est-ce pas? I found a great Van bootleg from 1984 at Turn It Up last week, so I'm'a play that. It includes Dweller On The Threshold; I think that Mr. Morrison had something spiritual in mind, but for me it's a secular fact: we're all "dwellers on the threshold;" what lies on the other side is the mystery, and the adventure.
So, these songs this week, from Van Morrison:
Inarticulate Speech Of The Heart
Dweller On The Threshold
Vanlose Stairway
It's All In The Game
She Gives Me Religion
Help Me
Beautiful Vision
Northern Muse (Solid Ground)
Bright Side Of The Road
Celtic Ray
Higher Than The World
River Of Time
The Street Only Knew Your Name
Cry For Home
Haunts Of Ancient Peace
Cleaning Windows
Summertime In England
Full Force Gale
Also, Joe Sample died today, so I'm gonna play a few Crusaders songs, like "Hard Times," "Keep That Same Old Feeling," "It Happens Every Day," and Carole King's "So Far Away," among, possibly, others. See you Tuesday, maybe, from noon till two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or wool.fm on the webs.
"Oh, I wish that I could be Richard Cory:" maybe not so much....
Edwin Arlington Robinson saw it this way:
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Corey, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Bob Dylan once put it another way: "Don't go mistaking Paradise/For that home across the road." Shakespeare said "The eyes are the window to your soul," and The Hollies encouraged us to "Look through any window (yeah)," but our own myopia may be keeping us from seeing what's really inside.
I'm here to say that one can never, ever know what another's life is like. We may look in and see "riches" and "success," but what needs consideration are (is?) the demons within.
Depression is a terrible disease with which to contend. Its symptoms and effects are often not readily apparent, and it's not something with which we all have to live, which I think may inhibit understanding of the disease. Everyone, I daresay, is familiar with with situational depression, which is, I think, more correctly called "disappointment." Who hasn't had to cope with bad grades, or relationships gone awry, or jobs that don't work out, or that we don't get in the first place? Things don't go right for us, we have disappointments, we may sit with them for a while, but we cope, and we move on.
Clinical depression (or what I like to call "My Depression") is a whole 'nother beast. Circumstances don't matter, fame and fortune don't matter: what matters is the inner demons, the inner voices, that tell you that you fall short, that you're not good enough, that, no matter what the outer world sees, the inner world will never, ever, be satisfied. And that, my friends, is what I'm pretty sure Robin Williams was dealing with, as was the fictional Richard Cory, as are many of your friends, loved ones, and acquaintances, whether it's apparent or not. Riches, adulation, what is commonly thought of as "Success" are of no consequence. All of those are conquered, drowned out by the Inner Voice, which in many cases cannot be mollified: "our own worst enemy" is not an idle phrase.
Is this me condoning suicide? Not really. Is this me understanding the circumstances that might lead one to take its own life? Yeah, pretty sure that's it. Judge not, et cetera: as I have asserted here before, we all do what we have to to "make it through this life, if (we) can." And if we can't, others need to understand and make room for that decision. We're all going to the same place, anyway, whether we kill ourselves by rope, or by gun, or by booze or tobacco or other lifestyle choices, or by genetic fortune. As Ben Sidran says "See ya' on the other side." He was referring to an album (What, now?), but it's all the same.
So, am I gonna play something relevant to this post on my show this week? Nah--that'd be quite a bummer n'est-ce pas? I found a great Van bootleg from 1984 at Turn It Up last week, so I'm'a play that. It includes Dweller On The Threshold; I think that Mr. Morrison had something spiritual in mind, but for me it's a secular fact: we're all "dwellers on the threshold;" what lies on the other side is the mystery, and the adventure.
So, these songs this week, from Van Morrison:
Inarticulate Speech Of The Heart
Dweller On The Threshold
Vanlose Stairway
It's All In The Game
She Gives Me Religion
Help Me
Beautiful Vision
Northern Muse (Solid Ground)
Bright Side Of The Road
Celtic Ray
Higher Than The World
River Of Time
The Street Only Knew Your Name
Cry For Home
Haunts Of Ancient Peace
Cleaning Windows
Summertime In England
Full Force Gale
Also, Joe Sample died today, so I'm gonna play a few Crusaders songs, like "Hard Times," "Keep That Same Old Feeling," "It Happens Every Day," and Carole King's "So Far Away," among, possibly, others. See you Tuesday, maybe, from noon till two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or wool.fm on the webs.
"Oh, I wish that I could be Richard Cory:" maybe not so much....
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