The Hit Lab

Obviously I'm into music and have been for a long time, and into it a lot more than most. However people always love to tell me that I need to broaden my horizons out beyond traditional Rock and Roll, Jazz, and all that standard kinda stuff. Of course I have a lot to say about that. The truth is that I know what I dig because I've been into it all, on top of that out of all of my close friends I'm pretty much the only one who likes what I like musically.

In September I spent the entire month in LA at a very good friends place working on a project in addition to just a basic visit to see a man I see only a few times a year. For him this project is a side one and not in the music realm. My friend's main project, or career rather is music. Back in his NYU days he founded a label and has always had his fingers in the business. The music, as I was alluding to before, is not my bread and butter.

My friend and his partner, a Grammy winner who comes from a traditional music background and is basically a virtuoso of every instrument imaginable are working together and their new creation is "The Hit Lab". From their website:

First and foremost, The Hit Lab are a camp – a group of like-minded people who have devoted their lives to music and art, all working together to make a perfect product each and every time. We are a Los Angeles based production company, which owns and operates a full service studio in North Hollywood. The Hit Lab works with and develops artists in order to achieve their personal and creative dreams while setting in motion a career path with the major and independent labels. The Hit Lab are experts at web development and social networking along with photography, video content, songwriting and production. Our commitment to our artists is total and complete and we don’t succeed unless they do. We only allow professional, courteous, and generous people through our doors and believe we are only as strong as our weakest link – we fight for personal, professional, and creative integrity each and every day.

I've been out there a few times and seen it go down, my first interaction with his partner was hoping in my buddy's car to "help a friend move" last summer. We showed up at this tiny little room in North Hollywood filled with more gear than I have ever seen in one small place. There was a Grammy on a shelf next to a McDonald's cup, crap everywhere; that's where I met ND. That day we moved him into this gorgeous studio that he built by hand, it was a serious space, a few thousand square feet, hyper professional and no joke. I remember in the 90s I was lucky enough to end up in a studio in NY and watched the Allman Brothers lay down a few tracks, and this place was comparable if not better.

I was surprised by all this to say the least, hell man I thought I was just going to help move a couch and while my buddy spoke of his new project I didn't know it was this big or legit. Since those days they have signed some serious talent that I am confident will become household names in the Pop world.

One thing I also know is that when James starts something, it is done right. Whether is was the vacations we've taken around this world, the road trip we recently finished throughout the Southwest or even our own personal side project, the commitment is always there. Full disclosure on my part, yea man this is pure pop music I'm talking about here, but I will say you can tell these boys are onto something with their tracks.

Right now they are running a promotion, if you are in the first 1000 people to like them on facebook you are entered into a drawing to have your or a friend's music mastered by them professionally. Check out their site at: http://thehitlab.com/ And check out my buddy's other work from Billboard Magazine: http://blog.headliner.fm/tag/billboard-magazine/

"Born Under a Bad Sign" Cream-Wheels of Fire

In an earlier post wrote of Clapton's "Old Love" and then my brother wrote a guest post on a Clapton concert in Seattle, both of these posts fall under later day Clapton works of which, like almost everyone, I adore. However many times people forget that before becoming a solo artist EC played with some of the most epic bands in Rock and Roll history: The Yardbirds, Bluesbreakers, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos, Bonnie and Friends, and the epic Psychedelic Rock band: Cream.

While my brother, who is by far the biggest Clapton aficionado in history, digs the later works, I personally engage the rougher, harder sound of these earlier years. Possibly this comes from my experiences with the psychedelic side of things from my college years that I am sure my brother never experienced while in ROTC. I think that's a large part of it, but maybe it just comes down to different flavors of musical palettes and they was we digest such feasts. This song, much like Peter Green's "Seven Stars" brings me back to another time and place, and while I despise most of the social movement in the 60's, it certainly was a time of the most fantastic music ever made. Ever.

The song itself comes from Albert King whom Clapton claimed as his biggest influence in his guitar playing. While the straight blues version is raw, encompassing a timeless sound that today remains new, Cream's version is a time capsule into another era that while dated still sticks to the insides of the brain making passage of other melodies almost impossible without wearing off on the transient sounds.

Often times I am hooked on a mere second or two of a song, those details are what bring it from banality into genius. Here the phrasing of one particular line in multiple verses continually drives a smile on my face, closing of the eyes followed by leaning back in an orgasmic bliss of heightened musical awareness.

A big bad woman gonnacarrymeto my grave.

The tempo and short staccato phrasing that so easily rolls off of his tongue rivals the greatest words uttered in music. Coupled with piercing, moderately fuzzed out guitar (I think he used a Gibson in much of his work back then) and the line leaves one chasing the dragon for the remainder of their listening lives.

It is hard. It is raw and it is the type of music that is simply not made anymore. Possibly one could draw parallels between this sound and The Black Keys but while the Keys are truly fantastic it would be a tragedy to compare the two. Cream, in all their songs are operating on a different level of music genius. I challenge one to listen to Hendrix, Paul Rogers and even the original Albert King and derive the emotions generated in this short three minute song. It is akin to watching Gretzky, Picasso or Pollack paint, or Sophia Loren...simply just be. This is the pinnacle of professional and craftsmanship in their particular field. At times I believe Clapton thanks God he doesn't remember making any of it because if he did, well how could he continue to make new music. He wouldn't, he would have spent the remainder of his life trying to replicate such incredible heights.

"Neptune" Doc and Lena Selyanina-Cosmic Lullabies

It is possible to listen to the first one hundred and seventy seconds of this seventeen minute song for three weeks and never tire of it.

My knowledge of classical music is thin at best, while my knowledge of modern classical music is even more questionable, however putting ego aside it is truthful to state that I know significantly more than the average person and while I would feel ignorant to speak with full fledged affectionados I see no problem throwing my hat into the ring in this matter. (That was the disclaimer paragraph so I do not have fifty emails tomorrow from people criticizing my observations)

In the end though, fuck them. Music is art and just as in other types of art the creator may have had intentions or cornerstones of which their creations are set upon it is the one taking in their work who can make the final judgement. Do I elevate Springsteen to a higher level because his background mirrors my own, my families? Of course, but does it subjugate my observations and feelings? No.

There is little on the web about Lena except that she began her craft from a very young age. Her work is more of a biography than anything written on the web and her work is a combination of ambient and neoclassical pieces played with strict technical precision. Doc is a Finnish producer of Electronica, Ambient and Experimental music. That exhausts my biographical knowledge of the two.

Their music is far removed from a Philip Glass and Terry Riley, and terribly distant from most of Karlheinz Stockhausen's work as well. It is more banal, though I say that as a compliment much like "Kind of Blue" is more banal to "Sketches of Spain". Both are epic jazz pieces but I have to be engaged to take on Sketches while Blue doesn't require any proactive engagement, rather absorption. If I had to compare this piece and their work to anyone it would be Arvo Pärt, the great Estonian minimalist.

However the above is just a feeble attempt to put this work into context historically. In real life when I hear this piece I am reminded of the possibility of connectivity that exists in the universe. My first real experience with this came five years ago in the middle of the Arabian Gulf. Before this I had touched the realm of possible Brahman, though Hindu philosophers and Upanishad scholars would scoff at my example, while surfing.

When I was 13 there was a storm rolling in out of the east and I was at the peak bowl in Manasquan, long before the dredging broke up the structure of the wave. It began to rain and lightning struck far offshore in the distance. I stayed in as the wind shifted to the west creating perfect five foot hollow sections refracting off of the jetty. I was the only one in the water with all the waves to myself. I could hear each individual drop of water breaking the tension of the surface and when I rode I could hear the slicing-chop-swish-riiiiipwhosh coming off the rails, see individual particles of foam floating in the west wind and feel the wind rustling the hair on my toes. There were dolphins just out of the line up, when I would duck dive a wave I could hear them talk to each other in their high pitched squeaks.

Fifteen years later I resolved to volunteer to go to sea in an attempt to escape my shore based life which was bordering or surpassing the boarder depending on who you ask, of alcoholism and depression. Overweight, my blood pressure had shot up more than thirty points in one year and my breath had turned into wheezing. It seemed like the logical thing to do as so many before me had lost and the found themselves once again in the middle of such savagery.

On a weather deck every night around two in the morning I would commence with an hour of cardio in the 110 degree heat and then cool down and begin a practice of Ashtanga Vinyasa. Though a bastardized version of it which began in the vigorous style of the modern genre, it evolved into the kind mentioned in the Bhagavad Gita and the classic Four Yogas of the late 19 century. In these times, when my breath became one with my movements, when my movements became one with my mind I experienced full connection to the environment while blocking it out at the same time. The typical noises of a large ship passed by, noises which were so loud those on the weather decks were required to wear hearing protection. The heat was relegated to a normal room temperature bearable to the average human and whatever feelings of remorse, dread and regret passed through and out of my veins into the ether.

I returned from that trip with many new experiences, I visited Asia and took in all of the pleasures of the natives, visited the deserts of the Middle East, crossed the Pacific, lost forty pounds, kicked drinking into blackout states and stopped smoking. But in retrospect those nights on the weather decks, fully engaged and connected made me realize that there are levels of consciousness in this life that are rarely touched upon. As a short cut one could take a few tabs and tap into this realm but the dangers are too high and the benefits not as astounding. Acid is Diet Coke to the real thing, the hand to the vagina and the groomed trails to the pure powder. The work involved to reach that realm must be pure and earned.

And with that when I put this song on that is what comes to mind. Total connection out of something that appear chaotic to the uninitiated. It digresses into thoughts of space, String Theory, Rare Earth Hypothesis, Abiogenesis and the Unified Universe. All ideas that make little sense to most, some of which do not to the brightest minds on the planet. But neither does Atonality or Aleatoricism until you hear it.

"She Came and She Touched Me" Townes Van Zandt-A Gentle Evening With Townes Van Zandt

It is such a fun song to play, it flows so easily, the lyrics spill out (if you know them well) like some type of musical iambic pentameter. His voice is the truest you could ever hope to hear recorded, frank with clarity, sans hindsight.

About two years ago I wrote a post about "Marie", another Townes song. I stated that it might well be the most depressing song I have ever heard. This song is the exact opposite. It is an acid trip of love and beauty melting into the pores with Polaroid SpecrtaVision behind rainbows, children holding hands dancing while you watch yourself dance naked in a field of tan skin.

I can't think of a more honest and pure song that has ever been written. I listen to it frequently and it touches me every time. The first time I heard it was in the heat of the south sweating booze on a friend's front porch fending off the impending hangover drinking Bud heavies and smoking Marlboro Reds while his mutt sat at my feet and he told me of his idea for a song he composed while flying up north to a wedding staring at the empty seat next to him days after she was supposed to be there, days after she left him.

My friend has since moved onto another love, actually weeks after that session he met the woman he would marry which put an end to such sessions, another man stepped out of my life and into the life of someone else. I have since went from his current life to the one he was in when we sat on that porch, but the song has never blurred or strayed. It has remained as true as it was when it first came from Townes' mouth, uttered purely.

So I'll just post the lyrics and let you look up the song on YouTube or something, you have to be a little proactive to be rewarded with this level of sincere beauty. It makes you wonder how a man who can write such a song could aggressively kill himself with poison leaving his loved ones behind.

She came and she touched me
With hands made of heaven
Reflections sent spinnin’
Through a face laced in mist
Now I stand where she left me
Buried deep ’neath her shadow
And the mirror plead sadly
Does it all come to this
And I wonder: will she call my name?

The wind careens madly
Through wide windows paneless
Fragrances mingle
In a room full of shade
The peons pick partners
And waltz cross the ceilings
But the violins whisper
That I’ve been betrayed
Tryin not to look ashamed

The drunkards drink deeply
From cups full of nothingness
Ghost lovers laugh
At the games that they play
The moments do somersaults
Into eternity
Cling to their coattails
And beg them to stay
Saying I got nothing to hide

Illusions projected
On walls made of tiffany
Mad minuetts to
A sad satin song
A harlequin mandolins
Harmonize helplessly
Hoping that endlessly
Won’t last for long
Praying that their God ain’t dying

Then I turn and I see her
In a dress made of moonlight
Teardrops like diamonds
Run slow down her face
Her arms surround me
Like chains made of velvet
And the demons fall faithfully
Into their place
And the rivers run with jewels

Now the morning lies open
The night went quite quickly
Memory harmlessly
Fractures and fades
All the poets do push-ups
On carpets of rubber foam
Loudly they laugh
At some joke that’s been made
And the wise men speak like fools

"Bad Kids" Black Lips-Good Bad Not Evil

One of the only things I find redeeming on television isn't even on TV, I watch it on my computer through the Internet. I guess that is just the way of the world these days but it is refreshing to find some truth in the media. It is usually there outside of the mainstream, on the fringe hidden between the beastiality porn through a thousand pop ups asking me to send a ring tone to my phone or that I have won an Ipad.

Vice Magazine is where I'm finding it and where I spend a great deal of my internet time. There's the epic "Do and Don'ts" which could keep you busy for weeks, the weekly reporting from a man doing time for drugs and of course the pulp-skin-snuff variety of articles that leave you looking over your shoulder a bit while you are reading it. When I think of Vice I think New York in the 80s, back when it was dirty, seedy...and back when it was cool, had character. When in high school I would walk out of a bar in the now posh Meatpacking district, a bar that had puke on the floor, porn on all the TVs and Merle Haggard in the jukebox. A bar that had a 70 year old man sitting in the corner drinking PBR before they were served in Brooklyn (at that time the Jews and Blacks were kicking the shit out of each other over there) by biting into the can and chugging it. Usually we were too drunk to even find the PATH stop and would take a cab back into Jersey, but that wasn't before one of us would be propositioned by a tranny looking to give head in the alley and of course since we were loaded and 16 we said yes until some good Samaritan would step in and tell us it was a dude. The trannies weren't puffs though, they'd pull a blade on you if you fucked with them, something out of the cult classing "Cruising". And you know what? It was fun as hell, even when we woke up in the morning at my buddy's father's bar and he gave us a shot of Tully and a pint of Guinness while we tried to hold back the puke in front of the thick off the boat Irishman.

To me that is what Vice is and what its pages constantly remind me of when I'm flipping through. There are some very serious topics though, their reporting is insane, taking one to parts of the world where only the somewhat crazy would tread. Liberia, North Korea, Congo, Somalia, Afghanistan and where the whole idea for this post came from: Northern Ireland.

They put themselves in the middle of a parade in which the Protestants are marching through a Catholic part of town and of course what you would expect ensues and this soundtrack plays. Hahaha, I'm laughing thinking of it right now, 14 year old drunk and high turkeys throwing bricks at police tanks, lighting molotov cocktails in between shots of whiskey...it is actually pretty cool.

What ever happened to Rock and Roll? To the punk that I used to listen to skating on my buddy's small half pipe in his backyard, pissed off at the world and just hating to hate? Questioning every type of authority. What happened to CBGB and people who knew (though I never liked that genre) GG Allin was? I'll be honest and say that I never fit into that world, even though I kinda wanted to be someplace inside while watching GG beat himself up on stage.

Thankfully we can still listen to such a quirky song that is Goddamn fun to play on a Strat as loud as fucking possible much to the chagrin of my Park Avenue neighbors. Easy as shit to play (C-Am-F-G with a pre chorus of F-F-F#-G-F#), just hammer it away man, sweat it out and in between chords take a swig of some swill and spill it down your open shirt and all over your hands onto the strings, it don't matter much anyway 'cause all your making is noise.

It is in all of us somewhere, I think and hope one of these nights I'll be hammering it out and there'll be a knock on the door, a white haired old man with a J Press jacket, khaki pants with lobsters all over them will be there in the threshold and instead of complaining will grab the bottle from my hand, pick up the spare ax in the corner and plug in, he has to, shit like that is the only thing that keeps us alive.

"Through the Morning, Through the Night" Robert Plant & Alison Krauss-Raising Sand

"Experience, though noon auctoritee, Were in this world, is right ynogh for me To speke of wo that is in mariage"

The first line from the Wife of Bath's Prologue in "The Canterbury Tales". I studied this text for over a year in college in Middle English and was tasked with memorizing the entire prologue and then stand up to recite it in class. Being an English Literature class in New England there were few men in the class, actually I was the only one. It was a tupperware party wrapped up in a bachlorette limo and I was always on the fringe. At the same time it wasn't a terrible way to spend an afternoon as a college sophmore especially because the reputation of English Literature girls (nymphos and overtly romantic) held true and was at times an easy score.

Like the woman in the Wife of Bath's story there was a woman in my class named Alison. She was dark haired and a notch above average looking with mannerisms that sent her over the 60th percentile into the hot realm. She sat across from me and we'd read lines to each other with a tense sexual subtext. But never to be fulfilled.

Between her and Costello's song the name has haunted me at times and has been put into the category of names that if possessed by a woman grants her significantly more wiggle room than the average. In short when I meet a woman named Alison (and three other names) they can almost do no wrong.

Krauss is no different although she has little to make up for, many a car ride I have spent listening to her voice serenading me through the long nights and roads. In an album widely heralded by critics this song of Gene Clark's stands out like the gapped front teeth of the Wife of Bath. The menacing subtle quality of the lyrics sung in such an unassumingly pacifist voice hinting at violence, the fade out of the outtro only to come back in to finish it off, all done in 3/4 Waltz time is magical in its terse, thinned out composition.

All of which would be lacking if it wasn't for Plant's versitility, dropping the leather pants and overt sexual pathos, trading them for a pair of overalls and an engineer cap in a rocking chair overlooking the Appalachians. His background singing adds a finishing draw of light smoke to Alison's strong tobacco aftertastes leading to the full bodied finish that begs for another glass.

This song reminds me of the much overplayed "Long Black Veil" in some aspects, there's a sense of dread in the narriative arc that will eventually lead to a judgement. In my own mind I don't believe a second of the line:

Believe me when I tell you
I will try to understand.
Believe me when I tell you
I could never kill a man.

That man will be dead, the overt emphaisis of "Believe me..." is much like the phrases: "It isn't about the money..." or "With all due respect..." We know damn well it is about the money and there is not respect involved. Just as we know there will be a dead man, shot down in bed with his lover. The lover surely will have the same fate.

This song is much like a suicide note, a manifesto, an explination written alone in a room with a mind fully intact and cognizant before the mayhem ensues. At face value it is beautiful and serene but when delved into deeper becomes even more beautiful and right. For some reason that five letter word will not escape my mind. It makes sense for it all to transpire and one would be disappointed if it did not. If there is one thing the studies of 14th century literature combined with modern day sexual tension has taught me is that these forces, while fluid and constantly moving through us are not only instinctual but inherent and timeless.

"Louis Collins" Jerry Garcia-Grateful Dead Hour Show #362

I've been on the run a lot lately and then when I finally came home just felt even more unsettled and wanting to ramble. Mentally I haven't been there, in one sense the creeping depression and misanthropy started creeping in while on the other side on the coin I discovered a treasure trove of Springsteen's finest years live (late 70's) that had me dreaming about Emerson-Thoreauian spouts of self reliance and self preservation through music. Since most everything comes back to Springsteen I couldn't stand to hear myself spout posts of saying the same thing over and over again. I mean this is supposed to be about music are likely to have not heard and I felt as though my message was getting somewhat redundant.

At the same time when I started this blog it was about the music and then something I never expected to happen emerged. I don't know why it wouldn't have but it became mostly about me, about women and I used the songs as a springboard to rant about whatever was in my head at that particular time. I think this last part is a good one and one that I not only like to write about but something insightful. Everyone hears a song in a different way and possibly my personal experiences bring to light a different side one has never thought of in regards to music.

For some reason right now I feel at peace with whatever mental muck I was sloshing though for the past month or two and finally clear enough to write about something with a clarity people would want to hear.

Jerry died only a year or so after I had gotten into his music. The Grateful Dead hour that week was an amazing example of a man's work constrained into a one hour program. A tough task indeed for a man who defied being stuck into a genre and had a working catalogue of over five hundred songs played not only on guitar but banjo, pedal steel and while never played himself, trumpet-jazz tunes played though midi machines.

Episode 362 began with this song. You can hear versions of it on "The Pizza Tapes" and "Shady Grove" but this particular version, an outtake from a Grisman Acoustic Disc Sampler shines in ways the others could never touch. Jerry plays a fingerpicked progression used by Elizabeth Cotten (famous for "Oh Babe it Ain't No Lie" and "Freight Train") of terrible simplicity and stark beauty. Such a simple song about a man being laid down under the clay. It encompasses a view of death that must have been the norm over one hundred years ago before advances in modern science staved off the reaper as they now do until we are wearing diapers, hooked up to machines under the ultraviolet, clinical light of the death factories we call hospitals.

Recently I was in one for a little while and while my affliction was not life threatening it dug in deep and possibly produced the malaise I've been feeling for the past month or so. I wasn't faced with my own mortality but rather faced with how I want my own life to end. It certainly was not like the person in the bed next to me in a building on 69th and York. Not to belittle that man's demise for possibly that was the correct choice for him personally but I can only pray that it is not the way in which I depart. I say this knowing full well that man had no intention of departing in that fashion when he was thirty three years old.

Maybe that is what Jerry was feeling, for no one really knows how he died, not that it is that important. Rather, the way he lived is the heart of the matter and Goddamn if I could just leave one piece of music this concise and beautiful, this honest and truthful with a somewhat shaky voice uttered over a simple chord progression finger picked on a utensil crafted by hand of wood and steel...well then that would be saying something.

It is a marvelous song and tonight after I arrived home, after the gym, after a few drinks and dealing with shitheads at the bar engaged with each other in miscellaneous ramblings it came to me. It had been years, possibly a decade since I had last played it both through speakers and myself taking my own utensil into my lap and trying to keep up with the old grey bearded man. She came back to me as when you go through your old drawers in your parent's home and find a note, a t shirt you once wore until the threads had worn beyond serviceability. When you take that shirt up to your skin it all comes flooding back and a blanket of good vibes comes over you with a striking clarity.

This song does all that and more. It floods the senses like walking into a neon electric steam room flooded with the scent of fresh cut grass and a shower of lemon ice water in the corner ready with a pull of the precisely cut stainless ring that is hot to the touch and it is something to immerse one's self in until drowned to death only if your mind hadn't short circuited and gave out well before the waters actually rose.

Springsteen Devils and Dust Tour

Right now I'm just about over Winslow Arizona wishing I was driving through that country instead of flying above it at 36K'. Believe it or not Arizona (home state of Rick Kane!) was the first place I ever saw Springsteen live in concert, maybe that is the reason I don't hold a NJ driver's license anymore, they simply won't let me have one because of it!

This show was one of the most personal and connected concert experiences I ever had, two thousand people in an arena, concessions and you were not allowed to leave. Seriously, once could not leave their seats, if you did that was the end of the show for you. I often wonder if maybe the reason why the concert touched me in the way it did was because of the drive from southern California and back...through the desert, seeing many of the songs he would sing about those few hours trapped in a room with the man. I guess there's other reasons and they all made it up for a special show.

April 30 / Glendale, AZ / Glendale Arena
Notes: Though "All I'm Thinkin' About" is one of the catchiest songs on Devils & Dust, it's one of the last to be played live. That song had its concert premiere at Saturday night's Phoenix show, also the first show of the tour in one of these half-arena configurations. Compared to theaters, the setup was a mixed bag in terms of acoustics and atmosphere, but by several accounts it didn't hamper audience attentiveness or the effectiveness of the show (having the concessions shut down during the performance couldn't have hurt). The crowd was rewarded with the ultra-rare "Book of Dreams" (a song only played live a handful of times, and not since the 1992 Plugged performance), on piano for the first time. Bruce described it as "a song about wedding days," before chuckling, "I say 'days' plural, unfortunately...." Also on the piano, "Racing in the Street" brought the biggest audience response of the night; as on 4/22, Springsteen introduced it by talking about the 1971 film Two-Lane Blacktop. "Highway Patrolman" came back to the set, and in the encores, the first E Street guest of the tour: part-time Arizona resident Nils Lofgren on dobro for "This Hard Land."

Setlist:
Reason to Believe
Devils and Dust
Youngstown
Lonesome Day
Long Time Comin'
Silver Palomino
For You*
Book of Dreams*
Part Man, Part Monkey
Maria's Bed
Highway Patrolman
Reno
All I'm Thinkin' About
Racing in the Street*
The Rising
Further On (Up the Road)
Jesus Was an Only Son*
Leah
The Hitter
Matamoros Banks

Encore:
This Hard Land (with Nils Lofgren)
Waitin' on a Sunny Day
My Best Was Never Good Enough
The Promised Land

Eric Clapton/Wynton Marsalis Live in Seattle

My brother is a much better guitar player than I am, as a matter of fact I shouldn't even consider myself one in comparison. My brother likes cuff links and I never even button any cuffs. He likes ties, I barely button my shirt with a suit. He likes Audi and I wouldn't take one for a dollar. He was always skinny while I constantly fight the fat war. He is Army, I am Navy. While I do like Clapton he is my brother's cuff link to my Springsteen unbuttoned. So from a slightly different perspective, a review of the show written by my brother:

It shouldn't be any wonder why Eric Clapton is the only person inducted into the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame three times (once with the Yardbirds, once with Cream and once as a solo artist), and he will probably remain the only person to hold the honor. The man's mastery of the blues pentatonic scale and versatility in applying it to every possible genre of music has sustained him since 1963 with his beginnings in the English pop/blues scene. Influenced by Robert Johnson, Sonny Thompson, BB King, Big Bill Broonzy et al, he conquered psychedelic sounds with "White Room" and "Sunshine of Your Love," rock and roll with his 80s tracks "Pretending," "Bad Love," "Forever Man," and "I Can't Stand It," country rhythms in "Lay Down Sally" and "Willie and the Hand Jive," slow soul with "Old Love," pop with "Change the World" and "Pilgrim," soft ballads "Tears in Heaven," "Wonderful Tonight," "Blue Eyes Blue," and the entire soundtrack to the film The Story of Us, reggae with the only version of Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff" that should ever be played, Latin style paired with Santana on "The Calling," and even dabbled in techno electronica as T.D.F. for an album called "Retail Therapy." Now he turned his eyes to a more jazzy form of blues.

In April 2011, he performed three nights with Wynton Marsalis for the trumpeter's Jazz from Lincoln Center series in New York City. The show was broadcast to movie theaters across the nation for a one night only viewing on 7 September; I was one of eight people in the theater(It is Seattle...go figure). The band may have been Wynton's, but the setlist and show was stolen by Eric. Backed by an orchestra of eight (percussion, banjo, trombone, clarinet, piano, keyboards, stand-up bass, trumpet) they focused heavily on early New Orleans style blues and jazz, the more upbeat songs reminiscent of Woody Allen's "Wild Man Blues." In fact the first tack "Ice Cream" could have easily been played over one of Woody's movies, with Diane Keaton mis-pronouncing Van Gogh in black and white strolling the streets of Manhattan.

Giving everyone in the band a solo on many of the songs, you get an appreciative view of how Eric has lasted this long: all the genres he's delved into are very similar. Wynton's trumpet solos complement Eric's guitar solos and, if the notes were switched between instruments, the sound would have been similar in pitch, tone, and phrasing, with each performer putting their own spin on the classic tunes.

Playing a jazz-style plug-in Gibson, Clapton's sound was a little more muted than the usual loud and crisp Stratocaster, but, he's as fast and smooth as ever. He tears it up especially well on the second and seventh tracks "Forty Four" and "Layla."

This version of his most famous song (recorded as Derek and the Dominos with Duane Allman), is slowed dramatically more than the unplugged version that brought EC back into the forefront of music in the 90s, and gives the guitarist a new twist on the famous riff to master. The famous Clapton growl is still there from his decades of drinking and smoking, but he can change it soft and high pitched-almost falsetto- on "Joe Turner's Blues."

Taj Mahal makes a guest appearance for the final song, a New Orleans funeral march called "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" and stays on for vocals and a banjo solo on the encore "Corrina, Corrina," paired with the opening song is a perfect way to bookend the show and send people off happy.

The Complete setlist: 1. Ice Cream, 2. Forty Four, 3. Joe Turners Blues, 4. The Last Time, 5. Careless Love, 6. Kid Man Blues, 7. Layla, 8. Joliet Bound, 9. Just A Closer Walk With Thee, 10. Corrina Corrina

The highlight of the show for most was probably "Layla" but for my money, "Forty Four" and "The Last Time" (an old Louis Armstrong cover) make the album. If you ever think that Clapton is losing his touch or is getting old, slow and soft, take a listen to these tracks. He reminds you why he's quite possibly the greatest guitarist ever (personal opinion). The deaths of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Richie Valens may have been the day the music died, but, when Clapton goes, the days of the guitar gods will pass with him; and he, Stevie Ray Vaughan, George Harrison, Jimi Hendrix and Robert Johnson will have such an amazing jam session that God Himself might not know how to respond.

The CD/DVD set of this show is set to be released 13 September.

"Multiply" Jamie Lidell-Multiply

I checked out Jamie Lidell's albums a while ago and rendered it as pseudo-hippster-wigger crap. Maybe it isn't but it certainly is not my speed. This track from the 2005 album of same title is something different. Always makes one wonder how an artist can roll out a song that is so good and the remainder of his/her work just leaves you feeling bland and indifferent.

A fusion of soul, funk and hints of reggae (at least in the intro) this tune brings to mind the sweet soul of Junior Walker, Joe Cocker's "Feeling Alright", Arthur Conley, Mitch Rider and the Detroit Wheel as well as Gary U.S. Bonds. Almost on the verge of Shag music or what we call up here in the northeast, beach music.

You can picture this song in a vacation commercial, two couples running in the sand, splashing in the waters. It could be used in a scene depicting a woman struggling home from work during rush hour in the big city then fading to her getting ready followed by a shot of her dancing into the wee hours with a few girlfriends.

What comes to my mind is a small place where I used to live in north Florida, about two hundred yards away from my house it was one of the only places that was open late night that served hard booze because of the draconian Southern Baptist laws. It was a strange place, I've walked into the bathroom countless times and seen someone shooting smack, there were a lot of tattoos, weirdos, whores sitting at the bar alone; basically the dregs of society. On many occasions I wound up getting either kicked out or on the cusp of putting a bottle across a forehead.

They had good tunes though and if not live the jukebox had a badass selection. Maybe because of the people, mostly because of the music, I always felt terribly comfortable in this place and it can be proud to know that it was one of the few places I would actually dance. I would dance not because I had to by coercion from a woman or because everyone else would but rather because the groove would hit me right in the face, at that point there is only one other option.

An old buddy's girlfriend taught me how to Shag properly and it was put to good use in this dimly lit place at one in the morning. Usually I was there alone sans friends on a random weeknight which is probably why when they are reading this they are crying "bullshit" but I used to get down at times. And in something I've never really heard a woman say before, they'd utter "You are a really good dancer." followed by "Though you don't look like you would be one at all." Which at 6'3" and 245 pounds was certainly true. They weren't bullshitting, I could tell. I could tell because I was entranced and lost myself, lost everything around me except her and the tunes.

I always said to those who would beg me to dance, "Give me something to dance to and I'll be there on the floor before you know it." To me this is the only thing to dance to. Techno/House/Electronic can be good but it doesn't hit me. I can Tango, Waltz and even two step (though it has been a while) and while cool they are too constricting. This groove however just as: Sam Cooke, Otis, Parliament and those mentioned before in this post hold they key to true movement in my mind. It touches you so down deep inside, the combination of Phil Spector-esque wall of sound, a great rhythm and that raspy growl...it is hard not to get caught up and find yourself out there without even realizing what you are doing.

"When Rita Leaves" Delbert McClinton-Nothing Personal

A while back I wrote a post about one of the slickest Marty Robbins tunes in the vaults. Days ago I was driving up the FDR eventually up to the country to do 18 and "When Rita Leaves" came on the radio. Strange because I rarely listen to music on the radio and stranger still was what popped into my mind.

I thought about the woman in "Devil Woman" and how Rita where probably the same person. It is nothing earth shattering but it gave me a smile to think of this one woman who wanders around the boarders of the southwest enchanting men and destroying their lives in the process. Then I thought about the song "Dry Lightning" that comes from Springsteen's The Ghost of Tom Joad album and again how it was written about Rita and then finally about Warren Zevon's "Carmelita" and once again how it was Rita he was singing about. My thoughts were awash with the similarities and story that could be written tying all these snippets of life together, all by different artists who probably had different women in mind. Hell most everything written, sung and painted has been stolen from someone else.

I had a friend whose mother loved Delbert McClinton and probably because of that never paid him much attention, however every once in a while he'd knock on the door of my ear and pry his way in. This song always finds its way in. The silky gut string's lead that trickles throughout the song placating the dearth of love the voice is singing of with a hint of strings barely audible in the corner combined with matter of fact lyrics in Delbert's honest voice is a wonderful combination.

Years ago in South America I ran into my own Rita in a small bar late in the evening. There had been ones before and after but this Rita burned a scar in my memory that will never heal. She spoke little English but we found ways to communicate, jet black hair with a small mole on her left cheek and complex deep brown eyes that matched the hue of her skin. I woke up the next morning in a small room with commotion outside the windows below the first story of which I was laying, A Saturday market in a part of town I could never place. Seven in the a.m. and it was already over thirty three degrees and close to that in the room, the ceiling fan doing little other than ensuring the heat was properly scattered throughout the room; Rita looking adorable and better than the night before sleeping in bed like an angel in the clouds wrapped in white sheets.

Until it was time to leave and I walked home up the hills of the campamentos with a throbbing headache from five bottles of bad champagne and a pack of Belmonts, though cigs and champagne never throbbed such as this. Maybe it was because of the difference in brands, maybe it was because this was the fourth day in a row of doing the same but more so it was withdraw of Rita and the views I had had of her silhouette against the fire lights of the streets and the strange words that rolled off of her tongue like the gut string in this song.

I keep saying I'm going to go back down there and find her but it is probably better to not take up such a logistically impossible request and just return there in my mind while Delbert's musical silhouette projects itself onto the walls of my living room, with instead of dark hips in my hands merely an old Yamaha that has a dead low E and cracks across the back.

"Carmelita" Warren Zevon-Warren Zevon

I write this in a strange mood for I usually listen to the song while writing, however now George Jones and Tammy Wynette are on, their best album "Golden Ring". I feel as though I beat that horse to death, like Springsteen I can listen and write about George Jones for years upon years.

But there's other music out there.

Carmelita has one of the smoothest gut string guitar solos in history breaking up the somewhat drole and depressing lyrics. Having a few buddies who battled with addiction I find it always striking to listen to a man write a song about heroin. In some ways this song (though I've never reached out to the junk) reflects the jones and the creepingly horrible sensation of wandering around looking for your next fix.

I think the best testament to this song was a drive I had a month ago with a very good friend who listens to bullshit music. Dance, techno, maybe some Pink Floyd and Tom Petty...strange combination for sure. We were driving back from a weekend in the Hamptons, his girlfriend passed out in the back seat and my iPod on random, Carmelita came on and he was instantly transfixed with the tune. Though he has lived in the states for quite some time his speech is somewhat broken English with the other seven languages he speaks thrown into the mix. After it was over he stuccato-ly said "I like that song, you put it one again."

I did, five more times over and we cruised back into town on 495 in and out of traffic after a sun drenched-Petrus infused weekend in various wheel's estates. It was the perfect decompression after the social scene. And that is one thing I've always dug about the man who sat shotgun. He is part of that scene but, like myself, always had the feeling he would feel much more comfortable away from all the climbing and out west in the country or even in a Bukowski suite wasting away on the outskirts of Hollywood.

So dig this song when you have a bit of a buzz or the next day after a very big one when the anxiety is building and you check your Amex account with one eye open, the sweats and shakes making it all the much more enjoyable. Hopefully there isn't someone else whose name you can't recall laying next to you but if he/she is then let them in on the secret as well for we all need that shot of methadone whether it is proverbial or literal the morning after.

"Slightly Used Woman" Georgette Jones-Slightly Used Woman

I think it has been a while since I've checked in. Hard to tell since the past weeks I have been lulled into afternoons reading "Do" and "Don't" on Vice Magazine, weekends drinking bottles of wine by myself sliced with nauseating trips to the Hamptons and golf every other day followed by six hour lunches and a handle of Sapphire all while not having been inside a woman since that tour of the Statue of Liberty. But in between there has been a lot of driving alone which is always the best way to drive with few exceptions of a good buddy or a woman who sits shotgun mostly sleeping, looking like an angel.

I've been really fucking bored, fucking being a rude term but the adjective that encapsulates the feeling in the best way. Hell everything is cyclical, seven months from now I'll be on a jet to Afghanistan after a month of sucking it in the Carolina woods humping a pack. When you are bored and somewhat melancholy there's songs such as this.

Georgette Jones, born Tamala from the best stock of country music imaginable: George Jones and Tammy Wynette. She adds to the myth herself by not engaging in the music industry in full for some time and having an equally unsettled life just as her two parents before her.

It comes out in her voice, her phrasing and songwriting. I can listen to this song forever. I can listen to it alone in the car, or sitting on the couch; on the beach or laying in bed alone or accompanied. I can listen to her say "She's just waitinnnng for someone to love herrrr" over and over again until it burrows a whole into my skull. The stark almost banal and bland lyrics with a whining pedal steel sliding through the background and how the last line of every verse leave the opening for Georgette to sew it all up and paint the picture as few can.

Maybe it takes a slightly used man to recognize one of his own kind and possibly one will never see those flaws mentioned in that vividly tight refrain:

But inside there’s a slightly used woman,
On her body there’s scars and there’s dents.
She’s just waitin’ for someone to love her,
And ignore all his deep fingerprints.

Wow, it reminds me of one of my favorite lines in songwriting using similar imagery:

Well you've been broke and yea you've been hurt,
Show me somebody who ain't.
Yea I know I ain't nobodies bargain but
Hell a little touch up and a little paint.

Kinda funny how the first selection was written by a woman and the second by a man, I guess the world takes its toll on everyone. I'd love for both of them to get together and do a few songs together.

"Lonesome Cities" Frank Sinatra-A Man Alone

I haven't listened to Frank in quite some time. I think I can call him Frank since I've known him for thirty three years, shared the same soil of his birth and long before the Swingers type revolution of Sinatra and standards being cool I've stuck up for the man to all takers. Many times though I feel as though his studio albums are over produced and his live albums and populated with too many jokes and too much of the idea of his persona being played out in front of a crowd, him basically doing an impersonation of Sinatra much like towards the end of his career Elvis was the best Elvis impersonator on the planet.

You listen to him for the gems though, for the "Angel Eyes", the "Nancy" and the "What Now My Love" that come across as so blisteringly heartfelt and introspective from his smoke and Jack Daniel's voice that it leaves you gasping for breath stunned. It makes you want to grab the closest woman available and slow dance the night away, to lose whatever baggage you both carry on a daily basis and believe again that the withered old idea of love still exists somewhere.

"A Man Alone" is a cover album of the songs of Rod McKuen and has said to be one of Sinatra's favorite albums and collection of favorite songs. Short of Dante and Shakespeare Mckuen is one of the most prolific and widely read poets of all time. He also wrote well over 1500 songs during his life. Growing up in a household of an alcoholic father, at age eleven he ran away from home and made a living as a logger, cowboy, rail hand and rodeo cowboy until he ran into the spoken word poetry crowd the likes of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg who he shared stages with. The hard core literary critics (who are filled with more bullshit than Rod ever dealt with on the ranch) dismissed his works but as always they never appreciate anyone who is liked and adored by many.

Later in life he was a strong proponent of AIDS awareness, and demanded black performers receive equal treatment as their white counterparts. Sinatra in the same way was significantly more open minded than people give him credit for, it is probably hard for people to imagine that one of his favorite songwriters and poets cohorted with the likes of Beat generation hip poets. But Sinatra was a man who was much more than he appeared on so many levels. His strong persona was marred by ruined relationships, suicide attempts, along with constant depression and alcoholism.

I feel sheepish to say I never was much aware of this song until just the other day when it came on at random. When it did, with the first notes, I felt as though I had heard it a million times before and treasured its value greatly. The only other two songs I have felt this way about upon first hearing was Morrison's "Tupelo Honey" and Springsteen's "Frankie". I had never heard them before in my life and with their beginning I felt as though it was an old lover calling my name while making circles with her toe in nothing but my dress shirt with two buttons hiding what was below.

The meaning is your own but for myself with just one reading of the lyrics I am sure it was penned to describe my own life. Constantly running and no matter how complete life was always wondering about those last few cities out there awaiting me on the hill with embraceable arms. In leading such a life said new cities are usually met with lonesomeness and chagrin at leaving the previous one. However within those cities there are always one more woman, one more restaurant to be sat in with her and one more train to take me away when it is all over; then at the end of the day the realization that you can never run away from yourself and your foolish urges of romantic wanderlust. I like it that way.

"Reflecting Light" Sam Philips-A Boat and a Shoe

I've had this song stuck in my head for months. It has such and ethereal, sultry sexiness to it. A sense of placation and worship by the singer towards what I perceive as her muse. There's a steady tempo of sublime, steadfast hopelessness, the chord progression in Bb with a quaint happy-sad violin juxtaposed against the steady movement of the guitar and nothing else. Stripped down to the bone with a bit of bass fiddle thrown into the mix.

I have always loved the Die Hard series of movies, in particular the third one and in particular the terrorist who is the love interest of Jeremy Irons. Her plain, fit and Nordic look and propensity to get aroused at the hint of violence.

Also I have always loved T Bone Burnett's work in so many spaces and genres. A month ago at the Elvis Costello concert, seated next to him I was thrilled to just be in his presence. Adoring Roy Orbison's "Black and White Night" of which he produced as well as "August and Everything After", "O Brother Where Art Thou", "Raising Sand", "Walk The Line" and a plethora of Elvis Costello and Sam Philips albums he is a legend in the music industry while at the same time being anonymous.

So tonight when I sat down to play this song on the guitar and eventually deciding to write about this song I was amazed that Sam Philips was the female terrorist in Die Hard with a Vengeance. Being entranced (and admittedly turned on) by both the movie and this song...I don't know, it validated my opinions of what I am attracted to in women. Couple that with her landing such a mate as T Bone and what we have is a terribly talented women that makes me unhappy to know that she is taken.

I have heard this song prostituted itself in the show Gilmore Girls however I remember it mostly from the wonderful movie, my favorite movie of the past decade Crazy Heart. I saw it on a date with a particularly fascinating Lebanese woman who didn't drink and hence the movie date. She was a wonderful person, shy in a sense and cute in every sense of the word, a person who broke me out of my malaise in a way as while she encompassed much of which I desire, lived a life much different than my own, I don't think I ever even went on a movie date in high school. We sat in the theatre in SoHo on a frightfully cold night entranced with the film and walked almost all the way uptown, freezing and holding each other as per her suggestion as I would almost certainly have taken a car.

She took me to a church in midtown which had a southern Gospel feel to it with preachers and singing, a meeting at the Waldorf Towers with a man who was part of the Lebanese Civil War, him telling stories about smuggling arms in and out of the country for the Christian fighters. Her stories of Catholic boarding school in Cyprus, her knowledge of the blues and wonderful music, how she used to speak to me in French and I would half ass my way some type of reply...

So I think of her a bit when I listen to this song and how someone who was very suited for me just didn't work, how when we decided not to see each other and just be friends at Mon Petit Cafe on 62nd and Lexington how hard it was for me to bring up the subject that is just wasn't working out. But I also think of someone else who is out there in waiting who encompasses so many of those good qualities I enjoy along with the extra few that could make it really work, leading to nights and encounters such as those from the scene in Crazy Heart of which this song is used.

As a word it is used too frequently but this song is truly beautiful in its composition, its lyrics and the feel that it delivers. I'm going to go back to playing it a few times over before I retire and dream about that mystical person I have in my mind and have been waiting for.

"Never Never Gonna Give You Up" Barry White-Stone Gon'

I remember listening to Barry driving up to hockey practice when I was ten years old, my father had it blasting, the standard tunes, "My Everything", "Can't Get Enough of Your Love", etc. In today's world he would probably be in jail for some type of sexual offense, there would probably be some shrink that would convince me that he touched me in a certain way and my father would spend the rest of his life in jail on a bullshit charge. Even though at the time I had no idea what the man was truly speaking of his music resonated within me. How could a voice like that not? Impossible.

Barry White taught a lot of men (well at least the ones who were listening) that it doesn't matter how fat you were (as BW was a big boy) nor did it matter how sub par you looks were (he wasn't the best looking fellow) you could still get laid with one thing: Swagger. As a man who never had any homosexual tendencies, having that soul, bass, ridden voice echo in my ear....well I would be hard pressed to not give the man some action. Years later after those rides to hockey practice I would remember my first experiences in the realm of love (in a terrible cliche) formed on this man's music.

You can have your Marvin Gaye and Al Greene and whomever else could be construed as love making music but nothing comes close to Barry. Somehow it even transcends the physical act itself. Tonight as I write this after many drinks in multiple places I found myself home alone. Somewhere in the course of the night this song was played and it came to me as an old friend.

So I am here in a robe, alone and in the most non-sexual atmosphere imaginable, writing this on my laptop trying to hit the correct keys in my drunkenness. I put this song on as it had been stuck in my mind for the entire night. The thing about it is the groove is still there, the bass line, the tempo and most importantly the lyrics blasted out by a three hundred plus pound man with enough attitude to serenade and seduce the world, as well as myself through my shitty speakers, echoing off of my old plaster walls.

It is a beautiful experience. No one encapsulates what it is like to be in love, to have a ten hour, sweaty, change the sheets after while drinking champagne session more than this man. It should only be reserved for those that deserve such a night. As a single man in New York there have been a plethora of opportunities that have breached the threshold of my door but only a few who have been worthy of a Barry playlist. He is the forty year old scotch, the '51 Bollinger champagne of the music realm and only broken out when it is truly warranted and deserved.

Clarence Clemons

I had heard he had a stroke a week ago, I had also heard that he has been in bad shape for some time before that. But yesterday on the phone talking to my brother I couldn't believe he was dead. I couldn't believe I hadn't heard at first, and then couldn't stand the fact it was true.

As a disciple of Springsteen, Clarence is part of his Holy Trinity, even non-believers associate The Big Man with almost nothing but The E Street Band. So it may be a surprise that when I think of Clarence the first thing I think of is a magical Grateful Dead show on December 31, 1988. In my mind it was the height of the band with Bret Mydland on keyboards and Jerry's licks were in full bloom. I found the video in my possession somehow and remember sitting on my college couch excited that I had another video to check out. About midway through I noticed a large black mass standing on the side of the stage with a sax in his hand and couldn't believe it was Clarence. I mean what the hell was he doing playing at a Dead show?

To me it showed the connection of music in a way that many people don't see or even think about. Hey man if you are a musician you dig music, then good music regardless of the Genre is what you dig. The show culminated with two epic, long running Dead tunes: "Morning Dew" in which one is privy to probably the greatest Garcia solo ever performed, there is one section where Jerry brings it together with so much skill it boggles the mind, at that point I will never forget Clarence taking his mouth off of the reed and mouthing "Wow" as he was bending at the back backwards and looking up to the sky. Then it was "Standing on the Moon" which admittedly gets me all choked up every time it comes on, Clarence noticeably was affected in the same way.

At the time I couldn't stand how people didn't get the Dead and wrote me off as that typical college fake hippie (meanwhile I was the farthest thing from it) but they got Springsteen and screamed "Thunder Road" at crowded parties dancing on tables. Now right there in front of me and my roommate's faces was the validity that I craved. From that point on they opened their minds and forgot about the stereotypes, they just started digging the music.

Not a lot of people know that Clarence had a tryout for the Cleveland Browns but the day before was involved in a terribly serious car accident or that after moving to Newark, New Jersey he worked for eight years as a counselor for disturbed and troubled boys at Jamesburg (which was the Juvie hall my parents would threaten me with whenever I got out of line). Nor that he was a devout Baptist from his youth in Virginia.

But they know the sound, if Bruce was the nervous system for the band then there is no doubt Clarence was the backbone. At times his playing was melodic and haunting ("Jungleland") then other times it was a Harley Davidson with straight pipes grinding up eardrums and elevating heartbeats (solo from "Promised Land"). Without Clarence there as no band.

I often wonder if the music created the brotherhood between Bruce and Clarence or the brotherhood created the music. But look at some old pictures of the two from the 70's and you can see it, feel it right there in front of you. Black, White...skinny, fat. It didn't matter they were brothers. In today's world where every commercial has some bullshit group of friends all of different ethnic races, constructed to appease the political massses here was a real life representation of color blindness. But hell, music has been breaking down barriers for decades. Frank and Sammy (where Frank wouldn't play anyplace that made him walk in the back door), Elvis, and Keith Richards' colorless life.

And with his passing another musician whom the next generation will never have the privilege of knowing. I hope to God the industry will change sometime so my son will have the heros I had growing up in music. I hope the Boss will continue to play in some capacity but pray they don't supplant the sax with a lesser human much like the remaining members of the Dead did after Jerry's death. If you want to play Bruce then do so with the E Street Band sans sax if you could make it work. I can't imagine it will and as much as I would love to head out to Giants Stadium for four hours of preaching you can't have a mass without the cornerstone the chuch was founded upon.

"Let Your Loss Be Your Lesson" Robert Plant and Alison Krauss-Raising Sand

I sat down to play this song on guitar, it had a strange chord progression, the key was in a Beach Boys "Pet Sounds" sound, A, E and D flats which can be strange to play on guitar. The type that you really can't hammer out to mindlessly. Taken back at first until the groove filled my soul intravenously and on a Sunday night I was sitting around half in the bag trying to channel old Led Zep with a dash of George Jones, Chuck Berry and Emmylou Harris.

The song is straight forward, little subtext, face value; but it couldn't be better. I was blasting it this morning driving like a maniac north of Manhattan on 287 with little traffic and the windows down. After a round of golf and a stimulating phone conversation with a new female friend I headed two blocks away for a late afternoon martini and oddly enough this song came on. I asked the waitress to turn it up, she complied, and sat there in the glorious June sun, empty bistro looking out on east 65th street while the sun collapsed over the concrete canyons.

A marvelous way to end a weekend and while the scenery didn't quite fit the music on the surface, someplace inside it did. Whether it be the juxtaposition or simply the mood I was in, the sultry phrasing of Alison combined with that honky tonk guitar...it just worked. Pure American music after days of listening to Serge Gainsburg and Leonard Cohen preaching about love and revolution. Road music you can dig sans road while being stationary on a bar stool in a French bistro a thousand miles away from the closest honky tonk.

"Sign Language" Eric Clapton-No Reason To Cry

There are some songs that are so good that the lyrics don't even matter, or rather a few lines that just don't jive. In this song we have the third line of the song: "...as I'm eating a sandwich in a small cafe, at a quarter to three" and you just want to smack yourself in the face and wonder what the hell they were thinking. If I was to write a line such as that and sing it to someone they would never stop laughing. But when you attached the names Clapton, Dylan and Robertson to the liner notes it suddenly becomes genius.

Poor start notwithstanding this song just works. It works on so many levels, the chill slide guitar, smooth melodic tempo and southern-flavored licks played low on the bottom pickup that snap coarsely contrasting with the vibe, the mandolin like start to the first solo; it all comes together giving one the sense that it was put together ad hoc with a dozen joints burning at four in the morning.

The first time I heard this song was in a forty dollar hotel room in Van Horn, Texas about three hours east of El Paso in the middle of nowhere while a non English speaking Mexican welded the tongue of a trailer for thirty dollars in the parking lot of the diner next door at midnight. It had broken during a drive from Florida to San Diego when I first became transfixed with the American Southwest. Walking out of my door on the first and only floor that stepped right out to the parking lot I saw the shadows of the mountains lingering in the background behind the few neon lights of the main strip on a Saturday night. The scene was Hopper-esque in the style of "Nighthawks" with hints of "American Graffiti" mixed in as the Mexican boys rolled up and down the thin strip looking for something that was never there and never would be.

That slide echoing through my head and out off of the mountains, the surrender of the August heat that would soon begin again in a few hours. The desolation and openness under a pitch black sky perforated by specks of white brilliance and the knowledge that there was not one person on the planet who knew where I was or where to find me, the juxtaposition of seeing my Range Rover with three surfboards on the roof in the middle of the desert; all of it coming together to be one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. To know what freedom truly was and just how sacred it could be when experienced fully.

Later on in that new day I would cross the Continental Divide in New Mexico and roll downhill into the Pacific where the mountains were green and flower ridden, sweet smells of eucalyptus and jasmine permeated the air flowing through my sunroof and all four open windows while Clapton and Bob whined through the speakers once more.

All of which has nothing to do with the meaning of this song. Save it for a time and place where you can make a memory to savor years later while sitting in traffic surrounded by canyons of concrete and steel.

Naomi Shelton & The Gospel Queens-What Have You Done My Brother

Goddamn man just check out the fine ladies in this picture and the soul leaking out of their pores. The truth and honesty in their smiles, the pain and heart contained within those ample bodies, toothy smiles and heart-fucking-breaking voices that harmonize with reckless abandon. If you were to channel Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Melvin Seals, Bobby Womack, Bootsy Collins, James Brown, Jackie LaBranch, Gloria Jones and Gladys Knight, squeeze them all together in a French Press, add pure soul concentrate and have a child with Van Morrison the offspring would be this band.

It is impossible to just pick out one song from this album. I would say that "He Knows My Heart" belongs in some dark scene of a Scorsese movie just as it does being sung in a Baptist Church in Memphis along the muddy rivers by a congregation soaked with sweat. "By Your Side"...if there's a woman who can sing that to me or even give me that feeling then there's a five carat ring in the picture and a life of selfless devotion waiting for her while I cry on my knees. I never knew there could be a song that would make me bust out in dance outside of a few Smokey Robinson and Sam Cooke numbers until "I Need You to Hold My Hand" came through the speakers in an orgasm of ecstasy. They are all testifying, they all bring me down genuflecting in humble piety while my consciousness climbs to the stratos.

You can sing it in the car when no one is looking, you can sing it to someone in the moonlight with the sand between your toes, salt caked on dark skin after a midnight swim and a warm six pack stashed on the dunes. You can sing it in a low roofed club up in the 120's in Harlem with a zoot suit and feather in your cap. In truth you can sing it every and anywhere because good vibe tunes such as these contained in this album should be sung as much as possible. But you have to have the heart, the groove and the spirit to do it right. If you don't and you don't get this album then there's no hope; go back to your life and loveless cubicle. Go back to shades of grey and leave the rest of the spectrum for the enlightened, I want every band of it, I want to house it and have it explode out of my door every morning when I arise and take on the new day touched by my sisters, stick my chest out greet it all with a smile.

"Shave 'Em Dry II" Lucille Bogan-The Best of Lucille Bogan

In the late years of the 20th century there were a bunch of people who decided that we all weren't responsible enough to police ourselves and our children. I won't digress into a political rant but just to let you know I am a pure Libertarian. I should be able to listen to what I want, drink what I want no matter of the age, smoke what I want no matter what it is and say what I want no matter how derogatory.

But that is another matter. What I am speaking of is the Parental Advisory label affixed to records deemed offensive by those in power. I still don't know how Tipper Gore and her friends at the Parents Music Resource Center are qualified to state what is obscene. When the label became popular some of the first albums with the honor of having said label were from: Guns and Roses, 2 Live Crew, Danzing and Soundgarden, all of which pale in comparison to this song. I'm not saying that they are great bands and albums but what I find funny is the fact that the world thought that this was a new thing; as if this was a recent movement in music.

It has been around for a long time. Blues music used carefully coded slang to hide the sexual content of lyrics. "Jellyroll" is slang for Vagina, hell it occurs in too many songs to list. When B.B. King sings "I have a sweet little angel, man you ought to see the way she spreads her wings..." just what do you think he is speaking about? Or in the classic "Come into my Kitchen", hmmmm. I am pretty sure they ain't speaking of cooking. There were artist more blunt and rough around the edges in the past, without a doubt. Songs that were sung in juke joints in the south where prostitutes danced for a dime and then took you upstairs in the muggy heat to squeeze a few extra cents out of the deal.

One of them was Lucille Bogan who was born in 1897 and started recording in 1923 in New York City, a far cry from her Alabama roots. What this woman spoke of was impossible of being mistaken. Here's the lyrics:

I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb,
I got somethin' between my legs'll make a dead man come,
Oh daddy, baby won't you shave 'em dry?

Want you to grind me baby, grind me until I cry.
Say I fucked all night, and all the night before baby,
And I feel just like I wanna, fuck some more,
Oh great God daddy,
Grind me honey and shave me dry,
And when you hear me holler baby, want you to shave it dry.

I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb,
Daddy you say that's the kind of 'em you want, and you can make 'em come,
Oh, daddy shave me dry,

And I'll give you somethin' baby, swear it'll make you cry.
I'm gon' turn back my mattress, and let you oil my springs,
I want you to grind me daddy, 'til the bell do ring,
Oh daddy, want you to shave 'em dry,
Oh great God daddy, if you can't shave 'em baby won't you try?

Now if fuckin' was the thing, that would take me to heaven,
I'd be fuckin' in the studio, till the clock strike eleven,
Oh daddy, daddy shave 'em dry,

I would fuck you baby, honey I'd make you cry.
Now your nuts hang down like a damn bell sapper,
And your dick stands up like a steeple,
Your goddam ass-hole stands open like a church door,
And the crabs walks in like people.

A big sow gets fat from eatin' corn,
And a pig gets fat from suckin',
Reason you see this whore, fat like I am,
Great God, I got fat from fuckin'.

My back is made of whalebone,
And my cock is made of brass,
And my fuckin' is made for workin' men's two dollars,
Great God, round to kiss my ass.


I'm not trying to shock people or be rude. I just figured that in keeping with the title of this blog I would be remiss to not include this song that I first learned from Keith Richards. The man is a wealth of knowledge. Also, whenever we think of ourselves as a collective species living in a specific time; that we came up with kink and whatever perverted and however perverted we think our society has become, well someone else has been there before and they were probably much worse than ourselves. From what I've seen we still came out all right.

"Vanlose Stairway/Trans-Euro Train/A Fool For You" Van Morrison-A Night in San Francisco

The only part of this medley that matters is "Vanlose Stairway", the remainder is just fill for the set. I put this song on once on a drive through eastern California with a dear friend I haven't seen in a long time en route to the east coast. We were terribly hung over and feeling like bloody hell, we'd been in the car for a few hours with just some background music while we caught up and bullshitted. During a lull in our conversation I put this song on and my companion started laughing the second he started singing.

The reason why is you can't understand a word he says throughout the entire song. I challenge you to listen to this song without looking at the lyrics and tell me what he is actually saying.

With Van what he is saying isn't even the point. What is you can derive from the emotions bleeding out through the speakers, rattling off of your eardrums and settling down in you gut, your heart; filling you with a warmth and soul that cracks a smile and sets your blood running through your veins in an autobahn of traffic engorging you and everyone around.

But if you want to go beyond that and dig into the words you'll find that it is about a Danish girl in Copenhagen who lived on the fourth floor of an old building. It is about Van's spiritual awakening and his eastern beliefs, about Gita and Krishna, about love and the pursuit of Brahman.

So throw it on and revel in the mysticism that is Van when he is live and cranking, when the words are flowing and the meaning is understood without comprehension. He is a force of nature whipping across the planes taking out trailers and trees, across oceans sending ships to the deep and taking my existence onto another plane beyond the comprehension of so many who simply do not get it in the end.

"No Expectations" The Rolling Stones-Beggars Banquet

It is always funny the inspiration I get to do a post here, at times I have something in my head so inspiring and visceral I almost don't have a choice but to write. Then again at times I simply feel as though I should write but don't have a clue. Sitting here tonight after two very hardcore days of drinking until the sun came up I am tired and spent. I walked over to First Avenue and had dinner alone on the sidewalk with a bottle of Sicilian wine which I am always impartial to for some reason. Delaying laying in bed for a while until sleep approached I was texting a friend about a few things and reviewing each other's night I was still searching for a song until in reference to her night and one particular facet of it she stated: "I have to change my state of mind, that's really it. No expectations." With that she gave me an answer unknowingly and this sublime piece of old Stones shot through my head. A song that is the last example of Brian Jones' creative work with the group until he spiraled out of control and died at his own hands. A song that displays a narrator being at piece with his hopelessness and lot in life.

In construction this song is a monumental work. The open tuning used by Richards, at the time new for his playing, would become the hallmark of his style. Jones' earthy, metallic slide channeling the old Mississippi blues masters, Charlie Watts' simple claves is all that is necessary to keep the beat and Mick's lack of Rock and Roll, Hollywood pretense is refreshing; sadly it is something we would see less and less of as the years transpired.

And it is somewhat funny that the person who inspired this song would be someone who put me in the narrator's situation one day at a train station years ago. The station being out in eastern Long Island. I remember hanging up the phone with my mechanic after he just told me that I had a dead cylinder in my old Porsche. I had just moved back up to the northeast and living with my parents while I was looking for a place in Manhattan (at 31 years old) and, well let's just say it wasn't the homecoming I was expecting. While waiting for the train to arrive to take me back to Manhattan so I could take another train another hour back to my childhood home, broke and staring an engine replacement and at least another ten grand in moving expenses the final truss broke and we broke up on that platform. I could tell it was moving in that direction but the last thing I needed was to contemplate it with three hours of solitude staring me in the face.

As bad as it was in retrospect it was quite romantic to deal with it on a desolate platform in the cool spring air, alone surrounded by hundreds of people after boarding and watching the landscape sweep past in a small blur. If I was the artist that Richards and Jagger were I would have had a song for it, instead I went home and listened to this one in the bedroom I grew up in, a bedroom that still housed plane models, an old Nintendo and animal wallpaper that matched a shag green rug. People always love to tell others not to forget where they came from and the act of saying is strikes me as the biggest verbal dirarreah imaginable. That night surrounded by the child I had been as the adult that I was humbled me in a frightening way. There's a reason why you can never go home again, then again there's a better reason for events playing out in this life and whatever reason I bore that crucible of abject humility for two months, hopefully I'll find the answer one day.

"Bombs Away" Bob Weir-Ace

On August 9th 1995 Jerry Garcia died in Forrest Knolls, California. I was enjoying the remainder of the summer on the beach in New Jersey before my Senior year of high school and Bob Weir was in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire with his band Ratdog (unofficially the worst name for a band devised). Bob recieved word a few hours before the show, then summoned up a great deal of courage and decided to go on stage.

To Bob Jerry was more than just a band mate and a friend. Raised by his adoptive parents possessing a genius level intellect but managing to be expelled from every school attended, young Bob was an adrift sixteen year old looking for guidance and a way. New Year's Eve 1963 Bob and friend (who would help pen the majority of Weir's Grateful Dead songs) John Barlow were looking for a bar that would let them in when their heard banjo music seeping out of Dana Morgan's Music Store in Palo Alto. They walked in and met a 21 year old Jerry Garcia. From that date on Jerry taught Bob to play guitar and in my opinion gave him the father figure he was searching for. These two massive minds possessing incredible talent would form a creative relationship outside of Mccartney-Lennon-Harrison and Richards-Jagger the world had never seen; I venture to say we will never see it again in our lifetimes.

So that night Bob Weir took the stage and addressed the audience in a shaky voice on the verge of tears "Well, if there's anything our friend taught is, it's that music can be used to ease us through the sad times." With that the crowed clapped in a reserve manner and the opening riffs of "Bombs Away" hustled through the amps. The show itself would be the best Ratdog 'leg I ever heard. Every line carried a mournful weight and gravitas, Weir's usually subdued and technical rhythm playing was sharper and forceful, louder and more apparent.

It is interesting he chose this song to start the show with, possibly summoning up the title words and dropping into an unknown enviroment, except this time instead of love it was death. I find it interesting also because Weir always had a push towards the disco infused rhythms while in the Dead with songs such as "Feel Like a Stranger" and of course the entire Shakedown Street album; this track certainly has disco-mainstream vibes in direct contrast to the usual Dead tried and true combination of traditional American music and trickling extended solos.

It was a sad day to be sure but I would reckon that most beautiful songs and performances can find their conception within sad times; as different as this studio version is of this track is upon hearing it I can never get the image of Bob standing on a stage, truly alone, starting it off and leaping into, for him, the abyss.