"Lions" Dire Straits-Live at the BBC

First introduction to Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits was "Walk of Life" on MTV when they actually played videos. I was around nine years old and they showed clips of sports plays and celebrations sliced in with live footage of Mark playing with a headband on and a bunch of day glow neon clothes rocking the stage. My next recollection was the classic "Money For Nothing" which screamed 80's with its computer graphics and Max Headroom like feel. After that I remember listening to "Sultans of Swing" in my friend's basement while skulling Shafers lipping Copenhagen as the lyrics poured out of the vinyl. Years later in the movie "Spy Game" I hear his enchanting guitar when Bishop is walking off of the train in West Germany, the song was "Brothers in Arms".

Presently I play golf with a friend every Monday morning outside of the city in Westchester, on the way home we make a game of throwing the Ipod on shuffle and trying to name the songs that come on before each other. Last week this song came on and within a few notes I screamed "Lions" Dire Straits. Something clicked inside of me and my mind came back to those nights listening to this album in my friend's basement in high school, live at the BBC.

Mark Knopfler is a classic musician that they just don't make anymore these days. He can play anything and has done so. Rock, Country, Soundtracks...it doesn't matter the man can do it. I can't describe how jealous I was when I saw him singing duets with my girl, my future wife, Emmylou Harris as he played his acoustic clawhammer style instead of the standard plectrum that most musicians use.

In the intro to this song he states that "it is another strange kinda song" and I have no idea what the hell he is talking about. I think it, like most songs, has something to do with the predatory nature of men and women waiting to be trounced upon at the bar. What she is thinking and what is going around her in the world as things are taking place around her.

But in this version there is nothing better than listening to him play that first Bm chord followed by the simple D that is hit with a one-two punch of a strum. Sometimes chords are just that powerful. The chord progression in this song: Bm-D-A-G7, followed by Bm-D-A-G7 once again is worthy of the statue of the E-A-B Bo Diddley beat and the power chords of Nirvana that revolutionized modern rock music.

Knopfler's smokey barroom straining voice lulls one into a smooth state of drunkenness sans hangover the next day. He is cruising through the lyrics like a 1970 Eldorado floating along the highways at 80 mph with the top down and sunshine streaking through his hair with his axe sitting shotgun. The man knows how to tell a story in a way that the words aren't even significant as you are brought to a trance like state by his timbre and melody.

He might be one of the most underrated musicians of our day, forget about the countless iterations of Dire Straits and (just as Parliament) the many members who have called themselves a part of the band. Knopfler is a legend and not only this song proves his validity but this entire album "Live at the BBC" where the rawness and sheer sexuality comes springing at you like a pair of breasts coming to life as the bra strap is undone, the life hitting you in the face as you walk out onto wet city streets sleek and ready to head out for the night. It slaps you in the face with its rhythm and intensity just like this songs namesake is sitting in the bush waiting to pounce and capture its prey. Thankfully one should be happy to be the hyena in this metaphor and be willing to give up his meat to the predator of rock and roll.

"Sinaloa Cowboys" Bruce Springsteen-The Ghost of Tom Joad

I've ranted time and time again about Springsteen and I won't explain myself for writing another post about him because there are so many reasons to tune in and inhale this amazing poet, especially this album "The Ghost of Tom Joad".

The reasons for listening to this song is not for the G/C/D tempo, nor is it for the picturesque way he portrays the American Southwest. It isn't for such insight as "For everything the north gives it exacts a price in return." which holds truer than most every quote uttered outside of Churchill and Kipling. I think sometimes it may be worth listening to for such rhythmic words playing off each other as "drove" and eucalyptus grove". Or maybe it is the idea of two men crossing a river in a Moses like quest towards towards some promised land that never really existed. Then again you could comment on the story of two brothers reaching out and risking it all for some ideal of a better life that existed if they could only skirt the consequences of the law. At times I think of Roberto Bolano and his epic work of "2666" and how they all fit into the picture of the despair of the Mexican common man. Maybe sometimes one could draw a parallel to Hemingway and the simplicity and terseness, the frugality and power of 24 simple words that portray so much as "The hydriodic acid Could burn right through your skin They'd leave you spittin' up blood in the desert if you breathed those fumes in." Then sometimes I think of John Steinbeck writing about spending a year in the orchids for pennies handed out by the boss man.

But the ONLY reason for listening to this song is to hear the Boss' voice crack at 1:16 when he croons "Word was out some men in Sinaloa". There is nothing more pure in any song I have ever heard. In my mind he didn't make it crack on purpose but rather it occurred naturally and when cutting the track he decided to leave it in there. And the fact that he decided to do so, or maybe John Landau did is an example of a craftsmanship that rarely exists in songwriting presently.

There's a lot of hurt in the world that we pass by on a daily basis. In Manhattan no matter how chic the restaurant you are dining at the sous chef is a Mexican working for pennies. On the golf course where we all live the life of privilege the men cutting the Bermuda grass and trimming the rough trace their roots to Ciudad Juarez where the donkey shows run 24/7. We are blind to all these faceless men. I am not advocating we prop them up on a pedestal simply because of their lot in life. But I can say that their stories are a beautiful act of contrition, maybe supplication honoring the life that we lead on a daily basis. It is pure, it is holy and it makes us feel alive that there are men still willing to take a risk and endure the hardships starting with the coyotes and ending under the thumb of the big boss man threatening to send them back home across the river to a life of poverty.

"He Loves and She Loves" George and Ida Gershwin performed by The New York Philharmonic

One may say that Paris is the most romantic city in the world. I am inclined to say that wherever you are madly in love with someone, whether it is in Paris, Venice, Barcelona or Lagrange, Texas...then that is the place.

There are many who argue that New York City holds that title, whether it is because life is so terribly hard, difficult and miserable most times that the pretty parts stand out or because of those nights when you head out expecting nothing and hours later find yourself in a situation so unexpected if you were not to experience it you could never believe it true. The nights when it snows, the streets are blanketed in silence and the fires at La Lanterna are billowing. The spring when the terraces are filled as the sun rises and sets through the canyons of re bar and glass. The cab rides home from a wonderful date, the noise the rain makes on the falling leaves that find their final resting place on sidewalks. Doormen saying hello as you stroll down Park Avenue in the morning on the way to work. How every scene captured with your eyes has multiple levels, the beautiful girl walking her dog directly in front of you while cars pass behind her in front of buildings reflecting the noise and the sun, further still into the background a glimpse of a bridge, helicopters and planes flying.

And just as every glance is a scene, every person is cinema. They all have stories and many of them are quite interesting and far from banal. At times walking through the city alone I question what's her story? His story? Even that parked car and its history.

A small snippet into this life is available for one's very own viewing by coming here and most importantly staying away from Times Square, Broadway in SoHo and various other places tourist converge. But if your finances limit you from such endeavors the rental of a black and white movie from 1979 will suffice. A movie that is housed in the Library of Congress and was nominated for two Academy Awards.

"Manhattan" is a story centered around four main people and their lives. In it you will view legendary Manhattan venues starting with the opening dialogue scene at Elaine's after an gasping opening of "Rhapsody in Blue" with scenes of the city flashing under Isaac's narration into a tape recorder. The entire soundtrack is done by Gershwin as the writer was inspired to write it from the love of his music.

There's something about an Allen film where in the end one feels as though the weight of the world is off one's shoulders, it feels as such because throughout the chaotic plots everything comes into focus. When focused one realizes that everything, everything that transpires around and inside of you, good and bad is hauntingly beautiful because it is life and that life of your own is worth living and later on at times watching.

In this film, the terribly short, short version is Isaac, in his 40's and twice divorced, is dating a sublimely adorable seventeen year old, Tracy. His best friend, Yale, is having an affair with Mary of which Isaac initially finds intolerable. However one night Isaac and her meet and begin to see each other. He quits his job, moves into a small, dirty apartment, breaks up with Tracy as he always thought her age was proof of the lack of seriousness in their relationship. Life progresses, Yale is conflicted with his marriage, then confronts Mary, Tracy is going to England to study of which Isaac encouraged her to do. He is now alone and find himself in his apartment speaking into the tape recorder once again this time not about Manhattan but what makes life worth living. In doing such he rambles until he comes to a final thought: "Is Tracy's face." He goes to a draw and picks up a harmonica she gave him for his birthday "He Loves and She Loves" comes trickling in, picks up the phone to call her and then puts it down and grabs his jacket.

He runs out into the street looking for a taxi but cannot find one, begins to run and does through the wonderful busy streets, stops at phone to call, no answer, heads through Grammcery Park, until he stops at a door looking in at Tracy with her things in the hallway, the doorman carries her bags out of the building and we watch her brushing her hair until she looks up and sees Isaac. He tells her not to go, that he loves her and tries to convince her as such. She gives reasons why she can't, makes a joke about her turning 18 and how he hurt her and that it is only six months. Isaac is skeptical and it all plays out until Rhapsody in Blue oozes out of the woodwork and this innocent looking, plain 18 year old girl tells him that it isn't that long, that not everyone gets corrupted and that one needs to have a little faith in people. He smiles and it cuts to the Manhattan skyline as Rhapsody in Blue reaches its maximum volume.

Words cannot do the scene justice. It is dark and intimate while naked and exposed, like the city itself it is one of the most beautiful, well constructed and surprising endings in cinema and I'm sure that same scene is playing out on this island as I write this in my small, beautiful apartment as Gershwin floats out open, spring windows.

"(You're My) Soul and Inspiration" Righteous Brothers-Single

Man, where do I begin with this song and these boys? I guess I could start when my neighbor and I went to see Top Gun in the theaters, I was around nine years old and my neighbor who was an FBI agent told me that if I wanted to be a pilot in the Navy I needed to study as they didn't let morons fly their jets. At the time I said to him in my mind "Dude I am going to play pro hockey, I don't care about that crap". And I would go onto to try to fulfill that dream.

For some reason along the line I thought about joining the Navy and flying. I did that, went to flight school in Pensacola where so many amazing men had treaded. I met a great bunch of boys, hell, some of the best men I have ever met in my life. We would study hard, fly our asses off and drink to get rid of the stress every night at the Florabama right on that line and stumble back to my house on the beach for the early morning brief, which I would stumble through and fake my way through flights I was barely prepared for everyday.

After flight school I received orders to San Diego. I went out there before my peers, went to SERE school only to make it out in time for my best friend's arrival to town. He drove straight from Pensacola to the bar in San Dog where we met and started skulling Sapphire and Tonics. Standing around the bar these two chicks came up and started talking to us, we told them what we did for a living and they asked us to sing "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" to them. For some reason we did and casted aside whatever apprehensions we had to eventually spend a blissful weekend at the Hotel Del Coronado drinking and rolling around in the sand.

The funny thing is in our world everyone wrote off "Top Gun" as the cheesiest of cheez, while outside of the fact that it was in no way true to form, I love that movie. I love when he goes to see Charlie at her small cottage in Mission Beach, the ending of which the picture above takes place at Kansas City BBQ which has now burned down. I remember going there one day, and having to go there with my leather jacket on and aviator glasses, how my life had turned into a fantastic movie and how I reveled in it while the sun was streaking in through cloudy windows.

And it was amazing, flying jets in San Diego, running wild, playing golf weekly, surfing the La Jolla reefs in my spare time between studying and flying.

I think and hope that atmosphere still exists. I hope there are still mechanized cowboys running low levels through the desert, getting wasted at the I Bar with sunglasses on. I hope there are still guys running around like Socks and Toby that are keeping the tradition alive. I hope there are guys shooting the TACAN to 27 in the May Grey to the numbers and following it up at the bar before they serenade some lass at a Gas Lamp bar in the sweet SoCal air. And that when they come home they throw on this song because it is one of the most beautiful and inspiring songs in existence.

Man they were some good days, roaming around in a flight suit, flying and having a grand old time while B+9 and Letteri told salty old sea stories at at the debriefing table. We were kings of the world living our lives in a romantic haze a few hundred feet off of the Pacific. I wish those boys were around me at this time, I wish Doo Doo and I could head downtown and drink till black out until we had to find Cooper wandering through the streets of downtown San Diego. I wish we had Patches to make fun of and watch him drive down into oncoming traffic on the five while we were laughing and pissing ourselves. How Slackey would come out and we'd get a steak at G5 under the portrait of Duke Cunningham and Wille "Irish" Driscol, the last aces from Vietnam.

The Navy has tried to take to romance out of being a carrier aviator, they moved TOPGUN up to Nevada, gave up the base in Miramar and shut down fixed wing aviation out of North Island. Those motherfuckers will never know what they gave away and how amazing it made us feel to be a part of a fraternity of which so many wanted to be a part of, now it is just a bunch of XBox douche bags who fly by the numbers and go home to study NATOPS.

But they were heady days back then and we ran it full out without consequences, for me I did the nightly portion of my life while listening to this song with a gin and tonic in hand, eating mystic rolls at Bistro D'Asia until I staggered home to a home on the beach with the Pacific wafting in through open windows next to a raven Southern California Native. It was everything we ever thought it would be and more and whenever we get on the horn and bullshit, those days always come up as I assume they always will until we are sitting around in diapers with our teeth flapping in the breeze needing the same DLC we utilized on the ball, but our attitudes will never change and we will always be running the ragged edge of control until they sprinkle our ashes over that Point Loma hill under seven Marines taking aim towards the sky.

"Primeval Rhythm of Life" Mandango-Black Rite

This soundtrack is blaring while I am watching the second half of Apocalypse Now Redux. It's heavy, it is the scene when they are at the bridge at the Cambodian boarder and everything is spiraling out of control, the shit is so thick you can walk on it while Lance is painting his face and the Captain is trying to maintain some military bearing.

I found this song earlier in the day watching a surfing video which in some way ties into the Apocalypse Now theme. Just as Conrade before us the path up the river gets stranger and stranger, more surreal while everything gets hairier and hairier. There's flares shot at the boat, one of the men just died, the Chief is freaking out while the tape plays his mother's voice as they cry over a man's dead body.

War is the breakdown of all cultural mores, it is what happens when man becomes an animal and because of that there is no logical conclusion that can be drawn from the actions made inside of its sphere. Many people would say that it is wrong and not the way of our civilized society but in the past four thousand years of written history there have only been around two hundred and forty years of total peace. Man is made to destroy each other. Those that disagree are only living in a false reality. Do we like it? Of course not, I would rather be holding hands with my brother, running around naked with beautiful blonds listening to Jazz. But this is the world we have to live in and it is the world in which we make our stake.

This song tracks its history to the ancestral roots of African natives and the beat that emerged on the plains thousands of years ago. And make no mistake about it, regardless of what your school books tell you, it was violent. It was despicable and it was every man for himself. Today we look at death as if it was something in the ether that would never transpire, years ago it was a fact of life. The fact that death has been subjugated for worse in our society and the fact that we place it out of our minds leads to more death, more insensitivity which leads to the constant killing of men before their time. Men who wanted nothing more than to live their lives, get laid and have a drink before bed; after which they would rise to work their jobs at the factory.

It's a heavy thought, but then again life is quite heavy. Whether it is Colonel Kurtz at the end of our journey or some other political diatribe all should know that the end will come. At the very least let's hope the soundtrack is as funky as the track in this title.

Off to Sea Once More-Traditional

Out in the blue water there are some monsters in the deep. They'll take you down into their realm, for a human meaning death. They'll test your endurance, your ability to cope with the cold and sea-sickening rocking in which even the old salts will put down their glass of rum and start staring at the horizon.

I've had a lot of experience in this realm, mostly when I was younger, chasing the leviathan through the waters a hundred miles offshore where the canyons begin and the gulf stream meanders its way up into the northeast pushing warmer water towards the shore for the Benny's enjoyment. While not chasing the mammalian leviathan and rather the fish version of the water borne species, particularly Marline, Tuna, Swordfish and Shark the intensity of the pursuit is no different.

I've spent many months at sea both on civilian and military vessels, many months with the time wasting away watching the different permutations of the water, the sun's refractions, the harsh reality that exists in a world where if you are not on that vessel, that home and personal piece of small land, you are dead. In all my years as a surfer I never experienced something as heavy as being at sea in a small boat during a gale. At the very least while surfing there is the sanctuary of land if you can only hold on just a bit longer; in the deep you can't hold on long enough to survive.

And when I hear this song I think of these things. Of men from a time when there was no Gore-Tex, no neoprene or modern technological advances to shield one from the elements. There was only waxed cotton, tweed and wool. Just as George Mallory summited Everest in what we would call traditional shooting tweeds and buy at Orvis or Holland and Holland the men who roamed the seas searching for oil had little creature comforts.

"Off to Sea Once More" is a darker side, though the side we know is dark enough, of being a mariner, a whaler, back when that was the only way to procure the greasy substance worth more than gold. The "Gloucester Sleigh Ride" was fully known and experienced by most, the waking in the morning sans money and clothes, taken by the woman you had laid down with the night before, the hatred that entity which has taken the life of so many of you comrades.

In the end we derive all from the sea, we came from it in the primordial soup, and eventually we return, whether that be from it taking our lives or the disintegration of our corpses and seepage into the water table and eventually flowing into the seas. Whatever the reason we will end up in that realm with the giants who we've challenged in our living lives and in listening to this shanty one feels the terrible dread that existed and made this land what it is today while in its infancy. Gloucester was the Houston or Saudi Arabia of its day, the biggest oil boom town reaching its arms out and granting asylum in its new breasts under cover of safety. Those that chose only found heartache and death, those who did not never knew of the adventure that could possibly lay in front of them. For us those days are over never to be returned, at least we can grab a taste of the dread in this song.

"Lazybones" Jerry Garcia Band-Live Bootleg

I think one of the coolest things I have ever heard was when Hoagy Carmichael called up Keith Richards and told him that the way he sings "The Nearness of You" was the exact way he pictured it being sung when he wrote the song. Here it was two men from totally different time periods, totally different genres and two totally different personalities coming together in an understanding about the way music was meant to be made. If you don't much about the man then just take a look at Hoagy Carmichael's page. He was not only the writer of such epic songs as "Stardust" (which is the most covered song in history) but also "Heart and Soul" and "Georgia on My Mind". In addition, his likeness was what Ian Flemming used to describe his young secret agent, James Bond.

Tonight though the reason why I started with "The Nearness of You" was I was jonesing for some Keith and also in a pretty sad mood. Sentimental, feeling sorry for myself after an emotional day just wondering what the hell was going on in my current state; a state of waking up at eleven and doing a lot while still doing nothing all day. With that and maybe a product of it in and of itself, trying to snag someone who....

Well I'll just tell you the story. I was at a restaurant a few months back and couldn't take my eyes of this woman. Truly couldn't even act normal around her because of the vibe that she was giving me, I stared with longing and fear of what she was bringing out of me. She was with a man and I just left with the gentleman I was dining with and tried to put it out of my mind. When I returned to the restaurant I found that she had left her number for me. I called her and we planned to get together. On that day we were to meet, someone from my past who had found out about the situation the day prior as well as her number called her and scared her off with me knowing no idea of what she said to her about our past relationship and how she twisted it to meet her needs and spite. I tried to patch the situation to no avail. But I called again months later and she never called back. More months transpired and with the reliability of cell phones mine broke and her number was lost in the process.

Then a week ago I thought of her again, requested some old phone bills and set to the task of finding her number to call her again, frantically looking up area codes and calling similar ones to try to track her down and hoping she'd take a chance. Tonight I finally did and she actually answered, she had no idea who it was and her end was loud, horns and traffic in the background, we couldn't hear each other and she said she'd call back. She never did. Of course she determined after the fact that it was me and acted as she saw fit. So with that I headed to the gym and blocked her (again) from my mind. A few martinis after the fact I couldn't ask my brain to be up to said task, couldn't tell the man I was drinking with and simply came home and threw on Keith crooning "Nearness".

While listening to it I thought about Hoagy and the story I heard which I began this post with, and then I remembered "Lazybones". I remembered it because I had a show of the Jerry Garcia Band which was the most perfect version, the most perfect song in so many ways I have ever heard. And I looked back at the last time I had that show in my possession and utilized it accordingly.

My first junior year of college, living in an apartment after the hockey season was over and my days consisted of drinking, drinking, working out and more drinking. Boston may have some of the most terrible weather on the planet but in the spring there are a few weeks before it becomes too humid to walk where it is perfect. I skated, hit the weights on campus and walked out in Rainbow sandals, t-shirt and loose jeans feeling exhausted, strolled back to my apartment and grabbed an ice cold beer out of the cooler that I always had in my room which is far superior to any fridge, there's something about pulling a glass bottle out of 32.1 degree water. With the windows open, the sparrows chirping, I pressed play on my Aiwa and the slow meter of this song came spilling out through the speakers strategically placed around the apartment.

I fell into that pre-sleep haze that can only be experienced laying on the couch with the spring air perambulating and wafting through four walls, the streaks of the sun warming my bare legs while the bottle cooled my hand that was not down my pants. The pre-sleep environment, the selective hearing of highs, the full octave difference in Jerry's Guitar hitting me as he played to the twenty fourth fret and further on...his liquid chromatic scale solos dribbling in and out of the light and finding their way into my ears.

I never did find that bootleg show, and like the woman I called tonight maybe it is better to not ruin the moment and think about what could be if you had it/her in your possession. Nonetheless I still wish I had that show and those notes pouring out of my speakers while I laid on the couch with her on my chest in the beautiful spring sunshine.

"East Virginia Blues" Black Crowes-Live at the Fillmore San Francisco

Along the North Carolina boarder there are some of the most beautiful roads and country you could ever wish for. There are people who are friendly and hospitable, people who are in no way like their "Deliverance" counterparts are portrayed on the screen; the person who wrote that book was a massive racist and hater of all things southern. When you awake in the Great Smokey Mountains there's a slight haze surrounding the bottom quarter of those beautiful hills that waft through the valleys, the pines and flowing rivers that meander their way out towards the great Atlantic.

From this land comes a musical tradition that dates back before The Carter Family, towards bluegrass roots where the only entrainment was each other, a guitar and a banjo. "East Virginia Blues" has encompassed my mind since my friend sent it to me a week ago. It boggles and enlightens in the most visceral way. Written by said Carter Family it encompasses such beautiful songs that are credited to "Traditional" such as "Rosa Lee McFall", "Dark Hollow" and "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad" all driven into the lexicon by the Dead, Dylan and the great traditional songwriters and performers that have made musical history.

I've seen The Black Crowes multiple times, seen them together, with Jimmy Page and all the other iterations they have been over the years. They never disappoint, they are the quintessential Rock and Roll band that were born of this great land and sing out into the ether of the muddy river that is American music.

So as I sit here listening to this song over and over I am reminded of this great land, the people that make it as such and more so after a visit to my friend who sent me this tune in Nashville how I strapped into the old Porsche and made my way towards the Tail of the Dragon in those beautiful mountains, where for eleven miles there are 316 turns on the precipice of disaster, in the rain and ice I drove through the blackness not knowing where the next turn would lead me; dreaming of some dark haired maiden living in the shack I just blew by waiting for her escape from the hills and towards greener pastures. How she and I would build our lives on the solidity that was formed by time engaged in such a land that carved those hills and how perfect it would all turn out in the end. Just as the clarity of those Martin extra light strings resonated through the cherry wood of the Taylor that was being played in the background as I thought of such things, I saw her as an apparition before me.

In the end I would traverse through that land without finding her and continue through the darkness alone with only a slide solo for companionship and a whining Chris Robinson voice to keep me company. Maybe it is better that way, maybe in the end it is better to never have one's dreams realized and to keep searching for that carrot dangled before one's eyes. It keeps you hard, it keeps you on your toes. But for now sitting here with some old time-home grown whiskey delivered by a southern friend in my veins and a solid dip of Copenhagen in my lip while watching Gerry Lopez mastering Pipe, well, it is about all you can ask for outside of that maiden laying her head in my lap while I take it all in during the late hours of the night while the city pulses through its own veins around me.

"Amarillo By Morning" George Strait

I just returned home from a night at the gym followed by four martinis at a local place where one of my favorite bartenders was actually sitting at the bar and not working behind it. The moral conflict between hitting on a bartender was lingering in the air and the question remains was she really a bartender tonight or just another woman sitting at the bar having a drink? I don't know.

Before she sat down I was emailing one of my best friends and talking about another trip. A year ago we did a trip from the west to the east through some of the most beautiful, open and free places in this not so free anymore country.

I came home after the bar and put this song on, loud enough that my French neighbor probably heard it, busted out the acoustic and played it a dozen times over. It is a fun song to play with an interesting chord progression and a fantastic bridge, a key change that brings it all home.

But the technical details of this simple song are not what matters at this time in the night. What matters is the run we made from Santa Fe through Amarillo all the way to Nashville in an Audi that was a few years old with myself at the helm penetrating the darkness as we made our way through the breadbasket of America.

Before we left for that stretch we had drinks at Evangelo's on San Francisco street in Santa Fe, a bar with a very long and famous history...one of those places that you only find on the road. We traversed from there to the Cadillac Ranch simply because there was a Springsteen song written about the place; waded our way through the Texas clay out towards those ten cars all of which are positioned at an angle corresponding to the Great Pyramids of Giza in the hurling northern winds whipping across the barren landscape. Had a steak at the Big Texan where we watched a man try to eat a 72 ounce steak, dinner roll and a salad in one short hour.

Out there on the road it is pure. It is everything one could ever dream it could be with a good friend and a road that goes on forever. Even so those 895 miles of Texas passed through the windshield far too soon and we were out of the promised land into Arkansas and eventually Tennessee where we had George Jones on the radio preaching about the horrors of a lost love.

Nothing compared to the time when I shot the video above. Running across the panhandle with a snooze of Copenhagen in towards some distant goal that only existed in our fantasies. There is no end point and there is no goal. Like Homer before us it is the journey that is the point and not the destination. You don't have to get existential or metaphysical about it, you just have to do it and get your ass out there and see what the road has for you in store. A man that is free...there's nothing more noble and I promise you the ride it won't disappoint.

"It's Not My Cross to Bear" Allman Brother's Band-Peaking at the Beacon

I was barely 18 and a few of the boys and I drove down to my Uncle's place in Myrtle Beach to play some golf and just get loose. We knew it would be difficult to score booze so we bought fifty cases of beer and loaded them in the back of a Ford Ranger pickup. Two boys were in that ride and the other two rode down in another friend's Jetta that would eventually be crashed at 65 miles per hour around a telephone pole on a road in Jersey. Miraculously the friend driving it at that time walked away from the accident drunk, waited it out at a diner and then headed back to the scene of the crime with no injuries and no ramifications from the law.

It was an excellent trip, one for the records, especially when we left South Carolina at midnight and drove down to Key West for another week without planning. I sang Karaoke at Rick's and we left with three older women who took us around town including "Teaser's" Strip club and eventually ended at "Barefoot Bob's" which was a Deadhead bar that was eventually closed down because of the drug trade they were operating out of the back room. We drove home from Key West straight back to NJ and dizzy with hangovers, lulled into the malaise of the night I remember locking up the brakes to a dead stop on 95 because I thought the reflectors in the middle of the road were headlights. The whole trip: an experience? You bet your ass.

One night I remember we were on The Strand in Myrtle Beach and wandered into a bar that accepted our fake IDs. We were slamming beers when this big hulk of a man came by and asked for a dip from a tin of Copenhagen that was on our table. He asked for a pinch and said he'd buy us a round. We gave it to him and then bought him a round. Back and forth we traded rounds until he and his group of equally massive men asked us to roll with them to another place where there was some "trim". These guys were all over six four and three hundred pounds, they were the O line from NC's football team and were in a mood to rage. We followed and rolled into this bar running the show with no consequences. No one was a problem with these boys and we certainly took advantage of the back we had.

Of course we went home alone and drunk to our cases of beer we had stashed in the fridge. As a group we had done Allman shows throughout high school. I'll never forget seeing my 15 year old sister shitfaced wandering though the crowd when I never knew she was even attending. I'll never forget walking out of the bathroom in jean, cowboy boots and a skin tight black t-shirt and this biker chick grabbing me to stick her tongue down my throat and telling me how hot I was....at seventeen this was a big deal.

But the music was the real reason we were there and while the Allman's setlists became banal over the years and one could usually expect what was going to be played there was this one time when they ripped out this gem and brought then entire house down.

Greg was sitting there at his Hammond B-3 organ with the three Solo cups atop, from what I was told by a roadie he would not step out on stage without them. Two cups were straight Vodka and the other was ice water. With his long hair flowing in the hot New Jersey night he laid down this track while we stood there on the lawn aghast at the phrasing and sincerity of a song about a bad woman and the ramifications of her and his departure.

Flash back to South Carolina and the post NC linemen at the bar activities. We slid out of a DUI on the drive back home and of course for some reason had our Awia machine installed at the residence, put that thing on Karaoke setting and my boy Bobby belted out this song. He drew out that first "Sat down and wrote you a long letter..." screaming it from the top of his lungs. We were dying of laughter and that sense that comes around so few times of the world being at one's fingertips. The cops were called and we talked our way out of it, we slammed more Shafers that were dripping with ice cold water from the cooler and sat out on the balcony with the muggy lowland humidity steaming up the windows dipping Copenhagen and bullshitting about what we were gonna do and how the world was going to bow at our fingertips.

I never knew what Gregg was singing about until I sat down and wrote her a long letter, and the one after that. I never knew that there were crosses to be borne and what the hell he was singing about when we screamed it that night before the cops came. But with time the blues speaks to you in ways that you never though possible.

In the end it was a trip of a lifetime and eventually we would all fall apart. The Allmans would as well, Dickey would leave as well as Warren Haynes. The way of the world it may be but it was a lot better before we were nailed to that cross and stepped through that door in the floor that is experience.

"Downbound Train" Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band-Born in the USA

Well from the previous post in case you were wondering what I was referring to here is the answer and at the end the video. I listen, think and write (well attempt) music on a constant basis and in doing so I think gives gravitas to me saying this is one of the best songs ever written in this genre.

Born in the USA was released right after his Nebraska album which was a toned down, four track collection of songs that he never really intended to release. I challenge you to listen to this album and not become choked up while doing so. Personally there are two songs on the album that I only listen to alone because I will start crying. The album created a stir among Springsteen fans, it polarized those who grouped him in with that Mellencamp heartland music (Mellencamp is and always will be a joke, perhaps I could deal with his music sans that personality. Go ahead and listen to an interview with him, his self love is the most inflated I have ever experienced) and those who thought that he was much more than just a rocker. Not a lot of people who say they are Springsteen fans can even stand this album, for me it is what I use to change someone's mind about Springsteen being some red-neck hero.

For the true believers after Nebraska there were rumours about an "electric" Nebraska constantly, to this day people are asking for it when in reality it already exists with the title "Born in the USA" probably the most misunderstood record of all time and certainly the most of Springsteen's. It is true that Bruce and his management propagated this in a way with massive concerts being played behind American flags, the music videos that were produced along with the album and all of the hype. However the story of Nebraska still carries on in this album even in songs such as "Dancing in the Dark" which if you never heard before and just read the lyrics would change your entire opinion, how about this line for understated misery: "You sit around getting older, there's a joke here somewhere and its on me" Take away the beat, the 80's synthesizers and it is a totally different line. "Born in the USA", "My Hometown", "I'm on Fire" ("...sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby edgy and dull and cut a six in valley through the middle of my skull"), "No Surrender" and "Bobby Jean"; sing those songs on an acoustic and it is right there on Nebraska with all its heartbreak.

And this song belongs on this list as well, it belongs on the top of the list and at the top of any list of any songs of greatness.

It starts off simply like all great pieces of literature, poetry and music, real simple almost as if it was not written by someone of his skill. But to me when the line: "Now I work down at the car wash where all it ever does is rain." comes in I am smacked in the face by the fact that I and very few people could ever write such a meaningful and succinct line that translates so much so simply.

This continues for the remainder of the song, "Joe I have to go, we had it once we ain't got it any more." It doesn't matter how much you explain the shatters of a relationship it always comes down to this fact, nothing more needs to be said. But even more than the words are the tempo in which he sings them and in all honesty I can't put my finger exactly on what makes it so appealing. However it is difficult to actually sing this song as there are too many syllables in certain parts which ensures that one will need to strain words together as if there were all one to begin with.

The bridge might be the most heartbreaking ever written, it is also the most universal. How many nights have you woke up in a sweat after a dream of an ex you were still in love with right after it was all over? If you haven't you never were in love, don't kid yourself. The halting of most of the music in the bridge invokes a dream like state, one of which you along with the narrator's heart is stopping. Could this be the break in the story when the reconcile? Is she going to be there?

"Last night I heard your voice
You were crying, crying, you were so alone
You said your love had never died
You were waiting for me at home
Put on my jacket, I ran through the woods
I ran till I thought my chest would explode
There in the clearing, beyond the highway
In the moonlight, our wedding house shone
I rushed through the yard, I burst through the front door
My head pounding hard, up the stairs I climbed
The room was dark, our bed was empty
Then I heard that long whistle whine
And I dropped to my knees, hung my head and cried"

She won't be, there's just that same whistle which is that same device used earlier, the whistle of loneliness.

Throughout the song there is the building up of steam to some resolution, to an end and in the final verse it comes to judgement. Just as the train is barrelling down the track the song is heading almost out of control, he awakes from the dream in the refrain and things have gotten progressively worse. No more car wash, no more dreams of her, only the nightmare of working a chain gang all hours of the day.

"Now I swing a sledge Hammer onaHARAILroaDGAng

Knockingdown themcrossties working in the rain
Now don't it feel like you're a riiiider on a doOOHOUNDWNbound train"

He could have killed her, he could have knocked off a liquor store (as in "Johnny 99"), he could have done anything but the fact remains that there is no happy ending nor even an ending at all here. This man's life is still barrelling forward while staying in the same place and it will be, by his current actions he is both literally and figuratively building the track for his downbound train to continue onward.

I have been listening to this version for almost a week now and have been while writing this (as an aside the best format to read these posts are while that particular song is playing, that is what I intend for the reader to do with all of them) and I can barely contain myself. My head is swimming around with so much emotion and visuals I don't even know if what I am writing is making sense. If in watching this video you are doing so as well then my idea is coming through, and if not give it some time.

"If I Should Fall Behind" Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band-Live in New York City

It should come as no surprise to readers of this blog what I think about this band and its leader. I can say that almost every time I sit down to bang out a post I have the urge to make it about Springsteen. To date I think I have only done one out of eighty something so I haven't beaten it to death.

I was raised Catholic but as the years progressed I never felt that relationship or connection, at times I worked at it, perhaps not hard enough, but still it never came about. That blissful revelation and connection people describe receiving through religion comes to me with his music. I learn, see life and have grown for the past fifteen years under his preachings.

Right now it is the early evening. I am sitting on my bed on the 20th floor of a hotel overlooking the Las Vegas skyline. I sit here waiting for a friend who, like most good friends, I met by pure luck and accident. That was four years ago and we have never lived remotely close to each other. However we get together a few times a year, as much as we can with our hectic, erratic schedules and it is always an awakening experience.

While doing cardio this song came on at random. Years ago while living on Perdido Key this was the song that came on after my six mile job, on the playlist it was just timed perfectly to come on at 51 minutes which was constantly my pace. I'd cool down with a walk along the azure waters of the Gulf and feel the sand between my toes before I went back to the house to study all night with the breezes wafting through the open windows until I passed out with a NATOPS on my chest.

The two connections above as well as others not mentioned, lovers, family and myriad of meanings that could be drawn on the existential level from this song carries gravitas and makes the song (which is usually just sung by Springsteen himself only) another little known classic by this legend. And forgive me for making this post a little more didactic.

The beauty of this version is that all members of the band sing a verse, in doing so we see five different singing styles, all unique and sublime. And when I listen to music I listen for the very small things: a chord here and there, a trail off of the voice, a hint of pain in the tone...many aspects which usually go unnoticed. In this selection it is easy to hear these things near the end when each member sings the same line:

"I'll wait for you, and should I fall behind, wait for me"

The Boss starts his in a very a matter of fact manner "Should we loose each other in the shadow of the evening's trees..". as if it is a foregone conclusion that it will happen.

Clarence sings as if he still has a sax in his mouth, you can hear the air moving in and out of his mouth in a deep, blowing gust of baritone.

Patti comes in at a high soprano which is her trademark singing style but then as she trails off a tiny bit of fragility and sexuality arises in the last "wait" like a sex kitten purring snuggled up in the sheets.

Stevie's voice is two six shooters drawn in rock and roll defiance, throwing in baby and drawing out the long "A" the first time, you can picture the blood dripping from his nails as he grapples and tears at her as she slides out of his grasp.

Nils's voice sounds like a mix between Tracy Chapman and Natalie Merchant with testosterone thrown in for measure, it is one of the strongest, subtle voices I have ever heard. I just get gitty when he starts with "Darling".

Finally they all come together and end with the same verse, and in doing so it is evident how they change and leave off a bit of their own styles when the quintet is joined. Listen to it time and time again and see how different aspects come to light.

I know not many people know of this song and even if they do I challenge them to listen to this version and concentrate on each note and breath, then apply that to every song you hear from this point on. In this song it is easy to point out the differences, others are significantly more difficult. Jazz and Classical is the final frontier in this matter and the scales are so much more complex that to the untrained ear it all blends together. It is out there though and I guarantee your musical life will be enhanced when it becomes natural.

"Djobi Djoba" Gipsy Kings-Gipsy Kings Live

The man in this picture is named Carlos O'Connor. With a last name like that I am pretty sure Carlos is not his first name but rather one that was given or taken later on in his life. He owns a Mexican restaurant in Red Bank and the place is cluttered with souvenirs from his travels. It is a small establishment and when I make the statement that one can barely move it is not hyperbole. It is cramped with surfboards, paintings, Christmas lights, old doors and windows and probably just about any other type of junk he picked up in his travels through Mexico, Central and South America.

I spent a great deal of time in this place as a teenager and the first few years of my 20's, funny thing is I hate Mexican food. Nonetheless, in high school myself, Bobby, Clancy, and MJ used to take the twenty minute trek southbound for very long dinners after a stressful day of high school, (trying to keep a straight face typing that line). The main reason why we went was not for the great atmosphere (which was second) but rather it was BYOB and Carlos being the laid back man that he was would let us drink away our sixteen year old troubles whenever we felt the need.

And that need arose quite frequently. We'd stop at the liquor store that served us on the way and grab two cases: One of Corona and the second, New Castle. Walking through the door we were always greeted by the six foot four frame, encased in black with a black hat of Carlos, always with a smile and a few kind words asking us how the sports teams were doing and more importantly how were those teenage girls treating us. He would have two large tin buckets of ice brought out in which to stuff our beers and we'd sit down usually at the same table with the post card of Springsteen tacked to the wall (this was mere miles away from his home) next to a pinata glowing with the red, green and orange lights that permeated the air.

We'd bullshit and be politely loud, never causing trouble while the other patrons looked on with delight rather than disdain. We'd laugh at each other and rarely at anyone else. It was pure and wholesome regardless of what the drinking laws stated. It was beautiful in the summer when we would pile in through the hot kitchen in the back with sand on our bare feet and salt in our hair, the boards on the roof of Bobby's CRX still dripping from the surf. We'd bring chicks and laugh harder while eying their tan legs void of any veins or cellulite and wonder what lied beneath their short jean shorts and tight t shirts. All the while The Gipsy Kings serenaded us in the background under the watchful eye of Carlos who, when engaged with a glance would smile and then look back down at the table he was sitting at and reach for a nacho (Carlos never drank).

I remember our waitress was usually this jet black haired exotic woman who resembled Al Pacino's character's wife in "Heat". Yea that one that is not particularly beautiful but possessed something that made her so terribly sexy. It was usually her who brought us our check for $45 dollars no matter how long we stayed to which we usually tipped 300% for her troubles and taking up the table for so long. It got to a point where we didn't even pay for food anymore and they stopped bringing us checks but rather knew we'd lay enough cash on the table to cover the night.

A few months ago I went back to Carlo's. It didn't have the same feel and was disappointing. It took a while for to register what the problem was until I discovered it was twofold. Bobby I hadn't seen in years even though he lives five miles away, MJ has a wife and kid, while Clancy was just gone. They all had their fall outs with each other and when I left (as I was the only one who was friends with all of them still) it just fell apart. After contemplating the trials of growing up and the separation I also realized that there was no salt and sand in my hair because I was balding and while the woman I was with was only three years older than the ones we brought in high school I knew what was under her short skirt and under all the short skirts in the world. It wasn't a score to know just as it wasn't a score to walk into the liquor store and get served. I had an Amex now, two cars, a career, fought in two wars, countless lovers, an ex-wife, a niece, a brother in law, a close call with addiction and over fifty countries that I've set foot in. I am not sure that corrupted the evening as much as not seeing a group of four sixteen year olds there laughing and drinking with the promise of the world ahead of them. I am not sure if it was corrupted because I desperately wished the boys were here with me, or that girl I saw in high school who is now eight months pregnant and slept on my lap the whole drive home one summer afternoon before I left for college. I guess it was all of it and because of that every time the Gipsy Kings come on I am torn between a smile and a tear. Maybe I should give them all a call.

"Gypsy" Fleetwood Mac-Mirage

I always feel as though most of these songs I write about pertain to women...

...however it always struck me that most all of the songs in the cannon that are about love were written by men. Are women just not the song writers that men are? Or as much as we think of them being beings that are more concerned about love and matters of the heart while men are more engaged in sex; could that possible be wrong?

As a man I can't answer that objectively.

The facts speak for themselves. In the old days there was Ida and George Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart. Then there came the slow, heartbreakingly sad country boys of the southern United States: George Jones, Hank Williams. Followed by Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, hell even Jimmy Buffett dedicated most of his albums to a woman he spent decades trying to land. The Stones, Beatles, Clapton, the amount of men who write about women leaving them, being by them, smelling them. It is epic in scope.

But then there is Stevie Nicks and my obsession with her. Possibly the reason for my obsession for her and this song is that this song is "The Song" that I lost my virginity to. While for a man not a sacred as a woman and more of something to get out of the way and from what I heard certainly not as painful or scary, I guess it is a big event to say the least. How did it happen? Well like many things in my fortunate life it was a great story. Not just a great story to me because of "losing it" but rather because it was a great story.

I was barely eighteen. I went to a small little strip club called "Hot 22" on route 22 in New Jersey. I went with friends as we usually did. I had sixty dollars in my pocket that my father had given me for the weekend. I went with two other friends who actually had jobs in high school and always had cash. We paid the fifteen dollar cover and sat down next to the stage. There was no booze and it was full nude.

At the time I had about zero experience with women so whenever we went what I was viewing in front of my face was a total revelation to me. I had seen it in magazines and on video but for the most part, actually not for the most part but outside of a strip club I have never seen those parts before in my entire life. So we sat there with out singles folded in half, length-wise on the bar and watched as women picked them up in strange and exotic ways. As usual one of them came up to me and asked me for a dance. Having only forty five dollars in my pocket I always had to be selective but made the decision that this one was worth the twenty.

We went in the back room and did what you do.

I came back to my seat after tucking a certain body part under my belt with a rouge face and a little embarrassment, sat down in the chair next to my two boys who asked me how it was with a smile on their faces when another woman came by, put her hand on my shoulder and spoke.

"You are cheating on me."
"Uh, really? What are you talking about?"
"I wanted to have a dance with you."
"Well I am sorry but..."
"Let's have a dance."
"Well, I only, I mean I, just let me sit for a while..."
"No, let's go now."

One of my boys slipped me two twenties before I left and we headed back into the room together.

When we got there I assumed the position: hands under the seat, legs somewhat spread and watched her take off her thong. She straddled me and told me I was the cutest thing she had ever seen. We made small talk, well, she made small talk as I was always terribly shy and with little to say. I was intimidated constantly in that back room and felt more ashamed by the fact that at this point I have never even gotten to third base.

She asked me if I had an older brother, which I felt was terribly strange. She asked me if I had ever made love to a woman. I said no. She asked if I had ever, ahem, been down there on a woman. I said no. She told me that this was something I should certainly learn as no woman would want to be with a man who had no idea what he was doing. In stuttering speech I somehow had the presence of mind to say "Well would you like to teach me?" wondering just how she would react and how embarrassing it was going to be when she laughed it off. This was about four songs into the dance and beyond the amount of money I had in my pocket. She came back as she had her back to me, with it arched and threw her long, dirty blond hair over her should and said: "Of course I can show you sweetie." At that point I was frozen, I had no idea what the hell just happened and what the words both her and I just said meant. She turned around and straddled me again, whispered in my ear and said: "When you leave here I'll be on stage again, write your phone number on a dollar and tip me, I'll give you a call."

And I did it as stunned as I was. A week later I received the call. She said to meet her at her place which was in the next town over from where I lived with my parents. She answered the door in sweat pants and a tight wife beater. She smiled. I was very nervous, I was more nervous than I have ever been in my life. She undressed me and took me under her wing. From that second on I felt entirely comfortable for the rest of the night. There was no nervousness, no strange feelings or awkwardness. It was natural and pure. She was sweet, loving and understanding. And when it all started this song was playing.

I wouldn't say I left as a changed man. Certainly I had a new insight into the world and finally felt like a man. However I had a story no one would believe so it was impossible to tell most of the friends I had. It also was a little terrifying to know that this 29 year old woman took her clothes off and showed what I just had first hand, free looks and feels at for a living.

Many years later I moved to San Diego. One of the first weeks I was there a buddy and I met these two women in a bar in the Gaslamp district. They had the same name actually and they were about as much fun as women could be with their clothes on. We met them on a Friday and while they didn't give in that first night they did (or at least mine did) on the second. It was on the floor of one of her friend's place in Pacific Beach.

The next day I remember driving on the five back to Coronado and as I passed the airport on the right with the harbour shining in the Cali sun in all its splendor this song came on the radio. I was in my old Range Rover with the sunroof open. I was still a little drunk and high from the night before and with that warm sun beating on my head and shoulders I turned up the volume and started singing. Life was amazing and there was no way it could get any better. I rode this song onto the Coronado bridge back to my room at the BOQ at NAB Coronado with the SEALs running and getting the shit kicked out of them as I passed through the gate.

Later that day I was jogging on the beach back when I could do so with no shirt on and people would stare in awe rather than disgust. The cold currents of the Cortez Bank were washing ashore and under my bare feet, there were planes landing on 29 across the beach and over the Dell and Springsteen was keeping me company on my CD player (shows you how times have changed).

I thought at the time how beautiful life was, how that woman from last night was willing to give herself to me and how she looked in the shadows reflecting into that window of that street off of Garnett. How eight years earlier that woman gave herself and an education to me and how everyone sitting on that beach I was running on had some type of similar story.

I have no idea where either of those two woman are to this day. But I know at least a little bit of them are always with me just as all of the rest. Some more than others, and I hope that they in some way remember the nights I had with them because I certainly do. Some may think it is sleazy or dirty to have so many but I believe the opposite. They were all beautiful and I was madly in love with all of them at that time in which we consummated our night together. In a world with so much hatred and meanness, well, all we can ask for is such kindness and love. I know Stevie would agree and I would love to show her my appreciation.

"La Vie en Rose" Marlene Dietrich-Marlene Dietrich Live in London

For the past few nights I've been spending after midnight at a small bistro after hours, when the chairs are on the table, the light are on and the door is locked. There's two women I've spent my time with drinking Bordeaux and smoking strong cigarettes infused with conversation in a tongue not my own. One woman was born in Brasil, lived in LA via Miami and is now here in New York, the other is straight up French, born in Burgundy and moved here after years and years of travel throughout the hotspots of the globe. Just two nights ago we were talking about Carla Bruni and how she used to spend hours in the corner table at said restaurant, how she was a known party girl and had been with everyone from musicians to financiers, and actors. I sat there at the corner table smoking Reds, drinking wine and discussing all the important ant things in life, well, to the French the only important thing in life; love.

There's something terribly entrancing to an American man listening to such women speak with such beautiful accents. There's something entrancing dealing with such women who are not concerned with what the Kardashians are doing, nor how tan The Situation is and just how absurd his life and persona actually is, whether it be on screen or in Belmar.

So we sat there like characters in a film noir speaking about our lives and our loves without pretense, without jealously, for in the end that is simply the way love and lovers live there life. An idea so foreign to American men and women who find themselves caught up in the grind and superficiality of what this county and its pop culture has become. Beautiful nights they have been, beautiful nights speaking about menage a trois with lovers while never implying such an event would ever transpire between the three of us seated at the peasant like table cleaned of and ready with pure white linens for the next day of new patrons.

And for that there is the cliche of that lifestyle, of a people who really don't care what the next day holds, because why would one live for tomorrow when there is so much living to be done today. You want a drink; drink it. Your want a cigarette; smoke it. What could be holding you back from enjoying the pleasures that life could bring at this very moment?

Marlene Dietrich is probably the sexiest woman who ever roamed the planet. Born in Germany, witch a penchant for those not only of the opposite sex but of the same, a woman who was steadfast in her principles and revolted against her motherland of Germany during the Nazi era. In short a woman who not only had the female assets to ensure her place in society but the balls to run up against any takers who came into combat against her beliefs. In a word the perfect iconoclast.

And whether it was that iconoclastic beliefs, her sexuality or those terribly red lips in a black dress busting out into the world letting all know she was for real, whatever the reason why she maintains the title of perfect femininity in a world that at this current time lacks it in great measure; whatever the reasons that may be she has carved out a niche in the world that can never be replaced.

A wold that has fallen by the wayside, a world that loves to hold said persons as legends but not for the right reasons, in short she was the female version of Sinatra. She did what she did and never asked questions, and on nights such as these when I am drunk on martinis and red wine, nights such as these when I am searching for someone to come home to be tender with, to drink wine until the sun comes up and listen to everything she has to say...I wonder whether or not there are such amazing women out there ready to lay down with me and tell me their dreams. It might be an unrealistic dream but I am confident there are a multitude of Marlenes out there wandering around the cold streets of New York searching for a man. I only hope I run into their lives somewhere along the road.

"Le Mans The Race, First Laps" Michael Legrand-Le Mans

There's a lot of idol worship out there these days in the men's world outside of athletics. I don't know why this is, I have a hunch that today's man spends so much time conscious of trying to be something that he never does what he wants. In turn he has no experiences, no great faults, terrible defeats or glorious victories. The average man around my age I feel is terribly banal and lives vicariously through the lives of others.

It is for that reason that we see the ridiculous idolatry of a man by the name of Steve McQueen, a man branded the "King of Cool" throughout the ages and especially in every magazine, blog and whatever other type of media out there focused on the 18-thirty something demographic. It is really sad actually and whenever I see another picture of him smoking a cig while driving or holding a gun I become a little nauseous.

And don't get me wrong I think the man is pretty cool. When I was a young man I would watch The Towering Inferno constantly and switch back and forth between wanting to be the quietly cool fireman (McQueen) or the tough architect (Paul Newman). As the story would turn out I would do neither.

But the two men have a lot more in common than being huge stars, the ability to make women slide out of their seat, military heroes and pretty decent style. They were both natural born racers. Paul Newman was actually significantly more successful having been successful in many races, eventually starting his own racing team and winning the race that Steve would make a move of in 1971. Le Mans.

Held near and in the town of Le Mans the 13 Kilometer race is held for a 24 hour period with a simple set of rules: Who can cover the farthest distance in one day's time. The beauty of the event (without getting into the weeds about technical rules and specifics in regards to cars) is that it is a full test of endurance. Endurance of the drivers through day, night, rain and wind; as well as the endurance of the cars. The cars must be shut off for pit stops there by testing the reliability of parts that are usually never tested in racing. Everyone and everything is put to the challenge.

The engineering has always amazed me, the little tricks of the trade that were figured out to score even an extra second in a 24 hour race. A little known fact that the reason Porsche's ignition has always been on the left side of the steering wheel was so that the driver could put the car in gear with his right hand while starting the engine with his left as the rules dictated it must be in neutral for a start. The speeds down the back stretch of the Mulsanne Straight(250 mph) were so high that the cars had to be significantly more advanced than most aircraft at the time.

While McQueen might be the human star of the race the real star was the Porsche 917, considered by most to be the most famous racing automobile in history. This car was designed for Porsche to dominate the endurance circuit and it did just that starting Porsche's stretch of 16 overall victories. The first time we see this beautiful girl in all her glory is with this song playing in the background, fighting with the blissful engine noise.

A few weeks ago I attended the American version of this race at Daytona, the Rolex 24 hours at Daytona, I try to attend every year and every year that I do I am spellbound by the event. The speed, the sounds, smells and insane amount of effort to cross the finish line a full day after you have begun. So far in my life I haven't lived vicariously through other people, I wanted to play pro hockey and I got to that level, I wanted to fly jets and I wear a set of wings on my leather jacket, because of this I think that there is a very solid chance of seeing a little American Flag on the roof of a Porsche with the name J. Kovalsky next to it within the next fifteen years. In the end life is too short to be left wondering what it could be like...

Make the jump to 4:00 for the song and a beautiful collection of scenes:

"Theme From the Endless Summer" The Sandals-Planet Surf

Rent, buy or queue up on Netflix a surfing movie. Find a movie that is modern and has a lot of interviews with surfers, maybe Step Into the Liquid, and listen to the way these guys speak. Listen to their tired act of speaking about being one with nature, the connection that only they feel and just how much soul these douche bags have, listen to them speak about themselves being some better type of creature who is more in tune with the planet because of what they do. Then pick up a surfing mag and look at the advertisements...a bunch of white kids who dress like they are from the ghetto trying to look hard out of the water while in the water hopping up and down, catching air and massacring a wave like some shitty corner artist tagging a mail box thinking they are going to be the next Basquiat. Then you can go down to the local break and on a flat day see over eighty people crammed into a lineup that is not even one hundred feet long. They will have all the gear, the new boards, the trunks, stickers on their cars, the racks and every other type of consumable product made to let the world know they surf. Ironically all this crap comes from some sweat shop in China, shipped here in large freighters that burn thousands of gallons of fuel a day to sell to these people who embrace a green way of living and The Surfrider Foundation. Then there are the older surfers who have sold out, whored their piece of the surfing world into cash so they can buy a massive homes at the Hollister Ranch all the while calling those who buy what they are selling kooks and walk amongst them with their noses in the air.

And the only problem I have with all of this is the hypocrisy and the incredible self love these people have in their cores.

Which is why even though I have been surfing since I can remember and literally grown up in the ocean I don't tell people I surf. It is also why the only times I ever make it out are when the conditions are either really big (there's nothing like a nasty, cold ten foot east coast day to drive away the masses) or when I can be assured that no one is in the lineup and there are no attitudes.

Admittedly I am not as good as I should be for someone who has surfed for thirty years, however there aren't too many great surfers who are six foot three and weight two hundred and fifty pounds. But I don't really care about that so much, maybe when I was twelve and I would watch Tommy Curren gracefully cutback I felt inadequate however at this point I remember one of the most classic lines from not only the greatest surf films ever but one of the best films ever "Been doing much surfing Matt?" "Nah (shakes his head), Nah, just when it's necessary"

So there are those days that come up a few times a year when the world is just the shitshow that it always is and I take the blinders off and realize it. On those days I don't need to put on my Arnette glasses, Billabong t-shirt, grab my sticker-ed up stick and hop in my car with Hawaiian print seat covers to throw on a leash and be seen and let the world know that I am a surfer. Rather I'll keep my khakis and button down on, grab a towel and throw my old ten foot Jacobs in the car with little fanfare. I'll collect some quarters from the ashtray (thankfully my car still has them) and buy a cake of wax, a cake because that is what I've always called them. And it will be Sex Wax in their old standby circle form, not some new brand that is made for water temperatures in three degree increments and one has to buy fifteen different bars. I'll change in a towel on the beach since my old home there is long gone and leave my khakis in the sand. No rash guard, wetsuit, not even surfing trunks but my PT shorts from the Navy and then I'll walk to the rocks and paddle out. Most of the times I'll take about three waves in an hour, walk up the beach and put the khakis back on, feel the sand trapped between my toes fall off as the pants come up to my waist, throw the button down on and not button any of the buttons, not rinse off or kick the sand off of my feet but let it scrape off on the floor of the car as I drive home with the salt crusted on my body.

And maybe in saying all this I sound like those soul-zen masters in some of the surfing films. But I don't think so because when I am back in the city I won't talk about the waves I caught that day to let the chicks know I surf or the guys enviously look in my direction. I'll go back to my apartment, one in which there is not one artifact of surf gear laying around and lay down in my bed to pass out quickly just as I did as a tan child in the back seat on the car ride home dreaming of surfing that inside bowl section and how it jacks up on the bar. There is not better feeling than falling asleep after that day in the surf, not after you sign a deal, not after you come, and I don't care what anyone says not better than the day you kids were born, there is just nothing better.

The movie The Endless Summer encompasses all of that and does so without arrogance or airs. This haunting theme as the sun sets over the water has always been ingrained in my mind and always will be and I'll indulge this one opportunity to speak of it and surfing in general because when it comes down to it, no one wants to hear you speak about the day your kids were born, that great orgasm you had the night prior or how you killed it on that deal you made...and they don't care about that drop knee turn you made through that fast section. No one really cares because no one really understands it the way you do, however this song is an insight.

"Sweet Dream Woman" Waylon Jennings-Good Hearted Woman

Best known to the average Joe as the narrator's voice in The Dukes of Hazzard, barely known from the days in which the above picture was taken as the bassist for Buddy Holly following the break up of The Crickets. Waylon Jennings eroded into a hairy, troubadour crafted by that eroded landscape of the American Southwest which he called home.

But one can look his story up on wiki just as anyone else.

Yesterday I drove out to see the parents, the night prior was frustrating in town, Bridge and Tunnel pricks on their constant quest to ruin the city for two days a week. I went out for a steak alone as all my other companions were busy with events of this second week in February. Every step along the way was an exercise in patience and civility and on the verge of explosion I went home. I threw the lights on down low and laid down in bed with my clothes on fully intent of heading out for one last drink before the night was over, merely a reprieve from the events before and waiting for the call from someone.

The call came around four in the morning while I was sound asleep.

I woke up early on Sunday and headed out, dealt with shitty drivers and traffic until I found myself on the couch watching the ProAm at Pebble with my father in the same position I have taken at said place for the past thirty three years. After a few hours it was time to head back in and take care of some business.

I have a new 16 gig nano and from the time I purchased it it has been on random. It is something I never really do since my other iPods have over sixteen thousand songs and I don't need to hear some of the very random tunes that are held on it. But on the nano, since it is limited to around three thousand there is nothing but the stuff I can listen to at any time.

I took the exit for the Holland Tunnel and cruised through the ramp at around ninety which for some reason I am always doing. As I pulled up to the first traffic light before the tunnel, the one where you can make a left and head into Hoboken I was sitting there staring out of the window with my mind totally blank and void, the music not even registering in my consciousness. That is until this tune came on, like an old friend who walks into the bar unexpectedly, it warmed my soul and loosened my jaw (which is the first symptom of stress for me), my heart rate slowed and goose bumps ran through my skin when Waylon in his deep timbre howled "Sweet Dream Woman, come and be a woman to me".

But the thoughts that raced through my mind were not some dimly lit room with a nude long haired temptress arching her back above me and kissing my neck, nor the sweetness of blue eyes laughing in the sun on a beach towel laid where the grass meets the sand. Rather it was a lone trucker pacing though I-10, my college buddy and his band traveling from gig to gig in a Prevost for the past two years without a home and myself sitting in the jet with the headphones on, the communications turned down on some J route headed back east on a Sunday after long weekend out west with a hangover and my survival gear suffocating my insides. It was the story of life and the cinema that is everyone's individual life. It is life that is that temptress, and just as all the other temptresses before they have all passed and are left as fodder for dreams. For now there was a temptress just on the other side of that tunnel, one that will leave me in a while and I'll be left searching for another on that lone highway.

Sam Cooke-One Night Stand: Sam Cooke Live at the Harlem Square Club 1963

When I began writing this post I initially was going to write it about the song "Cupid" but I forgot to single out the song on iTunes and the whole album started playing and I decided, for the first time to just write in general about an album or an artist and not a song specifically. Sam Cooke hearkens back to a simpler time of love, going steady, drive ins and that (well at least pretense) ideal of pure love. In reality the guys were still trying to get laid just as they do now and the women were pretending to not be interested in their advances and their assets.

But even in today's world there still always comes a time when that simple, beautiful, innocent type of love comes into someones heart. Whether it is there or not Sam is the man to belt out whatever you are feeling, to sing along and to just let them dang old words come spilling out of those lungs.

"Bring it on Home to Me", "Cupid", "Chain Gang", "Having a Party...the setlist is epic and I challenge anyone to put this album on while on the road and attempt to not sing along. You can't. It is too much. Outside of Springsteen Sam Cook is one of the only artist I have ever had the experience of putting on in a roomful of men and have had them bust out in a sing a long from the top of their lungs.

I remember the last time I had it on in the car. It was a rented Toyota Highlander and I was driving from Key West to Miami to see an old lover with little expectation of any hope of rekindling the old flame. Over the seven mile bridge I was screaming "All day long they work so hard 'till the sun is going down..." and while I was crossing through Key Largo "...everybody swinging, Sally's doing the twist now, and if you take request..." until I was on 95 south heading towards South Beach rocking "...sometimes I don't know how I stand the things that woman do to me..."

By the time I showed up at her door I was horse and barely able to speak. We had lunch at Carpaccio while I was attempting to keep my eyes on her and off the insane looking Euro trash roaming around the floor, trying to be the gentleman that I am, later on at the Delano while in the lobby there was a smooth house mix of jazz fusion being played by a saxophone I still had ole' Sam floating through my mind. Late night with the humid, sweet air wafting though the curtains of her flat we sat around on a pure white Corbusier couch until I broke the tension by throwing on "Twistin' The Night Away" and we broke out in dance.

Sam Cooke died under strange circumstances, and because of that incident there's somewhat of a black eye attached to his legacy but in my mind I know that his indictment was erroneous. I know this from when I hear him begin "It's All Right" with the sweet rambling "La la la la la la, oooh ooh ooh cha cha la la la fellows when someone tell you something about what your girl has done or what your wife has done I want you to remember one thing, don't go home on hitting on her and that stuff, go home and shake her wake her up, and when she wipe the sleep from her eyes tell her...It's alright, it's alright, it's alright believe me it's alright, believe me baby it's alright as long as I know, long as I know that you love me it's alright."

That's it right there, buy the album, embrace it, hear it, don't listen to it and savor the sweet harmonic ramblings of Sam Cooke live. Take that ole' girl by the waist and throw her around in a shuffle just as you know she wants you to do, kiss her on her neck and work your way up while singing any line, verse or song from this beautiful work, take in the smell of her hair and the smile she cracks when you sing it off key as Sam would never do and promise her you'll never part regardless of it is true or not for lies such as those are of the good kind and are always acceptable.