Tag: music

Almost Famous, conclusion

Stillwater is at a crossroads at which point their star could rise exponentially or crash into obscurity. Add to the mix their skepticism yet tacit acceptance of William, the 15 year old “devil” could either be the best thing that ever happened to them in their quest for fame, or he could destroy them. Not unlike passing a car wreck, you can’t look away. If you do, you will miss the real.

Real is a big thing to Stillwater. Russell really is about the music. Beyond the fans, the industry and the personality conflicts, the thing that is real to him is the music. Enter the most memorable segment of the movie, when an exasperated Russell, reeling from a band argument, heads out on his own on a quest for “something real”. William accompanies him, and it is at this point that the culture of devotion and love for the music by the ones that matter, the fans, is accurately and beautifully depicted. He ends up at a house party with a huge sample of his true demographic; partying long-haired teenagers who seek refuge in a keg, recreational drugs, and music. Russell is ecstatically welcomed to their party and this party is so much like ones that I, and most every baby boomer in 50 states attended. The party goers don’t swarm him, beg autographs or perform any other typical celebrity worship, instead they just welcome him. They get to know him. They share their love for music, his and every other band. They just connect in a “just say whoa” kind of way. These were my favorite people of my youth. There was no pretense, no posturing, no fights. Just good, mellow and let’s face it, stoned people having a good time talking and listening to music. It was just what Russell needed. It was real.
Of course, the party eventually gets out of hand when Russell takes acid, culminating in one of the premier moments of the film when Russell climbs to the top of a garage and deafeningly declares that he is a “Golden God!” and jumps into the pool.
In the morning, the real-world calls as the bus shows up and the band retrieves their out-of-it guitarist. Tensions are high. They are pissed at him, and he doesn’t care. The tension on the bus as they travel to their next gig is thicker than LA air pollution. As they sit in angry silence, Elton John’s Tiny Dancer comes on the speakers. As the song builds the band and Band Aids gradually lose their scowls, stop glaring at each other and begin to move. Gradually at first, then a little more. Then the drummer taps to the music and by the time the chorus hits and Elton belts out “hold me closer tiny dancer” they are all smiling and singing along. Goosebumps are had by all. And there it is, the point of it all, the thing that made the most sense to me. The music, in all of its magnificence has not only the power to inspire, but it can also heal. The band is reminded at this moment why they are doing all of this. It’s about the music. It’s always been about the music.

William never gets his interview. Russell tells him as they part ways to write what he wants. William does. He tells the truth, following the advice of Lester Bangs. “Tell the truth. All of it. And be merciless.” Rolling Stone loves it, despite the realization that the writer of their cover story (the goal of the day was to be on the cover of the Rolling Stone after all) is 15 years old. All is good in the world until the band (not Russell) get spooked about the possible fallout of the story and tell Russell to deny all of it, crushing William and his credibility. The story is squashed.

There is a happy ending. Russell, in his adherence to the “real” eventually tells Rolling Stone that every word was accurate after all. But not before going to see William and giving him the long overdue interview.

As you can probably tell, I love this movie. I turned a simple Billy Mac movie review into a think piece on my love for the music and the era. I suppose I’m so into this movie because I am also on a constant quest for the real. I have never been comfortable with pretense and superficiality. Maybe that is the best way to summarize my feelings on music today; beyond my hatred for over-production, auto-tuning vocals, unimaginative and uninspiring lyrics and music that seems to have no effort behind it is my belief that the artists of the era made the music unapologetically their way. It was quality. It was eternal. It was the hallmark and peak of their creativity and artistic vision. The music of yesterday was better, even on scratchy vinyl. I can say this because it survived the ultimate test. That of time.

One last thing…

Almost famous, a Billy Mac movie review

Rock and Roll in the 70’s wasn’t just about the music. It was a culture, an identity. Right up there with your social status, your Zodiac and other aspects of identity was the omnipresent “what bands are you into?” It was a powerful statement about who you were and what you were into.
A lot of 70’s parents didn’t get that. The cool ones did or at least tried. It was key to getting along with your kids, at least understanding them.
My parents didn’t like the music, but they understood that it meant a lot to me even if they didn’t understand it. They certainly didn’t understand what would make me sit in my room for hours on end, a stack of LP’s scattered in front of me, admiring the album cover art and dwelling on the lyrics as my head bobbed and swayed to the music. The music was my friend during the difficult adolescent years. Often it was my only friend. That my parents understood.
There were plenty who didn’t. The parents who failed to recognize the societal and cultural impact of the music on the youth, and instead focused on the sometimes-unfortunate accompanying drug use, rebellion, promiscuity and other factors that made them feel that they were losing their kids, they didn’t get it. To us, it was all about the music. The parents didn’t have to get it. It wasn’t for them. It was ours.

Enter 2000’s Almost Famous, the movie about Rock that brilliantly depicted the Rock N Roll landscape of the 70’s.

William’s oldest sister has had enough of her overbearing mother. They fought constantly about her lifestyle. She was too free, too rebellious, too sexual and too into “that music.” The sister moved out. Before she hopped into her boyfriend’s Z28 she took young William aside and told him, “Someday, you’ll be cool. Look under your bed. It’ll set you free.”

Under young William’s bed was a bag stuffed with vinyl. The Beach Boys, Zeppelin, Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, The Stones, Hendrix, The Who. Some of the greatest of all time. There was a note.
Listen to Tommy with a candle burning and you’ll see your future. His sister was a student, a disciple of the sound and William had just had the torch passed to him.

Flash forward a few years and William is now 15 and an aspiring Rock writer. Through his work for Creem, he scores an opportunity to do a piece on Black Sabbath by his DJ Guru Lester Bangs, brilliantly played by the late great Philip Seymour Hoffman. But William can’t get into the backstage door and by a chance of fate meets Penny Lane, a presumed groupie, that gets him in the door. Penny Lane is a “Band Aid”. We quickly learn from Penny, portrayed by the uber-adorable Kate Hudson, that the Band Aids are not groupies, just dedicated lovers of the music that travel with the band as fans.
“Groupies have intercourse with the bands to feel close to someone famous. We travel with them as fans, as lovers of the music. We inspire them.”
A noble distinction indeed.

Penny Lane, who eventually forms a powerful, sexually charged but never consummated relationship with William, introduces him to the band Stillwater and a connection is made with the lead singer (Jason Lee) and the guitarist (Billy Crudup, a very underappreciated talent IMO). The band is suspicious of William, to them the critic and the journalist are the enemy and the Devil. But they like him and reluctantly invite William to go on tour with them. William turns this into an opportunity, and he solicits Rolling Stone, the bible of the music scene, to commission him for 3000 words on the up-and-coming (almost famous) Stillwater. The stage is set. All he has to do to get the interview with Russell is get permission from the same overbearing mother that drove his sister out of the house. Not an easy task.

William embarks on a journey, a quest for the interview that will make him a journalist. An interview with a band that wants fame and all that comes with it. What unfolds as William travels from city to city, constantly badgered by his despondent mother (the brilliant Frances McDormand) and her omnipresent insistence that he “not do drugs” is a familiar story to me; the dynamics of the bandmates, the players (Band Aids) and the forces that inevitably seek to divide them played out before me as a teen as Superband after Superband disbanded after experiencing the collateral damage of fame. They are of course differing artistic visions, conflicts over who is in charge or the biggest star, drug and alcohol abuse, all the stuff that any fan of music has witnessed. Stillwater sees what is happening to them. They are hyper-aware that they are on the precipice of fame. They are also very aware of the elements that broke up other big bands and are present enough to recognize each incident as such and acknowledge it openly. They are at a point where their star could rise exponentially or crash into obscurity. Add to the mix their skepticism yet tacit acceptance of William, the 15-year-old “devil” could either be the best thing that ever happened to them in their quest for fame, or he could destroy them. Not unlike passing a car wreck, you can’t look away.

If you do, you will miss the real.

Almost Famous

Every once in a while you see a movie that not only gets under your skin, but penetrates your soul. I know, strong words. But strong emotions require strong words. Music, especially the music of my formative years, evokes powerful feelings in me. The soundtrack of my formative years was the Rock and Roll of the 70’s and 80’s. Post Motown and R&B and pre Disco and the New Wave synthesizer-laden shit of the 80’s were the Super and almost but not quite super groups of the 70’s. Groups that put out amazing efforts of exhaustively complex, soulful and often life-changing music with less regard for commercial success but instead a quest to create something that would transform, inspire awe, and stand upright longer than a few radio cycles but instead stand the ultimate test of time. Music that packed arenas and penetrated basement dwellings, house parties and the comfortable confines of adolescent bedrooms where legions of kids found a connection, a soulmate in the music. For many, it was life-changing.

You’ve probably gathered that I am a music lover. Most certainly. But I am a larger fan of the era, the culture that rock and roll created. I have always been a student of the cultural events that led to the inception of the music, it’s impact and most importantly the link to an actual identity. The late 50’s and early 60’s marked the first time in history that the youth of America had their own music. The days of listening to Mom and Dad’s music was over. It was the final piece of the puzzle that was the cultural revolution of the second half of the 20th century. The youth of America had asserted themselves as a cultural force, a separate and powerful demographic that demanded to be heard but had formerly lacked an identity outside of the umbrella of the nuclear family. They rebelled against the puritanical Patriarchy and demanded to be heard. At first it was Chuck Berry and drive-ins and carhops. The parents tolerated it but called it harmless. Then came the 60’s and Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell and the massive music festival Woodstock became the voices and symbols of the counter- culture. The patriarchy became concerned. The once (somewhat) obedient youth of America had begun to rebel and the Poet Laureates with guitars provided the soundtrack of the new generation. Once Vietnam dominated the cultural Zeitgeist the divide was nearly complete as the youth of America rejected the thinking of the previous generation about so many aspects of society. It was a us vs. them. By the 70’s the generational divide was established. But behind the political and cultural impact there was the music.

In 1977 I was 14 years old. 14 is the age often cited by those in the know as one of the formative years of development and it is theorized that the music you enjoyed at that age would be the music you would love forever. At 14 I was a lost soul. An only child that didn’t understand the world around me. Desperate for guidance (I always wished I had an older brother) and hungry for acceptance I needed something, anything to identify with. I was an awkward kid. I was bullied. I dressed badly. My hygiene needed work to say the least.
I loved to read but hated school. Still, I was considered smart. I was offered a double promotion in 5th grade. My family said no because I was already young for my grade and skipping 6th grade would have made me the youngest 7th grader by far and my parents (correctly) concluded that the bullying would only get worse. Subjecting me prematurely to even bigger kids was not a winning proposition. It didn’t matter in the end. Regardless of my age, the bullying in middle school was as predicted by my parents. My school day consisted of being slammed into lockers and having my books dumped in the hallway.
But I was still considered smart. But that also put a target on my back in my school. The mouth-breathing Neanderthals that bullied me resented those of us that could count past 11 without taking our shoes and underwear off and they lashed out. So, I withdrew academically. Once a B plus to A minus student in elementary school, I became a C and D student. I was frightened and angry and my grades suffered terribly. I would never really recover. Not that I was ever destined for academic greatness, but I never reached my full potential. I became sullen and withdrawn. Good enough to get by was my mantra.

Enter Rock music…one of the only companions I could count on in life.

In 1977 I joined the Columbia Music record club. Remember that? Buy 8 records or tapes for 1 dollar with a commitment of one at full price per month. And no-one ever paid. I chose to let them send me the selections of the month. My music collection to that point was oldies. I always loved the 50’s music of doo wop. I even enjoyed to a degree the surfing shit by the Beach Boys. But I had never really gotten into 60’s and 70’s Rock. The first shipment contained 5 albums. Boston’s original album, Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, the Doobie Brothers’ greatest hits, Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits, and Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell. I had found my muse.
I’m not sure why I didn’t listen to the radio that much but it was clear to me that this music had been around for a while but I had never really listened to it. I was too busy reading. Suffice to say that I was hooked. I couldn’t get enough of the driving drums, guitars and production of Boston, the fusion of pop influences and original compositions of the music of the Doobies, the ethereal vocals of Christin McVie and Stevie Nicks (I also fell in love with Stevie Nicks for other reasons typical of the hormonal teenage boy), the folksy but eternal harmonies and lyrics of Simon and Garfunkel. As for Meatloaf, I really don’t have words. That album was like nothing anyone had ever heard. From that moment on, if I was awake, I was listening to music. If I wasn’t home I carried a Transistor radio(remember them?) and later a Boom Box. I spent every penny I had on music and all of my time immersed in it. My journey had begun.

My friend Marc and I spent a lot of time hanging out. He was way ahead of me on his musical journey and had a formidable knowledge of it as well as a very repectable record collection. He played for me Rush, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Bruce Springsteen, Led Zeppelin and The Who, just to name a few. We sat transfixed in his basement bedroom as we absorbed the lyrics and played epic air guitar solos, slowly grooved to intros and solos that tantalized the senses, often building to orgasmic levels. We were there, eyes closed and hanging on every note. To say that it was transformative is a true understatement. Music was so much more than just simple entertainment. It was my haven, my escape, it spoke to me. It would become the music that I would love for the rest of my life.

The only thing that I would come to love as much as music was movies. Imagine my joy when I discovered a movie that would help me rediscover my love and passion for music, and the impact of it on my life.

Enter Almost Famous. The movie that just plain fucking NAILED it.

to be continued…

The wayback machine

“Mr. Peabody, set the Wayback machine to 1976…”

Music is transformative. Music is time travel. The right song, as it drifts through the speakers, has countless beautiful memories clinging to it. I’ve gotten away from music for a long time. Apparently my grey hair dictated to me that talk radio about sports and politics was the only thing for me. Sure, it was intellectually stimulating, but nothing reminds me of how beautiful life is and was like music.

Today as I was driving back from the clinic I had the volume low on the car stereo. I was thinking about the morning while simultaneously planning my day when I heard a magical strumming of guitar faintly playing. I immediately turned it up to see if it was…YES it was Bob Seger’s Night Moves. I turned it up as loud as it can go.

Sooooooo many memories. I think I have been delighted every time this song ever came on the radio but today I went all the way back. Back to the days of AM Radio. I recalled the small transistor radio that only got 3 stations and working outside in the fall air when I was 11 years old. I vividly remember splitting wood in the cool afternoon air. I should have been cold but I was in a t shirt and jeans and the chill of the autumn air didn’t faze me. The older kids drove by with their car stereos blaring, the neighborhood kids of my age stopped by and asked me to join them in a football game. I declined. I wanted to get my work done just so that I could see the pleased look on my Dad’s face when he came home from work.

The neighborhood kids didn’t understand. Not only did I need to do my chores because we needed the wood to heat the house in the pending winter, but I also liked the work. I felt strong as I swung the 8 pound splitting maul. The cool afternoon breeze cooled my brow. I felt powerful. I was young and strong. I felt accomplished. And despite being alone, for much of my early years I suppose, I was never truly alone because I had the radio.

Do you remember the days before Pandora and Spotify? Before 6 disc changers and countless radio stations? Do you remember hitting the record button on the tape player when your favorite song came on? And did you curse out the DeeJay for talking over the introduction? Hearing Bob Seger belt out Night Moves brought it all back to me today and it has put me in a melancholy but wonderful place.

I crave the simpler times. The times before life sapped all of the youthful energy and optimism out of me. I miss the days when I had strength and endurance to spare. When the simple tasks of getting through my day didn’t leave me drained and in pain. I miss the days of having only thoughts of the future and waiting for my favorite song to come on the old Transistor radio. For all of the complexities of adult life, right now I would trade them all for the cool Autumn afternoons of October 1976.

Now if you’ll excuse me there are some songs that I want to search out and truly live out this moment.

I have to go work on some of my Night Moves…

the power of music

A young man or woman goes to the music store.
Or the pawn shop.
They buy a beat up guitar.
A keyboard.
Some blank music sheets.
Or a note pad and a number 2 pencil.
They sit in their basement with their headphones. Fumbling to play along to their favorite artist.
Or, on the side of a lazy river, scribbling the lyrics to their someday breakout hit.

They dream.

Do they dream about fame? And fortune? Thousands of screaming fans clamoring for their attention, in desperate need to hear their favorite song? Isn’t that the goal, after all? I would imagine it is.

But I wonder if an aspiring artist knows that, despite their level of achieved success, they have the potential to make someone’s day, even change their life by sharing a piece of themselves with us.

Did Bruce Springsteen know that a 47 year old man would immediately go to his music while driving 2 hours on a cold December night, tears streaming down his face, to see his father before he draws his last breath?

Did Journey know that their music would make millions of 80’s kids remember sweaty fumblings in the back seat of sedans and slow dances with their High School Sweetheart?

Did Van Morrison know that Into the Mystic would always remind me of that one night, sitting oceanside, watching a thunderstorm in the distance, drinking bourbon in beach chairs with a dear friend that has since died?

Did Dawes know that in his song A little bit of everything he would perfectly illustrate, as if on a design board, how to approach life when you don’t know how many days you have to live?

Did Michael Franti know that he would inspire my blog when he sang Good to be alive today? The song that slapped me in the face and told me that it is so simple, and necessary that I spend each day trying to make the world a better place and just be glad to be ALIVE.

So many songs.
So many associations.
So many memories.
So many things to so many people.
So many powerful emotions. Smiles of nostalgia. Tears of angst. Pains of heartache, sadness and loss. Euphoria and joy. The urge to play air guitar or pound the steering wheel to your favorite drum solo. The feeling that you have been where the artist has.

I have listened to thousands of songs in my life. There are millions of songs that I still want to hear. Songs that I know could speak to me. That will make me feel something, experience something powerful. I can only hope that when I hear them, I have a takeaway. Something that I can relate to. A fresh perspective on a old subject, a new spark to light the candle of another fond yet dormant memory.

Here’s to the person out there, just getting started, setting out on your musical journey and hoping for all of the typical trappings of success. May they know that success can me measured in so many ways.

Always keep in the back of your mind that you may change just one life with your efforts.


Song lyric Sunday

Some of you may know this song by heart, some may have never heard it. It is one of those songs that proves the adage that the music you listen to in your formative years will always be sentimental to you, if not remain your favorite music. The latter has proven true for me, and in times when I lack clarity or need a reminder of what drives the blood in my veins I play those songs.

Bob Seger’s Like a Rock is the title track of his ’86 album that cemented my love of Seger’s gritty, honest, relateable songs. This song, before it became a Chevy commercial at least, was a staple in my daily playlist.

Now, as I find myself weakened and looking for strength I love this song more than ever. It reminds me of the days when I was young, strong and carefree. Of the days when I walked with my shoulders back and my chest out. When I swung an axe in the crux of a cold October afternoon in just a T shirt, my brow sweaty and my muscles tight, plowing through the woodpile my dad and I had just created. My friends were all playing football but I committed myself to the task at hand. Like a rock.

I miss that feeling, I want it back. I hope to get it back. When I hear this song I am reminded of better days and given hope that they will return.

Give it a listen will ya?

Stood there boldly
Sweatin’ in the sun
Felt like a million
Felt like number one
The height of summer
I’d never felt that strong
Like a rock

I was eighteen
Didn’t have a care
Working for peanuts
Not a dime to spare
But I was lean and
Solid everywhere
Like a rock

My hands were steady
My eyes were clear and bright
My walk had purpose
My steps were quick and light
And I held firmly
To what I felt was right
Like a rock

Like a rock, I was strong as I could be
Like a rock, nothin’ ever got to me
Like a rock, I was something to see
Like a rock

And I stood arrow straight
Unencumbered by the weight
Of all these hustlers and their schemes
I stood proud, I stood tall
High above it all
I still believed in my dreams

Twenty years now
Where’d they go?
Twenty years
I don’t know
I sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they’ve gone

And sometimes late at night
When I’m bathed in the firelight
The moon comes callin’ a ghostly white
And I recall
I recall

Like a rock, chargin’ from the gate
Like a rock, carryin’ the weight
Like a rock

Like a rock, the sun upon my skin
Like a rock, hard against the wind
Like a rock, I see myself again
Like a rock

Song lyric Sunday

I have chosen to share with you this Sunday a song, a well-known song that you may have heard a thousand times. Pearl Jam’s Black.I share it as an homage to a love that I never had. One that I desperately crave.  One in which I am so happy, so awe-struck, enamored and smitten that in the throes of loss, I could write a song as powerful as this.
I dedicate the last paragraph, the one that disembowels me emotionally every time I hear it to my ex-wife. Some of my anger has subsided. I have knelt at the altar of painful accountability and have found myself looking at my marriage in a different light.
I don’t like failure. My divorce is just that. I committed to put in the work, to love for better or for worse. While I can point to several formidable moments that caused me to have contempt for her, I failed to recognize that I had a few myself. I wasn’t always a saint. I made several risky career choices with good intentions and poor outcomes. There were times I could have been kinder, more nurturing. A little more present. When we began to really fight I began to come home later, often a little drunk to offset the contempt and animosity in my own home.
It’s not all her fault and while I most certainly do not want her back, too much has happened and she doesn’t love me anymore, I wish more than anything that she will someday have the life she dreamed of as a wide-eyed young woman, yet to be spoiled by the realities of wasted potential and poor decisions.
I don’t know if I failed her, if she lost faith in me, if I failed to provide her the life she deserved or if it was meant to be that we would part ways after so many years together. After seeing the 100 or so pictures she posted online the other day of the old days with our friends and family I saw an awful lot of pictures of she and I looking happy. Real happy. If I didn’t know better I would call it love. But in the wake of our tumultuous demise I had forgotten those times, when the world was bright and our futures held hope and promise.
I dedicate this to her because, despite our ruined state I still wish the best for her. I wish that things had turned out different for us. May she find balance in her life, may she overcome her demons and ultimately meet someone who makes her happy. To find the type of love that inspires a song like this. In particular I dedicate the last stanza, which I have highlighted below.
Hey, oh
Sheets of empty canvas
Untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me
As her body once did
All five horizons
Revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed
Has taken a turn
Oh and all I taught her was everything
Oh I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands
Chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything
Oh the pictures have
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything
I take a walk outside
I’m surrounded by
Some kids at play
I can feel their laughter
So why do I sear
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin
Round my head
I’m spinning
Oh, I’m spinning
How quick the sun can, drop away
And now my bitter hands
Cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures had
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything
All the love gone bad
Turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see
All that I am
All I’ll be
Yeah
I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life
I know you’ll be a star
In somebody else’s sky
But why
Why
Why can’t it be
Why can’t it be mine

Song Lyric Sunday

Today, on a day when I crave positivity as a flower does water, I give you Michael Franti and Spearhead, whose music absolutely oozes positivity, empathy, acceptance and understanding.

This song in particular is named Good to be alive today, which I have adopted as my blog URL…that’s how much this song means to me.

Franti can be seen traveling the world, dancing with children, coaxing shy people out of their corners to dance, spreading hope and optimism like a bee does pollen in the spring. His love for life is nothing short of inspi-fucking-rational.

I hope you get something out of this song…

It’s a long road, oh
Everyday I wake up and turn my phone on
I read the news of the day, just as it’s coming down
I do my best not to let it get me down
I try to keep my head up, but is Babylon
This world’s in crisis, we try to fight it, this changing climate
With scientists and politicians divided by it
So many ways we could solve it but they would never sign it
This mountains tumbling down, but still we try to climb it
It’s in the Torah, Quran and in the Bible
Love is the message for some how we turn to rivals
It’s come to people always picking up their rifles
Another school getting shot up homicidal
Some people tryna look fly, some people tryna get high
Some people losing their mind, some people tryna get by
And when you look in my eyes, you see the sign of the times
We all looking for the same thing
But what if this song’s number one
Would it mean that love had won?
Would it mean that the world was saved?
And no guns are being drawn today?
What if everybody had a job?
And nobody had to break a law?
What if everyone could say
That it’s good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
Is it good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
Is it good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
Is it good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
No matter what nobody say
People used to feel safer when they would hear a siren
Like help is on its way but now they only think of violence
Another youth in the streets and police is in a conflict
And now they hear the guns click, yo
Ebola crisis and ISIS is taking heads off
A drone is bombing a village and now the kids all
Signing up to be soldiers, but they all willing now
To do the killing now, now are you willing now?
Some politicians out there making up some problems
And tryna tell the people that they can solve them
With TV shows and soundbites and quotes
But everybody knows that it’s all about the cash flow
They telling you and me, they’re making progress
But tell it to the millions of jobless
It’s like a players club with billions of dollars
To get the votes you got to make it rain in congress
Some people tryna look fly, some people tryna get high
Some people losing their mind, some people tryna get by
And when you look in my eyes, you see the sign of the times
We all looking for the same thing
But what if this song’s number one
Would it mean that love had won?
Would it mean that the world was saved?
And no guns are being drawn today?
What if everybody had a job?
And nobody had to break a law?
What if everyone could say
That it’s good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
Is it good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
Is it good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
Is it good to be alive today (oh, oh, oh, oh)
And we all say
One day, one day
One day, one day
One day, we all will say
That it’s good to be alive today
One day, one day
One day, one day
One day, we all will say
That it’s good to be alive today

Country music

I was watching a show the other night that mentioned the 80’s urban legend about playing music backwards. Supposedly some weird things would happen. I was intrigued.

I’ve been listening to a lot of country music lately so I gave it a shot and played a country album backwards.

I’ll be damned if I didn’t get my house back, my job back, my dog back…

the power of music

 

I did some work for a guy the last couple of days. It was a nice opportunity to dabble in my old profession, make a few bucks in the process. It put some wind under my sails to do it again. The only drawback is that I had a 3-hour drive ahead of me. It’s not too bad, I can do that drive non-stop if I have my faithful companion Spotify with me.

I strapped on my seatbelt, made sure the lid on my coffee was on tight and opened the app. I was about to select one of my new Playlists (I have been a Spotify junkie this past year with all of the driving) when I saw an option for “Your favorites for 2017”. Wtf, I put it on shuffle and promised myself that I would listen without skips. How would I know that my drive would end up not as a tedious straight line between 2 points, but instead an emotional, unflinching, and cathartic journey of my last year in song.

The music took me away. I went down to the River with Bruce only to find that it was the River of Dreams by Billy Joel. I waded in looking for answers, found none and on the way out Stevie Nicks warned me that taking my love down would cause a Landslide.

I gathered my strength to climb the embankment and took a breath, which was painful, I have been thinking about my wife and the pending divorce, feeling bad about it, and Rascal Flatts didn’t hold back from reminding me of What hurts the most. Dave Mason softened the blow a bit by pointing out that, at the end of the day, We just disagree.

Hoping for a break the next song delivered with a jam session as the Allman Brothers took me Southbound, I jammed on the dash like John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles doing the Messaround by Ray Charles. I got to thinking about how much the world misses John Candy.

mess around

On the theme of days gone by, Al Stewart brought me back in time to the Year of the Cat. A simpler time indeed. Tom Petty would then tell me all about his American Girl, and then make it impossible to drive the speed limit when he offered up You wreck me. The wailing guitar and the pounding drums urged me to go faster, faster you son of a bitch! But alas the car in front of me didn’t see the urgency or hear the song.

After I slowed down a little, the Indigo Girls brought me a little Closer to Fine but I was in a funk.  I again thought of the failed marriage and the Eagles were there to remind me that, at the end of the day, I gave her the Best of my love.

Nearing the end of my journey, I found myself teary eyed, reaching towards the heavens, while trying to drive of course, hands to God as Mondo Cozmo powerfully, with vocals and harmonies that filled my car and and the world around it, implored God to Shine his light down upon us. An emotional wreck, I pawed at my eyes and Journey had the nerve to ask me Who’s crying now? It’s me, alright? You got me.

Fortunately, Michael Franti, my barefoot Brazilian Messiah, took it to a metaphysical level and asked all of the right questions, said all the right things as he explained why It’s good to be alive today (my blog URL btw).

Then I pulled in my driveway. My physical journey over for the day, my emotional one only beginning. This playlist was my year in review. It nailed it.

I’ve had love and I’ve lost it.

I’ve sung and danced, and I’ve drummed with delight and cried my ass off on the same steering wheel.

I know what I need to do just not how to do it.

I’ve been to the River and found nothing but dirty water.

I’ve reached to the sky and found heaven right in front of me.

And I’ve gotten behind the wheel, gotten the urge to go somewhere and God help the bastard in front of me if they don’t let me pass them.

It is good to be alive today.