Light: Harbor Lights

Frances Langford: Harbor Lights

[purchase]

Boz Scaggs: Harbor Lights

[purchase]

Bruce Hornsby: Harbor Lights

[purchase]

Think of the song Harbor Lights, and you may think of versions by The Platters, Elvis Presley, Bing Crosby, or Guy Lombardo, to name a few. Whoever you think of, you will be thinking of one of the corniest and sappiest songs ever written, one I had no intention of posting. The song tells of a weeping lover lamenting a lost love who has sailed away to sea. In the original recording by Frances Langford, from 1937, the song is song by a woman, and it becomes clear that the departed lover is a sailor who has proved faithless. Versions sung by men make no sense to me, but the song is inescapable throughout pop music history. In putting this post together, I realized that one does not call a song Harbor Lights without dealing with the original cornball classic in some way.

Boz Scaggs responded with a new song called Harbor Lights. There is a sly reference to the original in a line about an old song on the juke box. Scaggs is offended by the earlier song on behalf of the male half of the human race. His song says we men are not horrible like that. His narrator is a sailor who is faithful, and looks forward eagerly to returning to his lover.

Bruce Hornsby‘s reaction is more radical. He rejects the entire setup, and says, “No, this is not at all what harbor lights evoke for me.” There is no question of faithfulness in his song. Instead there is the rush of a new romance, with its powerful sense of infinite possibility. Hornsby‘s song is both a literal and figurative statement. It was the title track to the first album Hornsby recorded as a solo artist, after three with the Range. More importantly, it was Hornsby‘s first album after spending time as a member of the Grateful Dead. The Range albums are fine, but here Hornsby cuts loose for the first time. The songs add a jazz flavor, and they lengthen to allow the musicians to stretch out with solos. The guitar solos here are by guest Pat Metheny, and Jerry Garcia appears elsewhere on the album. Hornsby is celebrating his newfound freedom from traditional pop song forms, and he is invoking and rebutting one of the hoariest examples of traditional pop to do so.

Light: I Am The Light of The World

Rev. Gary Davis: I Am The Light of the World
[purchase]

Many people just listen to music as background noise, or something to sing or dance to, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But those of us who consider music a hobby, or an obsession, aren’t satisfied with that. We investigate. We try to learn more about the songs and the artists we love, and in that effort are often rewarded with deeper knowledge. Or, at least, more knowledge. Much of what I know about the blues comes from investigating covers by musicians that I already knew, and that is consistent with the blues tradition of artists learning traditional songs, or original songs (or original songs thought to be traditional) from recordings or performances by others.

I first became aware of Rev. Gary Davis through listening to Jorma Kaukonen’s performances of his music, solo and with Hot Tuna. And I learned about Davis’ influential finger-picking style that had an impact on Jorma, and others, including Jerry Garcia, Bob Dylan, Ry Cooder, David Bromberg, and many, many more. I learned that he was born in South Carolina in 1896, was blind since infancy, and was an actual Baptist minister. That he played and recorded music into the 1940s to niche success. But that the folk and blues revival of the 1950s and 1960s catapulted him to greater fame, performances at the Newport and other folk festivals, and led to covers of the songs he wrote or popularized by popular artists. I learned that Davis generously taught many of these younger musicians how to play in his style, and his songs, and that he died on the way to a gig in New Jersey in 1972. And I discovered that while many of Davis’ songs were religious, he also wrote secular songs.

“I Am The Light of The World” is a religious song, based on the Gospels, and steeped in his faith. I’m not a religious person, in the sense of believing in a god or anything like that, but I do believe that humans have an obligation to try to do right by each other and, in the best of situations, help each other to do right. And while I suspect that Reverend Davis would disagree with me in the particulars, I think that he would, ultimately, focus more on the deeds than the beliefs.

Now, I am far from perfect. I’ve committed all seven of the deadly sins, and more of the less lethal ones, over my lifetime. Not to mention, I’m a lawyer. But one thing that I am comfortable in putting on the good side of my personal ledger is my 20 years as a volunteer with AYSO, the American Youth Soccer Organization, which I have written about before. We are a soccer organization, but one that tries to focus more on enriching children’s lives than a team’s won-loss record. For a number of years, I have been involved in training volunteers in management—not only the nuts and bolts of running a program, but in the AYSO way of doing things.

Last weekend, I had the opportunity to help instruct at Regional Commissioner training. RCs, as we call them, are the leaders of local programs. I was one back at the turn of the century, and it was one of the most important things that I have ever done. RCs work incredibly hard, spend countless hours making sure everything is done right, and are all volunteers, as are all of the board members who help the RC, and all of the coaches and most of the referees. People say that it is a “thankless task,” but I found that many people thanked me, and in turn I tried to thank all of the RCs who followed me, and all of the other volunteers, not only explicitly, but by continuing to assist the organization locally and nationally.

A few years ago, pressed by some very smart and committed staff and volunteers, AYSO decided to put together a weekend of training for RCs from around the country, usually at its office in California. The weekends are instructional, but they are more. They create relationships, act as therapy sessions (there are tears!), and help the RCs, some who are brand new, and even others with experience, recognize the support that they have both from the staff and the volunteers around the country. And the constant message is that it is the RCs’ mission to provide a good environment for the kids, and a positive experience for the volunteers. It is an inspirational weekend, not only for the students, but for the instructors as well. I got to see a group of nearly 40 strangers, from all over the country, with different racial, educational and financial backgrounds, varying political beliefs and very diverse lives, bond, learn, interact, socialize, act crazy, marvel at magic tricks, and, at the end, have an enormous group hug as a new AYSO family.

What does this have to do with our theme, and this song? Each of the RCs who were trained at this session will go back home, to Alabama, Idaho, Illinois, all over the hand that is Michigan, Nevada, California, Tennessee and Hawaii, and be the light of their soccer worlds, and bring the light into the lives of thousands of children. And when those kids’ smiles light up their faces, into the lives of their parents.

LIGHT: LIGHT SHINE/JESSE COLIN YOUNG

I never knew why this guy wasn't huge. At this point I should point out I had no inkling of any earlier career, nor had even heard of the Youngbloods in 1974, which was when I first heard this song and it's parent LP of the same name. And it was a revelation. Bear in mind this was the time and the year of Van Morrison's seminal live album, "It's Too Late to Stop Now" and this seemed to come from a similar place, at least in instrumentation and timbre. Sure, the vocal couldn't be more different, but it fitted the jazzy tinge of reed-led swing redolent throughout the first side of the record. Sadly, at least for me, he never again found that peak again, with even side 2 being somewhat lack-lustre by comparison. But, o my goodness, for those 20 minutes or so, if that, this was one light that lit up my life. And still does.

Possessor of one of the moustaches in modern music, Young was born the somewhat more prosaic Perry Miller in New York, where he was a school contemporary of Art Garfunkel. Before the Youngbloods, he had already produced his first couple of solo discs, before their brief window, peaking with a top 5 hit, "Get Together" in 1969, with a subsequent return to a solo career, give or take the odd re-union. I mention them for two reasons, one because the song in this piece actually had an earlier incarnation on their 1971 release, "Good 'n' Dusty", barely a shadow of its later self. The second is merely to mention the name of fellow group member, one Lowell "Banana" Levinger, which is, um, certainly a memorable one. I can't seem to find any reference as to why, which may be a relief.

No messing with downloads, this time buy the whole thing, even if you only listen to the first "side".

Light: Dancing in the Moonlight

Buy Toploader: Dancing in the Moonlight
Buy Harvest King: Dancing in the Moonlight

Light it is, this theme around.

If you're going to classify your lights, moonlight is possibly the most romantic of all lights, closely followed by firelight, candlelight - and some folks  would include firefly light. And if you are going to classify your hits, you might take a moment to consider why King Harvest is not remembered for the original version, but TopLoader is for theirs.

I won't lay claim to being a great fan of these guys: TopLoader, but that won't stop me from promoting this song for our theme, either. In fact, (probably like you) all I know about them is that they have this one hit song. But I will give them kudos for coming out with this. Note: not coming up with, but *coming out* with it: although they are the band best remembered for the song, it isn't their composition: it belongs to King Harvest (who?!?) However, like them or not, (their version of) the song is catchy - and that's probably why it became more popular than the King Harvest original. For that matter, it strikes me that it isn’t all that unlike some other songs that took someone to the big time (Please, Please Me &c) in relation to the lack of depth of its lyrics.

TopLoader

 

Harvest King

 

 

Of course, there are many ways to rank your musical preferences other than "best" or "original" - and even then, you are walking a thin line in calling *your* definition of best/original the same as other people's! I recall a t-shirt I bought in the 60s that said "Cool is as cool does" - and I guess that applies here. Harvest King wrote a decent song, TopLoader made it "cool".


To the extent that SMM aims to enlighten its audience, let me add a hidden gem in the way of a version that you would be unlikely to run across unless you followed my "trail". To me, this clip is so, so typical of what it means to be on the stage as an amateur musician: acceptably competent, but everyone just walks and talks right past them. Make your own comparisons: "tightness" of the band, showmanship, backup vocals …what else is it that makes a song/a band a hit?

RoadRunnerBand

 

For that matter, The Rolling Stones' Moonlight Mile (a totally different genre/emotion) is equally a best as a "moonlight" song, n'est ce pas?

 

Light: The Inner Light

    The first George Harrison song to appear on a Beatles single is also the last Beatles era George Harrison song inspired by his interest in Indian music. 

   A B-side to "Lady Madonna", "The Inner Light" was recorded in first in  India and then at Abbey Road. The Mumbai musicians were among the same ones involved with Harrison's Wonderwall soundtrack.

    Back in England, on February 6, 1968, with Lennon and McCartney offering encouragement,  a nervous George sang the lyrics in a dimly lit studio decked out in incense and lit candles. They were inspired by Poem 47 of the Tao Te Ching by Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu:

Without opening your door,
you can open your heart to the world.
 Without looking out your window,
 you can see the essence of the Tao.

 The more you know,
 the less you understand.

 The Master arrives without leaving,
 sees the light without looking,
achieves without doing a thing.

 Two days later, Lennon and McCartney overdubbed some background vocals ( heard at 2:18) and completed the mono mix. Ringo doesn't appear on the song On February 6. He was performing on Cilla Black's live BBC show Cilla.

Light: One Headlight

Holly Figueroa O'Reilly: One Headlight (Wallflowers cover)
[from One, 2011]


I've been gone for a long, long time, and I probably won't be back again for a while: we've been struggling with the fallout from chronic illness in both my children for a few years now, and it makes my time short, and precious.

But as those of us who have been blogging since the form was born remember well, sometimes a theme speaks to you, or at least, calls something out of you. And I've been thinking about this song, and its album, a lot in the past few months, longing for an excuse to bring it back to the fore.

You see, Holly Figueroa O'Reilly has been gone for a while, too. As I wrote on my own all-covers, all-folk blog in 2011, the contemporary folk singer-songwriter lost her voice on stage at the Northwest Folklife Festival in 2009, twelve years, two Grammy nominations, and several major label offers into a blossoming and determinedly indie career. A visit to a specialist resulted in a diagnosis of both rheumatiod arthritis and ankylosing spondylitis, a pair of inflamatory diseases which ultimately affected both her voice and her hands, keeping her from singing and playing the guitar for a year – a great loss for O’Reilly, and for the folk community.

Sadly, though drugs ultimately soothed and restored that voice for a while, O’Reilly’s clock was ticking; according to her own bio and facebook feed, the massive doses of steroids she was ingesting were doing as much damage to her body as the disease itself. And so O’Reilly made the impossible choice: to give up her voice in order to live without pain, for her family’s sake and for her own.

But first, she decided to record one final covers album.

In One, the covers record in question, O’Reilly is singing on borrowed time, and it shows: her voice changes subtly from track to track. But the songs are sweet nonetheless, and stunning, and poignant with her craft and talent as much as with her history. O’Reilly is strong, though she is clearly affected by her struggle and the ticking clock; all of this and more pours through even the most torn of tracks. And the song choices are inspired: every performance, from covers of REM, U2, Slipknot, Oasis, Paul Westerberg, Springsteen, Tom Petty and Joe Henry, speaks to a wellstorm of emotion, spoken clearly and eloquently, in an act of true song ownership.

Her cover of One Headlight, alone, dark and dirty with dobro, perfectly pitched in every tone, makes this quite possibly the best cover album of the year.

That these songs represent the second act in a final play, the last farewell to a life lived in voice, is not where their strength lies. It is, instead, in the power of the musician, working with a tenacious instrument, and other people’s songs, to maximum effect.

And nowhere is this more prescient than in a song which contains not one, but two metaphoric images of light: the titular headlight, which Jakob Dylan claims represents the murkiness and half-sufficiency of creation when all seems lost, the struggle to create despite hindrance and overwhelming despair...and the sun, coming up to illuminate first a funeral, and then a county line, each one a boundary beyond which mystery greets us all.

O'Reilly's voice like a last dying light in the darkness. Dylan's hope dying as his album struggles to come to fruition. My rapid drop-in, halfhearted and meek, cobbled from old features because I've lost the nerve, and the time. One headlight, barely enough, dangerous on the highway of breakneck life, as we chase the sunrise, our hearts equal parts dread and hope.






Boyhowdy joined this blog in its first year, and served as editor for several years before reluctantly leaving it behind in a fruitless attempt to pare his life down to its necessary essentials. He misses you all, and reads every post.

Lies/Liars: Vannevar Bush's Trails

buy Walter Becker "Book of Liars"
buy Steely Dan "Reelin in the Years"
buy Fleetwood Mac "Go Your Own Way"
buy Stevie Nicks "Stop Draggin My Heart Around"

I recently revisited the Feb 2015 print copy of Wired – specifically an article about Microsoft’s new CEO. Segments of Jessi Hempel’s article worth relating seemed to resonate with where I am vis-a-vis Star Maker blogging, (and  our theme of “lies”)

When Vannevar Bush first envisioned the Internet (his memex), the idea was that “trailblazers” could share their trails – the sequence of links they followed to get to a certain (re)source. More often than not, current web files lead us to the end rather than sharing the process and all the intermediary by-paths that might add value to our journeys. For most of us, searching for information about music related to lies, this would be a likely starting point:

Of the fairly decent list of links that appeared, my trail began at the top, and- partway down the list- I locked in on Steely Dan – mostly because, well … they had their heyday when I was a radio disk jockey and… because I like the jazz-rock mix

But I couldn’t place the song “Book of Liars”. Turns out it is a Walter Becker “solo” piece from a 1994 album (Alive in America) produced by the other ½ of Steely Dan, Donald Fagan, and then brought out again in 2004.

 

This got me thinking about other Steely Dan songs/lyrics. If we stretch the “lies” theme to include cheating lovers, our trail could wind on over to Reelin in the Years

 

(where they sing: “after all the things we’ve seen and done you go and find another man…” – cheat city)

 

Back to Vannevar Bush and his memex and his trailblazers. My thought process continued by following Steely Dan – at which point I saw that Steely Dan appeared on the TV show Midnight Special – and so did Fleetwood Mac, at about the same time. My YouTube right-side links (your results may vary) suggested I would like some Fleetwood Mac (Vanovar Bush in action).  I am not sure I have my Fleetwood Mac timeline down all that well, but .. well … there was a certain amount of spouse sharing, and it seems to me that there must have been a certain amount of lies going on there: hence: Go Your Own Way.

 

Again, the YouTube right-side link. This time: Tom Petty (and one-time Fleetwood Mac member Stevie Nicks. Stop Draggin My Heart ...

 

 

link ... to link ... to link ... Many lies...

 

LIES/LIAR: POLITICIAN, MOUTHFUL OF S***

As this fortnight runs out of it's allotted, I can't resist the opportunity to draw reference to the current situation in the U.K., it being that delightful spell of arguable (and certainly arguing) anarchy between governments. Parliament is dissolved, the date of the election is just under 4 weeks hence and this is the period of the "hustings": the individual parties clamouring the airwaves and newsprint for that soundbite that will lift them above the opposition, with all dirty tricks present and correct. So what has politics to do with lies and liars? Yeah, right...........

 I'm not going to go into the minutiae of who is who and likely winners and losers; the mother of Parliaments seems now to be a real mother of a Parliament right now and I instead draw your attentions, if interested, to a book: "The Establishment: and how they get away with it", by Owen Jones, an unashamedly leftist polemic. Given the author was born in 1984, make of that date and any Orwellism as you will, it gives delightful credence to why the heart of politics is a virtue of the young, with the head maybe coming later, but it also a timely reminder of why, maybe, these times are so anodyne.

Enough talk, music play on.... Two songs. Firstly, Cream, from 1969, I was assumed this to be a Jack Bruce/Pete Brown song, surprised to read otherwise, but I think the lyric rings as true as it ever did:

And how do we respond to politicians? The Chumba's say it best, this generally being dedicated to the politician of the day, which would tend to be, in their heyday, one Tony Bliar, sorry, Blair:

Buy Politician
Buy Mouthful of Shit (from the album "Anarchy", dontcha know!)
Buy Owen Jones

Lies/Liars: Wish it Was True

The White Buffalo Wish it Was True

Purchase: Wish it Was True

If I get a platform, no matter how small, I think I should use it. So, in reverence—I don’t know if that's the right word—I give you something beautiful and plaintive, suffused of subtle anger, a gorgeous song about lies. Lies we tell ourselves, lies that get told to us, that we have little choice other than to believe.

Wish it Was True, by the White Buffalo, is a gorgeous, end of the night, head against the wall wish that begs for more explanation than it offers--a dark, acoustic prayer, a rising hymn to heaven that asks not for help, but for answers. 

The White Buffalo serves as the band name/moniker for singer/songwriter Jake Smith. You’ve heard him if you are a fan of Sons of Anarchy. The White Buffalo plays plaintive, gorgeous, cowboy-sense-driven Americana rock. The songs are propelled by amazing, old-time-feel band, working in a unique, but traditional country western-sound scape. The White Buffalo are making true modern country western, while paying their altar boy-dues to a classic tradition. “Wish it Was True” is an  elegiac ballad, sung like a last breath effort on a death bed, asking various players why they didn’t tell the truth, saving the most pointed accusation for the speaker’s own country. It's the kind of song you have to listen to again and again, if only to feel along to Smith's simple, yet reaching lament in the song's gorgeous crescendo. This is a late night wish without an answer, heartbreaking in its honesty. He asks for polish to a 'blood and a bruise'--but there is no answer to the lies that were told, and the song shows that if we believe too much, too earnestly, we'll only end up "thrown away when you're through..." 

The White Buffalo are a modern cowboy band who transcends frontier and shame anything Nashville is passing off as ‘country-rock’ these days. Jake Smith is a gorgeous baritone with the sense and soul of a poet; his band has a thick, hillbilly backbone that grooves and pops like you’d want and expect of the most backwoods, front porch outfit. This is a true crossover band that ought to get a lot more listens than it does…a few more shootouts, a few more badass gangs riding into town, and you might just see Smith and Co. stalking down the sundown-lit street, come to gunsling you to safety. 

If you dig White Buffalo, then you have to listen to Smith's transcendent cover "The House of the Rising Sun" as well as this absolutely un-ironic cover of  the '80s metal tear-jerker  "House of Pain" by Faster Pussycat...yes...it's f@#$ing great...

LIES/LIARS: YOUR LIES

"Liar, Liar, your pants are on fire" runs the playground jibe, thereby encapsulating the ambivalence we embrace around untruth. Lies can either be the ultimate act of betrayal or just a little fib. Is there a difference? And what about white lies? Popular music is jam packed with all categories, but it is the songs of the spurned that appeal to me most, the songs of the betrayed, often bitter in their vitriol, and usually relating to discovered infidelities. Some of these songs are in the male voice, and will often be  full of self-pity and solace in alcohol. Far better those by the stronger sex, coming out fighting with harsh diatribes and withering words. Here's one of the best:

"Your lies won't leave me alone
you used to say you loved me did ya
why'd you do me this way
it didn't have to be that way

I got your message on the phone
I hung on every single line
you told me what we had was only business
hurt me so bad I had to sit down with the sickness
oh yeah

Your lies won't leave me alone
tore the phone out the wall and it's still ringin'
wreck the room and curtains ain't hangin' baby
guitar ain't playin'

Your lies won't leave me alone
look at your picture in the room I can see you were
never happy with me baby-
all my uncertainty is easy to see
how you're killin' me, cause

I got those bills you would not pay
the cost of our love is way too high and I just keep on
payin' baby
why'd you say you loved me - walk around and carry on,
hurting 'bout your love is gone, the song I sing is sad
and long, wonder if you are alone,
I don't know if I belong

Your lies won't leave me - alone"

This was the first track on Shelby Lynne's blistering mainstream breakthrough in 1999, I Am Shelby Lynne, having had a less distinguished country starlet career ahead of that. I recall hearing the album at the time, this opening song hitting me like a runaway train, the mix of strings, southern soul and venom sounding not quite like anything else out at that time, uncategorisable beyond great. The rest of it is equally good, but the running order is perfect, so as to give that thump almost immediately. Never sure whether it was or not to an errant lover, I prefer to imagine it was to her erstwhile bosses in her 13 years in Nashville prior to that. Seldom has a best newcomer Grammy been longer awaited or better deserved. With an onstage presence suggesting someone not to be messed with, and yet who has been frequently messed with, she helped open the door for other guitar slinging southern vixens, other slow burners such as Lucinda Williams and Susan Tedeschi coming to mind.

The sorry tale of Shelby's youth has oft been told, with the shotgun murder of her mother and the suicide of her father, with the same gun he had earlier used on her, this being supposedly responsible for her alleged difficult nature within the music business. Well, maybe, but what I find even more remarkable is the courage of the woman to succeed in life after such odds being stacked against her. Likewise that this upbringing should also produce her successful sibling, Allison Moorer, arguably ploughing a gentler path, though the lyrics of her recent break-up (with Steve Earle) album, Down To Believing might belie that, suggesting a similar steel runs through both girl's blood. Which is a good moment to introduce the two sisters playing this piece's title song again, together.

Here's the bonus version of the studio track to buy

Lies/Liars: White Lies

Jason & the Scorchers: White Lies
[purchase]

There are things from my past that I think that I remember perfectly, although sometimes other people have totally different recollections. My piece a while back about my visit to Gettysburg led to a spirited discussion from my friends about what actually happened, and now I have no idea how accurate my memory of the event was.

But for this story, I know that I have some serious lapses in memory, which is probably a good thing, because it allows me to tell it without naming names, which really don’t matter, anyway. And making stuff up, which I may well be doing, sort of fits the theme. So, be prepared for vagueness.

My senior year in college, I applied to law school. I did pretty well on my LSATs, had a non-embarrassing GPA from one of the most competitive and prestigious colleges in the country, and, according to the historical records in that college’s Career Planning Office, it seemed like I would have no problem getting into my first choice, a well-regarded school located in Greenwich Village. Of course, if I hadn’t been a know-it-all Ivy League senior, and had actually deigned to speak to one of the trained counselors paid to dispense wisdom to the likes of me, I strongly believe that I would have also applied to some safer schools. But I didn’t. And when the acceptances came out, I was shut out. It was, by all accounts, the hardest year to get into law school, and I whiffed. My parents displayed less disappointment than I expected (and I still don’t know if that was an act), and after graduation, I moved back home. With the help of my father, I got a job working at a big New York law firm. That failure to get accepted, and that job, ultimately led to me meeting my wife, so ultimately, it worked out for the best, but that’s not what this story is about.

For a while, I commuted into the city with my dad, and we have some funny stories about that, too. I worked at the firm, ironically Richard Nixon’s former firm, and applied again, this time hedging my bets and ending up accepted to Fordham Law School, which turned out to be a great experience for many reasons.

Fordham, at the time, had no dorms for the law school, located at Lincoln Center, in a very expensive part of New York. Luckily, my parents were willing to help out, and through a roommate finding service, I found an apartment that was within walking distance to school, with two guys my age. It was a pretty nice apartment—three bedrooms, living room and small kitchen in a modern, high rise building. Jerry Orbach, pre-Law & Order, lived there when he was on Broadway in 42nd Street. It was an illegal sublet, though, and I wasn’t on the lease. And, it turned out poorly.

The two guys were friends, either from college or high school, and they were working—one, I think, was at a talent agency and the other might have been at a financial services company. I don’t even remember their names. They seemed nice enough, but it soon became clear that my life—getting up, going to class, coming home, making dinner and studying, then watching TV or listening to music, didn’t really jibe with their working lifestyle, which included having disposable incomes. These guys had a friend who, I think, worked for a record company or music publishing company and was an aspiring songwriter. I don’t remember his name, either, but he actually succeeded. OK-using the few facts I actually remember, I think I found him on the Internet (but, to be fair, I’m not sure if it is really him)—he has a Wikipedia page, has written a bunch of middle of the roadish hits and jingles, recorded a few albums, sued Mariah Carey for plagiarism, and even owned the baseball that Mookie hit through Buckner’s legs. And we have 2 friends in common on Facebook, one of whom is a writer for this site. So, if you want, I bet you can find him, if that is him.

During this time period, I somehow heard about Jason & the Scorchers. I feel like I read about them in the newspaper, or maybe I heard something on the radio. They were what was then referred to as “cow-punk,” a mix of country and punk that predated “alt-country” as a thing. Their second EP featured an awesome cover of Dylan’s “Absolutely Sweet Marie,” which might be better than the original, and was, otherwise, kick-ass. My recollection is that this friend of my roommates had some way of getting the EP for me for free, and he did, which was very nice. It is possible, though, that I got it from one of my old record company contacts. I’m pretty sure, though, that I didn't pay for it.

Shortly before my Christmas break, my roommates asked me to move out, saying that they wanted a friend (that friend?) to move in. I really had little leverage, so I moved out, because who would want to be in that situation and moved back home briefly. After the holidays, I moved into an apartment in a much crappier building in a slightly sketchier neighborhood, which I ultimately shared with my good friend Bill, and where we were living when Bill introduced me to my wife. A couple of years later, Jason & the Scorchers released their first full album, Lost and Found, which was also great, and included today’s featured song, “White Lies.” Their next album, though, wasn’t so great, and they found themselves considered too country for rock radio, and too rock for country radio, because, apparently, Uncle Tupelo didn’t exist yet to kick off the alt-country/Americana revival (I know, that’s not really true). But, clearly, they were ahead of their time, and unfortunately faded into oblivion (with the obligatory recent reunion that hasn’t seemed to get much traction). Here’s a professional music writer’s fairly recent reminiscence about the band.

Did my former roommates really want their friend to move in, or did they just want me out? Was it the truth, or just a white lie? Maybe if I remembered their names, I could try to track them down and ask.

Lies/Liars: Lies

 

Purchase JJ Cale: Lies

A quickie to get the theme rolling... one thought behind this theme is upcoming April Fool's Day: a celebration of untruths that are mostly just kidding. Somewhat lighter than the cheating and lying that seems to accompany themes of love thoughout popular music.

Probably best known as the author of "Cocaine", for the most part, JJ Cale prefered to stay out of the limelight. It is a reasonable guess that partly through a feeling of debt, "Clapton & Friends" put together a tribute album called "The Breeze" a year after Cale's death in 2013. More than one of the songs that have helped earn Clapton his fame are JJ Cale's tunes - "After Midnight" among them.

Underwhelming may be an apt desciptor for how Cale comes across. If not underwhelming, then certainly laidback. There are references to how he was one of the main forces in the Tulsa Sound style of music. He himself said that the style came about as a result of not really being able to play the Blues. Be that as it may, few would seriously argue that he wasnt influential nor that he didn't have a style very easily identifiable as his own. And that's no lie.

 

Brush With Celebrity: Roger Fisher of Heart

   You'd be hard pressed to find any divas in the history of Seattle rock. I can think of two nationally-known singers whose homes smell like wet dogs. Most of our best known indie rockers spent years working alongside each other in Seattle record stores. With barely enough talent to hold a guitar the right way, I've even been invited to jam with guys who have sold millions of records. Once somebody from Seattle begins to take themselves seriously, they're no longer really from Seattle.

   So I don't get starstruck as a rule. 

   And yet.

   When Heart's Roger Fisher demonstrated the riff to "Barracuda", I got chills. This wasn't just noise. It was a slice out of the most impressionable years of my youth. 

   Fisher and his brother Mike were recording the first of four albums that make up their epic One Vision series. Friends say they haven't seen the brothers this excited by a project in nearly 40 years.

Brush With Celebrity: The Wallflowers

The Wallflowers: Reboot The Mission
[purchase]

I’ve been a fan of the Wallflowers since their second album, Bringing Down the Horse, the one that made them famous, the one with “6th Avenue Heartache” and “One Headlight” and “Three Marlenas.” I stuck with them, buying their next few albums, and enjoying them, but I had never seen them live. After the band took a hiatus, I moved on, and when they announced a show at the Tarrytown Music Hall in 2012, my wife and I decided not to get tickets. It was a hard call, but if we went to every show by every band that we liked, we would never be home, and have even less money than we do now.

The show was on a Saturday in September, and when we got back from the gym in the morning, both of us had urgent emails from my college classmate Heather, who lives in California and has many contacts in the music industry. She had mentioned to me at our 30th reunion earlier that year that she was friendly with Rami Jaffee, the keyboard player for the Wallflowers (and, among other bands, the Foo Fighters). The email asked us whether we could loan some bicycles to the band, and supply them with, as a fan of How I Met Your Mother, I will refer to as “sandwiches.” In exchange, we would get house seats.

This was a good deal. We loaned them our bicycles, but were unwilling (read—unable) to find any “sandwiches.” We drove the bicycles over to the theater and gave them to Rami, after which he, guitarist Stuart Mathis (now touring with Lucinda Williams) and opening act Mason Reed joined us for coffee at Coffee Labs.

Contrary to what we expected, they didn’t merely say “thanks,” buy us a cup of (excellent) coffee and send us on their way. Instead, we sat for, I’d say, close to an hour, chatting about this and that, and generally having a nice time. But then, it was time for them to actually use the bicycles before the show. We sat in the fourth row, and they put on a hell of a show. Afterwards, we went back behind the theater with Heather’s brother Harley (who also lives in Tarrytown) to get our bicycles back, and maybe say hi (and maybe meet Jakob Dylan). Apparently, they were surprised by the hilly terrain in our area, and were tired from the ride, but it didn’t affect the show. We didn’t however, meet Mr. Dylan.

“Reboot The Mission,” which owes a debt to The Clash and Big Audio Dynamite, mentions Joe Strummer, features vocals and guitar from Mick Jones,  was a highlight of Glad All Over, the album they were touring in support of, and is wildly catchy. Although it was a good reunion album, and got generally positive reviews, it seems that Glad All Over may have been the band’s last. At least three members, including Rami, left the band in 2013, and although they did tour at least until the end of last year, no tour dates are currently listed on their website, which, along with their Facebook page, continues to promote the 2012 release.

Brushes with Celebrity: Various Turkish

Purchase "Zaman Zaman"  - Fikret Kizilok
Purchase "Ele Gune Karsi " - MFO
Purchase "Sikidim" - Tarkan

Celebrity is somewhat relative: you probably wouldn't recognize the following as celebrities, but they are all big names over here. To help make this relevant to you/this blog, I would need to define my "scope". If you have a Turkish historical perspective, you will immediately relate. Otherwise ... you'll likely draw a blank. However, I'll hope that this wont distract from the enjoyment value of the music. Turkish or not, these guys arent at all bad, and I have brushed them all, as explained below. (You might skip the Zeki Muren clip - except that it is quite a stage(d) show. The others are fairly accessible to Western ears).

Back when I was young and un-encumbered with family, I spent many a night playing guitar/singing. I couldn't do it no longer - that lifestyle no longer fits. Some of the friends I played with have gone on to become local stars and I am left with a couple of related memories. Some have gone on to the great beyond.
 
Fikret Kizilok passed away at a very young age and I coudn't tell you why. Here one day, gone the next. Besides being a seminal musician, I remember him as a great cook. I''ve got a dedicated/signed 33 1/3 RPM that must be worth something - and a handful of memories. I played informally with him and then, when we married, our familes got together from time to time outside the music scene.

I'll mostly steer clear of the time that Zeki Muren felt me up. (I suppose that this is one that some would gladly add to their curricula vitae). (Note: This can't be your kind of music - except that it is a classic of its type!)

Instead, I'll move on to the gents that placed me in that position. They are now the doyennes of Turkish pop. When I was single, I naturally found it easier to "hang out", and among those I hung out with were a group now known as MFO. Although I can't claim to having ever "appeared" with them, back in the 80s I regularly sat around with them and played guitar with F. I guess at one point I did play the same stage as one of their sidemen back in ... must have been '81.

I also recall a time at the airport back in the late 80s where we were in the passport line right behind Tarkan, who was on the verge of (actually international) fame. My wife remarked to my son, "Look! Tarkan!", and the celebrity turned around to receive my son's comment to his face: "I don't like that man". Ah, well -the brush paints both ways.

 

Brush With Celebrity: Jackie Leven

Hmmmm, confess to have been taken back a bit by this weeks topic, sleb brushing never having been part of my M.O., even, and I did, had I wanted it so to be. No, I know nobody of note and, give or take the odd meet 'n' greet and autographed output at gigs, none would ever acknowledge me a 2nd time. (OK, Dave Pegg, of Fairport Convention came up to me in Selfridges, Birmingham, accusing me of having been to school with him, which, as he is at least a decade older than me, hit a sensitive......) My stance was more at one with John Peel, radio DJ par excellence, who felt that a personal knowledge of his enthusiasms would assuredly hinder his pleasure, as their feet would be of inevitable clay. And usually were. Or are.

But this guy somehow made me feel different, made me feel I knew him, made me feel responsible, made me care. Have I mentioned him before?

Late to the game, my first knowledge of him was in 1993 or 4, I forget which. It was my first Glastonbury, and I was feeling quietly smug, as a mid 30s middle class professional, returning to a festival, near 20 years on from my last experience. With my then wife we were experiencing a belated rebirth to the joy of music, on hold since the orthodoxy of our careers and parenthood, but, this time, with 4 and 6 year olds in tow. As we put up our tent, Radio Glastonbury played this, and I was smitten. Not because of the song, though I knew it a good one, more the voice, and, it's true, the accent. As a 2nd generation scot, in lifelong english exile, I felt, and still do, the genetic memory of a lore more northern to my own.

I never had picked up on his earlier post-punk existence, latterly glad I hadn't, the drama of his subsequent years adding to the mystique

Over the years I gathered bits and bobs of his output, with, upon my divorce, this song becoming my avatar, an indulgence of some probable conceit, still never getting to see the man live. Finally, about 15 years ago my moment came. Jackie Leven was playing the Midlands Arts Centre in Birmingham. Sure, I expected more than the 20 odd in the audience, but, as the hours passed, became even more in thrall of this bear of a man, not only a reservoir of great songs, but of better stories. Over the next few years I caught him several times, eventually daring to approach him, getting the odd scrawl on a CD, finding him to be as pleased as I to be engaged in conversation. I guess the point is that he was as reliant on his audience as they were upon him, with a mutual respect, or at least, an acceptance that each required the other. I have no idea whether he ever recognised me, it didn't matter, but this was a man whose act depended and relied upon the interplay with an audience who understood that fact.I was shocked when he suddenly died. I miss him. I never knew him, but I miss him. Here he is, in conversation, in an interview. 

And here he is, alone, with guitar, and his always miked up tapping foot:

I have deliberately strayed from an account of his history and output, hoping these mere snippets may encourage you to delve for yourselves. Please do, but start here. Buy good and buy plenty.

Brush With Celebrity: Jean Shepherd

[purchase a book by Jean Shepherd]
[purchase some recordings by Jean Shepherd]

The inspiration for this theme was a bit that David Letterman used to do when he was on NBC, and his show was stranger (and Dave was nastier) than when he moved to CBS and the earlier timeslot. He called it “Brush With Greatness,” and they would have audience members discuss encounters that they had with celebrities, usually ending with a “writer’s embellishment,” that took the mostly prosaic events to some weirder place. For example—this brief story about selling Ted Koppel classical records, embellished to end with a heavy metal jam with the newsman.

My subject today, Jean Shepherd, would have, I think, appreciated the concept of the writer’s embellishment. Shepherd, who passed away in 1999, was hysterically funny, but he was really more of a humorist than a comedian. He was a raconteur who made his name telling stories on the radio. He was an author, TV personality and worked in movies. There is, if you look online, a pretty large cult of Shepherd lovers who maintain websites devoted to his work, and books have been written about him. If, though, he is remembered broadly today, it is as the writer and narrator of the movie A Christmas Story, which I have to admit, I didn’t really like.  The video above is an early version of the story that later became the movie.

Shepherd’s life story is shrouded by mystery and obfuscation, so although there are many sources for information about him, it probably pays to take much of it with maybe a whole shaker of salt. For example, his obituary in the New York Times, noted that he was “believed to be at least 70.” The obituary, strangely, ends with a statement from a “friend and business advisor” that Shepherd had no survivors, followed by a quote from Shepherd’s living son Randall, mentioning that Shepherd also had a living daughter. He may or may not have been considered for the job hosting the Tonight Show after Steve Allen, but instead the job went to Jack Paar. He might have been the model for the radio host in Kerouac’s On The Road. And he occasionally made public statements that were confounding. He was a man with a huge ego, who seemed to resent the fact that perceived lesser talents were more appreciated by the public. Donald Fagen has written about his conflicted feelings about Shepherd.   If this has piqued your interest about him, and I hope it has, just start Googling.

For 31 years, from 1966-1996, Jean Shepherd performed at Princeton, typically during Reunions, as a fundraiser for WPRB. As a freshman from the New York area, I was aware of Shepherd, was not really knowledgeable about his work. I guess that I considered him more of interest to my parents’ generation. But as second semester started to come to a close in 1979, people at the station started to get excited about “Shep’s” annual appearance. I was planning to stay for Reunions to perform (among other things) with the marching band, so I agreed to help out with the show, which, I was guaranteed, would be amazing.

If anything, it was better than that. Playing to a packed house of about 1,000 in Alexander Hall, in the heat, Shepherd spoke, for about 2 hours without a break, without notes. He told a long, involved story, with digression piled upon digression, before tying up neatly. And, did I mention that it was funny? Not only “ha ha” funny, but poignant, clever and thoughtful. The story was certainly based on things that happened to him, but were embellished just enough to make them amusing. It was really mindblowing.

After the show, we walked over to Holder Hall, and into our basement studio for pizza and beer (sorry, FCC), and conversation with an open mic. Shep, which I now called him, was friendly, interesting and engaging to the staff and people who called in. This was repeated at the end of my sophomore year (where I moved closer to the mic), and again, my junior year, where as program director, I was one of the discussion leaders.

By this time, it was clear to me that Shep had a photographic memory, which explained how he could deliver his shows so perfectly. He remembered my name each year and asked me about the Mets (he was an avid White Sox fan), despite the fact that I was probably one of hundreds of people he met while performing.

As a senior member of the WPRB staff who also had a car, I was tasked to take Shep to his hotel after the show and studio session (so, I didn’t drink that much beer. Really.) If you are familiar with Route 1 near Princeton, you know that it is lined with hotels of various quality, and back in 1981, it was the same, if somewhat sparser. There are nice chain hotels, and independent motels of various reputability. If the place I was supposed to drop Shep off with actually charged by the hour, I wouldn’t have been surprised. He looked at the place, looked at me, and shook his head, saying, in his sonorous voice, that he wouldn’t stay there. Instead, I drove him north on Route 1, to a nicer hotel near Newark Airport. I never heard that he sent the station a bill.

Now, if this was the old Letterman show, I’d tell you that Shep also paid for a room for me, and the next morning, the two of us flew to Vegas for a weekend of fun and excessive drinking. But it isn’t. Instead, I shook his hand and drove back to Princeton, to finish Reunions, for a weekend of fun and excessive drinking.

Where I Live (Istanbul, Turkey)

purchase Robert Johnson "Istanbul Grey"
purchase Ella Fitzgerald "Istanbul ..." (somewhere in this link)

I can lay claim to having swum from Europe to Asia and vice versa – several times. But that’s only one of the many, many perks of living in Istanbul. Istanbul is a city that straddles two continents, and the swim from one continent to the other is less than a mile in most places. My folks used to tell a story about a dowager who claimed to her Atlantic ocean-going companion (with her nose in the air), “I have crossed the Atlantic 5 times “, to which her deck-mate replied, “and I cross from Asia to Europe every day”. She lived in Istanbul.

I grew up with a fortress built in 1452 literally in my back yard – well …  across the street from our house (that’s the castle in the video that accompanies this earlier SMM post). This disconnect made it kind of hard for me to relate – or maybe for my classmates to relate to me – when I began high school in the US: I wasn’t particularly in tune with popular US culture (TV shows, sports statistics …) partly because TV didn’t come to Turkey until around 1970, by which time I was 15. My historical time frame was millennia, not the decades of US history (think: Neolithic, Helenistic ….)

Until 1973, the only way to get from the European to the Asian half of the city was to swim or to take a boat. Crossing the straits meant waiting in interminable lines for a car ferry.  Today, there are two 6 lane bridges spanning the Bosphorus and another one under construction. Yes, it can still take hours to get across the water, but that’s because Istanbul has just about the worst traffic in the world.   On the other hand, Istanbul has been rated (more than once) as one of the best places for events/action.

Ella and Bing

 

 

 A partial list of Istanbul events for March 2015 includes many local talents whose names would mean little to you as well as others you would know: Hugh Jackman, Bobby McFarrin, the London Philharmonic, Julio Iglesias – but this winter-season list doesn’t really predict the general trend. I watched Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood  a few years back (and that’s merely my choice).

As far back as Ella Fitzgerald and Bing Crosby, the city was attracting attention  - granted, not likely the kind of attention today’s local media-rati would prefer, but hey … they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity. (Belly dancers are not Turkish – they are Persian). While, on the one hand, there is a major disconnect between the cultural perceptions of 21^st century Turkish youth and those of their fathers/mothers, there is also the realization that local culture is irreplaceable and probably worth preserving – at least in a bell jar. Something to point to, but not necessarily to aspire to. We’d rather wear yoga pants than baggy (shalvar)pants.

Turkish popular music, for the most part (IMHO) is formulaic: pseudo pop tinged with arabesque. That said, there are rare examples of artists working outside the mainstream and creating melanges of East-West synthesis: as on some of Robert Johnsons’s recordings. There is a definite potential for cultural melange where East and West mix, and that is the major part of the attraction of Istanbul.

As we said in "our" attempt to win the 2000 Olympics bid: “Let’s meet where the continents meet.”

 

Where I Live: Istanbul/Washington, DC

I live in two places: one physically, one in my yearning memory—Istanbul and Washington, DC.

I couldn’t be much further apart. One place is home; one place is home, as well.

How do I reconcile that? It’s like living inside a tinker-toy poem, constantly trying to make shapes that make sense. Love one place unconditionally; fall in and out of love with the other depending on a whim, troubled by the traffic and the wind…It’s confusing.

And when I’m this confused, I realize music is the thing that soothes, and makes my hourglass  soul make sense.

So, today I give you two songs that are both about home (homes, really), and that help me make sense, in the beatific, sonically soothing way that music helps me make sense of life (I'd be screwed without music, I promise) :

Elbow’s “Hotel Istanbul”...
Take a listen

And REM’s “Don’t Go Back To Rockville”
You haven't heard it...? Seriously? Listen, now.

Neither song is really about the place it names—Elbow makes a giant musical palette to throw sound at, as they do so brilliantly time after time, using the name only, but using it beautifully well; and REM is singing about not DC, but the suburbs, as all of us who tell you we are from DC do, when, really, none of us are—no one is from DC; we all commute. It’s not a city, but we keep trying.

What does that mean? Who knows…it’s a lost weekend; it’s a strange life. I haven't been home in too long.

But, leaving home is strange: some people run; others are looking for adventure.

When I think of home, on my better days, I feel OK about being a little lost.

When I don’t, I listen to the music, listen long, listen deep, with a truth seeking soul and hope it  will be the reliable voice that makes some kind of sense for me. It’s never failed me before; I hope it won’t now…