"Black Water" Timbre Timbre-Creep On Creepin' On

An ethereal almost unclassifiable tune from an equally genre bending band summoning up some heavy back bone sax from the J.B.'s, the creepiness of the Tindersticks and a stolen organ from the closet of Ray Manzarek; it came on the other night and within the first five seconds I knew I dug this song.  I'd say they were hipsters from their clothes but soon found out they are from Canada which is where people actually wear flannel and Red Wings because they have to.  I'd say the fact they recorded it in an old church was a publicity stunt until I heard it and I'd say while I haven't yet, it could very well be a song for when the lights are low, clothes are shed and slow is the name of the game.

This song is listening to a Helmut Newton photograph.  Nothing in it is supposed to fit but it does, there's a juxtaposition difficult to explain but when viewed it clicks and registers with a part of you brain impossible to access without the proper kinky stimulation.  Maybe it is the old brain, possibly it is the perverted hemisphere not yet discovered that Freud was obsessed with discovering.  In black and white there's a stupidly thin woman, impossibly tall with a dark beauty mark on her upper right arm, mermaid wavy brunette hair to match the color evidenced by a lack of waxing below.  Laying on a Louis XVI bed with gold leaf piping and stained sheets, there's a nightstand with a glass of water sweating, standing in a small puddle that magnifies old ringed water stains next to a .357 King Cobra with a six inch barrel and a pair of tortoise Persols, the left temple missing.  The bed sits on six inch black and white checkerboard tile with ambient sunlight peeking through white curtains, the shadows of the balcony loom and project contortedly across the room.  She's not biting her lip, smiling or possessing any other come hither countenance, but is looking through you and breathes slowly, visibly through the expansion and contraction of her rib cage.  You just walked into the room and this song is on.  

And maybe I have no idea what I am talking about, maybe it is better to check it out yourself and let it melt, let it melt like a black candle and permeate the cotton of whatever hemisphere feels the connection.

"Swing Down, Sweet Chariot" Parliament-Parliament Live

"Dude George Clinton is down at the NEX signing autographs man, check it out!" PLGR came into the Ready Room with a bunch of photographs and a CD.  PLGR being his callsign, Ready Room being the place in the squadron where we'd sit around and brief flights, bullshit, and just hang out, the NEX being the store on base which is basically a big mall.  "No shit dude? I'll have to check that out." I said, logged off of my computer and hopped into the car with a few of the boys and headed down.

When we arrived there was George, looking like George with a few of his band sitting at a table signing autographs, such a strange sight for a military base and the man and his band have consumed more than their fair share of illicit drugs over the years.  There wasn't much of a line and I was just standing there with the CD I purchased in my hand when one of the band looked at me and said:

"Man I dig that suit that yo wearing."
"This? Flight suit?"
"Yea man, they must be hard to get your hands on brother."
"Nah dude I have tons of them."
"I wanna wear one of them on staaage man."
"Well I can get you one."
"Alllllright."

And then their manager stepped in, a light skinned black woman with long straight hair dressed in a business suit that looked professional but you can just tell it wasn't her particular choice of attire.  She asked for my number and information, saying that they would be here for another hour and if I couldn't get back in time to let her know.  I left, grabbed a flight suit, ripped my name tag off of mine and stuck it on, took a squadron patch and slapped it on the other side of the chest and drove back to the NEX and passed it off to the sexy disciple of soul and funk.  She told me that they were playing tonight and said there would be eight tickets at Will Call waiting for me.  I went back to the squadron and asked the boys who wanted to go.  PLGR was in, Dingo too and a few other randoms.

After work and later in the evening I went down to "Freebird" in Jacksonville Beach named after Lynyrd Skynyrd who called Jacksonville their home.  I waited in a decent line by myself with a group of five old school black boys in front of me, they were feeling high, slapping each other and being loud.  When the Will Call window opened up I stepped forward and they were in ear shot.

"I'm on George's list"...(and said my last name)
"Man look at this white boy saying he on George's list and shit" as well as other miscellaneous ramblings I heard behind my head.
When the person behind the counter presented me with the eight tickets the boys' attitude changed.
"Niggah, he was on that list, check that shit out."
I turned around and slapped the one closest to me five.

And that was how probably the greatest concert of my life began.  There were thirty people on stage playing various brass and other instruments, everyone was dancing and singing to the depths of their soul.  It had one of the best Mr. Goodvibes feel I have ever experienced.  Dressed in strange costumes with wigs, plastic noses....it was all too much.  Then off to the side of the stage was the bassist with a doo rag on his head and a green flight suit on his body with the name tag "Malibu" on his chest.

To this day I throw on Parliament in the safety of my own home and just dig it down deep and low and connect with the mothership in their quest to bring down from heaven the holy Funk with a capital F.  It is a ceremony I recommend to all.

The history and story behind Parliament P Funk mythology is quite interesting, check out the wiki page at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P-Funk_mythology

"Young Blood" The Naked and the Famous-From a single

After "The Endless Summer" there have been many surf and ski films that attempt to replicate the magic captured by Bruce Brown decades ago, most fail miserably.  Warren Miller has a few good ones but most grow tired after a while, even Brown himself couldn't get the magic back in subsequent films.  It is a tough formula to put together, the right shots with the right tunes but when it does come together it is magic.

Two weeks ago I had a friend in town staying with me, born and raised in Colorado, lived in various places in the world including the wild of Alaska, he's no stranger to white powder.  Sitting around killing time and just catching up, telling him of what the next few months have in store for me a trip to Jackson Hole came up which digressed into the film "The Art of Flight".  Him having not seen it I threw it up on the screen and we sat (me for the hundredth time) amazed at what an insanely good film this is.  Somehow, someway they found the formula mentioned earlier and I never tire from watching this film that traverses the globe (Alaska, Jackson, Patagonia, Aspen, Whistler...) with a group of snowboarders comprised of incredible footage from their travels.  

One night after probably too many drinks we came home and I had "Young Blood" stuck in my head, bought it on iTunes and we listened to it over and over, however something was lacking.  The song was great and hit most of the right parts of the soul but the missing was the footage.  For some reason (although more than likely it was the drink) my friend deemed it impossible to find the part of the film in which the song was played, possibly because I was more sober I couldn't understand why this dragon could not be slayed and grabbed the controller.  It was found, the maiden was saved, the dragon slayed and we watched a couple of guys pulling massive airs through trees, fatuous jumps on rabid slopes, off of logs and landing them all in kosher powder while the synth-pop blasted over the HD.  

It was laughable, it motivated one to be careless, reckless and forget all the fuck filth scum swine bullshit of the world.  With so many concerns, cares and other distractions of the world we forget to ask the important questions: "Why not?" "Who Cares?" and the imperative declarative "Fuck it." 

"Tears For Affairs" Camera Obscura-Let's Get Out of This County

I don't care who the person is in this picture, her transgressions or whatever other knives people want to throw at her because this picture isn't about her as much as it is about a feeling.  And the feeling encompassed within this picture is this song.  Hell, this song conjures up the best of Beach Boys harmonization, Ronnie Spector smooth grooves, Mexican brass, Billy Bragg and Wilco, the accordion...just the good times spent on the beach in Southern California.

And is that not what this picture is supposed to represent?  Not wearing anything but a bathing suit 24 hours a day in a climate that lends itself to such, doing what you want even if it is randomly playing back gammon in the late afternoon.  But look closer and dig the amber light off of the old lamp, the shells on the shelf, the 70's painting (which may just be knitted and not painted), the ceder doors of the closet and haphazard way the colors and textures of the bed linens are thrown together.

Block out the lead singer's overtly hipster hair style, their strange Scottish names and listen to that sound that forces you to sing along and harmonize.  Let it flow down to your feet at four in the morning while still in those trunks and bikinis you've been in all day with now only a sweater thrown over to shut out the coolness of the Pacific and the onshore winds.  Huddle closer to that bonfire in the sand and let the shadows move under the stars in any way you deem necessary.  Do it until your shit job fades away, until the crows feet disappear from your eyes and whatever stresses of the day coagulate your true blood and let it finally flow free.

The next day throw it on in the car with the top down and feel the sun burning your head as you drive down the five into foreign lands where there's .50 beers buried in ice and the freshest seafood imaginable with a little bit of danger and foreign tongues that you swore you'd protect her against.  Lay on the towel and smell each other's skin tanning with a hint of the kelp washed up on the shoreline, kiss with a few grains on your lips and feel them in each other's hair.

Or at least that is what I am thinking about a few days before Christmas in the big old city while this is on as I take off my jacket, sweater, pants; view my pale skin in the mirror and hop under the covers with the radiator crackling off in the background steaming up the single pane windows that refuse to keep out the garbage trucks and taxi horns after spending three figures on a burger and two drinks.  Staring at the three surfboards in my place that make as much sense as snowshoes on the wall in a La Jolla home; I'm warmed by their presence and will probably now open up that case of Imperials in the fridge and finish them as the play count of this song stacks up in my iTunes.......

"I Just Can't Help Believing" Elvis Presley-That's Just The Way It Is

Written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, members of the Songwriter's Hall of Fame; the song first gained recognition performed by B.J. Thomas who performed such hits as "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head" and "Hooked on a Feeling", granted not the most rock and roll worthy tunes but good songs nonetheless.

Like so many tunes that passed by without much notice such as "You Gave Me a Mountain", The King took this song and made it his own. Elvis once said: "I'm never going to sing another song I don't believe in.  I'm never going to make another movie I don't believe in" In usual Elvis style he killed it this song, elevated it to another level wearing a full leather suit with a collar up to the top of his ears and unbuttoned down to his waits, right hand clenching the mic, sideburns down to his jawbone backed by a group of afro'd African beauties and one of the most solid bands ever created in history.

A few days ago I watched an interview with Keith Richards about Elvis, in it he speaks of how people love to mock and shit on him but Elvis truly invented Rock and Roll, he also invented a style of coolness that surpassed Brando, McQueen and Newman and probably will never be surpassed. If I didn't believe it to begin with I would have changed my mind after Keif's words.

With the exception of Mr. S there simply is not a more convincing performer in the history of modern music. It is impossible to watch The King and not believe that every word that comes from his mouth is heartfelt and truly believed. In this particular song the line that always gets me is: "When she slips her hand in my hand and it feels so small and helpless..." As a man small things such as that have always been the redeeming hallmarks of past loves, my mind shoots back to the hands that have been inside of mine, fragile and needy, aching and loving. When The King utters these words I am brought back to those times and I find myself singing badly, but as loud, strong and convincing as he himself.

I was driving home to NY from Memphis after a trip to Graceland, through the rolling hills that make up the beautiful Smokey Mountains, on some blue road (non interstate) I thought about Elvis and his humble background, growing up in a 400 square foot home, such modest beginnings and eventually became the most famous person on the entire planet. In opposition to Kim and Snookie he became this because of his insane talent and persona. Then my mind wandered as I saw the fog set over the foothills to the song playing loudly in the background, this song. I thought about those first few weeks of something new and the utter faith that was always held, the faith that she would be there forever, that hope and optimism in the face of the many that have fallen before.

It was almost too much to bear, Elvis had a lot to be thankful for in his life but like everyone there were hard times, like everyone so many of those hard times had to do with relationships, but listening to him sing this song and truly believing the words coming out of his mouth, well it cofferdamed my thoughts of cynicism much like the streaks of light that broke through the fog and settled on the land.

I say it without regret, if you can't dig Elvis you can't dig life, you can't dig music and it is quite possible you have no soul. If that is the case, don't fret as The King has enough to make up for all your shortcomings.

Springsteen, Springsteen, yea I get it, Springsteen

I'm getting repetitive. However this Friday I am heading out of the city to The Stone Pony in Asbury Park, New Jersey for a concert that I hope will be one for the ages. The cover band "Tramps Like Us" is performing the entire set list from Springsteen's legendary 1978 Darkness on the Edge of Town tour, specifically September 19th 1978 performed at the Capitol Theatre in Passaic New Jersey.

If you don't know about the Stone Pony it was one of the venues where Bruce got his start and has been known to drop in and play some songs with the house band "Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes" who never gained widespread success but started the Jersey Shore sound at the time of the Boss' beginning.

There has been books written about the background to the album "Darkness on the Edge of Town" the biblical scope of the album and legends and mysteries spoken of about the subsequent tour. In short he was personally struggling and on the cusp of losing his career which was just taking off. He was looking for a more toned down sound, more real and sharp. His writing also took on a different form from visualizations of grandeur and hope to a realization that those hopes are usually crushed. Basically the characters in "Born to Run" grew up and realized it wasn't as easy as pulling out of here to win.

However instead of it being an album whining about what could have been it became a cry of self reliance and steadfastness in perfect Thoreauian and Emerson defiance. To me it encapsulates every personal belief I have held my entire life and hence when I listen to it or watch him perform my emotions run the range until at the very end I am left crying. But not in defeat, rather in bliss and total contentment, with security in my faith and a renewed vow to maintain it. In the album "Darkness" Bruce says more than most all classical philosophers and writers in history. Combined.

Songs such as "Promised Land" and the refrain Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man, "Factory" ...and you just better believe boy, somebody's gonna get hurt tonight, "Something in the Night" ...you're born with nothing and better off that way, "Prove it All Night" where in the pre verse jamming he walks up to the mike and says I remember when I was a kid, I used to think, as long as I went to bed and said my prayers everything was gonna be alright but you find out you gotta prove it all night every night. This is Sisyphus relinquishing the rock and telling the gods to fuck off, it is the acceptance of what you've been given and defying all in the face of it.

How could it not tear you up inside to hear verses such as:

from Darkness:
Some folks are born into a good life
Other folks get it anyway anyhow
I lost my money and I lost my wife
Them things don't seem to matter much to me now
Tonight I'll be on that hill 'cause I can't stop
I'll be on that hill with everything I got
Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost
I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost
For wanting things that can only be found
In the darkness on the edge of town

from Candy's Room:
She says baby if you wanna be wild
you got a lot to learn, close your eyes
Let them melt, let them fire, let them burn
Cause in the darkness there'll be hidden worlds that shine
When I hold Candy close she makes these hidden worlds mine


from Street of Fire:
When the night's quiet and you don't care anymore,
And your eyes are tired and there's
someone at your door
And you realize you wanna let go
And the weak lies and the cold walls you embrace
Eat at your insides and leave you face to face with
Streets of fire

These songs and verses are not only part of the American Canon but part of the American himself. The ideals of freedom and refusal to bow down, to surrender. Simple, terse songs titles with simple, terse, tight lyrics combined with razor sharp guitar chords that don't beg but demand to be heard. In concert, his ramblings, contorted facial expressions and nuclear energy...Combined, they have to be witnessed to be believed.

In every show there was my Daddy and millions of others walking through the factory gates in the rain at four in the morning, the widower shaking off the theft of a loved one, the man pining for someone deemed inaccessible. They bleed out through every chord of the tele, every note of the big man's brass, Max's rim shots and the epic glockenspiel that became a hallmark of his early sound stretching the artistic narrative into the spiritual.

Of course I'm not going to see Bruce and the band themselves. Clarence is dead as is Dan Federici, though even if they were alive...I'm still going to see a cover band. Having said that they are attempting to replicate one of the greatest shows in rock and roll history and I'll stand in front of that hall in Cleveland and shit on anyone who thinks different, starts talking about Kiss, or any of those other bullshit Broadway show bands. If I had a son he'd be going with me, I don't now but when I do the bootleg from the original will be his life long syllabus for all anyone needs to know how to succeed in this world can be found in this three and a half hour show.

"Rapid City, South Dakota" Kinky Friedman & The Texas Jewboys-From One Good American to Another

If you think this song sounds like something from one of Jimmy Buffett's first three albums (the only good ones in my mind) or maybe Jerry Jeff Walker, it isn't a coincidence, they all come from the same time period and knew each other well; that time period being the first stage of country-crossover music followed by the pop-rock, country that is popular today. Back then though it seemed as though they didn't take themselves as seriously and the music possessed a spirit of fun written my miscreants, boozers and regular run of the mill people having a good time.

I don't know a lot of people who know who Kinky is which I find strange because for some reason I knew of him since I was a child. I remember hearing his name and picturing the Hasidics walking to Temple on Saturday then trying to piece his sound together with that picture and just being utterly confused, just like trying to think about sex when I was that age. Something was missing and it didn't click. Today I get sex and know Kinky doesn't wear a Bekishe, Gartel or Rekel but I still have little idea how and why he came about.

He was born in Chicago and moved to Texas a few years later, he played chess as a child and at age seven was selected to match up against the US Grandmaster at the time. Eventually he would grow and attend the University of Texas, join the Peace Corps and serve with John Gross the esteemed author and literary critic.

A band formed in college would be his first in a long line of satirical music, at first turning his gaze towards surf music which was in its height at the time. He would eventually form the band you hear here in the days of the Rock-Country movement following such smooth, legendary acts as The Eagles and Gram Parsons, and toured with another Jew: Bob Dylan. While I wasn't even born then I could only imagine that he was quite a foil to Dylan and his deep subtext. He would eventually tour with Dylan again as part of the legendary Rolling Thunder Review tour which also held host to Joan Baez, T-Bone Burnett and Rambin' Jack Elliot. Saturday Night Live, Austin City Limits, his joke inspired music played some very serious places with legendary musicians. In 2006 he ran for Governor of Texas, though with songs such as: "They Don't Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore" and "Asshole From El Paso" I'm sure he wasn't taken very seriously and finished fourth out of six candidates.

However much of his music is quite serious, drawing from a long history of Texas music inspired by the road the state's massive diversity and ideals of freedom. "Rapid City, South Dakota" moves along in between the white lines through those 895 exits of The Lone Star State with a crew of drunk crooners wheezing in trail singing harmony on the refrain. It reminds me of those small bars with an antique Wurlitzer always playing, the guy with his head down smashed perking up to sing along. It isn't deep, nor does it make a statement and probably anyone who has played a guitar for a few months could do his tunes. But they are a lot of fun and adds another character to the Texas music tradition.

"Dry Lightning" Bruce Springsteen-The Ghost of Tom Joad

I always wished I was the strong silent type, Gary Cooper, Lee Marvin, Duke Wayne. But I am not and I'm open about my feelings. I don't know if this is a weakness or the fact that men like the aforementioned don't really exist. I think they don't, they all had an ear that they spoke to and a shoulder to cry on. I have my own in my life, a few people who I bear all to when I need them.

I remember jogging in the hangar bay of the USS George Washington spilling everything, all the fears, concerns and doubts to a particular friend who was good enough to entertain my ramblings. He was the only one I let into that world, at the time if I didn't have that I didn't know what I would have done with myself. At the time I couldn't be alone, I couldn't be the person I was or the person the world knew without him.

So in this post, yet another Springsteen post, I want to write this for another friend who may be going through the same thing I was dealing with at the time aboard that ship, when I thought all was lost and couldn't see life beyond each left and right foot that came down on the hard steel of the hangar bay.

"Dry Lightning" reminds me of those times and the hopelessness that invaded my dreams every night when I set my head down. It is easy to talk about it now but at the time I couldn't face it, for the first time in my life I couldn't face something in my life and I had zero idea how to move forward.

I'd drive down to Alvarado street, where she danced to make ends meet,
I'd spent night over my gin, where she talk to her men,
Well a piss yellow sun comes bringing up the day,
She said ain't nobody gonna give nobody
What they really need anyway...
You get so sick of the fighting, lose your fear in the end.
I can't lose your memory,
The sweet memory of your skin.

It sure does take me back to those days of hopelessness, but like the desert of which the narrator inhabitates, he is resilient. Like the desert it is timeless, worn down by the wind and elements but standing before them in defiance. In the situation I was in, like my good friend, you have to stand before them and let it wear you down.

It wears you down until the only thing that is left is your character, the core of the person you are and always have been with or without the thing you have lost. For the only thing that is worse than the predicament you currently are in is to lose that bedrock of which you've based your whole life upon. And there's a beauty in that ideal. A beauty in the Randian, Emerson, Thoreauian way of living your life, the acceptance of what life has dealt you and your ability to rise above it all.

I remember spending a few days in the eastern California desert, a small town with two bars filled with modern day characters from some Steinbeck, Joadian screenplay shot with John Ford's eye. Playing pool smoking Marlboro Reds, drinking domestic beer with a few shots mixed in until we went to the strip club where our narrator spend nights over his gin...you realize that life doesn't work out for a vast many people in this world. Luckily most of those people don't have the knowledge of the outside world to compare their own lives to, sadly I did. In the end it was something to celebrate instead of mourn. Of people venturing through their daily lives with the steadfastness those in more sophisticated worlds could never possibly imagine.

But like my friend this is dedicated to, she called me one day and told me she was engaged. It was right before I was going out, before a work dinner in which I had to show a good face. A friend was driving and I took a full glass of gin in the car ride while I tried to catch my breath for right then and there it was all over. It was over before but I at least had the luxury of pretending that it was not. It was.

After the initial shock it was liberating and it set me free. I sit here now writing this thinking about that day while listening to this song of sorrow, of resigned hopelessness, I sit here now writing this a man with many disappointments and happinesses after her, finding in others what I never thought I would find again even though she still comes to me in the night at times when I least expect it. I write this thinking about another love of mine across an ocean, her brown hair that waits to accept me with open arms and loving skin.

He'll eventually get to that point, he simply needs to know that that point will come to fruition in the future once he lets her go to her new life and accept that he has a new one, to look at it as such and embrace it as a new beginning. I am not a fateist but I do believe that you can make the remainder of your life work, hopefully they'll be another, and certainly there will be, that will break his heart once again.

The Hit Lab

Obviously I'm into music and have been for a long time, and into it a lot more than most. However people always love to tell me that I need to broaden my horizons out beyond traditional Rock and Roll, Jazz, and all that standard kinda stuff. Of course I have a lot to say about that. The truth is that I know what I dig because I've been into it all, on top of that out of all of my close friends I'm pretty much the only one who likes what I like musically.

In September I spent the entire month in LA at a very good friends place working on a project in addition to just a basic visit to see a man I see only a few times a year. For him this project is a side one and not in the music realm. My friend's main project, or career rather is music. Back in his NYU days he founded a label and has always had his fingers in the business. The music, as I was alluding to before, is not my bread and butter.

My friend and his partner, a Grammy winner who comes from a traditional music background and is basically a virtuoso of every instrument imaginable are working together and their new creation is "The Hit Lab". From their website:

First and foremost, The Hit Lab are a camp – a group of like-minded people who have devoted their lives to music and art, all working together to make a perfect product each and every time. We are a Los Angeles based production company, which owns and operates a full service studio in North Hollywood. The Hit Lab works with and develops artists in order to achieve their personal and creative dreams while setting in motion a career path with the major and independent labels. The Hit Lab are experts at web development and social networking along with photography, video content, songwriting and production. Our commitment to our artists is total and complete and we don’t succeed unless they do. We only allow professional, courteous, and generous people through our doors and believe we are only as strong as our weakest link – we fight for personal, professional, and creative integrity each and every day.

I've been out there a few times and seen it go down, my first interaction with his partner was hoping in my buddy's car to "help a friend move" last summer. We showed up at this tiny little room in North Hollywood filled with more gear than I have ever seen in one small place. There was a Grammy on a shelf next to a McDonald's cup, crap everywhere; that's where I met ND. That day we moved him into this gorgeous studio that he built by hand, it was a serious space, a few thousand square feet, hyper professional and no joke. I remember in the 90s I was lucky enough to end up in a studio in NY and watched the Allman Brothers lay down a few tracks, and this place was comparable if not better.

I was surprised by all this to say the least, hell man I thought I was just going to help move a couch and while my buddy spoke of his new project I didn't know it was this big or legit. Since those days they have signed some serious talent that I am confident will become household names in the Pop world.

One thing I also know is that when James starts something, it is done right. Whether is was the vacations we've taken around this world, the road trip we recently finished throughout the Southwest or even our own personal side project, the commitment is always there. Full disclosure on my part, yea man this is pure pop music I'm talking about here, but I will say you can tell these boys are onto something with their tracks.

Right now they are running a promotion, if you are in the first 1000 people to like them on facebook you are entered into a drawing to have your or a friend's music mastered by them professionally. Check out their site at: http://thehitlab.com/ And check out my buddy's other work from Billboard Magazine: http://blog.headliner.fm/tag/billboard-magazine/

"Born Under a Bad Sign" Cream-Wheels of Fire

In an earlier post wrote of Clapton's "Old Love" and then my brother wrote a guest post on a Clapton concert in Seattle, both of these posts fall under later day Clapton works of which, like almost everyone, I adore. However many times people forget that before becoming a solo artist EC played with some of the most epic bands in Rock and Roll history: The Yardbirds, Bluesbreakers, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos, Bonnie and Friends, and the epic Psychedelic Rock band: Cream.

While my brother, who is by far the biggest Clapton aficionado in history, digs the later works, I personally engage the rougher, harder sound of these earlier years. Possibly this comes from my experiences with the psychedelic side of things from my college years that I am sure my brother never experienced while in ROTC. I think that's a large part of it, but maybe it just comes down to different flavors of musical palettes and they was we digest such feasts. This song, much like Peter Green's "Seven Stars" brings me back to another time and place, and while I despise most of the social movement in the 60's, it certainly was a time of the most fantastic music ever made. Ever.

The song itself comes from Albert King whom Clapton claimed as his biggest influence in his guitar playing. While the straight blues version is raw, encompassing a timeless sound that today remains new, Cream's version is a time capsule into another era that while dated still sticks to the insides of the brain making passage of other melodies almost impossible without wearing off on the transient sounds.

Often times I am hooked on a mere second or two of a song, those details are what bring it from banality into genius. Here the phrasing of one particular line in multiple verses continually drives a smile on my face, closing of the eyes followed by leaning back in an orgasmic bliss of heightened musical awareness.

A big bad woman gonnacarrymeto my grave.

The tempo and short staccato phrasing that so easily rolls off of his tongue rivals the greatest words uttered in music. Coupled with piercing, moderately fuzzed out guitar (I think he used a Gibson in much of his work back then) and the line leaves one chasing the dragon for the remainder of their listening lives.

It is hard. It is raw and it is the type of music that is simply not made anymore. Possibly one could draw parallels between this sound and The Black Keys but while the Keys are truly fantastic it would be a tragedy to compare the two. Cream, in all their songs are operating on a different level of music genius. I challenge one to listen to Hendrix, Paul Rogers and even the original Albert King and derive the emotions generated in this short three minute song. It is akin to watching Gretzky, Picasso or Pollack paint, or Sophia Loren...simply just be. This is the pinnacle of professional and craftsmanship in their particular field. At times I believe Clapton thanks God he doesn't remember making any of it because if he did, well how could he continue to make new music. He wouldn't, he would have spent the remainder of his life trying to replicate such incredible heights.

"Neptune" Doc and Lena Selyanina-Cosmic Lullabies

It is possible to listen to the first one hundred and seventy seconds of this seventeen minute song for three weeks and never tire of it.

My knowledge of classical music is thin at best, while my knowledge of modern classical music is even more questionable, however putting ego aside it is truthful to state that I know significantly more than the average person and while I would feel ignorant to speak with full fledged affectionados I see no problem throwing my hat into the ring in this matter. (That was the disclaimer paragraph so I do not have fifty emails tomorrow from people criticizing my observations)

In the end though, fuck them. Music is art and just as in other types of art the creator may have had intentions or cornerstones of which their creations are set upon it is the one taking in their work who can make the final judgement. Do I elevate Springsteen to a higher level because his background mirrors my own, my families? Of course, but does it subjugate my observations and feelings? No.

There is little on the web about Lena except that she began her craft from a very young age. Her work is more of a biography than anything written on the web and her work is a combination of ambient and neoclassical pieces played with strict technical precision. Doc is a Finnish producer of Electronica, Ambient and Experimental music. That exhausts my biographical knowledge of the two.

Their music is far removed from a Philip Glass and Terry Riley, and terribly distant from most of Karlheinz Stockhausen's work as well. It is more banal, though I say that as a compliment much like "Kind of Blue" is more banal to "Sketches of Spain". Both are epic jazz pieces but I have to be engaged to take on Sketches while Blue doesn't require any proactive engagement, rather absorption. If I had to compare this piece and their work to anyone it would be Arvo Pärt, the great Estonian minimalist.

However the above is just a feeble attempt to put this work into context historically. In real life when I hear this piece I am reminded of the possibility of connectivity that exists in the universe. My first real experience with this came five years ago in the middle of the Arabian Gulf. Before this I had touched the realm of possible Brahman, though Hindu philosophers and Upanishad scholars would scoff at my example, while surfing.

When I was 13 there was a storm rolling in out of the east and I was at the peak bowl in Manasquan, long before the dredging broke up the structure of the wave. It began to rain and lightning struck far offshore in the distance. I stayed in as the wind shifted to the west creating perfect five foot hollow sections refracting off of the jetty. I was the only one in the water with all the waves to myself. I could hear each individual drop of water breaking the tension of the surface and when I rode I could hear the slicing-chop-swish-riiiiipwhosh coming off the rails, see individual particles of foam floating in the west wind and feel the wind rustling the hair on my toes. There were dolphins just out of the line up, when I would duck dive a wave I could hear them talk to each other in their high pitched squeaks.

Fifteen years later I resolved to volunteer to go to sea in an attempt to escape my shore based life which was bordering or surpassing the boarder depending on who you ask, of alcoholism and depression. Overweight, my blood pressure had shot up more than thirty points in one year and my breath had turned into wheezing. It seemed like the logical thing to do as so many before me had lost and the found themselves once again in the middle of such savagery.

On a weather deck every night around two in the morning I would commence with an hour of cardio in the 110 degree heat and then cool down and begin a practice of Ashtanga Vinyasa. Though a bastardized version of it which began in the vigorous style of the modern genre, it evolved into the kind mentioned in the Bhagavad Gita and the classic Four Yogas of the late 19 century. In these times, when my breath became one with my movements, when my movements became one with my mind I experienced full connection to the environment while blocking it out at the same time. The typical noises of a large ship passed by, noises which were so loud those on the weather decks were required to wear hearing protection. The heat was relegated to a normal room temperature bearable to the average human and whatever feelings of remorse, dread and regret passed through and out of my veins into the ether.

I returned from that trip with many new experiences, I visited Asia and took in all of the pleasures of the natives, visited the deserts of the Middle East, crossed the Pacific, lost forty pounds, kicked drinking into blackout states and stopped smoking. But in retrospect those nights on the weather decks, fully engaged and connected made me realize that there are levels of consciousness in this life that are rarely touched upon. As a short cut one could take a few tabs and tap into this realm but the dangers are too high and the benefits not as astounding. Acid is Diet Coke to the real thing, the hand to the vagina and the groomed trails to the pure powder. The work involved to reach that realm must be pure and earned.

And with that when I put this song on that is what comes to mind. Total connection out of something that appear chaotic to the uninitiated. It digresses into thoughts of space, String Theory, Rare Earth Hypothesis, Abiogenesis and the Unified Universe. All ideas that make little sense to most, some of which do not to the brightest minds on the planet. But neither does Atonality or Aleatoricism until you hear it.

"She Came and She Touched Me" Townes Van Zandt-A Gentle Evening With Townes Van Zandt

It is such a fun song to play, it flows so easily, the lyrics spill out (if you know them well) like some type of musical iambic pentameter. His voice is the truest you could ever hope to hear recorded, frank with clarity, sans hindsight.

About two years ago I wrote a post about "Marie", another Townes song. I stated that it might well be the most depressing song I have ever heard. This song is the exact opposite. It is an acid trip of love and beauty melting into the pores with Polaroid SpecrtaVision behind rainbows, children holding hands dancing while you watch yourself dance naked in a field of tan skin.

I can't think of a more honest and pure song that has ever been written. I listen to it frequently and it touches me every time. The first time I heard it was in the heat of the south sweating booze on a friend's front porch fending off the impending hangover drinking Bud heavies and smoking Marlboro Reds while his mutt sat at my feet and he told me of his idea for a song he composed while flying up north to a wedding staring at the empty seat next to him days after she was supposed to be there, days after she left him.

My friend has since moved onto another love, actually weeks after that session he met the woman he would marry which put an end to such sessions, another man stepped out of my life and into the life of someone else. I have since went from his current life to the one he was in when we sat on that porch, but the song has never blurred or strayed. It has remained as true as it was when it first came from Townes' mouth, uttered purely.

So I'll just post the lyrics and let you look up the song on YouTube or something, you have to be a little proactive to be rewarded with this level of sincere beauty. It makes you wonder how a man who can write such a song could aggressively kill himself with poison leaving his loved ones behind.

She came and she touched me
With hands made of heaven
Reflections sent spinnin’
Through a face laced in mist
Now I stand where she left me
Buried deep ’neath her shadow
And the mirror plead sadly
Does it all come to this
And I wonder: will she call my name?

The wind careens madly
Through wide windows paneless
Fragrances mingle
In a room full of shade
The peons pick partners
And waltz cross the ceilings
But the violins whisper
That I’ve been betrayed
Tryin not to look ashamed

The drunkards drink deeply
From cups full of nothingness
Ghost lovers laugh
At the games that they play
The moments do somersaults
Into eternity
Cling to their coattails
And beg them to stay
Saying I got nothing to hide

Illusions projected
On walls made of tiffany
Mad minuetts to
A sad satin song
A harlequin mandolins
Harmonize helplessly
Hoping that endlessly
Won’t last for long
Praying that their God ain’t dying

Then I turn and I see her
In a dress made of moonlight
Teardrops like diamonds
Run slow down her face
Her arms surround me
Like chains made of velvet
And the demons fall faithfully
Into their place
And the rivers run with jewels

Now the morning lies open
The night went quite quickly
Memory harmlessly
Fractures and fades
All the poets do push-ups
On carpets of rubber foam
Loudly they laugh
At some joke that’s been made
And the wise men speak like fools

"Bad Kids" Black Lips-Good Bad Not Evil

One of the only things I find redeeming on television isn't even on TV, I watch it on my computer through the Internet. I guess that is just the way of the world these days but it is refreshing to find some truth in the media. It is usually there outside of the mainstream, on the fringe hidden between the beastiality porn through a thousand pop ups asking me to send a ring tone to my phone or that I have won an Ipad.

Vice Magazine is where I'm finding it and where I spend a great deal of my internet time. There's the epic "Do and Don'ts" which could keep you busy for weeks, the weekly reporting from a man doing time for drugs and of course the pulp-skin-snuff variety of articles that leave you looking over your shoulder a bit while you are reading it. When I think of Vice I think New York in the 80s, back when it was dirty, seedy...and back when it was cool, had character. When in high school I would walk out of a bar in the now posh Meatpacking district, a bar that had puke on the floor, porn on all the TVs and Merle Haggard in the jukebox. A bar that had a 70 year old man sitting in the corner drinking PBR before they were served in Brooklyn (at that time the Jews and Blacks were kicking the shit out of each other over there) by biting into the can and chugging it. Usually we were too drunk to even find the PATH stop and would take a cab back into Jersey, but that wasn't before one of us would be propositioned by a tranny looking to give head in the alley and of course since we were loaded and 16 we said yes until some good Samaritan would step in and tell us it was a dude. The trannies weren't puffs though, they'd pull a blade on you if you fucked with them, something out of the cult classing "Cruising". And you know what? It was fun as hell, even when we woke up in the morning at my buddy's father's bar and he gave us a shot of Tully and a pint of Guinness while we tried to hold back the puke in front of the thick off the boat Irishman.

To me that is what Vice is and what its pages constantly remind me of when I'm flipping through. There are some very serious topics though, their reporting is insane, taking one to parts of the world where only the somewhat crazy would tread. Liberia, North Korea, Congo, Somalia, Afghanistan and where the whole idea for this post came from: Northern Ireland.

They put themselves in the middle of a parade in which the Protestants are marching through a Catholic part of town and of course what you would expect ensues and this soundtrack plays. Hahaha, I'm laughing thinking of it right now, 14 year old drunk and high turkeys throwing bricks at police tanks, lighting molotov cocktails in between shots of whiskey...it is actually pretty cool.

What ever happened to Rock and Roll? To the punk that I used to listen to skating on my buddy's small half pipe in his backyard, pissed off at the world and just hating to hate? Questioning every type of authority. What happened to CBGB and people who knew (though I never liked that genre) GG Allin was? I'll be honest and say that I never fit into that world, even though I kinda wanted to be someplace inside while watching GG beat himself up on stage.

Thankfully we can still listen to such a quirky song that is Goddamn fun to play on a Strat as loud as fucking possible much to the chagrin of my Park Avenue neighbors. Easy as shit to play (C-Am-F-G with a pre chorus of F-F-F#-G-F#), just hammer it away man, sweat it out and in between chords take a swig of some swill and spill it down your open shirt and all over your hands onto the strings, it don't matter much anyway 'cause all your making is noise.

It is in all of us somewhere, I think and hope one of these nights I'll be hammering it out and there'll be a knock on the door, a white haired old man with a J Press jacket, khaki pants with lobsters all over them will be there in the threshold and instead of complaining will grab the bottle from my hand, pick up the spare ax in the corner and plug in, he has to, shit like that is the only thing that keeps us alive.

"Through the Morning, Through the Night" Robert Plant & Alison Krauss-Raising Sand

"Experience, though noon auctoritee, Were in this world, is right ynogh for me To speke of wo that is in mariage"

The first line from the Wife of Bath's Prologue in "The Canterbury Tales". I studied this text for over a year in college in Middle English and was tasked with memorizing the entire prologue and then stand up to recite it in class. Being an English Literature class in New England there were few men in the class, actually I was the only one. It was a tupperware party wrapped up in a bachlorette limo and I was always on the fringe. At the same time it wasn't a terrible way to spend an afternoon as a college sophmore especially because the reputation of English Literature girls (nymphos and overtly romantic) held true and was at times an easy score.

Like the woman in the Wife of Bath's story there was a woman in my class named Alison. She was dark haired and a notch above average looking with mannerisms that sent her over the 60th percentile into the hot realm. She sat across from me and we'd read lines to each other with a tense sexual subtext. But never to be fulfilled.

Between her and Costello's song the name has haunted me at times and has been put into the category of names that if possessed by a woman grants her significantly more wiggle room than the average. In short when I meet a woman named Alison (and three other names) they can almost do no wrong.

Krauss is no different although she has little to make up for, many a car ride I have spent listening to her voice serenading me through the long nights and roads. In an album widely heralded by critics this song of Gene Clark's stands out like the gapped front teeth of the Wife of Bath. The menacing subtle quality of the lyrics sung in such an unassumingly pacifist voice hinting at violence, the fade out of the outtro only to come back in to finish it off, all done in 3/4 Waltz time is magical in its terse, thinned out composition.

All of which would be lacking if it wasn't for Plant's versitility, dropping the leather pants and overt sexual pathos, trading them for a pair of overalls and an engineer cap in a rocking chair overlooking the Appalachians. His background singing adds a finishing draw of light smoke to Alison's strong tobacco aftertastes leading to the full bodied finish that begs for another glass.

This song reminds me of the much overplayed "Long Black Veil" in some aspects, there's a sense of dread in the narriative arc that will eventually lead to a judgement. In my own mind I don't believe a second of the line:

Believe me when I tell you
I will try to understand.
Believe me when I tell you
I could never kill a man.

That man will be dead, the overt emphaisis of "Believe me..." is much like the phrases: "It isn't about the money..." or "With all due respect..." We know damn well it is about the money and there is not respect involved. Just as we know there will be a dead man, shot down in bed with his lover. The lover surely will have the same fate.

This song is much like a suicide note, a manifesto, an explination written alone in a room with a mind fully intact and cognizant before the mayhem ensues. At face value it is beautiful and serene but when delved into deeper becomes even more beautiful and right. For some reason that five letter word will not escape my mind. It makes sense for it all to transpire and one would be disappointed if it did not. If there is one thing the studies of 14th century literature combined with modern day sexual tension has taught me is that these forces, while fluid and constantly moving through us are not only instinctual but inherent and timeless.

"Louis Collins" Jerry Garcia-Grateful Dead Hour Show #362

I've been on the run a lot lately and then when I finally came home just felt even more unsettled and wanting to ramble. Mentally I haven't been there, in one sense the creeping depression and misanthropy started creeping in while on the other side on the coin I discovered a treasure trove of Springsteen's finest years live (late 70's) that had me dreaming about Emerson-Thoreauian spouts of self reliance and self preservation through music. Since most everything comes back to Springsteen I couldn't stand to hear myself spout posts of saying the same thing over and over again. I mean this is supposed to be about music are likely to have not heard and I felt as though my message was getting somewhat redundant.

At the same time when I started this blog it was about the music and then something I never expected to happen emerged. I don't know why it wouldn't have but it became mostly about me, about women and I used the songs as a springboard to rant about whatever was in my head at that particular time. I think this last part is a good one and one that I not only like to write about but something insightful. Everyone hears a song in a different way and possibly my personal experiences bring to light a different side one has never thought of in regards to music.

For some reason right now I feel at peace with whatever mental muck I was sloshing though for the past month or two and finally clear enough to write about something with a clarity people would want to hear.

Jerry died only a year or so after I had gotten into his music. The Grateful Dead hour that week was an amazing example of a man's work constrained into a one hour program. A tough task indeed for a man who defied being stuck into a genre and had a working catalogue of over five hundred songs played not only on guitar but banjo, pedal steel and while never played himself, trumpet-jazz tunes played though midi machines.

Episode 362 began with this song. You can hear versions of it on "The Pizza Tapes" and "Shady Grove" but this particular version, an outtake from a Grisman Acoustic Disc Sampler shines in ways the others could never touch. Jerry plays a fingerpicked progression used by Elizabeth Cotten (famous for "Oh Babe it Ain't No Lie" and "Freight Train") of terrible simplicity and stark beauty. Such a simple song about a man being laid down under the clay. It encompasses a view of death that must have been the norm over one hundred years ago before advances in modern science staved off the reaper as they now do until we are wearing diapers, hooked up to machines under the ultraviolet, clinical light of the death factories we call hospitals.

Recently I was in one for a little while and while my affliction was not life threatening it dug in deep and possibly produced the malaise I've been feeling for the past month or so. I wasn't faced with my own mortality but rather faced with how I want my own life to end. It certainly was not like the person in the bed next to me in a building on 69th and York. Not to belittle that man's demise for possibly that was the correct choice for him personally but I can only pray that it is not the way in which I depart. I say this knowing full well that man had no intention of departing in that fashion when he was thirty three years old.

Maybe that is what Jerry was feeling, for no one really knows how he died, not that it is that important. Rather, the way he lived is the heart of the matter and Goddamn if I could just leave one piece of music this concise and beautiful, this honest and truthful with a somewhat shaky voice uttered over a simple chord progression finger picked on a utensil crafted by hand of wood and steel...well then that would be saying something.

It is a marvelous song and tonight after I arrived home, after the gym, after a few drinks and dealing with shitheads at the bar engaged with each other in miscellaneous ramblings it came to me. It had been years, possibly a decade since I had last played it both through speakers and myself taking my own utensil into my lap and trying to keep up with the old grey bearded man. She came back to me as when you go through your old drawers in your parent's home and find a note, a t shirt you once wore until the threads had worn beyond serviceability. When you take that shirt up to your skin it all comes flooding back and a blanket of good vibes comes over you with a striking clarity.

This song does all that and more. It floods the senses like walking into a neon electric steam room flooded with the scent of fresh cut grass and a shower of lemon ice water in the corner ready with a pull of the precisely cut stainless ring that is hot to the touch and it is something to immerse one's self in until drowned to death only if your mind hadn't short circuited and gave out well before the waters actually rose.

Springsteen Devils and Dust Tour

Right now I'm just about over Winslow Arizona wishing I was driving through that country instead of flying above it at 36K'. Believe it or not Arizona (home state of Rick Kane!) was the first place I ever saw Springsteen live in concert, maybe that is the reason I don't hold a NJ driver's license anymore, they simply won't let me have one because of it!

This show was one of the most personal and connected concert experiences I ever had, two thousand people in an arena, concessions and you were not allowed to leave. Seriously, once could not leave their seats, if you did that was the end of the show for you. I often wonder if maybe the reason why the concert touched me in the way it did was because of the drive from southern California and back...through the desert, seeing many of the songs he would sing about those few hours trapped in a room with the man. I guess there's other reasons and they all made it up for a special show.

April 30 / Glendale, AZ / Glendale Arena
Notes: Though "All I'm Thinkin' About" is one of the catchiest songs on Devils & Dust, it's one of the last to be played live. That song had its concert premiere at Saturday night's Phoenix show, also the first show of the tour in one of these half-arena configurations. Compared to theaters, the setup was a mixed bag in terms of acoustics and atmosphere, but by several accounts it didn't hamper audience attentiveness or the effectiveness of the show (having the concessions shut down during the performance couldn't have hurt). The crowd was rewarded with the ultra-rare "Book of Dreams" (a song only played live a handful of times, and not since the 1992 Plugged performance), on piano for the first time. Bruce described it as "a song about wedding days," before chuckling, "I say 'days' plural, unfortunately...." Also on the piano, "Racing in the Street" brought the biggest audience response of the night; as on 4/22, Springsteen introduced it by talking about the 1971 film Two-Lane Blacktop. "Highway Patrolman" came back to the set, and in the encores, the first E Street guest of the tour: part-time Arizona resident Nils Lofgren on dobro for "This Hard Land."

Setlist:
Reason to Believe
Devils and Dust
Youngstown
Lonesome Day
Long Time Comin'
Silver Palomino
For You*
Book of Dreams*
Part Man, Part Monkey
Maria's Bed
Highway Patrolman
Reno
All I'm Thinkin' About
Racing in the Street*
The Rising
Further On (Up the Road)
Jesus Was an Only Son*
Leah
The Hitter
Matamoros Banks

Encore:
This Hard Land (with Nils Lofgren)
Waitin' on a Sunny Day
My Best Was Never Good Enough
The Promised Land

Eric Clapton/Wynton Marsalis Live in Seattle

My brother is a much better guitar player than I am, as a matter of fact I shouldn't even consider myself one in comparison. My brother likes cuff links and I never even button any cuffs. He likes ties, I barely button my shirt with a suit. He likes Audi and I wouldn't take one for a dollar. He was always skinny while I constantly fight the fat war. He is Army, I am Navy. While I do like Clapton he is my brother's cuff link to my Springsteen unbuttoned. So from a slightly different perspective, a review of the show written by my brother:

It shouldn't be any wonder why Eric Clapton is the only person inducted into the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame three times (once with the Yardbirds, once with Cream and once as a solo artist), and he will probably remain the only person to hold the honor. The man's mastery of the blues pentatonic scale and versatility in applying it to every possible genre of music has sustained him since 1963 with his beginnings in the English pop/blues scene. Influenced by Robert Johnson, Sonny Thompson, BB King, Big Bill Broonzy et al, he conquered psychedelic sounds with "White Room" and "Sunshine of Your Love," rock and roll with his 80s tracks "Pretending," "Bad Love," "Forever Man," and "I Can't Stand It," country rhythms in "Lay Down Sally" and "Willie and the Hand Jive," slow soul with "Old Love," pop with "Change the World" and "Pilgrim," soft ballads "Tears in Heaven," "Wonderful Tonight," "Blue Eyes Blue," and the entire soundtrack to the film The Story of Us, reggae with the only version of Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff" that should ever be played, Latin style paired with Santana on "The Calling," and even dabbled in techno electronica as T.D.F. for an album called "Retail Therapy." Now he turned his eyes to a more jazzy form of blues.

In April 2011, he performed three nights with Wynton Marsalis for the trumpeter's Jazz from Lincoln Center series in New York City. The show was broadcast to movie theaters across the nation for a one night only viewing on 7 September; I was one of eight people in the theater(It is Seattle...go figure). The band may have been Wynton's, but the setlist and show was stolen by Eric. Backed by an orchestra of eight (percussion, banjo, trombone, clarinet, piano, keyboards, stand-up bass, trumpet) they focused heavily on early New Orleans style blues and jazz, the more upbeat songs reminiscent of Woody Allen's "Wild Man Blues." In fact the first tack "Ice Cream" could have easily been played over one of Woody's movies, with Diane Keaton mis-pronouncing Van Gogh in black and white strolling the streets of Manhattan.

Giving everyone in the band a solo on many of the songs, you get an appreciative view of how Eric has lasted this long: all the genres he's delved into are very similar. Wynton's trumpet solos complement Eric's guitar solos and, if the notes were switched between instruments, the sound would have been similar in pitch, tone, and phrasing, with each performer putting their own spin on the classic tunes.

Playing a jazz-style plug-in Gibson, Clapton's sound was a little more muted than the usual loud and crisp Stratocaster, but, he's as fast and smooth as ever. He tears it up especially well on the second and seventh tracks "Forty Four" and "Layla."

This version of his most famous song (recorded as Derek and the Dominos with Duane Allman), is slowed dramatically more than the unplugged version that brought EC back into the forefront of music in the 90s, and gives the guitarist a new twist on the famous riff to master. The famous Clapton growl is still there from his decades of drinking and smoking, but he can change it soft and high pitched-almost falsetto- on "Joe Turner's Blues."

Taj Mahal makes a guest appearance for the final song, a New Orleans funeral march called "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" and stays on for vocals and a banjo solo on the encore "Corrina, Corrina," paired with the opening song is a perfect way to bookend the show and send people off happy.

The Complete setlist: 1. Ice Cream, 2. Forty Four, 3. Joe Turners Blues, 4. The Last Time, 5. Careless Love, 6. Kid Man Blues, 7. Layla, 8. Joliet Bound, 9. Just A Closer Walk With Thee, 10. Corrina Corrina

The highlight of the show for most was probably "Layla" but for my money, "Forty Four" and "The Last Time" (an old Louis Armstrong cover) make the album. If you ever think that Clapton is losing his touch or is getting old, slow and soft, take a listen to these tracks. He reminds you why he's quite possibly the greatest guitarist ever (personal opinion). The deaths of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Richie Valens may have been the day the music died, but, when Clapton goes, the days of the guitar gods will pass with him; and he, Stevie Ray Vaughan, George Harrison, Jimi Hendrix and Robert Johnson will have such an amazing jam session that God Himself might not know how to respond.

The CD/DVD set of this show is set to be released 13 September.

"Multiply" Jamie Lidell-Multiply

I checked out Jamie Lidell's albums a while ago and rendered it as pseudo-hippster-wigger crap. Maybe it isn't but it certainly is not my speed. This track from the 2005 album of same title is something different. Always makes one wonder how an artist can roll out a song that is so good and the remainder of his/her work just leaves you feeling bland and indifferent.

A fusion of soul, funk and hints of reggae (at least in the intro) this tune brings to mind the sweet soul of Junior Walker, Joe Cocker's "Feeling Alright", Arthur Conley, Mitch Rider and the Detroit Wheel as well as Gary U.S. Bonds. Almost on the verge of Shag music or what we call up here in the northeast, beach music.

You can picture this song in a vacation commercial, two couples running in the sand, splashing in the waters. It could be used in a scene depicting a woman struggling home from work during rush hour in the big city then fading to her getting ready followed by a shot of her dancing into the wee hours with a few girlfriends.

What comes to my mind is a small place where I used to live in north Florida, about two hundred yards away from my house it was one of the only places that was open late night that served hard booze because of the draconian Southern Baptist laws. It was a strange place, I've walked into the bathroom countless times and seen someone shooting smack, there were a lot of tattoos, weirdos, whores sitting at the bar alone; basically the dregs of society. On many occasions I wound up getting either kicked out or on the cusp of putting a bottle across a forehead.

They had good tunes though and if not live the jukebox had a badass selection. Maybe because of the people, mostly because of the music, I always felt terribly comfortable in this place and it can be proud to know that it was one of the few places I would actually dance. I would dance not because I had to by coercion from a woman or because everyone else would but rather because the groove would hit me right in the face, at that point there is only one other option.

An old buddy's girlfriend taught me how to Shag properly and it was put to good use in this dimly lit place at one in the morning. Usually I was there alone sans friends on a random weeknight which is probably why when they are reading this they are crying "bullshit" but I used to get down at times. And in something I've never really heard a woman say before, they'd utter "You are a really good dancer." followed by "Though you don't look like you would be one at all." Which at 6'3" and 245 pounds was certainly true. They weren't bullshitting, I could tell. I could tell because I was entranced and lost myself, lost everything around me except her and the tunes.

I always said to those who would beg me to dance, "Give me something to dance to and I'll be there on the floor before you know it." To me this is the only thing to dance to. Techno/House/Electronic can be good but it doesn't hit me. I can Tango, Waltz and even two step (though it has been a while) and while cool they are too constricting. This groove however just as: Sam Cooke, Otis, Parliament and those mentioned before in this post hold they key to true movement in my mind. It touches you so down deep inside, the combination of Phil Spector-esque wall of sound, a great rhythm and that raspy growl...it is hard not to get caught up and find yourself out there without even realizing what you are doing.

"When Rita Leaves" Delbert McClinton-Nothing Personal

A while back I wrote a post about one of the slickest Marty Robbins tunes in the vaults. Days ago I was driving up the FDR eventually up to the country to do 18 and "When Rita Leaves" came on the radio. Strange because I rarely listen to music on the radio and stranger still was what popped into my mind.

I thought about the woman in "Devil Woman" and how Rita where probably the same person. It is nothing earth shattering but it gave me a smile to think of this one woman who wanders around the boarders of the southwest enchanting men and destroying their lives in the process. Then I thought about the song "Dry Lightning" that comes from Springsteen's The Ghost of Tom Joad album and again how it was written about Rita and then finally about Warren Zevon's "Carmelita" and once again how it was Rita he was singing about. My thoughts were awash with the similarities and story that could be written tying all these snippets of life together, all by different artists who probably had different women in mind. Hell most everything written, sung and painted has been stolen from someone else.

I had a friend whose mother loved Delbert McClinton and probably because of that never paid him much attention, however every once in a while he'd knock on the door of my ear and pry his way in. This song always finds its way in. The silky gut string's lead that trickles throughout the song placating the dearth of love the voice is singing of with a hint of strings barely audible in the corner combined with matter of fact lyrics in Delbert's honest voice is a wonderful combination.

Years ago in South America I ran into my own Rita in a small bar late in the evening. There had been ones before and after but this Rita burned a scar in my memory that will never heal. She spoke little English but we found ways to communicate, jet black hair with a small mole on her left cheek and complex deep brown eyes that matched the hue of her skin. I woke up the next morning in a small room with commotion outside the windows below the first story of which I was laying, A Saturday market in a part of town I could never place. Seven in the a.m. and it was already over thirty three degrees and close to that in the room, the ceiling fan doing little other than ensuring the heat was properly scattered throughout the room; Rita looking adorable and better than the night before sleeping in bed like an angel in the clouds wrapped in white sheets.

Until it was time to leave and I walked home up the hills of the campamentos with a throbbing headache from five bottles of bad champagne and a pack of Belmonts, though cigs and champagne never throbbed such as this. Maybe it was because of the difference in brands, maybe it was because this was the fourth day in a row of doing the same but more so it was withdraw of Rita and the views I had had of her silhouette against the fire lights of the streets and the strange words that rolled off of her tongue like the gut string in this song.

I keep saying I'm going to go back down there and find her but it is probably better to not take up such a logistically impossible request and just return there in my mind while Delbert's musical silhouette projects itself onto the walls of my living room, with instead of dark hips in my hands merely an old Yamaha that has a dead low E and cracks across the back.

"Carmelita" Warren Zevon-Warren Zevon

I write this in a strange mood for I usually listen to the song while writing, however now George Jones and Tammy Wynette are on, their best album "Golden Ring". I feel as though I beat that horse to death, like Springsteen I can listen and write about George Jones for years upon years.

But there's other music out there.

Carmelita has one of the smoothest gut string guitar solos in history breaking up the somewhat drole and depressing lyrics. Having a few buddies who battled with addiction I find it always striking to listen to a man write a song about heroin. In some ways this song (though I've never reached out to the junk) reflects the jones and the creepingly horrible sensation of wandering around looking for your next fix.

I think the best testament to this song was a drive I had a month ago with a very good friend who listens to bullshit music. Dance, techno, maybe some Pink Floyd and Tom Petty...strange combination for sure. We were driving back from a weekend in the Hamptons, his girlfriend passed out in the back seat and my iPod on random, Carmelita came on and he was instantly transfixed with the tune. Though he has lived in the states for quite some time his speech is somewhat broken English with the other seven languages he speaks thrown into the mix. After it was over he stuccato-ly said "I like that song, you put it one again."

I did, five more times over and we cruised back into town on 495 in and out of traffic after a sun drenched-Petrus infused weekend in various wheel's estates. It was the perfect decompression after the social scene. And that is one thing I've always dug about the man who sat shotgun. He is part of that scene but, like myself, always had the feeling he would feel much more comfortable away from all the climbing and out west in the country or even in a Bukowski suite wasting away on the outskirts of Hollywood.

So dig this song when you have a bit of a buzz or the next day after a very big one when the anxiety is building and you check your Amex account with one eye open, the sweats and shakes making it all the much more enjoyable. Hopefully there isn't someone else whose name you can't recall laying next to you but if he/she is then let them in on the secret as well for we all need that shot of methadone whether it is proverbial or literal the morning after.

"Slightly Used Woman" Georgette Jones-Slightly Used Woman

I think it has been a while since I've checked in. Hard to tell since the past weeks I have been lulled into afternoons reading "Do" and "Don't" on Vice Magazine, weekends drinking bottles of wine by myself sliced with nauseating trips to the Hamptons and golf every other day followed by six hour lunches and a handle of Sapphire all while not having been inside a woman since that tour of the Statue of Liberty. But in between there has been a lot of driving alone which is always the best way to drive with few exceptions of a good buddy or a woman who sits shotgun mostly sleeping, looking like an angel.

I've been really fucking bored, fucking being a rude term but the adjective that encapsulates the feeling in the best way. Hell everything is cyclical, seven months from now I'll be on a jet to Afghanistan after a month of sucking it in the Carolina woods humping a pack. When you are bored and somewhat melancholy there's songs such as this.

Georgette Jones, born Tamala from the best stock of country music imaginable: George Jones and Tammy Wynette. She adds to the myth herself by not engaging in the music industry in full for some time and having an equally unsettled life just as her two parents before her.

It comes out in her voice, her phrasing and songwriting. I can listen to this song forever. I can listen to it alone in the car, or sitting on the couch; on the beach or laying in bed alone or accompanied. I can listen to her say "She's just waitinnnng for someone to love herrrr" over and over again until it burrows a whole into my skull. The stark almost banal and bland lyrics with a whining pedal steel sliding through the background and how the last line of every verse leave the opening for Georgette to sew it all up and paint the picture as few can.

Maybe it takes a slightly used man to recognize one of his own kind and possibly one will never see those flaws mentioned in that vividly tight refrain:

But inside there’s a slightly used woman,
On her body there’s scars and there’s dents.
She’s just waitin’ for someone to love her,
And ignore all his deep fingerprints.

Wow, it reminds me of one of my favorite lines in songwriting using similar imagery:

Well you've been broke and yea you've been hurt,
Show me somebody who ain't.
Yea I know I ain't nobodies bargain but
Hell a little touch up and a little paint.

Kinda funny how the first selection was written by a woman and the second by a man, I guess the world takes its toll on everyone. I'd love for both of them to get together and do a few songs together.

"Lonesome Cities" Frank Sinatra-A Man Alone

I haven't listened to Frank in quite some time. I think I can call him Frank since I've known him for thirty three years, shared the same soil of his birth and long before the Swingers type revolution of Sinatra and standards being cool I've stuck up for the man to all takers. Many times though I feel as though his studio albums are over produced and his live albums and populated with too many jokes and too much of the idea of his persona being played out in front of a crowd, him basically doing an impersonation of Sinatra much like towards the end of his career Elvis was the best Elvis impersonator on the planet.

You listen to him for the gems though, for the "Angel Eyes", the "Nancy" and the "What Now My Love" that come across as so blisteringly heartfelt and introspective from his smoke and Jack Daniel's voice that it leaves you gasping for breath stunned. It makes you want to grab the closest woman available and slow dance the night away, to lose whatever baggage you both carry on a daily basis and believe again that the withered old idea of love still exists somewhere.

"A Man Alone" is a cover album of the songs of Rod McKuen and has said to be one of Sinatra's favorite albums and collection of favorite songs. Short of Dante and Shakespeare Mckuen is one of the most prolific and widely read poets of all time. He also wrote well over 1500 songs during his life. Growing up in a household of an alcoholic father, at age eleven he ran away from home and made a living as a logger, cowboy, rail hand and rodeo cowboy until he ran into the spoken word poetry crowd the likes of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg who he shared stages with. The hard core literary critics (who are filled with more bullshit than Rod ever dealt with on the ranch) dismissed his works but as always they never appreciate anyone who is liked and adored by many.

Later in life he was a strong proponent of AIDS awareness, and demanded black performers receive equal treatment as their white counterparts. Sinatra in the same way was significantly more open minded than people give him credit for, it is probably hard for people to imagine that one of his favorite songwriters and poets cohorted with the likes of Beat generation hip poets. But Sinatra was a man who was much more than he appeared on so many levels. His strong persona was marred by ruined relationships, suicide attempts, along with constant depression and alcoholism.

I feel sheepish to say I never was much aware of this song until just the other day when it came on at random. When it did, with the first notes, I felt as though I had heard it a million times before and treasured its value greatly. The only other two songs I have felt this way about upon first hearing was Morrison's "Tupelo Honey" and Springsteen's "Frankie". I had never heard them before in my life and with their beginning I felt as though it was an old lover calling my name while making circles with her toe in nothing but my dress shirt with two buttons hiding what was below.

The meaning is your own but for myself with just one reading of the lyrics I am sure it was penned to describe my own life. Constantly running and no matter how complete life was always wondering about those last few cities out there awaiting me on the hill with embraceable arms. In leading such a life said new cities are usually met with lonesomeness and chagrin at leaving the previous one. However within those cities there are always one more woman, one more restaurant to be sat in with her and one more train to take me away when it is all over; then at the end of the day the realization that you can never run away from yourself and your foolish urges of romantic wanderlust. I like it that way.

"Reflecting Light" Sam Philips-A Boat and a Shoe

I've had this song stuck in my head for months. It has such and ethereal, sultry sexiness to it. A sense of placation and worship by the singer towards what I perceive as her muse. There's a steady tempo of sublime, steadfast hopelessness, the chord progression in Bb with a quaint happy-sad violin juxtaposed against the steady movement of the guitar and nothing else. Stripped down to the bone with a bit of bass fiddle thrown into the mix.

I have always loved the Die Hard series of movies, in particular the third one and in particular the terrorist who is the love interest of Jeremy Irons. Her plain, fit and Nordic look and propensity to get aroused at the hint of violence.

Also I have always loved T Bone Burnett's work in so many spaces and genres. A month ago at the Elvis Costello concert, seated next to him I was thrilled to just be in his presence. Adoring Roy Orbison's "Black and White Night" of which he produced as well as "August and Everything After", "O Brother Where Art Thou", "Raising Sand", "Walk The Line" and a plethora of Elvis Costello and Sam Philips albums he is a legend in the music industry while at the same time being anonymous.

So tonight when I sat down to play this song on the guitar and eventually deciding to write about this song I was amazed that Sam Philips was the female terrorist in Die Hard with a Vengeance. Being entranced (and admittedly turned on) by both the movie and this song...I don't know, it validated my opinions of what I am attracted to in women. Couple that with her landing such a mate as T Bone and what we have is a terribly talented women that makes me unhappy to know that she is taken.

I have heard this song prostituted itself in the show Gilmore Girls however I remember it mostly from the wonderful movie, my favorite movie of the past decade Crazy Heart. I saw it on a date with a particularly fascinating Lebanese woman who didn't drink and hence the movie date. She was a wonderful person, shy in a sense and cute in every sense of the word, a person who broke me out of my malaise in a way as while she encompassed much of which I desire, lived a life much different than my own, I don't think I ever even went on a movie date in high school. We sat in the theatre in SoHo on a frightfully cold night entranced with the film and walked almost all the way uptown, freezing and holding each other as per her suggestion as I would almost certainly have taken a car.

She took me to a church in midtown which had a southern Gospel feel to it with preachers and singing, a meeting at the Waldorf Towers with a man who was part of the Lebanese Civil War, him telling stories about smuggling arms in and out of the country for the Christian fighters. Her stories of Catholic boarding school in Cyprus, her knowledge of the blues and wonderful music, how she used to speak to me in French and I would half ass my way some type of reply...

So I think of her a bit when I listen to this song and how someone who was very suited for me just didn't work, how when we decided not to see each other and just be friends at Mon Petit Cafe on 62nd and Lexington how hard it was for me to bring up the subject that is just wasn't working out. But I also think of someone else who is out there in waiting who encompasses so many of those good qualities I enjoy along with the extra few that could make it really work, leading to nights and encounters such as those from the scene in Crazy Heart of which this song is used.

As a word it is used too frequently but this song is truly beautiful in its composition, its lyrics and the feel that it delivers. I'm going to go back to playing it a few times over before I retire and dream about that mystical person I have in my mind and have been waiting for.