"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.