"The Line" Bruce Springsteen-The Ghost of Tom Joad

I find it amazing that they actually have this sign on the five in San Diego County. In today's overtly sensitive world, a world in which we give illegal aliens every benefit that Americans receive, I truly can't believe it, the first time I saw it I thought it was a joke.

But it is not.

I had an old buddy who used to fly helicopters out of North Island and when they had nothing else to do they would fly along the border and point drop cherry bombs down into the river and watch as the Mexicans freaked out thinking that they were being attacked by the Border Patrol. I guess karma is a bitch because that good friend is now at the bottom of the cold Pacific still trapped in his harness in water too deep to be reached by any Naval rescue submarine.

As for myself I am not for ridiculing a group of people who want nothing more than to live and work in freedom, to make a better life for themselves and their families. However like the millions who came before them there are appropriate ways to go about becoming an American citizen. Their efforts are noble but the ends do not justify the means. I am sure there are plenty who totally disagree with my logic, there are those like my lost friend who couldn't give a rat's ass and there are those somewhere in the middle of the debate. In debating it in my own consciousness I still haven't come to an answer that suits the humanitarian in me while placating the self preservationist.

Every song on the album "The Ghost of Tom Joad" brings up such questions, ones that probably will never be answered. The album illustrates some of the horrors of the migrant working class in America, from young boys smuggling heroin and prostituting themselves ("Balboa Park") to Tom Joad's famous speech to his mother ("The Ghost of Tom Joad") this album is not the fist pumping visceral Boss celebrating freedom and the lives of the wild and innocent. "The Line" is one of the most chilling songs I have had the pleasure of being miserable listening to, the Boss weaves together some of the most heartfelt human emotions in existence and plots them against each other to craft a story worth of Steinbeck in his purest traditions. In it the narrator:

Retires from the military.
Buries his wife.
Starts over again with a new career he is proud of.
Befriends his partner who by the way is Mexican.
Falls in love with a Mexican woman.
Attempts to smuggle her into the country.
Finds the object of his affection's brother is smuggling drugs.
Confronted by his partner he thinks of killing him.
Loses his love.
Leaves his new job and is a drifter.
Spends his nights searching for his love.

All that in a song that is around five minutes long, God I wish I had the balls to steal his idea and write a true novel about the subject in the depth that it deserves. Time and time again Springsteen shows just why he is the greatest artist of the second half of the 20th century. His ability to condense vast subjects and tell their tales through the lives of average Americans knows no limits. Constantly he amazes us with his narrative skills, his perfect timing and beautiful musicianship. "The Line" never fails to choke me up and I can't count the times I have listened to this American version of a Greek Tragedy in a dark room over and over with a guitar on my lap singing alone in a voice on the verge of falling apart.

I'd like to think that if my friend knew of this song he would have hesitated and thought about the people he was throwing those cherry bombs at, I'd like to think that after listening to this we'd take that awful sign down from the side of the highway. I'd like to think that after this song we could all take time to understand how fortunate we have been in the crap shoot of life to be born in this country, a county that people risk their lives to get into if only to work as a landscaper for pennies a day. I know that Springsteen didn't know my friend but it is for him that he penned this song. He wrote it for those wading through rivers of pollution at this very moment, for the men working the line and have to live with the philosophical battle constantly waging war in their minds. Yea, he wrote it from a desk in a mansion in Rumson with millions in the bank; but he himself represents everything those people are risking their lives over. The opportunity to make something of one's self is more addictive and motivating than any drug in existence. The only other ideal people will risk everything for in this world is to love, to be loved and know it truly.

The fact that in this song both ideals are so expertly interwoven will never stop boggling my mind, outside of the craft the issues themselves will never let me cease listening to this tune in my dark room over and over on the verge of tears. In it he satisfies Joad's ghost and the voice of Steinbeck; he illustrates the ongoing struggle for a better life and he breaks your heart when the hopes and dreams of love and happiness are dashed in an instant on a made up line in one of the most desolate places in the land of bounty and plenty.

I got my discharge from Fort Irwin
took a place on the San Diego county line
felt funny bein' a civilian again
it'd been some time
my wife had died a year ago
I was still tryin' to find my way back whole
went to work for the INS on the line
With the California Border Patrol

Bobby Ramirez was a ten-year veteran
We became friends
his family was from Guanajuato
so the job it was different for him
He said' "They risk death in the deserts and mountains"
pay all they got to the smugglers rings,
we send 'em home and they come right back again
Carl, hunger is a powerful thing."

Well I was good at doin' what I was told
kept my uniform pressed and clean
at night I chased their shadows
through the arroyos and ravines
drug runners, farmers with their families,
young women with little children by their sides
come night we'd wait out in the canyons
and try to keep 'em from crossin' the line

Well the first time that I saw her
she was in the holdin' pen
Our eyes met and she looked away
then she looked back again
her hair was black as coal
her eyes reminded me of what I'd lost
she had a young child cryin' in her arms
and I asked, "Senora, is there anything I can do"

There's a bar in Tijuana
where me and Bobby drink alongside
the same people we'd sent back the day before
we met there she said her name was Louisa
she was from sonora and had just come north
we danced and I held her in my arms
and I knew what I would do
she said she had some family in Madera county
if she, her child and her younger brother could just get through

At night they come across the levy
in the searchlights dusty glow
we'd rush 'em in our Broncos
and force 'em back down into the river below
she climbed into my truck
she leaned towards me and we kissed
as we drove her brothers shirt slipped open
and I saw the tape across his chest

We were just about on the highway
when Bobby's jeep come up in the dust on my right
I pulled over and let my engine run
and stepped out into his lights
I felt myself movin'
felt my gun restin' 'neath my hand
we stood there starin' at each other
as off through the arroyo she ran

Bobby Ramirez he never said nothin'
6 months later I left the line
I drifted to the central valley
and took what work I could find
at night I searched the local bars
and the migrant towns
Lookin' for my Louisa
with the black hair fallin' down

"Livingston's Gone to Texas" Jimmy Buffett-Living and Dying in 3/4 Time

One of the biggest problems I've had in my life and I assume it has been a big problem for a great deal of people, is not that I can't find something to do with my life but rather I have far too many occupations and pastimes I want to pursue. So far I've had two careers in my thirty years and am constantly wondering just how to squeeze the other ten into the next fifty. Besides for working the Oil Rigs in the North Sea, CIA case officer, Presidente of a small South American country and writing the great American novel I have always wanted to be a cowboy.

I assume we all wanted to be one at some time in our lives however I actually had the opportunity and didn't seize it, probably one of the biggest regrets in my life to date. A friend whom I played hockey with in college, a friend who owned a horse ranch in the western plains of Saskatchewan asked me one summer to head our with him and work the range. He'd teach me how to rope, ride; I'd have my own set of spurs, white Stetson, Charlie Dunn boots and a constant lip of Copenhagen. I probably would have developed that Duke Wayne swagger and a constant pensive look on my face as tan and tough as saddle leather. At the time I just couldn't picture spending more than a few months away from the ocean which was always my first love and I turned the offer down.

Who knows if I ever would have come back, and maybe right now I'd be walking back to my home in the snow where a pretty little petite Canadian woman was keeping the fire warm and my boys were skating on the pond waiting for their old man to return to show them the ropes with a little two on one action in my old Bauers before they hit the rack while Bernadette and I laid under bear skin pelts making more Gordie Howes.

Instead I am laying in my bed with Mondrain and Lichtenstein paintings on the walls, Tom Ford's best in the closet and Le Courbusier chairs in the living room a block off of Central Park after two hours of Vinyasa Yoga. Bernadette's pale skin and makeup-less homemaker face is supplanted by an intense professional woman's scent lingering on my sheets next to a nightstand with a cell phone and two Blackberrys. In no way am I complaining but there is and will always be a part of me that knows I would be much happier out there in the elements, instead my Porsche there'd be real horsepower under my legs and my white Stetson wouldn't just be collecting dust in a cramped NY closet.

Whenever that part of me arises I throw this old favorite tune on and think about what could have been. Jimmy Bufffett is a punchline anymore. A man who at one time chased a single woman around for over a decade and dedicated every album to her (he would eventually land her), a man who lived a life of real pirates, drinkers, writers and cowboys has now been changed into a brand name; a fantasy for a bunch of beyond middle aged stiffs he would have never looked at twice thirty years ago. However, the sad whore-like person he has become should not belittle his first few albums, the only true music that the man has ever made. The albums: A White Sport Coat and Pink Crustacean, Living and Dying in 3/4 Time, and A1A represent the foundation for county/folk/beach escapism music that would eventually get bastardized into the junk Kenny Chesney floods the market with. I return to those three albums every once in a while and remind myself of the beauty old Jimbo used to put out before he sold his soul for another billion dollars.

Combine both my longing to be a cowboy and his early uncanny sound and you can see why "Livingston's Gone to Texas" is one of my favorite Buffett songs. The lyrics are heartfelt and supposedly about a friend who ran off to do just what I am always thinking about. The strings mush up the arrangement a little but the slippery pedal and simple acoustic guitar and piano bring it all back in. When the percussion changes at the line They said he learned to be a cowboy, they said he learned to rope and ride... it hits me straight and right there I always resign to stop whatever I am doing and hop on a Greyhound straight for Van Horn.

And if you have no desire to buy that ticket and head out west with me in the near future check out the three albums mentioned, they are what made the brand what it is well before sold out shows at Fenway Park and chain restaurants at Disney World. These albums (just like the cover of one) are a man in cut off jeans sitting under a palm tree drinking a Michelob in his own little paradise fantasy world and throwing them on is your own vacation to the Old Anchor Inn at 208 Duval, sadly it is long gone.

"Who Are You" Tom Waits-Bone Machine

One night I was sitting at a bar alone in San Diego, the bartender there was a ravenous brunette with f-holes tattooed on her back which she always showed off with a sheen backless sun dress that magically complemented her gorgeous tan. Our playful flirtations contributed to my nightly returns, seconded only to the eccentric selections that were available on the juke box. That particular night I put a twenty in and settled in for the long haul of solitude, the majority of the songs being sung by San Diego's own native son. Another man at the short end of the bar eventually grew tired of my selection and made it known to the bartender (who blew him off, turned and raised an eyebrow to me) and to the walls who were the only other occupants of the establishment. As I walked over to the man sitting there drinking sea breezes no less with his hat on the bar (strike three) I made it known to him that if he had something to say about my music he should take it up with the man who put it on. As usual it didn't come to blows and the man left seconds later, leaving me to revel in Tom and dreams of my lips tracing those f-holes.

I guess that man didn't know Tom Waits spent his early years in Chula Vista and worked the door at The Heritage nightclub in San Diego. He probably didn't know about how after the Coast Guard he migrated up to LA and got his start at the famous Troubadour where Damien Rice, Lenny Bruce, Bette Midler, Leo Kottke, James Taylor, Bruce Springsteen, The Pointer Sisters, Liza Minnelli, Sheryl Crow, Karla Bonoff, Al Stewart, George Carlin, Tom Waits, Pavement, Rickie Lee Jones, Ramblin' Jack Elliot and Arlo Guthrie, Elton John, Linda Ronstadt, Hoyt Axton, The Eagles, Bob Dylan, The Byrds, Joni Mitchell and Neil Diamond all got their early starts. He probably didn't know either about this ballad which was playing in the background when I walked over in confrontation, a ballad of an album which would win him a Grammy, an album also featuring the great Keith Richards.

And it is his loss. Life is never a black and white set of rules and responses but I hold some make or break commandments one of which being I'll never respect a man who doesn't like Tom Waits. In scope and depth very few compare, in daring and originality he has no peer and in dedication to the craft of music and the encapsulation of emotions others struggle to escape his shadow.

Like Dylan I can't decipher the lyrics and I don't try. I view each verse as its own volume of a great masterpiece. One cannot analyze each line of a Jackson Pollock (in case you were curious the main art behind the title of this blog is my favorite Pollock) and shouldn't; one would never as Miles Davis why he hits each note. Rather music of such craftsmanship can only be analyzed in the soul, initial reactions that trigger the synapses and construct those old scenes from the past on the screen of your mind. From the opening note on your first virginal hearing of this song it is as familiar as an old t shirt, you know the song before you have ever heard it and continue on in a deja vu dream of raspyness.

For me this song plunges out of an old record player with cigarette smoke wafting from the revolutions, a lamentation of youthful love conjured up by visions of carnivals and boardwalk games made by a man on the end of his rope. There is a .45 waiting with a chambered round, other times a slow death from sclerosis after days of shakes and walking from cold showers over butts and glass on a filthy tiled floor. Then there are times when the sun is shinning, my malaise is in regression and I'm back on the beach in Coronado and the narrator is in the dunes off Ocean Ave making love to his muse as the sun sets across the Pacific below Point Loma.

If only that man stayed that night and let his mind ramble, if only my f-hole darling came across the bar one time and we set out for Mexico on my Bonneville. If only we took the risk we'd have a more convincing answer when questioned Who Are You?

"Gomorrah" Jerry Garcia Band-How Sweet It Is

I was always the type that never fit in with the Dead's whole scene, at least on the surface. I scoffed at the Deadheads and their culture and never took it seriously, always thought it was a carnival for druggies and losers. I thought that until one day in high school my best friend's brother and I did some landscaping in north Jersey and we started talking about music. He was a typical Head in appearance, beard and hemp...typical.

In our conversation on the drive up to the site he told me something that really blew my mind "John I've been to a bunch of shows and I have never been fucked up for any of them, why would I want to be numb to the music, the music is my high." He then played a few Dead covers of my favorite songs (El Paso, Big River, etc) and opened my life up to a world I never knew.

In the list of many people who have formed who I am today and made me the person I am John and Bobby are on the top of my list. There are my parents, teachers and coaches, lovers and teammates but these two guys opened my mind to the Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia and everything their beautiful music encompasses.

What I learned is that Jerry wasn't about drugs, it wasn't about counter culture or any of that bullshit people believe it to be; it was always about making heartfelt American music. Music that will stand the test of time and will never be surpassed. It is Jerry jamming on the chromatic scale, his fragile voice stumbling through the lyrics; about a man who took the stage almost every night of the year for over thirty years in a black pair of sweats and a t-shit. A man who never made wincing faces with his bends or flashed his hand movements, a man who let his music do the talking.

While the Dead is truly an experience the Jerry Garcia Band was Jerry's music, he played what he wanted, the songs that inspired him in the way he thought it was meant to be played. Because of that you can witness and hear someone on the level of Bach, Gershwin and Miles in his purest form. To me there is nothing really better than listening...better yet experiencing a JGB bootleg.

Lucky for us we don't have to listen to the audio plugged into the soundboard on this song or album. "How Sweet It Is" was an album recorded live at The Warfield Theatre (Jerry's home base) in San Francisco in the height of Jerry's playing ability. "Gomorrah" is the pinnacle of this album. Of course I can tell you the story of how when Jerry died Bobby put on "Like A Road" (the last song on the album) for a day straight and holed himself up in his room or maybe about the sick solos in "That's What Love Will Make You Do" but for my money "Gomorrah" always takes the cake.

It tells the biblical story that we are all familiar with and rather than a Priest, Rabbi or Preacher laying it down we have Jerry and his sublime background singers lettin' us all know how it occurred. This song is the musical opera every jerk off seventies rocker dreamed of, it is epic in scope and chilling busting out through the speakers. There has never been a time when Jerry hits his solo that I have not dropped down and begged for more, if there is a God he was certainly giving Jerry cues and is probably copping licks up there in the sky off of the bearded man on the stage.

In its lyricism and melody "Gomorrah" is without equal. To take the place of John I will tell you that whatever preconceived notions of Jerry you have, the negative ones at least, buy this album and let it course through you veins. There is no way one will ever regret it, there is no way it could ever be equaled, and never any hope of it ever being surpassed. Jerry is just that good.

That's why whenever I need my religion I don't return to St. Pat's a few blocks away, rather I crank up the Bang and Olufsens and take a few shots from my own chalice, put my axe on my lap and pretend to lay down the fluttering, whimsical lines Jerry drops in this song and let my soul fly. I have never felt so pious and dedicated to such an ideal.

"A Whiter Shade of Pale" King Curtis-Live at Fillmore West

Sitting on the deck under the Southern Cross right now and not going to make an entry about that great, though overplayed song. King Curtis came up on random (probably because I played this tune entirely too much over the past week) and I felt the need to head back to reality and from my humble Costa Rican cabaña. "A Whiter Shade of Pale" might be one of the most famous songs ever, especially in the UK and Europe. I have loved it ever since I first heard that Bach inspired Hammond organ intro after Nick Nolte hits the play button in Life Lessons. Like Costello's "Allison" the paradox of the song is that it is so short you want more and more however it is that briefness that contributes to its attraction. This King Curtis version sans lyrics could go on for hours and hours, actually it has because I kept it on repeat for an entire day yesterday. I wish I didn't have to, I wish it was a solid forty-five minute opus, a battle between organ and sax.

Regardless of its elapsed time King Curtis lets you know (since most people don't know his name, the fact that he played for Buddy Holly as well as The Coasters and Aretha Franklin) why you should now remember his motherfuckingname. There's a ton of soul buried down in that frame and permating out of his skin and mouth in the form of sweat and notes.

The meaning of the lyrics of this song have been heavily debated for some time, I guess that is what happens when over 900 artist have covered it throughout the years. The standard is always mentioned: Drugs. However Keith Reid viehemtally denies any type of substance being the topic of the song, saying that it is simply a boy leaves girl story (...and maybe the reason why Scorsese used it in Life Lessons; watch it). Up until I read Keith's interview years ago I would have never thought this work could be about such a sober (literally) experience. It makes sense:

We skipped a light fandango,
Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor.
I was feeling kind of seasick,
But the crowd called out for more.
The room was humming harder,
As the ceiling flew away.
When we called out for another drink,
The waiter brought a tray.

And so it was that later,
As the miller told his tale,
That her face at first just ghostly,
Turned a whiter shade of pale.

She said there is no reason,
And the truth is plain to see
That I wandered through my playing cards,
And would not let her be
One of sixteen vestal virgins
Who were leaving for the coast.
And although my eyes were open,
They might just as well have been closed.

And so it was later,
As the miller told his tale,
That her face at first just ghostly,
Turned a whiter shade of pale.

The reason why I go into the lyrical side of this song when the version of topic has none is because if one heard King Curtis's first there would never be a doubt of what the topic was. The Sax brings to life a side not seen on Procol Harum's somewhat disconnected ditty, it brings in a gentleness rarely displayed in songs written about addiction or even drugs without the dragon.

"Sister Morphine", "Purple Haze", "White Rabbits", "China Cat Sunflower" "Fire and Rain", Sunday Morning Coming Down", "Ashes to Ashes", "Heroin", "The Needle and the Damage Done", "Dumb", "Life in the Fast Lane"....the list is endless, some might be fast and some depressingly slow; they all are legends of Rock but compare any of these to a song about a lost love and anyone could see there is no comparison between the two.

Usually music follows life, not just lyrically but in the harmony and tonality, more so in the latter. Just as love in life can never be truly captured with words this piece is a perfect example of how music can clear up any confusion about meanings and translations. The invention of music by our ancestors, whether they were whales mating or prehistoric man beating bones on rocks preceded our vocabulary for in-depth conversation. It should be no surprise that those emotions felt by our ancestors and still felt by us cannot be defined by strict rules and gramattical constraints.

"Peaches" The Stranglers

A good buddy of mine has been recommending the movie "Sexy Beast" for the past six months and like the ten movies per day that are usually mentioned to me I got it on Netflix, ripped it and it sat on my hard drive probably never to be viewed. I don't know why though because this particular friend is spot on with his suggestions most of the time and is a well versed man of letters. I guess I was just busy, rarely do I set aside the two hours to lay down and watch something on the boob tube, for the most part it just seems like a waste of time regardless of the redeeming values of the film. The other day I was bored and figured I'd throw it on in the background while I gambled online and was pleasantly surprised.

I was surprised to say the least because the film is nothing like I pictured it to be, there is really very little in the movie that would lead one to entitle it as it was named. As good as the film is and even if British-violent-cursing-crime flicks aren't your speed it must be watched for the opening scene, in which this song "Peaches" is played.

The Stranglers originated in the UK punk scene of the mid to late 70's but I would be hesitant to classify them as the same type of punk as the Sex Pistols, lacking the pure nihilistic venom spit out by the boys from London. I remember listening (well if you can call it that) to the Stranglers in eighth grade in a neighborhood back yard with Vision shoes, Tony Hawk board, breaking bones on a half pipe waiting for the late summer swells to roll into the east coast. I never really grasped them after that period of my young life, I liked being part of the scene and what it represented more than I like the scene itself and went back to the Stones.

But I am glad I rediscovered them through this movie and its hysterical opening scene. The song is access able for a punk song in the fact that it isn't terribly hard nor difficult to make out the words. It (like the scene in the movie) is comprised of a man's internal thoughts in the sunshine and checking out the trim walking along the beach. It has a typical but catchy baseline, the word play is light and laughable consisting of a basic talking of the lyrics with the remainder of the band cutting in and out of the verse. A particularly notable verse which has drawn controversy:

Will you take a look over there?
Where?
There
Is she trying to get out of that clitares
Liberation for women
That's what I preach
Preacher man (shouted by all)
Walking on the beaches looking at the peaches.

The word clitares often being mistaken for clitoris, the former being a French bathing suit but of course it was meant to be mistaken as such.

All in all a fantastically fun song to get stuck in one's head and a fantastic opening to a great movie. Many times on these pages I begin to rant about what I am thinking about when listening to these songs but in this instance I can't think of a better visual than the opening of "Sexy Beast" to coincide with the music. Check both it and the song out sometime soon, it'll be worth the two hours.

"Adagio from Concerto Grosso Op 6 No 8 in G Minor Christmas Concerto" Arcangelo Corelli

In this post there will be mention of heroin, sex, deserts, cars and any other pseudo idiom I revert to in bringing my point across about a certain song or artist. Because right now I am two bottles of an especially deep, tobacco-flavored red deep, am losing more money than I care to admit in the Asian markets and yet while listening to this particular piece I am not really thinking of it in any way. In fact, I have to remind myself to actually look at the screen every once in a while even if my fear of margin calls are vanquished by this beautifully hypnotic example of tonality.

Right now I am down three thousand, in two minutes I could be up ten grand. However just as markets can swing in minutes, even seconds; one's mood can be transformed by the one minute and fifty seven second Adagio. It will probably sound familiar to some, it was used in the film, an excellent film "Master and Commander" and since then has been used in a few others. The initial feel is that of sitting in church waiting for the Marriage Ceremony to begin (since I am a single, male, thirty one years old I have no idea what the name of that particular piece is but you know of which one I am referring), it sounds like that song. But in its entirety it is not that or any other wedding song. This song, especially the beautiful run that begins at 1:21, makes the song and to me it makes Corelli.

In those last thirty five seconds Corelli transitions from every other classical composer in their banality, standardization and general malaise then brings forward the reason why music was invented: To capture an emotion so complex that words would never suffice. Thirty five seconds to harness the horror of a battlefield hours after the fight, thirty five seconds to lower as casket into the grave in some shady grove in the rolling hills of West Virginia. Thirty five to describe a baby exiting the womb and taking its first breath, a graduation ceremony, two people strolling by the reservoir in Central Park, a craftsman in Shanghai constructing hand made shoes and waves breaking through the lighthouse of the Normandy Coast. Listen to this song and make your own images, I guarantee you they will all fit, all of them. And think about that for a second, how universal such an idea is....that is the definition of great classical music.

It is all there, and the most judicious course of action I could ever grant one is to cease with the hyperbole and let the reader draw his own conclusions. As stated before words are quite inadequate to explain such precision and pulchritude.

"Angel Eyes" Frank Sinatra-80th Live in Concert

There's a famously funny SNL sketch with Phil Hartman playing Sinatra hosting a parody of John Mclaughlin's The Mclaughlin Group. Anyone who has ever watched the show knows that John bluntly lays out about four issues each show and asks the panel of their opinions. On the SNL skit Frank is the moderator and proposes issues not of the political realm but those of which would concern him and his attitude on life. The third issue brought to the panel by Frank on this particular show is: "Rita Hayworth or Eva Gardner, Who would you rather nail?" to which Frank then qualifies by saying he would have to "excuse himself because he done 'em both". While funny and keeping within the lines of what the majority of the world thought and knew of Frank, the question and idea is in no way true to life.

What people do not know about Sinatra and his life is that Eva Gardner both ruined and made him the man he was famous for being. Sinatra left his first wife for Eva and from the start their relationship was tumultuous and rocky at best, his career began to falter and he found himself in a state of depression and alcoholism. While his wife was in Spain romancing a bullfighter Sinatra began to drink heavily and smoke over three packs of cigarettes a day, he was broke, living off his wife, his career was in total shambles. He made three attempts at suicide during this time.

With a lucky break in a role that was tailor made for him as Maggio (the story of how he landed it was immortalized in "The Godfather") in From Here to Eternity which lead to an Oscar, Sinatra clawed his way back to stardom. His singing changed from the teen idol he was before to a more introspective, forceful yet fragile persona and the rest is history, all because of Eva. Critics at the time said that his actual voice had literally changed from the drinking and smoking, that it possessed a gravitas and stoicism never seen before.

Though they would eventually divorce, later in his years Sinatra was known to say that Eva was the love of his life, every year he bought her flowers for her birthday and after her death delivered them to her grave until his own demise. "Angel Eyes" was Eva's song and the reason why he sounded so Goddamn soulful and depressed while singing it no matter how many times he had.

Written by Earl Brent and Matt Dennis this standard has been covered by all the great names in music at the time, Bill Henderson, Chet Baker, Don Ellis, Kenny Burrell, Pat Metheny, Sonny Stitt, Ella Fitzgerald, Hank Crawford, Earl Grant, Jim Hall, Wayne Shorter and Duke Ellington. Sinatra made it his own and filled those three minutes with years of pain, loss, rage and redemption. His phrasing is spot on, his voice a whisper on the verge of failing (it is said that without the invention of the microphone he would never have become a singer since he sung so quietly) while the piano comes in heavy drunkenness just as the mood calls for.

I'd like to think I'd walk into P.J. Clarke's one day and all the tourist would be gone, the smoking laws reversed after Bloomberg succumbed to lung cancer. It'd be late and raining, I'd sit down at that old bar, loosen my tie, order a scotch and light up a Camel nonfilter. I'd look to my right and Frank would be sitting down head in hands, elbows on the bar, not Frank the persona but the man, unknown and faceless. We'd have a nice long talk about the world and women. Possibly such an intervention would have inoculated me from the pain and suffering I would eventually experience in life. More likely than not his advice would have been not to avoid such crucibles but to embrace them with the hope that my own Angel Eyes was on the horizon and almost within reach. And if lost at least I'd have a song of my own to revert to for the remainder of my years.

"One Too Many Mornings" Jerry Jeff Walker-A Man Must Carry On

Written by Bob Dylan this song is the toned down, more reflective brother of "Sunday Morning Coming Down". Supposedly written for Dylan's ex girl Suze Rotolo I never thought it captured any feeling of solitude and loneliness until I heard this cover, Walker's raspy fragility exponentially more poignant than in its original form. I may listen to this song on a regular basis but it has been a long time since I heard it in the proper context:

I had just returned home after being away for about a month, before I left I was toeing the line of alcoholism with various slips into full bore destructive mode. For the month I was gone I wagoned up and felt pretty clean, when I came back I was determined not to toe it all again. However, the first night began with eight martinis followed by a twelve of Rolling Rock and two packs of reds. I woke up the next day, made a few phone calls to the enablers I hung with and popped open a bottle of scotch, one glass neat never hurt anyone. We took a ride to the store for some more sauce and after being in the car for not two minutes I rear ended someone. Solved the problem with some sweet talking and continued, on the way home I was pulled over in front of my house as I was about to pull into the driveway, with a stern warning I was released and saved once again from a DUI.

With the adrenaline of the event and the bulletproof ego building we headed back for some more of the brown and continued to rage. Ended up at a party and wandered off for a drive and a pack of cigarettes with my boss's wife. On the way home found a way to drive my other car through a few trees and shrubbery, bending two of the rims; pushed the car down the street back to the party. I had a flatbed come and pick the car up as well as give me and a buddy a ride home, we finished three glasses of scotch a piece with the driver while listening to David Allan Coe.

The next morning I arose in a foggy state, looked out the window and saw both of my modes of transportation wrecked, empty bottles in the kitchen and blood all over my sheets as well as crusted on the side of my body from the broken wine glass I spent the night with, the sun was cresting over the horizon as I looked out over the river and saw the southern haze begin to form for another Sunday of oppressive humidity. In my robe I sat on the balcony, sweating already at six in the morning, thick saliva forming in my mouth while the anxiety set in. This song was a friend patting me on the back saying not to worry about it all.

I know Jerry Jeff had more mornings like these than not and as much as we all hate them it is something to revel in, to appreciate, because in the end without them there would never be songs like this. And in the end we would never know just how far that line is and the dangers of crossing over.

The stripped down guitar, the lonely echoing harmonica, Jerry's voice struggling "Up the streets start barking, the day's getting light, I just spent another lonely lonely restless night" the hesitant, subdued cheering after the solo (yea the crowd knows those mornings), it all comes together in an anthem dedicated to the times when you can't figure out just where you've been and where you'll be heading. It doesn't necessarily take bouts of depressive alcoholism to listen to this song, and if you are in one it doesn't really help to pull you from its grasp but it does make it much more enjoyable.

"J'ai Deux Amours" Madeleine Peyroux-Careless Love

From seventh grade to senior year of college I took French classes and one of the most disappointing things I can say about my life is that I still have very little idea of just how the hell to speak it. Two years ago in Rio I managed to converse a bit with a beauty on the beach since she spoke only Portuguese and French but in retrospect I think she liked me and I could have spoken English and achieved the same result. There was a time in Curacao when I embarrassed myself with two French stewardesses, another in St. Maarten with a cab driver, once in Montreal with a waiter until I finally ceased my attempts of conversing in any tongue other than my native one.

In America speaking poorly about the French is a national pastime, below football and baseball but above most else. There are a few banal reasons of why we embrace such a pastime but in the end I must say that I love the French. And what is not to like? They are rude, speak their minds, smoke, drink, live forever, care little of what others speak, stunning women with delicate accents, are stylish with ease, and for those who love to bring up the fact that they are pussies there is always Légion Etrangère who has been kicking ass since their inception in 1831. In addition, while much of their music is terribly kitsch the fraction of it that is not flows into the veins and warms one's soul.

Translated literally as "Two Loves Have I" this French masterpiece written by Vincent Scotto in the early twentieth century is my favorite song sung in the French language. The singer is lamenting over her two loves, her country and Paris. Madeleine's voice is a fairytale, the orchestration sublime, the stroking brushes, fluttering piano, accompanying guitar all embrace with a kiss on each cheek and introduce one to three hour work days and five hour lunches.

I am in a bathtub in L'Hôtel Raphaël smoking a cigarette with a glass of Bordeaux, the only thing illuminating the room a candle that has melted across the black and white hexagonal tiled floor with my Citroën DS parked on the street below. Apres I will return to the streets for more coffee and Steak Frites in a grey perfectly tailored short suit, black square sunglasses, red cashmere scarf with the fallen leaves crunching under my Berlutis, a fabulous blond avec wavy blond hair and blood red lipstick hanging onto my arm. Or on the streets of New York at Le Bilboquet with the owner and a few of his friends who for this day are some of my own drinking red wine by the case with not a minute gone by sans cigarette smoke wafting through the air as horns blast and suits stumble out of the Post House across the street. Until I am back again in my Citroën driving on the D1098 along the coast eastbound with Hélène sitting shotgun, the sun shinning on her Hermès scarf protecting her hair from the warm southern wind blowing in through the window until we stop at an overlook and swim naked in the Med as we watch the ferry barely visible on the horizon make way for Corsica.

When I picture these scenes I suddenly don't care that I can't decipher every word in this song nor the fact that I wasted nine years of schooling for a language I still can't quite grasp. Because even without the linguistic skills I know what Madeleine is crooning about, and I know that the education I have received over the years in such scenes is terribly more important than what the present perfect form of the verb être is. One of these days I will finish off my education of the French language in the proper classroom, one filled with the proper romance such a beautiful language demands. When I do I will return to my college professor who constantly gave me D minuses (even though he found a case of Champagne outside his office every semester) and cry: Vous ne savez pas la signification de la France! But I'll leave you to your own Francophile dreams and draw up your own personal translations, if you are looking for THE Rosetta Stone I suggest the '98 Chateau Ausone.

On dit qu'au dela des mers
La-bas sous le ciel clair
Il existe une cite
Au sejour enchante
Et sous les grands arbres noirs
Chaque soir
Vers elle s'en va tout mon espoir

J'ai deux amours
Mon pays et Paris
Par eux toujours
Mon coeur est ravi
Manhattan est belle
Mais a quoi bon le nier
Ce qui m'ensorcelle
C'est Paris, c'est Paris tout entier

Le voir un jour
C'est mon reve joli
J'ai deux amours
Mon pays et Paris

Manhattan est belle
Mais a quoi bon le nier
Ce qui m'ensorcelle
C'est Paris, c'est Paris tout entier

Le voir un jour
C'est mon reve joli
J'ai deux amours
Mon pays et Paris

"Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner" Warren Zevon-Excitable Boy

In Sitges, Spain there is a drinking hole called The Dubliner Bar owned by an ex mercenary named David Lindell. One of the regular acts at The Dubliner Bar in the mid-seventies was an expatriated American who fled the states for a lack of money and a career on the road to nowhere. That young man was Warren Zevon and with Lindell they wrote an improbable song that typifies Zevon's surreal approach to songwriting.

I adore the imagery in this song, and Zevon's singing style gives the feel of proclamation to every verse uttered. The locations: Mombasa, Biafra, Johnnesburg, hints of a life encompassed by sweaty, unsavory men engaging in the dirty acts of killing for money. It is no coincidence that all three locations at one time where British principalities and this song has a definite British feel to it. The background singers "Time, time, time, for another peaceful war" would be just as comfortable singing a Schweppes advertisement.

The story itself is something out of Old World legends. It speaks of Roland leaving Denmark for Africa:

"Through '66 and 7, they fought the Congo war
With their fingers on their triggers, knee deep in gore"

Because of his adept skill with the Thompson Gun Roland was a marked man by the CIA who contracted one of his mates to execute Roland and his head was blown off. For the remainder of the song Roland searches the world headless looking to avenge his murder.

"Roland searched the continent for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa, in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun, he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body from there to Johannesburg"

Imagine what that scene was like! "Mombassa, in a barroom drinking gin" Must have been the bar scene from Star Wars. Every time I hear that verse it brings chills to my spine, there have been a few places I've frequented in the Middle East and Asia in which I was the only person who was even close to white drinking at the bar. As scary as it could be, at times it was terribly intoxicating and exciting. One time in a bad section of Singapore alone I stumbled into an actual opium den, another incident in the land of Al Khalifa where I was padded down before I could gain entrance. Hearing this song always makes me want to go back and leave the banality of Manhattan behind.

Some say that Roland is the personification of the United States of America, some say Zevon simply copped the story from "The Headless Horseman". Possibly it is a reference to the 18th century Chief of the Paladins named Roland under Charlemagne and maybe still Roland is the spirit that rolls through the IRA, PLO, SLA (since Parry Hearst is mentioned), Venceremos, Red River Rebellion, Air Tigers and thousands more who have created anarchy and chaos around the world.

Regardless of the meanings and references I think it is such a fun song to sing in the shower, like a military anthem it leads to sticking out one's chest and swinging a bent arm across the stomach while yelling the verse in staccato phrasing. You don't need range or any vocal talent just a little imagination and those tight cymbals rolling through your veins. I'd be willing to put money when Executive Outcomes tore through Angola at least half of those men had this song in their heads.

"Someone To Watch Over Me" Keith Jarrett-The Melody at Night, With You

There was a time in my life when I would come home from work and put this album on, then sit around and wait for someone to come home. I did it everyday for a few years and it never got old, always exciting as if it was the first time; a blind date. Eventually, like most everything else, I came home and put the same music on but knew that she wasn't coming home ever again. I knew of this Gershwin tune for some time but never heard it in earnest until one night at The Big Four in San Francisco, it was raining, it was midnight, and she was perfect; for some reason the Gods decided to give me something I would never forget both in the music and in her.

That was over five years ago and if it was fifty it would still be something I will never forget for the rest of my life. It doesn't belittle any relationships I've had since then, nor the one I have now. What it does mean is that there are points in one's life which are almost perfect until music completes them perfectly. And if you think back about all those nights in your life of which you will never forget it isn't the main attraction that is remembered. It is the tilt of a head, the crook of the mouth, the arch of a back and the hands in yours; the texture, dampness and fragility so unlike anything you've ever know.

Keith Jarrett's music personified retains such magnificent traits. He began with Art Blakey and Miles Davis until he found his own chops and walked out into the world in full. Since then his music has been both focused and intense as well as sporadic and rambling. He is a terrible performer, he'll cease playing for any disruption, walk off the stage if the piano falls out of tune and refuse to record if the setting is not perfect. But when one possesses such skill they cannot be faulted for their idiosyncrasies, like an old Italian sports car and fiery women you put up with all the bullshit for just as taste of their perfection, overjoyed to be in their light and prescience.

I have never heard anyone so conscious of each and every note, without just one flat this song would lose its appeal, take out Keith's moaning, ever so audible in the background and it would lose all its soul. Whether or not you know the words to this ballad is of no consequence, you need not have them committed to memory. But what you can commit to memory are those casual glances, tilts of the heads and arching of backs because every one of them is what you live for, the smells of the street after the rain, and how she looked at you when it was all over.

The other night I had such an experience, one which overwrote all those that came before it, erasing that night in San Francisco and leaving its own scar in my mind. Whatever becomes of that night, if one day I put the music on without her or in her presence is the nature of humanity. Thankfully such humans have the ability to record its musical parallels for posterity and when such memories fade I will always have this song in its clarity on vinyl to joggle my mind of such beautiful events.

"Teddy Bears' Picnic" Jerry Garcia & David Grisman-Not For Kids Only

I bet you never knew Jerry Garcia released a children's album. It must be hard to sell a children's album when your entire personality revolves around hard acid and heroin, tie that in with the fact that you look like a child molesting-Santa Claus and Jerry Garcia had a lot to contend with when he released this album; not for the people who really knew him. Captain Trips was less free-baser backstage than a hyper-intelligent-down home shaman of pure Americana. Vastly more proficient at banjo and acoustic guitar than anything he put out on stage electrically; he was a total enigma operating in realms in which the only traits that carried him through were a passionate lust for music and inhuman proficiency on every instrument he touched.

Because of this it was no surprise to me when this album was released, it was also of no surprise when after hearing it I fell in love instantly. Only someone as gifted as Jerry could make a 250lb hockey player take breaks from lifting, drinking and dipping to figure out the solos on a children's album. The wholehearted giddiness exuded reminds one of Blake's "Songs of Innocence and Experience" This song is "The Tyger" and "The Chimney Sweeper" it is what we lose when we grow pubes and get jobs.

Forgetting about the meanings and 18th century poetry implications for a moment: Listen to the clarinet weave in and out of the banjo and trombone as a child running through fields of lilies naked, hear Jerry's voice fragile, raspy with Marlboro Reds, the strange Uncle whom everyone adores and always has chocolate in his pocket, feel Grisman's mandolin skipping into the forefront during the solo over chalk murals on the sidewalk under a azure summer sky. In this frame of reference you can picture Jerry and Mr. Rogers jamming on his front porch with cardigans on, Big Bird bobbing his head up and down in the background.

It is a terribly cute song and for those who don't know Jerry it is an introduction to why so many people loved him like a father. Don't write me off as naive, but for most Deadheads it wasn't the drugs and the scene they loved about the man, it was the purity in his soul which held such attraction. Like everyman he had his faults, like all great men he kept them inside and smiled as much as humanly possible never letting the world know. For a few days those demons chasing Jerry took a break and let the man revert back to childhood dreams and pleasures, they were probably even swaying their heads back and forth, watching with smiles on their faces over his shoulder.

"She Thinks I Still Care" Elvis Presley-Moody Blue

Elvis Presley, the world knows the name. There was the young sex symbol, the cheesy movies, the Army, the over the top suits, the drugs, strange sexual and emotional problems...we think we all know the man and everything about him. Below those various facades there is a much more accomplished and multi-faceted individual than the world could ever comprehend and it is evident in this Dickey Lee cover which was made famous by George Jones, recorded on Elvis's final studio album

Elvis's voice is probably one of the most amazing gifts ever bestowed on someone in the history of music. Defying classification, his voice was both a baritone and a tenor, it covered an astounding two octaves and a third, it was almost two separate voices kept in reserve when he needed them. Elvis could hit full high G's and A's in a simple ballad, a range that is usually reserved for opera singers. He was also described as having perfect pitch, as well as the ability to hear a song once and play it flawlessly on piano.

Being from Tennessee his first love was Gospel and Country music and I believe he is at his finest in performing the genres. "You Gave Me a Mountain", "Kentucky Rain", "You Don't Know Me" and "How Great Thou Art" provide one with bone chilling high notes and intensity that sweats out his pores and onto the stage. In these songs it isn't just the voice that comes to the surface, it is the young man who grew up in a 12x12 house in the antiquated south, every man who had a story to tell but not the pipes to tell it with. It is the voice of a man who throughout the course of his life had extreme difficulty forming and keeping intimate relationships and that of one of the few people in history vast fame isolated into a sad and lonely world. He was no different than Jesus or Roman Emperors, he was truly so successful and so famous that it remained impossible for him to possess even the simplest pleasures the common man enjoys on his worst days. Luckily for him and for us is that when his times were darkest he reverted back to music to bathe in their heeling waters.

"She Thinks I Still Care" along with "I Wish I Was Blind" is the saddest love song you could ever hear on a jukebox at two in the morning. It is the saddest song you could ever hear on the radio in your car, in bed, in the shower...it is sadder than the long walk to the electric chair. Check out the bridge at 1:45 into the song:

Well if she's happy thinkin' I still need her
Then let that silly notion bring her cheer
Oh how could she ever be so foolish
Tell me where would she get Lord such an idea

With Blues and Soul steroids the King knocks these softball lines out of the park, beyond the bleachers and into the streets leaving fans fighting for remnants of the twisted Latin alphabet. Every step Priscilla took leaving Graceland is evident in those notes, they're alive on his sash, lighting up the rhinestones on his white jumpsuit.

In today's world we love to be different for different's sake, something always has to be new, edgy...hipsters base their entire lives on such a premise. In this world it is easy to overlook the basics, to opt for the American-Fusion instead of the porterhouse, the apple-tini over the scotch and to pass over Elvis because we picture him dancing in front of a cheap screen on the beach in G.I. Blues. Make no mistake about it, Elvis and this song are the bedrock that every musician laid their foundations atop of to build their own structures.

If you ever visit Graceland and stroll through the racquetball courts you'll see the upright piano he played on hours before his death, people say the last song he played was "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" which is also on this album. I bet the King knew it was time to take care of business and give those pipes back to his creator.

"I'm Still Waiting" Bob Marley and the Wailers-Various

When writing a blog about songs that aren't well know it is somewhat difficult to do something on Bob Marley, the man who brought Reggae to everyone's attention. However his work went far beyond the pot-smoking-pseudo-rasta-college loser's collection. Bob laid down some slow grooves that are just too perfect for words, including this three minute track which would fit seamlessly into Sinatra's or The Beach Boys's repertoire.

Marvin Gaye has become the defacto, go to guy when people think of intimate music to come together to...but come on, maybe for your first time. In such a circumstance I really don't need lyrics to tell me EXACTLY what and how I am supposed to engage myself. Marvin Gaye is the hardcore porn of music, this song is a Playboy spread done by Helmut Newton; it is what is not said that makes it sexy.

And from two overplayed men with overplayed ideas this song comes as a fresh lover, one who doesn't dress as suggestively but nonetheless when the clothes come off is sexier than you have ever imagined. The reverb on the vocals sound as though Bob is singing during a humid rain, the tight trumpets barely audible in the background provide the pulse of a heart gearing up in anticipation for something special while the background harmonies carry you off to a bed of clouds and roses. This song is the little black dress of sensuality.

It encapsulates the simple beauty and sexual tension which comprised many songs of the 50's and 60's when we were too shy to come out and say exactly what we were speaking about or the language of the blues which when translated could make 2 Live Crew blush. In this song Bob breaks the mold of himself and produces something (thankfully) that few have grabbed onto and made popular. Excuse me, but after listening to this song while writing I'm lighting the candles and making a phone call...

"Innocent When You Dream" Elvis Costell-Kojak Variety

Besides for Bob Dylan there probably hasn't been a more original artist in 20th century music than Tom Waits. His work has ranged from simply arranged piano and guitar ballads, to jungle beats, lullaby and German brass orchestrations. "Innocent When You Dream" appeared on the album Franks Wild Years, much of that music also appearing in a play of the same name in the late 80's. The sound produced on this album, this song in particular, stumbles out as though it is being played through an old Victrola, the instruments used are mind numbing and probably lead to 100% employment in the session musician's union, from the liner notes: drums, conga, percussion, maracas, marimba, orchestra bells, glockenspiel, sax, baritone horn, violin, tenor sax, piano, pump organ, accordion, Leslie bass pedals, cocktail piano, Optigan, guitar, rooster, piano, Farfisa, Mellotron, drums, conga and tambourine. Yup, one song. Waits's orginal version is brutal and harsh, it is twenty drunks shouting in a bar at three in the morning, a constant tension between chalkboard and fingernail. Because of this the beauty of the lyrics can get lost in a voice you can see with vapors and cigarette smoke.

Similarly Elvis Costello is quite unique, he set the cornerstone for the 80's sound, penned symphonies and has worked with people from Roy Orbison and Burt Bacharach to Emmylou Harris and his wife Diana Krall. I suggest purchasing the "Piano Jazz" album with Marian Mcpartland to comprehend fully the amount of knowledge and thought that goes into this man's work and the depth of his musical skill.

So it was no surprise when Costello donned his iconoclast hat again and headed down to Barbados to record a cover album of his favorite songs. On this album named after the convenience store across the street from the studio there is Grateful Dead, Springsteen, Little Richard, Howlin' Wolf, Randy Newman and Peggy Lee to name a few. In such a vast field of talented songwriters Waits's lyrics hold their own in a way rarely realized when he is singing them personally, maybe even more than "San Diego Serenade" his most poignant. In addition this song appears on the second disc which to me has always been much more interesting than the first. The reason being songs two through eleven were all arranged and sung as in the style of George Jones. I have never heard of a musician consciously attempting this and certainly never using George Jones as a template, but more should.

Unlike Waits's barroom sound, when sung by Costello the song takes on a whole different personality. A treaty has been signed in the cold war between voice and piano; the complexities erased with Bauhaus clarity and simplicity. In its new format of simple guitar and piano one can focus on the poetic lyricism and beautiful harmony of Costello and possibly himself as an overdub on another track. I say that because the best part of this song outside of the lyrics is the melodic background sung by someone who remains nameless in every edition of the liner notes.

Do not the four words Innocent when you dream hold so much promise, a terrible amount of forgiveness and childhood purity? What about the refrain?

And it’s such a sad old feeling
All of the fields are soft and green
And it’s memories that I’m stealing
But you're innocent when you dream, when you dream
You are innocent when you dream

It overpowers the three short verses that comprise the remainder of the song, there is no solo, there is no outro. The song is cathartic by default, a guilt enema, most of our dreams have died and sometimes we find ourselves too misanthropic for the long mind sex of bringing new ones to life; this song is a pheromone for new ones and the foreplay for their creation. Many people have a strong distaste for Costello's voice and singing style, I put money on those people recusing themselves from his trial after this gem.

"I Get Along Without You Very Well" Chet Baker-The Last Great Concert, My Favorite Songs Vol. 1&2

Chet Baker was the poster boy for the West Coast Jazz movement in the 50's, his devastatingly handsome good looks and overwhelmingly melodic smooth sound made him an easy target for such a title. In the truest sense of the word he was a musician, his skill at the ivories was only surpassed by his brass work and intimate voice, all of which one can hear on any of the over two hundred albums he produced. If you are asking why he produced so many albums, the reason is the junk. Half of Chet's life was everything one could ask for, the other half was a heroin infused hell that led him to prison sentences in Italy and being expelled from West Germany and England.

Later in life his good looks declined, giving him a cartoon-like living ghost appearance and after a savage beating at the hands of drug dealers he was left toothless which lead him to develop a new embouchure due to his dentures. The story is debated and some even say that there was no beating to begin with, his teeth simply fell out from all the heroin. Regardless, his life was in shambles while his playing and quality of music declined from otherworldly to downright poor.

In the mid seventies he staged an impressive comeback both as a vocalist and a trumpeteer. He spent most of his time in Europe playing with such greats as Jim Hall, Phil Markowitz, Jean-Louis Rassinfosse and Stan Getz the man whom he started his career and often times had a tumultuous relationship with. He would work with Elvis Costello on "Shipbuilding", Costello stating that Baker's "The Thrill is Gone" being the inspiration for his own work. For a while it appeared as if he was back and ready to regain his title.

At about 3:00 am on May 13, 1988, Baker was found dead on the street below his second-story room at the Prins Hendrik Hotel in Amsterdam, Netherlands, with serious wounds to his head. Heroin and cocaine were found in his hotel room and in his body. The death was ruled an accident and a sad finish to an absolute force in the Jazz world.

This song and this concert was one of his last and is not the best example of his work, it is a departure from my values to actually like it. The song possesses qualities I usually despise in Jazz, the biggest being STRINGS. I can't count the amount of albums these blasted things have ruined in the past. On Sinatra's albums alone the body count is far too high to speak of; and then the flutes......

But here, for this time and for this concert it works tremendously well. This song is a sad, beautiful epilogue to a war scarred life lived without apologies. Baker's voice sounds as if it is falling out of the second story window constantly, the strings and orchestra behind him provide the safety net that repeatedly keeps him from spiraling out into the abyss. At 4:24 after a piano and string interlude the trumpet reaches in and grabs your heart straight out of your body, you can forgive a man for crying to this.

"A man can be destroyed but not defeated." Few personified this line better than Chet Baker. While this final song caps an impressive, creative career it is not his best. It is not the stripped-down pure cool jazz he made in his prime and that is why it is so poignant and beautiful. When you listen to this song contemplate a wide-eyed boy from Yale, Oklahoma setting off for the West Coast with promise radiating from his pores, a meeting with Black Harry, various prisons, physical and professional ruin and yet he's still here playing with false teeth and leather skin. What is encompassed in this song is a life, for better or worse, lived, and lived without reservation nor hesitation. This song is resplendent in its sadness, I challenge one to have the courage to press play to it after a breakup. Do yourself a service and get into this man, if China White is better than this then there is no room left for heaven.

"Goin Down Slow" Duane Allman-Duane Allman: An Anthology

Like many of the greats Duane Allman died before his time in a freak accident, crushed by a lumber truck (not a peach truck as many believed, the "Eat a Peach" album by the Allmans in 1972 was not a reference to his death but merely one of Duane's quotes about Georgia and peace). Like those before him what he accomplished in his short years is much more impressive than the tragic way he died.

When you listen to Layla and hear that memorable opening riff...that was Duane Allman. Eric Clapton originally penned the song as a ballad until Duane stepped in and laid it down for the bloke. After hearing Duane provide lead guitar as a session musician Clapton was quoted as saying: "I remember hearing Wilson Pickett's 'Hey Jude' and just being astounded by the lead break at the end. ... I had to know who that was immediately — right now." I write this because as soon as one hears the name Allman their mind shifts into a world of hippies, bikers and the circus that the band has become in the last twenty years. If Duane was still around you can rest assured that this never would have happened, it would have remained true and uncompromising.

"Goin Down Slow" has been covered by everyone. Everyone. I would imagine that there is a version of Barry Manilow's floating around somewhere in the vaults. It has been done funky, fast and acoustic but like a cigar and scotch this song is never better than when it is done slow. Once Duane's version was recorded they should have ripped up the music and erased every musician's memory of how to play it. Everything else is just fluff and shit, worthless spittle thrown into the ether by mindless drones attempting to recreate a blues Pieta.

And there are so many reasons why. Could be the opening rambling piano lead-in setting up in minor the explosion of emotion and soul that could change James Brown's name to Tom. Maybe it is Duane's almost falsetto voice meandering through the terse lyrics of retrospection of a man on his deathbed. Others would say it is the brushes and slow high hat; bouncing, holding the guitar in check. But in reality it is the Les Paul that will leave you bleedin on the ground, raped by the blues.

There are two solos in this song including the outro, each of which hold their own validity and intensity, they build and destroy themselves during each interlude. The first one is very Garcia-like in the beginning, it rambles slowly, the important notes are the ones not being played. Duane had the skill to set Stevie Ray's fingers on fire but the soul and sense of timing to frame each note of this simple pentatonic scale in ways rarely exploited. The rambling ceases with some quick riffs and begins again until 3:49 when with a triple string-single fret tap and a few huge, holding, bends the intensity builds to stop. It is a massive solo and had it not been for the second, probably some of the most simply-complex blues every played.

In reality the second solo begins at 6:47 with Duane mouthing sounds "hmmmmm hmmm hmmm hmmmm hmmmmmmmmm" while bends break through in the background until 7:43 where Les Paul takes over again showing the power of six strings over two human vocal cords; the piano flutters and that slow, soft bouncer of the drums turns into an aboriginal head shrinking chant caught up in the voodoo beating out of Duane's fingers.

I think that this might be the best blues song ever written. It captures the desperation of staring the reaper in the face after a life not spent in a confessional. It is the moaning of the slaves in the field, the boss man staring you down through aviators and the cologne that is not yours on your woman's blouse. "Goin Down Slow" is everything you could ever ask for in a blues song and I'm not the only one who thinks so, who do you think made that lumber truck stop in the middle of its turn, leaving Duane dead at 25?

"Crazy as a Loon" John Prine-Fair and Square

I think we are all a sucker for one-liners whether they be a joke, a quote from a movie or a song. With music they can be so powerful they stamp an image in one's mind that can never be changed. Some of my favorites:

-"Lying out there like a killer in the sun, and I know it's late but we can make it if we run"
-"All it takes one itchy trigger, one more widow, one less white nigger",
-"Waking in the morning, to the feeling of your fingers on my skin, wiping out the traces of the people and the places that I've been"
-"I'll miss those nights in the bar with the girls all loaded like freights, and the pain in the morning comes as easy as it goes"

There's a myriad of them I sing to myself throughout the day, probably the coolest I've heard in a long time is:

"Back before I was a movie star, straight off of the farm, I had a picture of another man's wife tattooed on my arm"

Today tattoos are accessories, like women with dogs, Louie bags and belt buckles. It's a shame because tattoos are nothing to be proud of, nothing to show off. I often think that if you have a tattoo you don't regret then it wasn't administered in the proper setting nor with the proper mindset. Let me make it clear, they are not body art, they are not something you show off like art. Art is for walls, canvases, sculpture, video and song. Tatts should be Sailor Jerry style or prison-esque, they should be a woman's name, a drunk night or something similar. It is the fact that they are not cool which makes them cool. The next time I see some hipster with a star tattoo or a sparrow (look up their meaning if you don't know) I'm gonna rip the fucking thing off their pale, hairless, skinny arm.

And with that tatt line I introduce John Prine just in case you never heard of him. You might know the song "Angel from Montgomery" which was covered by Bonnie Rait and my favorite, Elaine Petty down at the Florabama out on Perdido Key. John came to fame back in the early 70's with his first album entitled "John Prine" after which Kris Kristofferson said "He writes songs so good we'll have to break his thumbs". The music was a mix of country and folk and like so many before him he was declared the next Bob Dylan. Later Dylan was quoted (in pure Dylan mindfuck) as saying:

"Prine's stuff is pure Proustian existentialism. Midwestern mindtrips to the nth degree. And he writes beautiful songs. I remember when Kris Kristofferson first brought him on the scene. All that stuff about "Sam Stone," the soldier junkie daddy, and "Donald and Lydia," where people make love from ten miles away. Nobody but Prine could write like that."

"Crazy as a Loon" is somewhat of a departure from his usual writing, because it is some of his latest work there is much more experience and wisdom in his lyrics and melodies. It is a retrospective piece, not necessarily autobiographical, where the voice recalls his prior lives much like (albeit much cheesier) Buffett's "Last Mango in Paris" about Captain Tony and his saloon in Key West. The syllables don't match but the lyrics are almost haiku in their purity and simplicity.

"So I gathered up my savy, bought myself a business suit,
headed up to New York City where a man can make some loot,
I got hired Monday morning, downsized that afternoon,
Overcome with grief that evening, now I'm crazy as a loon."

After lives in LA, Nashville and Manhattan the narrator comes to the conclusion of moving up to Canada and living off the land with nature. It is every working stiffs dream, the ultimate middle finger to the straight world and a final goodbye to the bullshit, stress and craziness that we deal with everyday.

When I come home after a long day in the rat race, a bad night with the woman and nothing is flowing I might do an hour of yoga, maybe a glass of cab or a stiff scotch. In reality, nothing loosens up those knots in my neck more than settling up to the old wooden mistress for my own personal set list which always includes this gem from Illinois's finest. If you're ever in Gulfport, Florida, roam around the bars of St. Pete Beach where he does pop in sets at a local bar, you just might see the man in the flesh with ten of your new best friends.

"If I say I Love You" Loston Harris-Timeless

There's a lot of negatives that come with living in Manhattan, yesterday I went to the store to pick up a can of Pledge, six Calla Lilies and a two litre of Pepsi for 58 dollars. Every morning I wake up to traffic, jackhammers and horns, every night I rarely see a sunset; the weather is terrible, %75 of the year it's either too hot or too cold. But the positives outweigh all of that, fashion, culture, beautiful (although somewhat combative) women, museums and some of the best restaurants in the world. To tip the scale further in the positive direction is the fact that when I am finished writing this I can walk ten blocks north (which I will) and see Loston Harris live in a space more intimate than most of my neighbor's bathrooms.

In looking at my latest couple songs I feel a need to chill out a bit and throw in something a little more mellow, this is the song. This song is happy, jazzy, shallow and sans gravitas (can you mix languages like that? I don't think you can). Loston's voice is terribly chill and mellow, it is as if he's talking to the microphone. The song swings a bit, the piano is sublime but the real star on this track in my mind is the trumpet that fills in the gaps. At 1:14 into the solo starts off in full with Marcus Parsley and Loston trading off grove until the vocals slide back into the fold like a pair of velvet tux shoes.

You can find the album on Loston's website: http://www.lostonharris.com/music/. The price of $21 is a little steep for a CD but between this song and the sultry "Anytime, Anyday. Anywhere" is well worth the admission. Or think of it this way, to see him live there is a $25 cover and the martini (you can never have just one) will set you back another $20. Granted you don't get the atmosphere which is usually a mixture of UES skeletons, a few tourist who have no business there and the obligatory Russian Pro at the bar alone, but Loston is probably not leaving his venue anytime soon for a significant period so it'll just have to do until you head uptown for a sniff.

"Sniper" Harry Chapin-Sniper and Other Love Songs

On August 1, 1966 at 11:48 in the morning Charles Whitman took his first shot from The University of Texas at Austin Clocktower. Earlier in the morning he murdered his mother and wife leaving a note that read:

"I imagine it appears that I brutally killed both of my loved ones. I was only trying to do a quick thorough job...If my life insurance policy is valid please pay off my debts...donate the rest anonymously to a mental health foundation. Maybe research can prevent further tragedies of this type"

Charles would eventually murder 14 people and injure 32 more before his life was taken by Sheriffs. His entire life was marked by mental problems, addiction and abuse.

Usually when musicians and artists indulge in political dialogue and encompass it into their work it reeks of stupidity and hypocrisy. I love CSN but in their political ramblings I always think of a fat, gluttonous, heroin addicted David Crosby sailing on his restored wooden yacht through the waters of Mexico. The only person who is and never was inflicted by this disease was Harry Chapin, who was not only a brilliant songwriter but a humanitarian. Harry gave everything away, one third of his concert proceeds went to charities, and even though he married a New York socialite, upon his death they were close to penniless; his widow saying:

"Harry was supporting 17 relatives, 14 associations, seven foundations and 82 charities. Harry wasn't interested in saving money. He always said, 'Money is for people,' so he gave it away."

Harry didn't die choking on his own vomit or OD'ing on junk, booze or crank; he wasn't shot by a jaded lover nor falling out of a hotel window after ripping walls apart. He was crushed and burned to death in his 1975 Volkswagen Rabbit on the FDR by a tractor trailer at age 38.

The music he left behind is a testament to emotional songwriting "Cats in the Cradle" and "Taxi" possess a sensitivity and Epictetus-like stoicism. In "Sniper" those traits are evident but they are combined with a rage rarely seen before in his performances. In this ten minute long song comprised of no less than twelve different chord progressions Harry lets loose the rage and horror of a man who senselessly murdered people in cold blood. I have always thought of it as two songs combined into one, there is the chronological narrative about the events of the day mixed in between introspective thoughts of the Sniper and those who he has known throughout his life. The narrative voice builds in intensity during those ten minutes while the thoughts serve as a conduit for reigning the escalation back into control.

The song is blunt and straightforward in its ugliness, verses such as:

"The first words he spoke took the town by surprise.
One got Mrs. Gibbons above her right eye.
It blew her through the window wedged her against the door.
Reality poured from her face, staining the floor"

Convey a true sense of not only the horror of the day but through their simplicity give a lucid display of what exactly happens when one is shot. The bullet destroys everything in its path.

This song is not a top down drive into the sun tune, nor a gin swizzling sitting at the bar night of misery anthem. This song is Dostoevsky or Bolano, you have to give it the respect and attention it deserves; if you engage it the piece will reward you in ways you never thought music could. So throw it on, it will be ten minutes of contemplation you'll thank yourself for, when it's over, throw on "Taxi" again as an aperitif to a Thomas Keller-like music experience.

"Bring it on Home to Me" Van Morrison-It's Too Late to Stop Now: Live

I was a little hesitant to post this one because if you don't know this Sam Cooke song then there is absolutely no hope for you in regards to music, you can bet some 'ole Sam is going to be on this page very soon. Also, no matter how great of a job Van does here on this track it can never compare to Sam's entrancing version. BUT Van comes pretty close in this song just under five minutes long, I would say he lays it down as his life depends on it but it is obvious that music is much more important than life itself.

People think they know Van Morrison, they know the big ones: "Moondance", Brown-eyed Girl", and probably know "Into the Mystic" because it has been whored out to every Julia Roberts-type romantic film in the past two decades. Bullshit. Here's the real Van:

Born in Northern Ireland digging old Blues, Soul and Skiffle, did Them, did Brown-eyed Girl, moved to Boston and lost everything, spent his time playing small gigs, discovered again by Warner Brothers...Astral Weeks, Moondance, Tupelo Honey, Saint Dominic's Preview and legend status. Not bad for a drunk kid from Northern Ireland with stage fright (seriously, which is why he sings live most of the time with his eyes closed) even though he is the master of probably every instrument that can be played. If you don't believe me check out the liner notes to one of his albums. Van Morrison: Lead Vocals, Guitar, Piano, Saxophone....endless.

Van's songwriting ability is on par with the greats but just as some of the Dead's best songs are Dylan covers, it is in "Bring it on Home to Me" that we can really hear the voracious growl alive in that fat four hundred pound frame of his. There really is no way to describe in words how powerful, fuck you inyourface his sound is while still keeping an intimate, shallow persona somewhere under all that diesel. Van's voice isn't a Chevelle with straight pipes, nor a locomotive running through West Texas or the Concorde scraping the sky. It is all those things at the same time.

The song itself is bare bones, no need for ketchup when you have fillet, fuck Phil Spector, who is he? Some asshole who should be in prison. There is a John Platania guitar behind the beef, quick riffs filling in the gaps, there's a fantastic Jack Schroer sax solo...how do I know it's Schroer? Because right before he begins Van wakes him up by screaming "JACK!" Combine that with a fluttery piano background that sounds as if it was coming out of an old Western Saloon and you have the melody.

The Voice, well there's Van playing with words like he has been known to do on stage:

"I gave you all themoneyIhadinthebank"
"If you ever change your mindwa"
"Leavin-a me behinda"

But more importantly like many in the Blues and Soul genres, each song is a oration by a preacher. It begins almost spoken until it becomes time to testify and testify comes a happening bringing down all the fire and brimstone-soul fused groove down from the Gods. Van is a fucking God, there is no doubt since "and if you EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVER CHAAAAAANGGGGE YOUR MIIIIIINNNNNNDDA" could never come out of a mortal's voice box. In those words there's the hurt of every blown relationship in the world and the desperation of those whose lives have been destroyed by someone, there's Van passed out in a turkey bar up in Southie and Sam Cooke dead on the floor of the Hacienda Motel.

If you're one of the above mentioned, put the picture of that lost one in a place you can stare at it for awhile and throw this song on repeat, Go ahead and sing the song, no wait, scream this song just as Van has been doing for decades and dig down deep to find it. Down there is where that hurt is living and tearing away at your soul, once you let that sonofabitch out and into the ether it will be gone forever, Van is a modern day exorcist and that baritone has cured more than any crucifix or holy water ever has; he's four hundred pounds of sweaty, boozed soaked musical piety and his temple is open each and every day, "Bring it on Home to Me" is the Ave Maria of the cannon.