"Années de Pèlerinage II (Italie): No. 5 Sonetto del Petrarca No. 104 (Live)" Vladimir Horowitz-The Legendary Berlin Concert

This afternoon I heard an interesting story about Vladimir Horowitz from the days when Bryon Janis studies under him. In it Janis is heartbroken by his performance knowing that he can never supplant nor best his teacher and tells him as such. Horowitz comforts the young man and tells him that there is already one Horowitz, that the only goal he should have is to be Janis. Much like the story in the Bible where when face to face with God a man states that he never thought he would arrive in that position for how could he be a better man than Moses, God looks down upon the man and says that the only goal he had in life was to be the best person he himself could be. Paraphrased in both stories but nonetheless and interesting point.

Later on in the day I was sitting at a very late dinner with a terribly svelte and frail looking young man whom I call a friend. He composes for a living after studying at Julliard and we sat there among other friends looking at a Peter Beard photograph of an elephant. Because I usually find myself moving the conversation in the direction I see fit I began telling stories of hunting on the African plains, stories I have never experiences myself but rather obtained from Hemingway, Capstick and Roosevelt novels of such dangerous pursuits. After giving a lecture on the .375 Holland and Holland round, how perfect an ammunition it was for all around African game the conversation turned towards the ivory trade and eventually to whether or not it was still used for piano keys. It is not. My thin friend who is undoubtedly a master of the piano gave myself and the remainder of the table a thought which resonated in my mind for the remainder of the evening. A terribly deep thought from a terribly young man with amazing depth and insight.

He stated that he has played both but playing ivory keys was always so much more painful, literally. His hands would hurt throughout the course of playing but also how much more connected he felt while doing so, how the only nature of ivory was to kill and destroy and when he played their lineage ran through his body. Whether or not he played ivory differently knowing this and thereby churning up emotions within his soul he did not say but for whatever reason he held his idea as truth and I found it beautiful.

Earlier in the day I listened to an hour long speech given by a cultural anthropologist in regards to Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest and how altruism, a practice that is rampant among humans lies in direct contrast to said theory. It was a pretty depressing idea since the speaker conveyed the idea that there is no such thing as selflessness in the world, that the only reason we do good deeds is for our own personal gain and satisfaction.

Sitting here listening to Horowitz all ideas have merged together and I think about the pursuit of perfection, and how such a selfish, maniacal pursuit can lead to pleasure and gain for us all. How the death of a majestic creature, a creature who has no comprehension of a piano and what his own body could possibly be used for, and used for such beauty. I am not quite sure where I stand on any of these matters as they all have their merits, and while killing such a magnificent animal for such frivolities (or not) is a noble right. But I do know that just as such beautiful classical music taps into an unknown in our own mind, that for better or worse we are all connected in so many mystical ways that are beyond our comprehension. Neither Horowitz, Janis, nor Moses himself knows the answer.

"I Found a Reason" Phish-Live October 31 1998 Thomas & Mack Center Las Vegas Nevada

This slow groove is a cover from The Velvet Underground's last Lou Reed album, "Loaded". The master of subversion penned a tune that could probably be sung by any Motown master, maybe Sam Cooke or Otis Redding...or it could have a faster tempo and less harmony and be mistaken for a short Dylan song (and you can hear that actually by checking out the demo version on the recent remaster of "Loaded"). I often wonder what it would sound like if Joe Cocker made a cover. The mark of a great song is that it lends itself to any genre, tempo, feeling and frame of mind.

Because of my undying faith in The Grateful Dead I have always despised Phish. Possibly misquoted, possibly verbatim of what the man said, once Trey Anastasio made the remark that Jerry needed to turn in his axe because he lost his chops...true as they were, well, you simply lose all of my respect. However they are a group of insane musicians and the songs of theirs I do dig are usually their covers. "Jesus Left Chicago" and this song are my two favorites, the prior coming from the band ZZ Top. In this cover there is none of that jumping up and down, spinning, whateverthefuck they call it, dancing type of jam sound of which I usually despise. There is just stripped down soul and groove with a slight sample of Trey's awe inspiring guitar work as a way to finish.

This song can wear two hats. The furry, snugly one is a whispering lamentation of love uttered softly in someones consciousness as they carry around with them the memory of a person while meandering through their daily life. The second one possibly (since it was written by Reed) is a black snake skin fedora worn by "The Man" on a lower east side street corner pushing smack to the kids before they stroll into CBGB or some other sin filled establishment of counter culture.

But I'll tell you for me I heard it a few nights ago in a bar here in Manhattan, outside it was a balmy seventeen degrees, a week and a half before Christmas sitting with a good friend, looking at the outright knockout bartender in her slinky dress, breast exploding out, and how when she turned around a tan line from the string top of her bikini. The tempo of the song slowed my heart back down to normal repetition and sync and her movements slowed as well until it all slowed down and I got all fuzzy and warm. There was an old Rangers game on the TV, Messier was looking strong and it felt like every New York night should feel. Perfect.

"Way Back Home" Junior Walker and the All Stars- The Ultimate Jr. Walker & The All Stars

I lived almost seven years of my life in various parts of the south. Did I like it? Sometimes. Was it a different world that did possess myriad of great things? You bet. I'll tell you though, as a Catholic from the north, the Civil War is still going on in some of those deep southern parts. I can't imagine just how terrible it was to have much darker skin down there back in the day, and even now. Dealing with such a problem on a daily basis can do one of two things to a man, chisel him to a hardened, bitter person or provide an education on how bad things can really get and learn not to worry about the little trials in life.

Junior Walker's first line "Oh, there's good and bad things about the South, boy Oh, and some leave a bitter taste In my mouth, now." Speaks to those darker issues within the South's psyche. Junior digresses to much more pleasant issues.

Remember how excited you used to be to wear shorts for the first time? The first time of the season you hear the ice man's truck meandering through the blocks of your neighborhood, fireflies, trips to the beach, meeting up with you friends and causing a little trouble by playing manhunt in the neighbors yard? Then as the summer progressed and it got hotter and hotter, Little League would be over and almost daily your parents would drive you down to the beach where you'd exhaust yourself in the sun and sand until the sun set and the fireworks would break open the sky until you'd pass out from exhaustion? Towards the end of summer you'd get this sinking feeling in your stomach because you knew school was right around the corner, you'd dread Labor Day and wonder why everyone would have picnics and party because it was not cause for celebration, rather it was a wake for the summer?

We all remember it, and even a little black boy from the south in the fifties has remarkable memories of the summer. In hearing this song one can help but open up the drawer and look to see if the shorts are there, waiting to be released, and while the times had now as an adult in the summer are slightly different there's still that magic that comes from the smells of fresh cut grass, the burning of your skin in August sun and the dread that develops every Sunday when its time for school again.

"Handle With Care" Traveling Wilburys-Traveling Wilburys Vol. 1

Bob Dylan's home studio in Malibu has certainly had some music history echo through its walls, but on one particular day a bunch of musicians came together, just some friends, no big deal. George Harrison, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne, you know just a few of the boys. Turns out George left his guitar at his house and made a run back for it, he returned with the axe and another random; Tom Petty. They came together to add some back up to George's song B side of "This is Love", just a B side that no one would listen to in the long run. However the studio deemed that the song "Handle With Care" was simply too good to be released as a B side to a single. With that the band was born, their first album of which this track appeared on was part of the soundtrack to my childhood.

My Dad would play it over and over in the car, I loved it. I loved how in one of the songs "Tweeter and the Monkey Man" there were curses and I could sing them without getting yelled at. I loved on the track "Dirty World" that I knew (well kinda) what they were singing about and that I could sing it because Dad probably didn't think I knew what it was about (in retrospect I'm sure he did but kept that unspoken: "I know you know, you know I know you know, lets not admit it and keep things the way the should be."

Throughout college I mostly forgot about the album and even afterwards it remained in the case for years, unplayed and untouched. But one day I discovered it again and started playing it in the car, around that time I met a woman to take the passenger seat next to me. To my surprise she loved it and we'd drive around town either in her or my car singing the tracks with the windows down. Before we had met I was hurting pretty bad inside, loneliness was dragging me down and a bad start at a new job at work had me feeling much shorter than my six foot three inches. For what I would eventually find out, she was hurting in a lot of ways herself. And I remember her singing Roy's refrain I'm so tired of being lonely, I still have some love to give...while she looked up, her head slightly cocked and tilted to the sky. It sounded as true as anything I have ever heard and could tell that she couldn't look at me because the confidence to ask that question to my face was just not there. But I knew what she was asking and answered as anyone who is sitting there looking at such a beautiful looking, heartfelt, adorable woman could only answer.

I haven't been writing much on this blog lately, in truth it has been such a hard past few months of personal problems, money problems, computer problems...and just about everything that could go wrong has. But today this song came on at random while I was in the shower and I started singing. It's been years since I've sung in the shower when before those years it was a daily event. While singing I contemplated why I haven't and didn't like what I was seeing, until I saw once again her singing in the car driving around town. Man, it was pure poetry on a thousand different levels and its been in my head ever since. Christmas time is either the very most worst time of year or the most joyous. For the past four years my Christmas has been the worst, this year was gonna be five in a row with this one taking the cake for the most evil of the five. But, I don't know, it might just be looking up.

"Make No Mistake" Keith Richards-Keith Richards and the Expensive Winos Live at the Hollywood Palladium

"Keith Richards" ...and so much comes to mind to many. Drugs, the gorgeous Anita Pallenburg, Chuck Berry riffs, fights with Mick, blood transfusions, jail; the list goes on and on. When I hear the name I think of a man who is my musical brother, always have. Get into the weeds on what he think music is, his likes, beliefs and even the construction and you have the same thoughts that run through my mind.

Early on in Keef's career he wrote those powerhouse Stones songs that are considered the greatest rock and roll licks of all time. "Satisfaction", "Jumpin Jack Flash", "Gimme Shelter", these songs are the bedrock of the cannon, what the Torah is to the bible. As Keef says he would figure out the lick, maybe the first line or the title then throw the song to Mick and he would take it from there. It is the genius of their work they way they interacted and the reason why they have been productive for over forty years.

But there is another side and if you delve into the Stones catoluge deeply you can see what they (and because Keef is the main catylst, basically he) is about. In the beginning the Stones set out to be the greatest blues band of all time and that was all. They honed their sound by listening to the great Chicago blues musicians such as John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters. On a side note their name itself is because of Muddy Waters. But Keef wanted the blues and nothing else. At the same time they force fed themselves Motown, whose influence can be seen in later songs. Finally later on in life Keef dove heavy into Reggae, Ska and island music. Combine that with the fact that he has been attached to Ronnie Spector (The Ronnettes) and a whole host of Black women through the years and you just know that this limey from Dartford has more soul than the average white man.

And it is evident in his more mature songwriting, this song in particular and the beautiful trade off of lines between him and another Soul Seductress: Sarah Dash. At this point in Keef's life the Stones were believed to be dead. Mick went off on his own in a vile split to pursue his own record career (which would fail miserably) leaving Keef with the creative bug. He would form the band The Expensive Winos with lesser known but probably more proficient and percise musicians and produce two albums, "Main Offender" and "Talk is Cheap". The scope of musicians who contributed to these albums approaches insanity. Patti Scialfa (Springsteen's wife) does vocals, Chuck Leavell (Eric Clapton's band for decades) on keyboards, Bootsy Collins (Parliment) on bass and Ivan Neville on Piano to name a few.

Both this live version and the studio cut of this track are enthralling. Impossible to catorgize it is a mix of that Motown soul, evident in Sarah's breathlessly sultry Soprano and Keith's smokey rasp making love to the mic, that rock beat driven by Steve Jordan's main bass foot and sharp G tuned guitar riffs. Keef states that he never knew how to sing in such a manner until an engineer turned down all the instruments in his monitors so almost all he heard was his voice, thereby forcing him to whisper into the mic.

It works. As does the subject matter. The complexities of relationships, which of course Keef has had his fair share of and the subtleties of his voice mirror the looks across the room and casual but serious glances at certain body parts. This song could be running into your mistress while walking down the street with your wife, it could be finally having those ten seconds alone with the woman you've been pinning for or even contemplating running into the relationship you have just left as she walked to the corner Korean grocery. The whole time Keef is narriating such events and whispering them into your ear. It is what makes life so hypnatizing and fascinating. It is what puts this song in the epic category above all the other more evident ones this great crafstman has constructed over the years. I ask of you to buy his new book and listen to the man himself instead of myself for if you could converse with the Almighty you wouldn't want a conduit to hear what he has to put down.

Man on The Move....

Your Blogger getting some street cred on another vastly more popular blog.
http://manonthemove.com/2010/11/12/music-on-the-move-playlist-challenge-1-and-the-winner-is/

"Winter Winds" Mumford & Sons-Sigh No More

In the late 90's I was a struggling college hockey player and a self-handicapped struggling English major with a minuscule 2.1 GPA. With hockey, well sports is always a struggle for no matter how good you are there is always someone in the ranks better than you, as for Literature well it sometimes helps to buy the books you actually are assigned to read. Impressive though is the rhetoric I learned to craft when called on in class sans book nor any knowledge of what it contained. Last time I checked Hemingway never went to college and the next time I checked you don't have time to prepare for a question in life by reading what happens after you answer it. And as it stands today whenever I had to shoot from the hip my shot rifled through the air and penetrated some lesser who spent his nights studying for class.

How I spent my nights was crowded up against other sweaty bodies in small storefront bars resembling the picture above. I worked at the rink in town in the pro shop with a deranged young man who spent years listening to the dead and hours with me dipping and crafting Frankenstein like creations out of hockey gloves. CCM cuffs on Bauer palms, names embroidered just like the boys in the show. He lived on my couch for some time when we weren't in the shop or pounding Cutty Sark in the bars. With him there was another buddy from Philly who smoked non-filtered Pall Malls, another who smoked and drank everything in sight under the rein of his father who was a two star General. There was obviously a Sully and a Sean who dreamed of owning a liquor store, and there was Tommy who desperately tried to be seen as anything but a friend to every woman on campus.

With steamed windows from the freezing Boston air we'd rage and sing, drink and skull everything within our vicinity. This being Boston there was always a strong UK/Irish music scene. People who lived with the same dismal, shitty weather; people who were just as young and ready to take on the world without fear but knowing nothing. People who were growing and would eventually be consumed with that dark cloud on the horizon being adulthood.

The Frankenstein creator now owns three hockey stores in New England with a wife and two kids, his gear is worn throughout the college and professional ranks. The Pall Mall smoker moved back to Philly after some town in Charlestown, the General's son became a priest in D.C after a few years in the Senate. Sully and Sean have their liquor store and Tommy finally found a woman who wanted more than to find an arm around her shoulder while she cried over her ex. As for myself I am still the same person inside though I am sure the others feel they are the same within the constraints of their own personal consciousness.

Mumford & Sons plays a variety of traditional instruments and crafts lyrics based off of Steinbeck and Shakespeare. When not on the road Mumford runs an online bookstore which no doubt fuels the fire for more of these superbly crafted songs and melodies. Their works encompass the best of bar-folk-music showcased in their motherland, like Morrison, The Clancy Brothers and Moore before them there is Skiffle hidden within their tunes. The music born of lifetimes of hardship only lifted by a few hours in the pubs. However these boys are no run of the mill, gin joint crooners. Nor are they the political activists telling all that 26+6=1. This may be because their home is the main force in making that equation work but more so because political statements become so banal after a few minutes or one song. Their message transcends politics and delves into such worldly topics of which music belongs sticking its nose in, topics like love, longing and living just as you always knew you would. Living it wild and reckless.

We eventually moved into that dark cloud with doubt that would eventually be trumped by the beauty of all that is out there, our memories washed away by the classes behind us and their spilled beer on the century old hardwood floors. When the sun ascended up and over Boston its rays swept across the country and illuminated the remainder of the country hour by hour. Our ascent while not so instantaneous moved with universal force through the land where we made our mark in the same way we moved through the crowds to find that one girl, that last drink and eventually our own full lives. In thinking about this and believing this to be true I see the same silly pride and ego that sweated out through our pores more than a decade ago and am reassured that yes I am still that same young man though that body maybe older and bent out of shape by the winter winds and lonely hearts across that same land my rays fell over.

"Augusta" Dave Loggins

There's not a lot of tradition left in the world these days. However there are two that are adhered to outside of each other but still bearing significant connection. One of them takes place over a four day period of the year, the other rolls along 365 of each and will continue on past our own demise. The four day one concerns myself where I plant my body on the couch and watch The Masters every year. The second are the members and ideals they embody in maintaining that magnificent place where there are still manners, civility, sportsmanship and good nature. Remove any of these two and my life would be significantly less bearable.

From my earliest recollections, even when I thought golf was a boring game I could never understand I used to watch the vivid greens and polite applause on TV, when commercial time came and the leader board was viewed, every year a subtle piano ditty trickled out of the speakers as the names flashed across the screen. I never thought about finding this song until this year while watching Phil go for it all yet again.

I began Googling the song on the internet and with the exception of youtube ran into barricade after barricade. I learned that it was written by Dave Loggins who was famous for such songs as Please Come to Boston and Nobody Loves Me Like You Do, I learned that CBS owned the rights and that CBS never let this dear ballad go. I say ballad because I found it odd that there were actual lyrics to this song:

Well, it's springtime in the valley on Magnolia Lane
It's the Augusta National and the master of the game
Who'll wear that green coat on Sunday afternoon?
Who'll walk the 18th fairway singing this tune?
Augusta, your dogwoods and pines
They play on my mind like a song
Augusta, it's you that I love
And it's you that I'll miss when I'm gone.
It's Watson, Byron Nelson, Demaret, Player and Snead
It's Amen Corner and it's Hogan's perfect swing
It's Sarazen's double eagle at the 15 in '35
And the spirit of Clifford Roberts that keeps it alive
Augusta, your dogwoods and pines
They play on my mind like a song
Augusta, it's you that I love
And it's you that I miss when I'm gone.
It's the legions of Arnie's Army and the Golden Bear's throngs
And the wooden-shafted legend of Bobby Jones.

One would suppose that if you were not a golfer then the words here are useless, if you don't know who Watson, Nelson, Snead and Arnie are, or why Amen Corner demands not only Hogan's but a perfect swing from anyone. However just as you do not know the names of the gentlemen strolling along in those green jackets that are given only to members and winners the listener has no need to know who they are, but rather to know that there is something pure and beautiful that has been for quite some time and continues to exist in today's modern fadish world.

Back to my searching I came across one copy of the song that was up for auction. I don't have a record player and while I didn't have the couple hundred dollars for the record I found a reason in my mind to but a bid in. I won and the next day had the old piece of vinyl twinkling through the speakers and into electronic format.

Now when the world gets crazy and life slips out of reach, now I can turn my four day a year tradition into a 365 day one without becoming one of those old grey-haired men who stroll through the dogwoods in the Georgia sweet air, walking over the bridge without clubs or caddy, concern or pretense but lost in thought and serenity while the troubles of life evade and the resplendent humanity of all of worldly tradition returns with the first note of an ivory and the scratching from an old '45.

Mamma Told Johnny Not to Go Down Town

When I joined the Navy a lot of people said it was a bad move, that I wasn't the type of person for that life and that I have a problem with authority. In addition I just never appeared to be that gung-ho type of dude. It is probably more of a surprise that one of my favorite things that I have done in the military was running cadence in Officer Candidate School. Navy OCS is not only run by Marine Corps Drill Instructors, but the best ones they have. In turn there are some serious son of a bitches working your ass fifteen hours a day.

My Drill Instructor was Gunnery Sergeant Carlsson. He was a Recon Sniper. He was a thin 150 pounds with 250 pounds of bad ass stuffed into him. I liked him a lot, and he didn't hate me which is probably the mushiest a man like that gets. When we'd run cadence, feet hitting the ground every 3/4 of a second with precision screaming about killing someone halfway around the world...you really felt like you could take on the world; and win.

"Just hit the sand and I know I am in Iran, we're gonna kill who is in command...."

"Greased Gun, K-Bar by my side, these are the tools that make men die..."

"Running through the jungle it's hot and dry, can't stop running boy you're gonna die, when up jumped a cobra and he looked at me, wanna be Recon go through me..."

"Up from the rack in the middle of the night, I make a head call and I'm ready to fight..."

"When I get to heaven, St. Peter is gonna say, How'd you make your living boy? How did you earn your pay? I replied with a whole lot of anger, lived a live of death and danger..."

Some of them are funny, others are terribly motivating but there is one in particular that is quite beautiful, and in this version one can actually hear the emotion of the Drill Instructor's voice while he and the men chant is moving down the road. In its entirety: (The first verse is interwoven after every verse)


Lo Right, Lo Right, Leeeeefta
Lo Right, Lo Right, Leeeeefta
Lo Righty, Lo Righty, Lo Righty Lefta

Mamma told Johnny not to go downtown
The Marine Corps recruiter was hanging around;

But Johnny went downtown anyway
To hear what the recruiter had to say

The recruiter asked Johnny what he wanted to be
Johnny said I wanna join the infantry.

So Johnny caught a plane out to Vietnam,
To fight some people called the Viet Cong.

Killed a hundred men with his rifle and blade,
Only god knows how many lives he saved.

Johnny was bad and he was brave,
Johnny jumped on a hand grenade.

Saved the lives of the men he led,
But now poor Johnny he was dead.

Before he died this is what he said,
To tell his momma when he was dead

Momma, momma, don't u cry,
The Marine Corps motto is Semper Fi.

Singin' Lo Right, Lo Right, Leeeeefta
Lo Right, Lo Right, Leeeeefta
Lo Righty, Lo Righty, Lo Righty Lefta

It is beautiful, touching and it almost makes me cry every time I listen to it. I think about Johnny's mom crying over his grave when she is handed a folded flag. About the Honor Guard firing three times in precision. About how that took place countless times throughout the years.

Then other times I think about Johnny being some punk high school kid with a bad attitude in a white t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes wrapped in the sleeve making fun of the athletes and the geeks, working on cars and cruising the strip. How they shaved that duck tail off his head and put him thousands of miles away to kill people he never even knew existed. And how even though Johnny was not the typical recruit he eventually was made into a man, when the time came he made the right decision. How thousands of Johnnys made the right decision time and time again for their comrades, their country and so many other reasons they never even thought of or new about.

I am confident that in this recording there was at least one recruit who was a Johnny but instead of 'Nam he lost his life in the mountains of Tora Bora or Fallujah. Right now there is another one singing this cadence in the early morning haze and heat of Paris Island who will do the same. It supports the idea, the existential idea that all those Johnnys are still living, as long as the Uniform survives so does the man, as long as there are men willing to sign on that line, so does his spirit and with that so do us all. "Lo Right Lo Right Leeeefta, Lo Right Lo Right Leeeefta..."


Here is the actual song, the video is worthless as the song is beautiful.

"OL'55" Tom Waits- Closing Time

It's quarter after twelve and I have to be up in five hours for work. My girl just kicked me out of her apartment after a fight, and sitting here now I'm thinking about what kind of mess my life is and how much I hate every minute of it. The thing is I usually think that, it isn't a depression or a negativity issue, hell I don't really know what type of issue it is but I do know it is always with me.

The funny thing it is difficult for people to have compassion with my situation. And they are right to feel that way. Once a week I play golf at a private club that is 200k a year to join and I don't pay a dime. Every other day I eat and drink like a King at a very famous and elegant restaurant in Manhattan where a meal for two will run over five hundred dollars and I don't pay that either. I am my own boss and make my own rules. I have two cars in Manhattan one of which has a set of plates on it that lets me park anywhere and do anything without any consequences. Women hit on me even though I have a gut these days, I go to parties in penthouses. And when that gets lame I paddle out and surf (quite competently) a sport which people seem to take up and fail at constantly. Afterwards I'll take the Penn out and Striper fish. I know how to fly, drive a boat, played a professional sport....but even sitting here now reading it all doesn't cheer me up. Single, in a relationship and anywhere in between and I am still just numb and stumbling through life most of the times.

But there was one time in particular when I felt totally whole. When things could never get any better and I was living in the moment like an Alzheimer's patient looking for his slippers. In the moment. Not thinking. Not knowing. Not caring. Not worried. And while at that time I was not listening to this song it is all I think of when it is played.

I was driving on Route 98 or Lilian Highway on the outskirts of Pensacola. I just crossed the Lilian Bridge and on the left was two trailers sandwiched together making an adult book store. I laughed looking at it when I passed by thinking of the time my old roommate and I drove there at two in the morning just to check out the crowd, a roommate who was now long gone and never to be seen again. A man who had been a bike messenger, a veterinarian and a trader on the Chicago Futures Exchange. In short a man who was never at a loss for a good story. I continued to drive along barefoot with a bathing trunks on and a linen shirt unbuttoned. If Kiara Kabukuru and Manute Bol had a child I was darker than him at the time and my waist still fit into those Dolce & Gabanna 31 jeans I just gave away to the clothing drive a month ago. The carburetors in my 1988 Grand Wagoneer were ticking and sputtering through the early morning purple as the sun was about to rise at my back. There was no soundtrack except for those carbs and the wind noise passing through the triangle window on the passenger's side. I had forty three dollars, two twenties and three singles in my webbed pocket of my trunks, the last time I had been with a woman was over a year ago and there wouldn't be one for almost another year.

When I finally turned around the sun was dead in my face so I threw on my issued aviator glasses, turned the A/C off, rolled down the windows and smelled the sweet humid air of the south permeating through the old leather seats and mixing in with the coconut air fresheners I had scattered throughout the tan interior. Back past the adult book store, over the bridge and due south until I hit the bridge that lead into Perdido Key. Once a top the sun was cresting over the gulf on the left, on my right I could see far into Alabama. After the bridge I took the gradual right turn and floored the heavy V-8 for the three mile straight away that took me through the state park, through just empty sand dunes on the right and a glass blue-green sea on my left until I hooked a full right hand turn down Lafitte Reef where my house was the third on the left. I parked the Wagoneer under the stilt house, walked into the back yard which was a canal that connected to the intracostal waterway, jumped off the dock, rolled on my back and kicked around.

I climbed the decayed wooden ladder on the dock, walked the small boardwalk back to my house, sat on the wrap around porch and took a fresh pinch of Copenhagen. My mind was still blank, empty and effortless. Opening the sliding doors I passed out on my couch with the windows open and a small breeze wafting though the room.

I've had times like that before, and I've had times like that since. But I always keep coming back to that one time. They have always gone quickly, they have always been holy and man I was feeling alive right then and there. I don't think there is any message in that. It isn't something I lament over the passing of, it is something that just is and when it is it is perfect in every way. When lady luck is with you it is something you just can't explain.

"When God Made Me" Neil Young-Prairie Wind

While it has a beautiful Melody "Imagine" is on my list of most hated songs. Written by a pompous hypocrite who screamed of equality while living in The Dakota above those "average people". Mr. Peace and equality also not only cheated on his first wife but was known for beating her at will. He abused and neglected Julian, would go on violent, drunk benders for periods of a time and also stood in the face of other musicians spouting vile hatred. Such behavior is of course par for the course for some musicians and stars and to be honest it is not that behavior I am condemning but rather the blatant hypocrisy the man portrayed.

The song "Imagine" in my mind is such a polarizing attack at religion and in a way subverts the message he is trying to instill. Because the problem is not religion (and in full disclosure I am not religious in any way) but rather the followers of said religions that hold a viewpoint that cannot be changed. Kinda like John's....It is hard to write a song about acceptance while asking the listener to imagine a world without a method of life that the majority of the planet hold dear to their hearts. But I guess we aren't as smart as John and can't make decisions for ourselves.

Strangely enough Neil Young's politics are on par with Lennon's and 180 out from my own but this song is the song "Imagine" hoped it would be. It is a cry for tolerance without denouncing any particular race, religion or country while asking. Neil's genius is using that deity's, who causes so much strife in the world, viewpoint to question the beliefs that followers of said deity hold so true. He isn't saying that God is a bad thing, nor is the belief and dedication to him. I think Neil is saying that the man himself doesn't care. I think that he presents his questions of religion in simply that, a question and not a demand; and does so in terribly simple, beautiful verse.

Did he give me the gift of love
to say who I could choose?
Did he give me the gift of voice
so some could silence me?
Did he give me the gift of vision
not knowing what I might see?
Did he give me the gift of compassion
to help my fellow man?

It sings like a lullaby. It makes one think right there on the spot the beautiful attributes of man and what we do with them. It makes one think of how fortunate we are and how incomprehensibly intelligent a being would have to be to create us with said attributes. How we can chose who we love instead of being forced by blind genetics. How we can see beauty and more so horrible sights that will certainly change us because we have free will.

In the end my beliefs of what God is like is that of a parent, he puts some ideals into our heads and lets us run wild without restraint hoping that we will act steadfast to those principles. We can or we can't but he isn't going to make us do either. And this is the reason why I love this song and these idea and keep them close to my heart. True tolerance is tolerance. Period. I'd like to imagine a world where this was true. And that means that because I don't think homosexuality is a way I would want to live my life or my children live theirs I am not a bigot. It also means you shouldn't push that life style on me or my children because they are mine. Like God I will instill ideals in their minds and if they chose to live as a homosexual I will be happy for them. It means that because I don't think dogs should be in the house that I hate dogs, nor do I think you should keep them out of yours.

Three days ago I was walking down Worth Street here in Manhattan and a man wearing a Texas Rangers hat and jersey was walking in the other direction. In my mind it is fully acceptable to hit that person on the back of the head with a solid steel pipe and watch him fall to the ground. And the reason why is because he is doing it on purpose, he doesn't like the Rangers that much. What he wants to do is start controversy. That man is not unlike the Gays parading down Fifth Avenue shoving their beliefs in our faces or the Muslims trying to build a Mosque when 80% of the people don't want it there. That is not tolerance. That is not trying to live peacefully with one another and that is exactly what Lennon does in "Imagine"

Neil on the other hand leaves it for us all to decide and he does it more beautifully and with more class than any before. He does it coming from a somewhat radical background of political activism but a background devoid of hypocrisy and hatred. A background of true tolerance, from such a background it is no wonder he is such a beautiful man and artist.

"War" Edwin Starr-June 10th 1970 Single

On January 31, 1968 The United States launched the Tet Offensive. In the course of one year 4,124 American forces were killed, 19,295 were wounded and 604 are still missing till this very day. There were riots over civil rights at The Universities of Wisconsin, North Carolina and Howard, Martin Luther King Jr. was shot dead with Robert Kennedy. The Zodiac killer was running rampant through the streets of San Francisco, and HIV made its arrival in the United States. That same year Barrett Strong and Norman Whitfield penned one of the most famous protest songs of all time and gave it to The Temptations. But it was never released until it after Edwin Starr's version in 1970.

Things were not getting better for the United States at that time. Early in the year Jeffery MacDonald murders his wife and family at Fort Bragg, My Lai takes place, The US invades Cambodia and four students at Kent State were killed by Ohio State National Guardsmen. Jimi Hendrix dies and the US repeals the Gulf of Tonkin resolution. These events changed the face of America, scarred it and left it with wounded pride.

But the music of this era is in my mind the best we ever had to offer. There was The Stones and The Dead, Airplane, Joplin, Motown, Folk, Dylan; while America was losing its footing on the world stage it was solidifying its place as the music center of the world. Whether it be love or hate when we are tuned up we are at our most creative, we are alive and at our most full animalistic selves.

Within four seconds Starr comes in with full Baritone and captures the feeling of the era. There are no if ands or buts about it here, the listener is getting thrown right into the riots and walking through the jungle scared shitless. He's watching a monk burning himself in the streets, watching his friend bleed to death screaming about going home while medics stick needles of morphine into his chest. And if that doesn't put you in the fight from the start when the boots start stomping in at the last minute visions of polished black leather coming for you certainly will.

There's B-52s at 20 thousand carpet bombing while A-4s drop napalm on villages. There's mosquitos on every visible part of your sweat stained body as you walk through the jungles waiting for a booby trap to go off or the man in the black pajamas to jump out from the bush. There's a woman with bushy underarms and saggy breasts burning her bra on a street corner next to a black panther extending a leather glove into the air. Jim Lovell is one hundred miles above the earth trapped in what he deems his final resting place, and a scared Second Lieutenant makes a decision that will change the course of his life. All these events are bottled up in that first four second drum roll until it comes back out with all the venom, spit and hatred that marks the dark side of man.

War itself has existed without stoppage for over four thousand years. As much as we want it to stop it never will. For one decade the effects and affects of war produced some of the most amazing soundtracks ever laid down. It makes me wonder why we are so different today. Maybe it is because we like to say we are concerned about the war but we don't feel it ourselves at home, maybe if your son was over there scared, shaking and wondering if this day will be his last while you sit at home worried sick over him, thinking the same thoughts we would feel it. But instead there's that new reality show on tonight and what the fuck I'll just throw a new plasma on the credit card so I can watch it in style. The moral bankruptcy on all levels is as heartbreaking as the intellectual and artistic dearth in popular culture. From my count the United States has had three Viet Nams since the first one but only one that spurned musical genius. I don't think that says a lot about us or at least it doesn't say anything good. The only thing that war was good for is gone in the present day: Music.

"Seven Year Ache" Rosanne Cash-Seven Year Ache

The day I had my old Porsche delivered a guy around my age who lived in my building came down into the parking lot for a look. He had shaggy blond hair, a small belly hanging over his stone J Crew pants that fell over Gucci Loafers, his blue oxford shirt tucked in except for the back which hung over his bridle leather weathered belt. He looked like a typical wealthy southern boy from an upbringing foreign to my own and of course I didn't like him for one second. However we started talking about cars for a while and he told me I inspired him to go get his old jalopy out of the garage for a spin. I had to go back to work for the remainder of the afternoon so I said I'd see him later and maybe we'd catch a drink but I said it in the way we ask someone how they are doing as a greeting and never pause to hear an answer.

When I returned home I saw a silver 1962 Ferrari 250 with red leather interior sitting next to the Porsche. It had some patina to it, the seats were torn, the headlights were inoperable and it smoked terribly. He threw me the keys saying "Have you ever driven a Ferrari?" which I had many times but never one from this era, followed by "...well if you can fly a plane you can drive a Ferrari" We cruised around town with thick blue smoke wafting through the air along with the notes of twelve cylinders of steel clanking up and down five thousand times a minute.

We would go on to be great friends. And he would tell me how he thought I was a tanning salon douche bag from Miami with bad taste when he first saw me. That first day we saw each other before the cars when he was looking at the apartment that he would eventually buy. We would go on to have nights upon nights of drunkenness, whether it be at his place at the Ritz Carlton where we made a pitcher of martinis in a pewter cask forged by Paul Revere or at the Timuquana Country Club where Ella would feed us drinks until we headed to the men's locker room where a big old black man would make us some more until the final one when he would pour it into a Styrofoam cup and send us on our way. We'd head out to my old Range Rover, put both of them in the cup holder, fire up that eight cylinder, roll down the window and put this song on. Like many things he introduced it to me. He also introduced me to TSI which was some strange hipster bar downtown which was usually our next destination.

In TSI we stuck out like pornstars at a NOW rally. Khaki pants, button downs, Rolex Submariners and some form of Italian loafers for both of us. We'd sit at the end of the bar and watch old communist propaganda videos that were projected on the wall while the Brooklyn Carpetbaggers (or wannabe Brooklynite dreamers) danced the night away in their usual sway and uninterested manner. I remember drinking ice cold Kronenbourg 1664 while hacking Marlboro Lights. I remember him telling me this song was about me and remember thinking about it and not fully understanding what the hell he meant, it could have meant a lot of things and to this day I am not quite sure I know for sure.

But what I know for sure is that Rosanne Cash is a wonderful talent. As much as I don't like her father as much as 99% of the rest of the world (read: as much as those hipsters who had no idea who he was until he did a Nine Inch Nails cover and became cool to them) I think she certainly got a good share of his genes. Her voice has the range and her lyrics have that simple dead in you face purity that the old man had a knack for nailing down. I have always loved the way so many of her lines in this song roll off the tongue and while the 80's style engineering in the behind it is so passe I think it works.

So what does it mean? I always took it to mean I was slumming it with the women I was running with around town at the time. Of course there were good ones but there were a lot of sleeved tattooed ones walking in and out of my door with substantial emotional problems. There was an ex Playboy Bunny with two kids who flew off the handle constantly, another who drank Jack Daniels like a Hell's Angel, a bosses twenty year old daughter...Then I also think it speaks to where I was then in life and how I was holding myself back in so many ways.

However I don't really care what the song means, who I was or how many years we took off of our lives those two years. It was one hell of a ride, often times quite literally and as much as I hated being in that town we sure made the best of it while we were there. He moved more south, I moved up north and am always waiting around for him to call at the last minute to tell me that he is in town and if I wanted to grab a drink later, just like that first time surrounded by those two beautiful machines on the river in our parking lot.

"Losing My Touch" Keith Richards-Forty Licks

So I have been gone a while but I guess that is what happens when life occurs around you, when the digressive diatribes I write about actually happen, when you're down and alone or up high and reelin' with the blonde on you arm. I have some new music including a choice Mumford & Sons album which was sent to me from Korea by a very dear friend, some ooooold school Fleetwood Mac (bet you never knew they were a blues band before they started banging each other...) and even some obscure Elton that I never even knew existed.

But for now I want to dig into this beautiful, deep Kief song and in particular the one day when it struck me and made my heart standstill. I have gone into great lengths about how much I adore Kief's phrasing, licks and songwriting and this song is certainly no different. However this song hit me in the face one sunny Florida day and though I hate the word it was the most surreal experience in my life.

I had just gone through a big change in my life, I was lonely and a full fledged alcoholic. Every night I'd slam a dozen martinis followed by a twelve of Rolling Rock and a shaky drive home. I'd fall asleep restlessly and wake up to the depression of alcohol and the situation I was in. A few months into it I purchased the car I have always dreamed of in hopes it would snap me out of my funk when all it did was throw another drain on my bank account. It seems as though there was really no way out of it and I was consumed with simply staying in this situation until my liver failed or I killed myself with a car accident.

But there were a few times when I felt different and I would drive in that newly purchased car out to the beach, jog six miles and lay around looking at the college girls playing catch (badly) and flirting with the boys much younger than myself. One day I rolled down there on a terribly clear, dry eighty degree day, the kids were back in school and there was little activity on the beach itself except for some retirees strolling with their dogs and the random kite surfer a quarter mile out gliding along. The remainder of the day I have very little recollection of until I hopped back in the car and cruised along the strip.

Well there really isn't much of a strip in Jacksonville Beach by the pier but there are two surf shops and a few bars. As I turned onto the main road there was not a soul on the street. No one. There was nobody at the bar that overlooked the road and the beach beyond in the distance. It was the eeriest thing I have ever seen, zero activity with zero people anywhere to be seen. I had the windows down and started to hear the beginning of this song. It was so loud I check to see if it was coming on through the speakers in my car. The thing was that I don't even have a working stereo (to this day) in that car.

I pulled over to the side of the road and shut the engine off, opened the door and closed it very slowly as if I didn't want to wake the street and the town up. I gingerly walked across the street as one would across a bedroom trying not to wake a child. I couldn't pinpoint where the music was coming from and walked into the surf shop and didn't see anyone. Headed back out again I looked into the bar and saw a huge speaker facing out of a window and walked towards it. About midway through the street I stopped and just listened, unconsciously and without self awareness I stood there and heard:

I ain't going to keep it long, baby
But just long, long enough
I've got to pick up my passports
And I've got to get my stuff

I don't know why it happened. I don't know how it happened that day for a few minutes on a bright September afternoon there was no one within a few hundred yards, no cars driving and not even a stray cat running across the street. If I could have figured it out I wouldn't have had those goosebumps running all over my body and that sinking feeling, tightness between the cheeks...or any other reaction to being terribly scared and curious at the same time. It seemed demonic. It seemed surreal and it seemed perfect. It was a hand coming down and smacking me across the chin.

It didn't smack me out of my problem. That same night I drank another twelve martinis followed by another dozen Rolling Rocks. But it did make me feel better and more aligned to the world because I not only realized that there are times when even Kief loses his touch, and at that time I certainly had lost mine, sometimes that is okay. Sometimes it is a good feeling to be hopeless, to know that things couldn't possibly be any worse. Then other times that experience makes me think about the randomness in the world and how when you do lose your touch it could be just your time to do so, the odds are staggering. Staggering just like that day, like how I changed my life and how staggering music can be when it becomes the soundtrack of your life.

"When Joanna Loved Me" Tony Bennett-MTV Unplugged

Tony Bennett has always been overshadowed by Sinatra throughout his career. A typical case of a persona overshadowing the skills of a man who lived his life mostly in a shadow of a far more personable icon. The thing is Tony had a much better voice than ole blue eyes and many times he sang such deeper-heartfelt ballads. This song in particular always strikes a chord in my heart and I believe it always will, maybe enough so that when, like Tony, I have a daughter I might name her Joanna in hopes she will cause such dread and delight in the heart of a young man of her age.

Written by Robert Wells and Jack Segal, covered by Sinatra and Desmond as well as our man here it alludes back to a time when there was so very much more romance in the world. Possibly clouded by the nostalgia of old times, more likely a product of perfect arrangement and lyrics, "When Joanna Loved Me" is a song every person can feel if they possess the prerequisite knowledge and love of life. I am sure there are those that know this feeling but don't understand it in the way Tony does, the way I do.

That particular way is sitting on a rainy fall day in the battery watching the ships float in on the Hudson in an old Burberry and tweed pants, an umbrella...no, without a woman there is no need for a man to have one. After a few hours of introspection he'll take the R back uptown to the apartment they used to share and look out the window dreaming of Paris in the spring and that ride down to south and over to the Italian coast. How she looked in the passenger seat of the Alfa with the Hermes scarf knotted around her dirty blond hair, black horn-rimmed oval sunglasses in a white dress, blue sash cinched around her waist. The way she looked at him on the cobblestone street in the Med sun, how white her teeth looked surrounded by beet red lips, her tan legs crossed over each other in navy blue subtle heels. And how later on pure white sheets she laughed and giggled, spilling the silver tray on the floor, the espresso splashing on the Chesterfield sitting on stone carpet in the corner.

Then again when she walked out of the door on that spring day and somehow leaves turned brown and fell off of the branches...

A beautiful song and only one that can be truly known to those who have fallen and fallen off time and time again, in the dead of winter or the blossom of spring. The world can shut down around you when the right person comes along, often times it is frightening to see the world again without those rose colored glasses. There's a Joanna walking to streets for everyone out there, I only wish I knew the one whom this song is directed towards. If I did maybe sitting in the battery thinking of her would not be such a bad option.

"Farther Down the Line" Lyle Lovett-Lyle Lovett

"Ugly but effective" It was the way my old golf coach spoke of our number one player. He had a low, slight fade which never apex more than fifty feet off the ground, a hideous swing which produced a ball that rolled on and on forever. Myself, I would rather hit high draws that sometimes turned into hooks which wandered into the woods and maybe that is a character flaw but I preferred looking like a player over actually scoring like one.

Lyle Lovett is not a handsome man but somehow he pulled one of the hottest movie stars in her day. His pocked-marked faced mouthed myriad fantastic songs based on a life experienced on the plains of West Texas in Rodeos, Ranches and Texas swing honkey-tonks. Like our number one he wasn't the best thing to look at but he got the job done. In a word he is legit, the real deal whiskey drinking madman riding, as his good friend Robert Earl Keen says "A car down the highway at eighty miles and hour and taking the steering wheel off". Many times he has broken bones on the back of a thousand pounds of twitching pissed-off muscle, so many times he has parlayed that experience into song. But also he has used his experience (such as losing the hottest movie star in her day) to write three minute long, epic Keatsian ballads on loss and the emotions involved in such sad scenes.

Farther Down the Line combines rodeo nomenclature, ideas and actions and mixes them with that most serious of all rodeos...the nightlife at the bar and the procurement of a mate for the night. It fits. Because just like at seven and a half seconds, at times you can feel her slipping out of your grasp, the rope around your hand loosening and her mentally bucking out of control, you try to hold on for just a half a second more and find yourself on the ground left dusty and worse for the wear only to move on to another venue and another bull.

It's a quick three minutes this song but it possesses enough gravitas to be covered by the man Wille himself; a man known to spin a few yarns in his day. Its a quick life spent in the bars, running around from town to town, bull to bull, woman to woman, and it isn't the most rewarding. Strolling away from the bar with rejection in your mouth only to be washed away with some warm whiskey, strolling away from that bull and sliding a snooze of Copenhagen between your gums. But you do it and you move on to the next because you are only eight seconds away from immortality, only a smile and a caress away from satisfaction. In the end it doesn't matter how one gets there, if it is a low, slow fade, a high scraping draw, or a pocked-marked face mumbling lines to someone out of its league. In the end all that matters is hangin on and surviving till that next buzzer sounds and the next casual glance turns into a drink on that midnight rodeo.

"Sous le Soleil" Mixed by DJ Stéphane Pompougnac with the Major Boys Featuring Aurélia-Hôtel Costes:Quatre

Forgive me for the long title, but with sampling there's a lot of people to credit these days. Two main events have taken up the majority of my time, one of which being the catalyst for this post and the catalyst behind me spending hours thinking of a certain place in the Provence-Alpes-Cote d'Azur region of southeastern France. You know the stories, the beauties laying on the beach baking in the sun after dancing till nine in the morning. Mick is always there, as is Stephanie, David, Gianni Agnelli when he was alive and every beautiful person who wouldn't talk to you in a million years.

But lately I've been talking and hanging out with a few of those people and beyond the artifice and the name I must say that their bad rep is under served and have found them to be terribly genuine, interesting, gentle and warm human beings. In their fashion there have been seven hour lunches at tables swilling Chateau Corton smoking Marlboro's until they turn back into late dinner followed by more hours of excess into the morning. All the while I hear stories of this little town and the nights that take place this time of year.

This song is the soundtrack. The Cuban rhythm, maracas holding the beat together, tight chords of a nylon string guitar with layers of spicy lower latitude piano barging in the door past the gaze of the tempo bouncers. A soft, smoky, sexy voice in your non-native tongue easing her way into your mind while her hips rhythmically shift with the rim shots hidden way back in the track until that guitar comes to the front piercing with purity.

There's a lot of things coming at you full force in this song, there's the aforementioned construction, there's the title which is also (conveniently) the title of a French Soap Opera set in said town dealing with the love lives of Laure, Caroline and Jessica, three of its residents. All those sweaty nights of Latin America mixed with the passion of Mediterranean France combine to overload one's mind until you are at the counter at JFK paying full price for the one way ticket to your new life unencumbered by the constraints you have built up in your day to day operations. Go ahead and do it, you'll never be happy until you've tried.

I'll be there in a few months, trying to bring my French and tan back up to the levels they should always remain at. If Mick is there I'll try not to talk to him, if Stephanie shows up I'll try not to stutter again when talking to her and play it a little bit cooler. More importantly I'll throw my short suit back on (hasn't seen daylight since Rio) and try not to feel hopelessly huge against those skinny French boys, the iPod will remain in the room but this soundtrack will be playing as the sand rises through my toes with every step and (hopefully) and every turned head of the women I walk by.

Chanel - Remember Now Part. 1 (By Karl Legerfeld) from baronshocolaat on Vimeo.

Chanel - Remember Now Part. 2 (By Karl Lagerfeld) from baronshocolaat on Vimeo.

"You Can Have Him" Nina Simone-Nina Simone at Town Hall

Most men have no idea what women think. Most men don't want to know what women think. But deep in that brain, behind those lips and questioning eyes, beyond the roots of silky hair, deeper than what the constraints of society has told them and what their roles should be, their careers and their liberation; beyond that it is my sincere hope and wish that they think like Nina's narration in this sublime, solo piano tune so eloquently performed at Town Hall decades ago. The juxtaposition of an unrequited love, a song telling the listener how little she cares for said man while describing everything she wanted to do to him is probably the most romantic idea for a song I have ever run across. Beyond the standard crooning of love and loss, Byronic in scope while retaining the intimacy she never knew phrased in Nina's own legendary voice and meter is heads and tails above anything else existing in the ether.

Like so much music in the American Cannon this song comes from the great Irvin Berlin. Jerome Kern saying once: "Irving Berlin has no place in American music - he is American music." He truly is the master and father of every he precedes and set the tone for the paradigm shift that occurred in music in the early 20th century.

To escape the didactic and cease the digression, the ideals possessed in this song could solve a lot of problems between men and women. Arguments solved, divorces stopped, the birth rate of the United States would rise and everyone would feel fulfilled in the places that matter. Speaking for a men I think one thing women have lost in the past decades is the idea that they are to care for their men in every way. In no way is this degrading, nor does it downplay their abilities and skills in this world. Rather it is probably the most important, noble task in the entire world. Conversely I think they would find that if they began some of the actions in this tune they would receive the attention and stability they crave in their relationships. There is nothing more endearing than being wanted and to be selflessly taken care of without any need of reciprocity.

It is beautiful. It is the world and the way we are made and it is the glue that keeps us together and from chopping each other's heads off but for now it will probably never happen. So I'll keep Nina on and think of the days when a woman brings me slippers and caresses my head in the morning lovingly after a bender with the boys, grabs me a glass of water and massages my back without yelling about how insensitive I am and how terrible my breath reeks of gin or questions how much money I wasted on strippers the night before. When she realizes that I am next to her not because of any feeling of obligation but because it is her I want to be next to, to feel her arms wrapped around my shoulders while her head rests on my chest, when that day comes I'll throw this song in the recycle bin. For the time being I'll just have to keep this on the playlist, put it on mentally in a crunch when venom is spitting out of the pretty face outside that brain, those pretty lips, questioning eyes and roots of silky hair.

"Fruits of My Labor" Lucinda Williams-Live at the Fillmore

I knew this woman from college, she dated my one of my roommates and was always around. A great girl, terribly fun (no I never slept with her so that is not what I am speaking of when I say fun), smart and just always ran with the flow. One day out of the blue she gave me a call. In a pre-Facebook world it was a little strange to get a call from a woman you haven't spoken to in six or seven years so I was taken back and had no idea what she was up to in her life. As it turns out she was living in Laguna Beach and wanted to get together for a few days, since I was only an hour south in San Diego I decided to take the drive up. When I arrived at her place it was breathtaking and not in a typical McMansion-Orange Country-Douche Bag type of way.

She lived a few blocks off the beach on a hill above a three car garage. The front of the apartment was nothing but floor to ceiling window-doors with white curtains wafting in the Pacific breeze. The apartment stretched the entire length of the structure but was very narrow. Looking out one of the many windows with the kitchen to my left and a small bedroom down a narrow corridor I saw the currents of the Pacific obstructed only by a palm tree every few hundred feet laterally. The interior of the apartment was pure white with old deep burgundy hard wood floors, there was no TV only a long white couch pressed up against the wall. From it you could relax and view the sea.

We went to a cafe on a small cliff hanging over the beach. We smoked cigs, skulled Sapphire and Tonics and laughed about college and the stupid times we had, spoke of her ex boyfriend, my ex roommate and how he became a Catholic Priest afters years of debauchery. Spoke of our lives and what the hell we were doing under the soothing sun and standard Southern California Scenery. Those nights I would go back with her and sleep on her couch while she rested in bed. I never crept in there for some reason even though there was a bit of sexual tension running through the air and I was never one to turn down the hint of an advance. Rather I watched the curtains breeze in through the open doors and meditated on my surroundings. I drove her to LAX a few days later and never saw her again, can't find her on Facebook and her old number doesn't work. Last time I spoke with her she fell in love with a Brasilian man and was marrying him against her parents' wishes.

When I first heard this song I was living in Florida and had downloaded it the night before in a drunken music buying binge. I woke up still intoxicated and sweating in the sick humidity of July and hit the play button. After my first listen I was taken back to Laguna and that girl, the azure and sweet scent of flowers wafting through a pure white room. I walked to the store and bought a case of Pacifico ice cold, sat on my own porch overlooking Memorial Park and the St. John's river, clicked the repeat function on iTunes and didn't stop the music until the case was gone. With no company, no phone and nothing but two packs of Bravo Hotels (Benson and Hedges but that's another story...) I wasted myself with both physical pleasure of addiction and the mental jerk off session's pleasure of that week while Lucinda stoked my synapses until I came.

Come to my world and witness
The way things have changed
'Cause I finally left baby
I got out of La Grange.

Got in my Mercury and drove out west
Pedal to the metal and my luck to the test
Baby, sweet baby.

Lucinda Williams was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana, her raspy, sultry voice honed by the same humid air I breathed in on my porch when I lost my musical virginity to her that day. Her father was a poet and a pianist, she spent her 20's in the Austin-LA-Nashville loop without much fanfare but privately crafted intensely beautiful songs honed by years on the road. Much like Tom Waits she is known in the circles that matter and not recognized by the pop-bullshit media machine known as the contemporary music world.

Baby, sweet baby if it's all the same
Take the glory and day over the fame
Baby, sweet baby


When I hear this song I think of those two days that are so different and so similar to each other in strange ways. I think about just how perfect life can be on perfect days that you don't realize are perfect until they are long gone. The fleeting nature of life passing by without consciousness like that tightly rolled shitty tobacco from a long Bravo Hotel. I think about how if I was a better writer I could capture it all and let people know just how cool those days were and bring those experiences to them. Or how sometimes you can wake up on the couch in the morning in an apartment you slept in with a fully beautiful naked woman lying feet away from you that you have never touched and be okay with it in some strange way while your animistic impulses are banging against the inside of your midbrain screaming demands that the Cortex ignores. But then again whenever I try to stand on the shoulders of Lucinda and this song I realize that perfection has already been written. That in this song a tat covered Louisiana girl sweating Southern Comfort and bleeding raspy tonality knows about what those two days are like and that many times she was that other women laying naked in the other room, waiting.

"Runnin Kind/Lonesome Fugitive" Merle Haggard-Live At Billy Bob's

The original outlaw and lonesome fugitive, when I think of Merle I often recall one of the truest quotes ever uttered about the man. Sitting at a bar in Nashville listening to one of the many hundreds of great bands that inhabit that town with pedal steels on stage and telecaster guitars fitted with custom inlays the lead singer introduced Merle as the man Johnny Cash pretended to be. While the crowd gasped in horror at the sacrilege I smiled knowing the back story of this epic songwriter, hellraiser and ex con. Then again the crowd maybe knew all that, maybe they don't take to kindly to Merle for he invented a new sound in country music, a sound that trumped said town's for arguably decades.

County music's sound before Merle was significantly different. Think of Elvis Presley's "Don't be Cruel", "Four Walls" by Jimmy Reeves or "I Fall to Pieces" from Patsy Cline. It was heavily produced, over engineered, utilized (I admit I do love it) a new tuning on the guitar in which wound EADG strings on a standardly tuned six-string guitar (EBGDAE)run an octave higher. It is a good sound but in the end gets tired and I reckon I wasn't the only one feeling that way.

Merle Haggard was born in Oildale, California next to another shithole town widely known as Bakersfield. Before readers get all spun up about that comment I suggest they spend a few weeks there. His parents moved from Oklahoma during the Great Depression and in their new land life wasn't any easier. Merle's father died when he was nine years old, from that tender age on he engaged in petty crimes, was interned in a juvenile detention center at thirteen and spent the remainder of his teens in and out of various centers and jails until he saw Lefty Frizzle in concert and decided to pursue music as a career. It didn't exactly take off and just seven years later Merle found himself robbing a Bakersfield bar and receiving a stretch at the famous San Quentin State Penitentiary.

Incarcerated Merle still kept his old ways, he ran a gamboling and brewing racket from his cell, while in solitary he met two men named Drunk Adam and Rabbit who engineered an escape, Rabbit would escape only to shoot a police officer and return to San Quentin for execution. It was the turning point in Merle's life. Also while in San Quentin he attended three of Johnny Cash's concerts the topic of which would later come up later on after Merle's country music fame in a conversation:

Haggard came up to Johnny and told him, "I certainly enjoyed your show at San Quentin." Cash said "Merle, I don't remember you bein' in that show." Merle Haggard said, "Johnny, I wasn't in that show, I was in the audience."

Upon his release Haggard left the dark side for good and began his country career in earnest posting thirty eight number one hits throughout his career and being famous for starting "The Bakersfield Sound" of country music which plays in direct contrast to the Nashville sound spoken of earlier. This stripped down, heavy guitar influence music would be the catalyst for the Outlaw Country Music movement played by men such as Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, David Allan Coe and Buck Owens. The British songs "Act Naturally" and "Far Away Eyes" by The Beatles and Stones respectively encompass the genre, Gram Parsons and the Flying Burrito Brothers made their names on it.

Aside from all this history (I feel the post is becoming a bit too didactic) this song, which is actually a combination of two famous Merle songs, brings to mind the road, the freedom and the experience of a man who spent the early years of his life with no freedom at all, only the hell of prison life and the misery of watching days tick on with no end in sight. It is purely American in its openness and ideals, self reliance, not offering excuses or apologies. When I drive out west as I often do through the jerkwater towns, the vast expanse of the American continent there is nothing better than throwing on some Merle, opening the windows, lighting a Red and just enjoy being on the run, lonesome and while maybe not a fugitive from the law, trying to outrun that blackberry.

"A Kiss Before I Go" Ryan Adams and the Cardinals-Jacksonville City Nights

My good friend turned me onto this album, he tended to sway more towards the long sleeve T-Shirt under short sleeve T-Shirt-Paste Magazine-Wilco-Whole Foods-Mac-Saab side of the spectrum...not that there is anything wrong with that; and like many things there was a whole 'nother side under that skin that would shine through at certain times. There was always something inherently American inside of him, when I read blogs such as The Selvege Yard, A Continuous Lean, Cold Splinters, Impossible Cool, etc. I see this person. And like those blogs and their creators as well as my friend they have spurned this grass roots campaign of solid American traditions, be it in clothes, people and most importantly music.

When my friend gave me the album I put it aside, an act as habitual as an addict roping up his arm "Yea if it is that good why don't I have it.." Then later, maybe I'll give it a try and play a random song, decree it is terrible and give it back to said person without an import into iTunes. In this case I was intrigued by the title, we were living in Jacksonville (although not the one Ryan Adams had in mind) and the mood of the album permeated through me throughout my time in residence there, so it ended up on my iPod. Like my twenty year old cowboy boots this song has remained a great friend throughout the years, my consciousness bending the meaning of the lyrics and structure of the melody as toes breaking in tough leather, beating it down as a mink oil into a fabric of silky warm harmonics. The best songs come to you (whether you wrote them or acquire them) both when you are on you last leg and when you are riding high. They speak to you it the bowels of depression and celebrate till champagne-black-out just like that college friend who always wanted just one more drink.

When I hear that melancholy voice utter 1....2...1,2,3,4 and the faint sound a of boot tapping in the background a proverbial Stetson slides forward in my mind and and emotional Lucky dangling from my lower lip get lit by and old tarnished Zippo. The pedal steel slides in played by an old man with slicked back white hair and pearl snap denim. There's a Budweiser lamp hanging above a smoky pool table, cigarette burns on the faded green fabric, gaped hard wood planks for flooring and Silver Dollars varnished into the bar covered by spilled beer and dried whiskey creeping towards a few singles left for a tip.

"The engine turns on a dime but I ain't going nowhere tonight, I ain't been going nowhere for quite any while..." a heartfelt raspy falsetto sans reverb mutters into a stainless microphone. And that man alone at the bar, his hat slides down and reaches for the pack. He lights it take a deep drag with his forearms on the bar, exhales, then looks down at the hardwood planks and the nick on his boots remembering Amarillo. The rhythm man hits an F on a large Taylor Widebody with hand painted roses under the pic guard and chrome vine inlays on the fretboard. Our man solo at the bar thinks of her in Rock Springs two nights ago in that neon motel when he hears "I'll miss those nights at the bar with every girl all loaded like freights, and the pain in the morning comes as easy as it goes." How she smiled in the morning when she looked up from his chest wrapped in faded chestnut sheets, then arose to pull on a tight pair of jeans, button up her blouse with a name tag on the left breast and shove an order book in her back pocket listening to her boots click in staccato on the way out the door then rolling over and out of bed to take a shower to make Jackson in two days.

There's a couple in the dark back left corner who met two hours ago at the counter of a small home cooked restaurant along a small running creek four miles down the road before you cross over the Snake River and into the tiny hamlet. They've only unlocked eyes to survey a hand on a leg, a breast and that curve above her hip bone exposing itself just enough to catch view of powder milky pale soft skin and the promise it brings. She grabs his waist around the cracked leather belt and hooks her right thumb on the inside of his jeans running it side to side and pulling gently outward. "Breath all heavy and slow..." While the white-haired gentleman vibratos the steel on his ZumSteelD10, the Taylor Widebody hits an E chord and the open low echoes off the walls.

And it happens every night. Whether it takes place at Bar Pleiades with characters in Bruno Cucinelli Jackets and Chanel suits, or in the back of Long Boards with Birdwells trunks, Rainbow thongs and USD T-Shirts the story is always the same and usually so is the ending. But as for me, I (and my dear friend who introduced me to this track) remember this one place, a place that has now been corrupted but in my mind was always filled with such characters, such wants, needs and such sadly beautiful stories that are somehow so less romantic outside of the wild American Western cannon.

"Clubbed to Death" Ron Dougan-Furious Angels

Landing Signal Officers (LSOs) are naval aviators specially trained to facilitate the "safe and expeditious recovery" of naval aircraft aboard aircraft carriers. They are called "Paddles" and usually after that word is uttered comes the phrase "are gay". It's an ongoing joke. These guys are aviators who are trained to talk guys down after the "ball call" (which is about 3/4 of a mile behind the ship) and then grade each pilot on their landings. If you are looking for more detail in regards to this matter check out LSO on Wikipedia, so I don't get into the weeds about hook to ramp, high come down in the middle and all the other details that could take hours to explain.

At U.S. Navy LSO school in Virginia Beach, VA they put together this video of crashes and basically everything that can go wrong during the course of landing a 50 thousand pound plane on a moving ship. In that video there are three music videos one of which is called: "Drift and Die". The song in the background for the entire seven minutes is this one, "Clubbed to Death" It took me four years to find out what the name of it was and who performed it, strangely enough I was searching Youtube one night watching videos of old Porsche racing on a track in the UK and as luck would have it the same song was playing, with the help of Shazam I was in business. Now when I say I spent four years looking for this song it wasn't a part time job, no shit I called the LSO school, tried to track down the guys who made the video, talked to everyone I knew who was into electronic music and tried to hum or beatbox the song to them, when I finally found the name it was is not an exaggeration to put me up in the realm of Columbus, Hillary and Armstrong.

I don't particularly enjoy this type of music and still can't piece together whether it was the video (my first exposure) or the actual track that makes me like it and at this time since I am corrupted there is no way to know, you'll have to decide for yourself in your listening because it is impossible to get the actual "Drift and Die" video...the Navy doesn't really dig putting the deaths of men out for the public.

So in that case picture a green and dark green night vision picture of the island (the part that sticks above the flight deck) of an aircraft carrier with rain swept winds swirling around it, the scene cuts to an inside view of a cockpit and an aviator about to land, the camera switches to the flight deck just in time to watch the rear end of the jet catch the back end of the carrier and burst into flames the LSO yells fuck over the radio; another scene where you don't see the jet until it lands because the rain and fog was so thick; one of a plane aerodynamically stalling, flipping over while the pilot ejects into the flight deck, his jet crashing into three others on the flight deck and the screen goes white with flames; a Prowler (EA-6B) landing on top of an Viking (S-3B); a Tomcat (F-14) going inverted and the ejection seats rocketing the crew into the ocean to certain death...meanwhile that pulsing bass and thin piano amping in the background. The song captures what it is really like to be behind the boat when a lot of things are going wrong in the cockpit, there's a lot of bad weather and you are hoping that they find your life insurance policy and you cleaned out all the porn out of that cabinet below the sink in the bathroom. But because you are better than everyone else (or thank God at least believe so) you come out on top, walk down to the Ready Room and joke about it with the boys sitting around dipping and playing die. It isn't an everyday occurrence but it does happen, when it did I can say that the boys we all did it with were some of the best and that's why I'm sitting here writing this.