"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.

"Ay Te Dejo en San Antonio" Los Lobos-...And a Time to Dance

I don't speak a lick of Spanish so I have no idea what they are saying in this song. I guess I could have looked it up on Google but I prefer to just listen to the music and dig the feeling, the sights and sounds I think of when I lay back and drink down an ice cold Imperial.

I guess of thought of this song because in a few weeks I'll be taking a drive out west, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Utah; some of my favorite places in the world. The most wide, epic and forbidden places in this great country. I am heading out there with a great friend in a Kerouacian-Thompson type road trip to explore the land and ourselves.

This song came to my attention in the movie "Fandango" and early Kevin Costner film about four friends and a college road trip in the time of the Vietnam War. Not many people have seen the film but it is a pearl, and the ending is beautiful on a lot of different levels.

I am not quite sure what I'll find out there but every trip I make such as this I find something, and while I am not going on a visit to see Dom (watch the movie), the experience and meaning remains the same.

"That Look You Give That Guy" Eels-Hombre Lobo

A few weeks ago I met a woman for a drink at Daniel. This woman I had met a few weeks earlier, exchanged numbers and said we'd get together. As is usually the case in Manhattan something always pops up with me, then something popped up with her and time elapsed. However, she called me and said we'd do it this week for sure. That we'd meet at Daniel. I love Daniel, I love how it intimidates people and hence keeps away the riff raff, I love the ceilings that they couldn't change when they remodeled the interior because they were protected by law. I love the French staff, the revolving doors you have to walk through to get in, the fact that it was the old Mayfair hotel and the nights of pure debauchery that must have been spent there. I love that it is two blocks away from my home and how if you are the right person (as I guess I am) you can sit at the bar in jeans and a t shirt and not draw stray looks.

But I don't love it when a woman wants to go there for a first meeting. Daniel is expensive. It is well known. And when a woman first meets you and asks to go there she is either: Used to playing in a league where men make my salary in a day OR just a total money chasing tart. I don't think there is any other in betweens...at least for a first date.

It was only drinks so it wasn't going to run too pricey and she was attractive enough that the suits at the bar would be envious so I said why not. I threw on my favorite jacket, a pair of Berluti monk strap shoes I had just shined, greasy old jeans soiled from working on the Porsche and made my way to blocks up to 65th and Park.

When you walk into Daniel you are accosted with smiling faces of the staff behind which is always suspicion. Meandering over to the bar where an empty seat stood on the south side I heard a Hotel Costes track come through the speakers. I ordered a Sapphire up with a twist as I do and have on every spot on the globe no matter how remote and Francois produced a fine one to say the least. Staring at the lights behind the bar and an old wasp at the far end with too much Chanel on this Eels song came on.

Immediately I dispensed it as hipster trash. But like the gin flowing through my veins warming my soul on this cold night the sounds made their way into my ear boring a hole into my brain and meshing with the alcohol in the soul. I loved it. The simple lyrics better than the Dark Lady sequence of a Shakespeare sonnet. The one track electric guitar standing in civil disobedience to everything Phil Spector proclaimed. This song's lyrics remind me of Springsteen's "I Wish I Was Blind" in their lamentation and despair and Springsteen is of course a Titian master.

Everything blended into a slow motion haze even when a glance at the steps reveled her, smiling and proudly strutting towards the bar. An open seat on my right she put her bag down and leaned over to kiss me as I stood and buttoned my jacket. She was bundled up in fur and a white dress that hugged her hips and made a silhouette "S" up to little saucers, a thin nape exposed and dark hair that fell by the wayside carelessly. The song ended and we began talking. Another song began. And again another song, another drink until it was time to walk her home in the frigid Manhattan air to her place a block away. Too long because of the cold, too short because I didn't expect an invite up.

And I never did and never will because it just wasn't there. I never wanted to be that guy for her and I knew that almost before I even agreed to show up in the first place. What a simple pleasure it was to watch her walk towards me with this track in the background setting the scene in an already beautiful place surrounded with all the visceral stimuli imaginable. A simple pleasure for some other guy to experience, to never let her down and tell her everything she ever imagined to hear those longs nights when she wasn't wasting her time with a man at Daniel and laid in bed wondering were that one really was.

"Quiet Village" Martin Denny-The Exotic Sounds of Martin Denny

This type of lounge music takes me to old Julius Shulman photographs of William and Lautner homes in Palm Springs and the San Fernando Valley where maybe after a round at La Quinta or a long cruise up Mullholland Drive you relax in an Eames Chair, put the Tom Collins down on the Saarinen coffee table, grab the misses by the waist and pull her down on top of you to mess up that Bouffant that has just came into fashion followed by a long nude dip in the pool the escape the dry California air. Those amazing early 60's styles of modernism. Think the sets in "2001", the Lever Building on Park Avenue. Think about a time that has now been popularized and obsessed over by the show "Mad Men". When men were still in charge and women didn't mind them having it, when Connery was still Bond, when we where going to the moon and the horizon was truly endless. An amazing time to live and an era that we will probably never see again.

But those days are long gone, if my I grab my secretary's ass I'll go to jail...or actually since he'll probably be a man he might like it. A three martini lunch will have me meeting with the HR director and some courses on alcoholism and sensitivity training. Smoking draws stares and disgusted faces and when I fly my motivation to flirt with stewardess, um flight attendants, is simply not there.

In turn I throw on Martin Denny when I am lounging around my bachelor pad and dream about long afternoons and late nights of martial infidelity that is accepted as common place, of garters being worn for function still as I unstrap each one while cigarette smoke wafts through the air. Present day ideals such as Political Correctness and Diversity disappear from my person canon and I slip back to shag carpeting and cars made of steel.

Was it a better world? Well there was no AIDS but there also wasn't any internet. There was no Islamic Terrorism but then again there was the Soviet Union and while there was no such thing HD TV and a few hundred sports channels there was old Yankee Stadium. I guess I just answered my question.


The house you see pictured was Frank Sinatra's in Palm Springs designed by E Stewart Williams and it can be rented for $2600 a night at the link below. I'll see you by the pool.

http://beaumondevillas.com/california/palm-springs/twin-palms/index.html

"Stormy Weather" Etta James-At Last!

The title track of this album is probably one of the most overplayed wedding songs of all time, maybe even the most overplayed love song of all time. Period. However I ran across this gem of a song, believe it or not, quite recently when I sat down to watch Tom Ford's A Single Man. A story about a gay man who is haunted by his lover's death of which he cannot openly grieve over, can't attend the funeral, can't do anything but attempt to deal with the passing days minute by minute. Julianne Moore plays his confidant who deals with her own personal problems by swilling heavy doses of booze and overdressing.

And while at times the film was a little, well, not really of interest to me the style of it was perfect and the acting was superb. The scene in which this song is played is in the home of Charley (Julianne Moore). George (Colin Firth) is fixing a drink and Charley throws on the record player. They break out in slow dance across the living room, the camera focused on mostly their faces. The pain in each of their countenance captured on celluloid and regurgitated on vinyl.

It is perfect. I often think that a song cannot exist without a scene to place it in, I would be surprised to meet a person who can't explain a scene for every song that runs around their head on a daily basis. If they exist I feel for them, if they don't grab what I am saying then maybe this can set the example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man on The Move....

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

"Winter Winds" Mumford & Sons-Sigh No More

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Augusta" Dave Loggins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mamma Told Johnny Not to Go Down Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"OL'55" Tom Waits- Closing Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When God Made Me" Neil Young-Prairie Wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"War" Edwin Starr-June 10th 1970 Single

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seven Year Ache" Rosanne Cash-Seven Year Ache

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

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

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

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

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

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

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