Off to Sea Once More-Traditional

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lazybones" Jerry Garcia Band-Live Bootleg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Amarillo By Morning" George Strait

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now I swing a sledge Hammer onaHARAILroaDGAng

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Djobi Djoba" Gipsy Kings-Gipsy Kings Live

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gypsy" Fleetwood Mac-Mirage

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

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

As a man I can't answer that objectively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sweet Dream Woman" Waylon Jennings-Good Hearted Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

"Stormy Weather" Etta James-At Last!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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