"The New Kid in Town" The Eagles-Live in Melborne

The Eagles, the definitive California band...with only one member being from California (Sacramento which we all know is not Cali), the remainder hailing from Detroit, Gilmer Texas and Wichita Kansas. I never really took to these boys, yea they had great harmonies, yea some catchy songs especially when Glen was living with Jackson Browne but for some reason they were vanilla, nothing special.

However the reason I write about this song is not because no one has never heard of "The New Kid in Town" even though it is not one of most popular. I write about this song because it, and the Eagles came to me when I really needed them most. It not only pulled me through a tough time but it solidified a group of people together and gave them something we will never forget. That is the power of music, how it cuts through the fecal matter we carry around on a daily basis and taps past the stanky excrement into our souls and the true people we are past the facades. Among that group all that ever has to be muttered is "The Eagles" and we all know what the point is, never has two words meant so much.

It was my first time out to sea for an extended period of time, I was leaving my most valuable possession at home, alone. She was lost and shaken, frightfully young, an animal taken from her native environment and placed in a strange town, strange state, strange coast and now the only thing she had to depend on was leaving for two full months. We were taking the carrier down to the Caribbean under the ruse of finding "Narco Terrorist" but in reality we were showing Chavez that we could make him a nervous man in a just a few days time. In reality the Admiral just wanted two months in the sun and port stops in St. Maarten and Antigua.

I left knowing, in that part of the brain we never listen to, that when I returned she would be gone. She would be there but never again look at me with those eyes again. I remember leaving her at the door, putting my gear in the car, running back up the stairs and saying goodbye again, and again and again.

We pulled into St. Maarten after about a month at sea. We rented a suite on the beach with a pool and a Tiki Bar. The first night I had Watch on the boat while all the boys enjoyed the sun, sand and strip clubs. I used the phone to have a long conversation with her that was dead, a struggle to find what to say because you knew you should say it but could never address the subject. It was lonely and as I laid in my narrow rack that night with my Wings of Gold hanging on the hook, the pressed dress whites longing over me I stared at the ceiling on the verge of tears until I passed out.

The next day I took the small boat to the beach and found all the boys by the pool, it was eleven in the morning and they were all hammered already. I went to the room and placed a call to an empty phone, walked down to the Tiki bar, the pool and the boys and dug in trying to let it all sweat out in the Caribbean sun. There was a skinny black girl tending bar, serving Rum Jumbie shots and flirting with everyone; there was a stack of concert DVDs under the TV, one of which was The Eagles Live in Melbourne. For the next four days the first disc of that concert was never shut off, not ever and this was the setlist:

"The Long Run" "New Kid in Town" "Wasted Time/Reprise" "Peaceful Easy Feeling" "I Can't Tell You Why" "One of These Nights" "One Day at a Time" "Lyin' Eyes" "The Boys of Summer" "In the City" "Already Gone" "Tequila Sunrise" "Love Will Keep Us Alive"
"No More Cloudy Days" "Hole in the World" "Take It to the Limit" "You Belong to the City" "Walk Away" "Sunset Grill"

I did some stupid things during that week, I swam across the mile and a half harbor drunk at midnight on a bet so I could feel like a man again, I bought a set of diamond earrings and a box of Cubans (don't smoke cigars), I played golf hammered in a button down, loafers and my uniform pants, I danced with the young black Kay behind the bar even though she reeked of body odor and was not attractive and roamed around the slums so drunk I was beggin to be robbed, lost thousands at the blackjack tables and worst of all called her every second I had trying to change her mind. The last day we drank until the last second expired to the Eagles and it was glorious. Everyone had a big time and even I was except for those few seconds when I wasn't drinking, smoking or wrastling with the boys, then she crept back in. On the way out I stole the DVD.

The next month contained sleepless nights and terrible depression, I lost twenty pounds and never ate. I jogged everyday in the hangar with a buddy who never tired at listening to me bitch and moan. I could never be alone and talked to every person I would see for extended periods of time to keep my mind occupied.

When we flew back to base all the wives were there dressed up like sluts (Standard Navy procedure), there were balloons and smiling faces, beer in the hangar and people clapping. I walked towards the hangar and saw her standing in the background shyly like she always was, dropped my bag and hugged her letting the shit fall from my mind. We arrived home, closed the door and just laid together for a while, we kissed and took our clothes off and didn't make love. A few days later she threw a surprise birthday party for me at a close friend's house and all the boys were there. She gave me a inflatable guitar signed in Sharpie: "Johnny one day it is going to be just you and me and the road. -Bruce Springsteen" She stayed for a few weeks and then took that long drive back to Cali, I went upstairs and cried, drank till I blacked out for two weeks and crashed a car. When she left she told me she'd be back.

I took a Navy jet out there to see her one week and stayed in her house and her bed, we laid around every night listening to the Pacific just out her window and smelled the salt air permeating the waving curtains. I played Torey with a great friend and when we finally left things between us were back to normal, she just needed some time.

A month later I flew out again and it was dead, the whole time there was a new kid in town and I had been pushed to the sidelines. I left her on the corner of Orange Avenue and drove to the base, it was the last time I ever saw her. We preflighted the jet and were ready to start it up until we found out we had no oxygen and had to wait for a new canister. Skipper and I sat on the tarmac of North Island looking towards Point Loma, he asked me if she and I had sex one last time. "No, it is over." He had three divorces under his belt and spent the next hour of waiting telling me about them and the self destruction that ensued every time in the most gentle tone I could ever imagine. He patted me on the back, we hopped in the jet and headed back to Florida.

After twenty seven years, with that NASNI ONE departure and wheels in the well, I finally became a man and left my innocence behind.

And with that The Eagles finally had meaning. It was two-fold, the glory of five days in a foreign country with your friends, each of which who were dealing with something in their personal lives (as it would come out years later) but just letting it all ride for the moment; it was lines such as

You're walking away and they're talking behind you
They will never forget you 'til somebody new comes along
Where you been lately? There's a new kid in town
Everybody loves him, don't they?
Now he's holding her, and you're still around

finally having meaning, not what you think or imagined they meant but what you experienced them as meaning; what you knew and felt they meant.

From those days on I always took that disc with me when I was on the road flying, on the carrier and in the middle of the Iraqi desert, it is in my DVD player in Manhattan constantly. When I was scared behind the boat at night it was always in my pocket, when we partied on foreign shores it was always with us and when we were miserable on the boat in a room with six groan men sharing the bottle of scotch we smuggled aboard all anyone ever had to say was "Man I just want some Eagles" and we all knew what he meant. He wanted the freedom of sun and rum, the release of earthly troubles and especially the liberation from women, we all wanted to be together feeling good one more time.

It is the crucible of pain that true friends are born and that week in St. Maarten my good friends became the type of friends I would want my wife to marry upon my death, the ones I could call in the middle of the night and ask for ten grand for a fake passport no questions asked, the ones whom I shared a level of connection rarely known to man and women, or man and woman.

I think of those days when I hear The Eagles, I think of that beautiful Southern California girl I left behind and the days we had on the beaches when we had that peaceful easy feeling until the new kid came to town. I think of how it could all be over in a New York minute and whether I am in the city or on the corner of Winslow Arizona that sometimes she can only be there for awhile but there will always be another tequila sunrise and a bunch of pretty maids in a row all waiting for me at that hotel California. But mostly I think about being born in the city and there is no one there to catch you when you fall, that is except for a bunch of boys and one DVD that caught me when I was hanging off the edge, they let the young man fall and out of the Phoenix of the desert a new man arose already gone.

"Private Number" William Bell and Judy Clay-Boy Meets Girl

Desert Island Discs is one of the longest running programs in the history of radio, it first aired on January 29th 1942 on the BBC. Guests are asked to chose eight song selections (originally gramophone records), they are also given The Complete Works of Shakespeare and The Bible as well as one other book of their choosing. At the completion of the show they are asked to narrow down their song choices to one particular work. The list of guests is staggering, as one would expect from a show that has been around for sixty-eight years.

The idea presents a whole host of questions and tough decisions, however I would have to have some Motown, in particular this song. I can think of no genre of music I can listen to over and over that never loses its luster. I can think of no genre of music that one can listen to and derive meaning from whether you are skipping down the street or shuffling around a corner with your head held low with the blues. It fits every emotion, every scene of life and lets you know where the real motherfucking living is...if you don't dig it you are dead.

Most younger listeners will recognize the bass line from "Private Number" which has been sampled by Rappin 4 Tay and METAFORM, but in its original clothes this track is so much tighter and more layered. After you let is simmer for a while check your Bang Olufsens out, run a finger across the grill and you'll find that sweet soul grease dripping, use it to slick your hair back before you head out...it's the only product you'll ever need for that beautiful shine.

I. Love. Every. Second. Of this song. I love these two voices merging like the big brackish waters of the south. I love the visualization. I love the story, the fact a man goes away for a while and upon his return can't get a hold of his woman, thinking the worst he asks the woman what the problem is, the listener figuring just another story of love lost until Big, Black, Beautiful Judy comes in with her North Carolina Gospel pipes and croons:

I'm sorry you couldn't call me
When you got home
But other fellows kept on calling
While you were gone

So I had the number changed
But I'm not acting strange
Welcome home
Baby, nothing's wrong---so I'm SINGING...

BABY BABY BABY youcanhavemy prI-I-I-I-Ivate number! The bass is running, the strings are screaming in their falsetto harmonies, Judy is standing before an old stainless square microphone in a pink prom dress while Billy Bell is looking tight, trim and tenacious in a slick black suit with every button undone on his shirt, a deep crimson rose in da button hole; the horns are polished up erect in the background Da Da Da Da Da Da...DaDaDa.

If they put this song on in a bar on a Saturday night no one would go home alone and they would all feel great about it the next day, not only would they feel great she'd spend the morning dancing around in nothing but his button down and him in her robe screaming the refrain at the top of their lungs, then slide breakfast off the table and let loose right there. If they put this song on at the UN Israel would be dancing with Iran, Mugabe would open up the palace to the oppressed and North Korea would finally wonder what the hell the big deal is about the 38th Parallel.

I would be on an island alone after finally figuring out how to power my iPod with flotsam washed up on the beach. Using the logs I've pieced together to resemble one of the Shirelles I'd be dancing my ass off under the stars, the monkeys would be watching from the trees in amazement at just how far they have come over the years; not at the speakers, the iPod or the strange, hairless, weak monkey they see before them but rather that soul inspiring Goddamn refrain from the Gods. Suddenly the monolith would disappear from the background, its work done as the human race has reached its zenith.

"Corpus Christi Bay" Robert Earl Keen Jr.-A Bigger Piece of Sky

I just returned from an almost four thousand mile adventure through this great United States including one twenty hour straight stint averaging 80 mph through Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas and Tennessee. And while there was 93 Octane running through the flat six the real fuel for the road is music, I don't feel sheepish saying that it was one hell of a playlist. I discovered some songs I never knew and others I have totally forgotten about, songs that, to my amazement, stayed on the edge of my consciousness.

My brother is six years my junior and because of this there were times where we never really hung out and raged, we always got along well but when I was twenty one he was fifteen and not staying out till eight every morning like I was. Our relationship was a product of our time in life and unlike some of my friend's brothers we just never were that close in a friendship kinda light. Today we are pretty close however he lives on the opposite coast and it is rare when we can get together. The relationship I was always thinking about is displayed perfectly in "Corpus Christi Bay" and after a few listens you'll know exactly what I am talking about.

Robert Earl Keen Jr. is a songwriter for the ages, his persona, story and lyrical craftsmanship will see to it that he is known well beyond his death. Maybe I think this because the lifestyle he writes about is one I have embraced over the years. As per this song I have gotten stoned along a sea wall, rolled a car drunk, had a tab at every bar in various areas of the United States and threw a bunch of my ex-wives's shit into the ocean in forgetting about her and what we had.

But it is more than that, and this song is more than the exploits of a rig worker on the southeast coast of Texas. It is the bond of two men growing older through the years, the cyclical nature of life and making the same mistakes over and over again. Most importantly it illustrates, for better or worse a time in my life in which I had great friends but always wished there was someone there connected to me via blood. Someone whom no matter how fucked up I eventually became would be there unquestioningly on my side. In these character's lives I see myself in both of their experiences and my brother as well. Maybe we should write our own song (he is a far superior guitar player than myself), maybe one of these days if we are not too old we can rage around for a year or two, I certainly hope so.

And the summation of Robert Earl Keen Junior's message is that it is never too late and you are never too old. Dig into his catalogue and the messages of his songs, whether you are nineteen or fifty nine it is never too late to head out into that world and find contentment. Whether that is in another person or the bottom of the glass is not any of our business, and that is the business of this country, a business that has spurned such great, open, full throttle song writers as old Bobby Keen.

"Baby Baby All The Time" Diana Krall-All For You: A Dedication to the Nat King Cole Trio

One of my very best friends from college, Jules, taught me much about the guitar. As luck and hard work would have it he wound up being one of the founders and the rhythm guitarist of the band Rev Theory. Along with Dave and Rich they started the band and played the old Townhouse Thursday nights in Lawrence, Mass. I never really dug their music but I appreciated it and it is quite cool to know that the boys I called friends a long time ago topped the charts with their single "Hell Yea". This past summer I caught up with them on tour and was captivated by the entire scene, backstage and just seeing some good old friends. Rev Theory is probably the farthest thing away from Diana Krall but I do have a reason for bringing it all up.

One night in my apartment on campus Jules and I were listening to music, I was constantly trying to show him the way and the light, to ween him off of the hard stuff. To his credit he always listened. It was late, we were quite drunk and I remember listening to Clapton's "Hand Jive" and pointing out a few of my favorite parts both on the guitar and vocally; particularly a line where Clapton drags his voice at the end of a line into the next verse. Afterwards with sober clarity he said: "Dude you really listen to music, all of it man, you really listen to it." He was terribly serious and if I do say so myself enlightened. I didn't have anything enlightening to say except for "Yes I do, everything".

And I really do, there are no throw away notes nor any unimportant syllables, the artist sweated over every second for a reason and it deserves to be cherished and enjoyed. In "Baby Baby All The Time" the first two seconds could be all that one would ever need, and I have hit the back side of the iPod after 0.02 countless times. It is the most seductive, classiest, svelte and sexy two seconds of piano I have ever heard, and it is also the only thing I can play on the ivories.

As captivating as those two seconds are prudence dictates that I engage the remainder of the song, all remaining 3:33 are just as intoxicating. Diana Krall's smoky voice is one that has been the background to countless rendezvous and in retrospect it is unclear whether or not I was focusing on the task at hand or Diana in the back of my mind. Sadly Mr. Costello now has those honors but I can still have my dreams and her to myself as I do now late in the night in an empty New York apartment with a cold bed.

Until the next rendezvous it will have to suffice, it is more than a mere sufficient way to spend an evening alone. I'll continue to wait for Diana to come to her senses, for that smoky voice to roll over and gasp "Baby" in the morning, only to get out of bed to hit other notes on the piano. She hits them all, just like the intro her piano playing is flawlessly simple and perfect, her phrasing holds true and steady until her last gasp of "Time" thereby bookending three and a half minutes of sultry foreplay.

My fantasies notwithstanding this song is what we picture those we want singing in our absence or after it is all finally over. In that way I can at least picture Diana in her apartment blocks away laying in bed with her husband, her mind singing this tune in her head looking out of her window over towards my place with desperate longing. I don't have to picture it because I know it, just like I know each and every note of this and every song I ever write about or own. Details not only contain beauty, they are the beauty and if you are missing them you are missing the point. Which is why in writing this blog on a weekly basis I tend to overuse the words terse, clear, stripped and clean. In the deep layering of modern music I feel much gets lost in the fray. Unlike a painting in which you can stare at the details for hours up end, in music you have to grasp it as it is progressing along its 4/4 tempo; when fluff is added the true notes have a tendency disappear.

Both as a part of my unrequited love fantasy and in its musical purity of the jazz genre this song is one of the best and Diana Krall is in her best form on this album. I can only imagine the offspring her and Elvis will one day produce.

"Fallin' and Flyin'" Jeff Bridges-Crazy Heart

Though I enjoy film I despise actually going to the cinema, the filthy floors, that person constantly opening up a bag of gummy bears in my left ear, coughing, sneezing, whispering...it is all too much for me to bear. The other night I ended my seven year sabbatical from the theater and dove into Crazy Heart, I came out pleasantly satisfied.

Knowing that Jeff Bridges was the star and T-Bone Burnett was in charge of the music I should not have been surprised. T-Bone Burnett is one of those shadowy figures people not in the know have no idea of but those in it revere with the gravitas he deserves. The founder of DMZ Records has left his print on movies such as The Big Lebowski, Oh Brother Where Art Thou?, Cold Mountain, and The Ladykillers. He has produced and worked with Steve Earle, Robert Plant, K.D. Lang, Tony Bennett, Elvis Costello, Roy Orbison, Counting Crows and Warren Zevon. The iconoclastic zeitgeist of modern music adds to his resume with this song and the entire soundtrack of a movie based loosely on the lives of Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson and Merle Haggard.

The country and western music of Kris, Merle, Waylon, Willie and Johnny is a prosopopoeia of American blood running through the veins of the continent; culture capillaries invigorating a land founded on freedom and personal image creation. In the standard hypocrisy constantly displayed by the common NY/LA hipsters, where rap hip hop and pop is king and others genres are relics of a tired past such music is so often dismissed as the religion of a pious inbred congregation. With these beliefs they only illustrate the close-mindedness of self proclaimed prophets. If instead they actually drove through the fly-over states such offenders would grasp the essence of the openness and freedom that exists along the highways that connect the most beloved of the congregation, land and lives in which the inhabitants walk daily with a rope long enough to hang themselves with on a constant basis.

In their simplicity and terse construction all country deals with the most human of emotions; the elation of being on the ragged wild, loss, death and the self realization of fucking up and having no one to blame but yourself. Mistakes are not written off to parents and situations, both literal and figurative hangovers are embraced with Epictetus stoicism. From that crucible of self reliance the shrinks couch is supplanted by metal strings and thin wood bodies, the psyche is cleansed with four line verses, pedal steel guitars and a great refrain hook.

Jeff Bridges as Bad Blake embodies all these ideals in both their beauty and outright misery. The cliche of a country singer is somehow born anew in this film while still retaining the cliches that made it as such. This song is exactly the same, on the surface it could be written by a seven year old, but the more you hear it and let it run through the synapses of your own personal interstate you realize only through the experience of an old washed up man could such lines be born. If like me you despise the movies, suck it up and check this one out; then buy the soundtrack. Better yet buy the soundtrack and skip the movie, head out on the road with no destination and put the circulation of this land back in motion once again, it is long overdue for an Angioplasty.

"Old Love" Eric Clapton-Live in Hyde Park

I don't know where to begin with Eric Clapton. I have a friend here in New York who is one of EC's closest friends. Like Clapton himself he was an addict and it was Slowhand who convinced him to get clean. I have another friend who has a beautiful dobro that Clapton used back in the day which was won at auction for the "Crossroads" foundation in Antigua. A few years ago I remember renting his old house down there and playing guitar on his couch, one of the most sublime experiences of my life, in a sense trying to channel him with no avail. For the past twenty years he has dedicated his life to helping people who have fallen into the same trappings of life he has, drugs and alcohol; it is a noble cause to say the least that he has a peninsula of Antigua where people can come (free of charge) and try to get their lives back together.

Before that there is the man who stole his best friend's wife away from him. Layla was George Harrison's wife and Clapton had a tumultuous affair with her for many years, obviously the inspiration for the legendary song. There is the man who while so hooked on the junk had his friend give a concert with all the proceeds intending to send him to rehab, he would take the money and spend it on heroin. He sat in his house for many years doing nothing but airplane models and shooting up. I think one of the most hysterical and yet chilling things I have ever hear was Clapton in an interview saying that when he finally became clean in the later years of his life he was nervous about having sex because he had no idea what it was like, the prior thirty years he was too fucked up to remember and he was basically a virgin.

Having said all that, for better or worse he is one of the premier guitarist and song writers of our lives. Like every artist the pain and suffering of a life misspent, the depression, the jones-ing, the months forgotten, has led to a brilliance in craft the likes of which few people encapsulate in this world. I will never forget, as a young guitar player, that friend who owns his dobro saying that if you want to see what a blues guitar player should look like in technique, then look no further than Clapton. His mastery of the pentatonic scale is what guitarist's wet dreams are made of, his phrasing and ability to pull out the stings of one's heart are legendary and without equal.

I don't know the background of "Old Love" though it is safe to assume it was written for one of the many dysfunctional relationships he endured throughout his life. There are so many fantastic versions of this song, the Unplugged acoustic version, 24 Nights, his live recorded show at MSG with Bob Dylan and David Sanborn...all different versions of an amazing piece of music. However his version in front of eighty thousand people in Hyde Park is probably my favorite, if not for any reason other than he appears to blow out every amp on stage with the toe flick of a pedal in the middle of a solo.

The song itself is restrained and is played mostly in a minor key giving it a slow gravitas one would associate with the topic of a love gone by the wayside. It is painful, but the type of pain you had when pulling out a baby tooth, yea it hurts but it feels so goddamn good at the same time. Like the junk itself this song is a trapping, you know it is bad for you to indulge in old loves and thoughts of what could have been but it can be terrible seductive to contemplate such affairs. The lyrics are somewhat banal, and while this isn't a blues tune necessarily it still retains the form of the genre and in keeping with such...well most blues lyrics are quite simple. But like a pure blues tune it is the guitar playing that entices and intoxicates you, and it does true as the love of which you are lamenting.

And to get a little high with you and bring me back to my old more reckless days of my youth whenever I went off the reservation and started feeling sorry for the women who have passed by in my life I would always hit up this song. Years ago I mastered the acoustic version of this song and would sit back on the couch a bottle of Cutty Sark deep with a full ounce cut on the table, a Martin on my hip and just have at it. Today, like Clapton (though by saying this I am in now way putting myself on his same holy level) I look back on those times and remember the beautiful music that once came from my strings and also the next morning of nosebleeds, shakes and a heart that felt as though it was ripping out of my chest.

This is not Cream though and this song is not a drug ditty by any means, it is the beatituderific repine of something that hurts much more than waking up in a shoddy room with stains of the mattress, it is the regret of someone who will never pass by again. Like the blues itself, even in this somewhat pop-esque form, "Old Love" comprises the hurt and sorrow of laying in bed and thinking of her not being in yours, being between the sheets spooning with someone else while you are alone. It is seeing your high school girl on the street battered up and weathered when you wanted to remember her as an annual of the spring, ripe and full of promise. If there ever was a way to capture such emotions Clapton brings them to life when he blows out a couple thousand amps with one switch of a pedal in the cold London rain.

"Going the Distance" Bill Conti-Rocky Soundtrack

I read an interview with Sly where he said he wished he stopped after "Rocky" and then thirty years later made "Rocky Balboa", I don't believe a truer statement has ever been made. While that might seem like an over exaggeration, if you knew me you would know just how strongly I feel about the Italian Stallion's first installment, and how strongly I think the second through fifth are a total waste of time. Few movies have capture the essence of "Heart" as perfectly, few movies bring me to tears without fault on every viewing. It has everything, it is life itself encapsulated. There's the love story of two social rejects, there's the redemption of an old man trying to grasp some portion of his dream before dying, the illustration of just how important luck can be in a man's life...and how to be ready to capitalize on it when it calls.

The movie itself was an underdog, no one wanted to produce it, the financing was minimal, most of the extras were friends and family of Stallone. Sly gets a bum rap but it amazes me that the person we think of him as wrote such a marvelous screenplay. If this movie was a novel it would be up there as a work of American art, the dialogue is precise, the subplots succinct. It is my personal belief that Rocky (the character) himself is a modern philosopher. Every line that comes out of his mouth is pure and true, it resonates without malice and is flooded with goodwill.
To model oneself after Rocky's life in the film would lead to a life of virtue and personal contentment, trust me and watch the film closely the next time it is on.

But this blog is about music and I'll try not to digress. Bill Conti's score is a masterpiece, it translates the writer's intent with surgical precision and gave birth to one of the most recognized songs in history in "Gonna Fly Now". The training montage, often so copied, was introduced here with full intensity, the slow walks through the dark Philadelphia night, the night before the fight with Rocky in the ring alone; all these scenes would be worthless sans Conti's scene stealing score.

In the film the song begins a montage displaying the war that professional boxing used to be before it was corrupted. It starts at the end of the second round when the viewer and Creed realize that Rock is not going down easy. Scenes of various rounds progress with trumpets and subtle guitar riffs interjecting the sounds of grunts and blows, the trumpets escalate and violins come in strong until Rocky, badly beaten in the next to last round gets knocked to the mat with a huge right hook. Rock is down, Micky is yelling to stay down, the music rises rises again, Adrian walks into the area for the first time and turns away while Rocky is crawling around on the canvas, the camera flashes back to a close up of her concerned face while a slick bass run comes in on the track. Rocky arises, Creed turns around after jumping up and down with raised arms and has a look of disbelief on his battered face. The music slows, the violins and horns come back in full volume and Rock delivers a multitude of body blows to end the round.

A long time ago in my garage I used to hit the bag with this tune in my head, years later I would run on the beach with it as a training partner. Every time there was nothing left inside there was always some place I could dig down and find some more juice, it was this song. This 106 Octane-Amino Acid-Protein infused-Steroid always helped me work through the stitches and the lactic acid when my VO2 Max was sky high and the knees where giving way. Take heed what I wrote here and then throw it on next time you are at the gym and be fully confident you can go the distance.

"Meanest Woman" Pinetop Perkins-Ladies Woman

Goddamn I love the blues, and when it is the right fast tempo, boogie blues of which this song falls under. I bought this album on Beale Street down in Memphis, home of The King, B.B. King and a whole other host of kings of music. I walked into the store and this song was playing, there was a huge black woman behind the counter getting down and her and I shagged right there in the middle of the floor with everyone watching. Before you repel in disgust know that someone of that size is not really my type and that Carolina Shag is not a movie you borrowed from a buddy in college, it is a dance.

However it is the beauty of this type of music in which a white dude from the Northeast can get down with a greasy ole southern woman spontaneously in some random music store. There aren't too many things I dig about the south but music like this and their good old time let's cut a rug in the middle of the street attitude is definitely one of those things. For those who are uninitiated when one heads south of the Mason Dixon line things get a little stuffier in some aspects while at the same time loosen up in others, one of them being dancing. Not the type of dancing where a Middle Eastern dude with a Louis Vuitton print shirt, tons of gold and Versace sunglasses on at four in the morning, hopped up on blow is grinding his hard on into your ass (or so I've heard from female customers of various clubs here in Manhattan) for hours upon end without invitation. I'm a talking 'bout hey sugar you are looking sweet tonight, as I offer her a hand and we get down in an innocent manner with a whole ton of sexual tension shoved deep down inside in the proper southern way.

Down there I remember dancing for hours with friend's girls to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and songs just like this, other times they were my own. It was an awakening to me because everywhere I have ever lived up until that point dancing was pretty much overtly sexual grinding. My vote is save the grinding for when the clothes are off when one can really get down to business, leave the real dancing to the liquid, fluttering sound of the piano on this song, the catchy guitar riffs and the three hundred pound sweaty woman singing along side for the dance and then go home to some Barry White or Curtis Mayfield...maybe even some slow John Lee Hooker.

We always have an prevalence to categorize songs and dancing like this as innocent acts from a bygone ear. As for myself I half heartily agree, what I'm talking about here is the foreplay for a very interesting night. There would be no excitement for Christmas if you didn't stay up all night the evening prior, no humorous punchline if the straight lines weren't set up, and no four in the morning-hot sweaty southern nights that take your breath away and add years to your life if there weren't songs and dancing like this. Let's try to leave dancing to dancing, kick out that Middle Eastern douche bag and just have fun, the remainder of the night will eventually fall into place.

Next time, if ever, you are down in Memphis take a meander down to Beale Street, yea it is a little cheesy and a little whored out, but skip the clubs and hit up the little music store where I purchased this CD, you'll find it, and while you are at it head down to Savannah, Tuscaloosa and yes even La Grange...there's some good ole, fine timing music down there with some loose women when you get them in the right frame of mind, I am confident you'll find yourself satisfied even if you wake up the next day in your hotel room alone after dancing the night away with someone who can play linebacker for the Vols.

"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.