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Posts Tagged ‘Music’

It’s Friday night, and we’re waiting to go to the airport to pick up Richard, who is coming home for a visit.  Unfortunately, his flight has been delayed, so we’re biding our time for now.

Normally I would squawk about airlines and their comically frequent flight delays, but I’m too happy about Richard’s visit and the arrival of the weekend and I don’t want to ruin my mood.  So I’m going to go in the opposite direction, dive into some truly vintage rock that takes me back to high school days, follow Joe Walsh’s suggestion, and get into the Rocky Mountain Way insteadAfter all, it is better than the way we had.

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George Jones died today, in Nashville, at age 81.  He was the greatest country singer of his generation, and perhaps the greatest country singer, ever.

Jones lived a rough-and-tumble life and was legendary for his unpredictable behavior, but his musical talent was unquestionable.  It was gigantic.  Jones had an authentic country voice, with a lilting twang and an ability to wring every ounce of emotion out of his songs.  He was a real person and real performer, not some phony, blow-dried, cowboy hat-wearing pop star masquerading as a country singer.  I loathe “modern” country, but I could listen to George Jones and Merle Haggard and Patsy Cline all night long – and just might do so tonight.

I’ve posted the YouTube video of Jones singing The Grand Tour (and being introduced by his one-time wife, Tammy Wynette) because the title seems apt, but also because the song is a good illustration of his awesome prowess as a singer.  It’s a simple song about a man who has been left by his wife, but Jones turns it into a poignant, deeply moving glimpse into the shards of a life.

I don’t often urge people to do this or buy that, but if you’ve never listened to country music, give George Jones a try.  He and his music were pieces of Americana, and we may not see their like again.

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Signs, by the Five Man Electrical Band, is a great song,  First released in 1970, it tells the story of a young man who questions authority in the form of signs that want to exclude “long-haired freaky people” and trespassers.  The song’s refrain is:  “Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.  Blockin’ out the scenery, breakin’ my mind.  Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?

I don’t know many people who are disturbed by signs these days, even though there undoubtedly are many more signs now than there were in 1970.  If the young man from Signs were around today, would he still be angry about signs, or would he be more concerned by other issues of liberty and freedom — like drones, or widespread video surveillance, or the wide-ranging governmental regulations of conduct that are far more prevalent than they were four decades ago?  Or, because the young man would be in his 60s, would he be focused more on terrorists and public safety issues, and be grateful that the widespread use of security cameras by private businesses helped authorities to promptly identify and apprehend suspects in the Boston Marathon bombing?

Protest issues come, and protest issues go.  The world is a different, more complicated place than it was when signs, and Signs, seemed so important.

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IMG_3634I knew Nashville held itself out as the Music City, and the home of country music.  I had no idea, however, that it was a place where middle America came to get tanked.

On Broadway, about 8 blocks from our hotel, is a riotous collection of bars, music venues, karaoke joints, t-shirt salons, and cowboy boot emporiums, all lit up like a Christmas tree against the Nashville night sky.  Throng of red-faced, boot-wearing folks crowd the sidewalks and jam into the bars, swilling beer and listening to an unknown group — some very good, some not so — do covers of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jimmy Buffett, and Eric Clapton tunes.  On our walk tonight we saw bachelorette parties, rednecks ready to brawl, and families with kids, all ready to take in that Nashville ambiance.

With all the neon and motorcycles and crowds out on the streets, it reminded me somewhat of American Graffiti.  To complete the image, we saw a sign warning that there was to be “no cruising” from 9 p.m. to 3 a.m.

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I like robots, and I like music.  So when I heard that there is an interesting robot band, I had to check it out.  The band is called Compressorhead, it plays heavy metal music, and it is the invention of a German artist.

The spiky-haired drummer — who has four arms, which helps when you’re drumming — is my favorite.  This cover version of Ace of Spades by Motorhead lets him stretch out a bit.

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This morning, when I awoke, the Billy Joel song Honesty was firmly lodged in my brain — so firmly lodged that it kept playing and playing until I put on the iPod headphones and focused my brain instead on Television’s Marquee Moon.

Why did I wake up to Billy Joel’s plaintive anthem to forthright relationships?  I don’t have the slightest idea.  It’s not one of my all-time favorite songs.  I wasn’t humming it when I went to bed last night.  My best guess is that I heard it at some point over the last week or so, and while I slept my brain was simply shuffling through its catalog of recent stimuli, trying to figure out what to remember and what to discard.  It was just my good fortune to awaken when it was The Piano Man’s turn on the recently heard playlist.

I know my brain works hard while I sleep.  When I wake up, there often is a song, thought, or image at the forefront of my mind.  It’s not unusual for my overnight brain to help me with work issues.  If I am wrestling with how to structure an argument, I may hit the sack with the issue in mind and wake up with a carefully considered approach, down to the point of specific phrases or fully formed sentences that I can jot down and use.  On other occasions, I’ll open my eyes and immediately be confronted by a list of reminders and to-do items.  It’s as if the slumber of my conscious self frees my inner brain to grind away undisturbed, like a conscientious employee who is constantly distracted by a talkative boss and becomes truly productive only when the boss blessedly returns to his office.

I like the fact that my brain continues to work while I sleep.  I wouldn’t necessarily choose Billy Joel as my wake-up music, but it’s a small price to pay.

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The BBC reports that someone paid $290,000 for a copy of the Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover signed by every Beatle shortly after the album was released in 1967.  The sale price broke a record and brought almost 10 times the $30,000 that was expected when the item was put up for auction.

Sgt. Pepper’s is generally viewed as one of the most influential albums ever recorded, and its lavish, beautiful cover fit perfectly with the music inside and the beginning of the Summer of Love.  From the iconic front cover, with the Beatles surrounded by photos of famous people at a gravesite, to the lush and sparkling interior photo of the Beatles in the satin band uniforms (which is where the auctioned album is autographed), to the back cover of the song lyrics and a picture of the Beatles featuring Paul McCartney’s back, the Sgt. Pepper’s cover is a tantalizing treat for the senses.  But $290,000?

I’ve never understood the point of autographs.  It’s one thing if you collect the autographs yourself and had a personal story to tell about every famous person you encountered through that hobby.  Paying huge sums for autographed items collected by others, however, makes no sense to me.  The scribbled signature means nothing, in and of itself; I could no more distinguish a genuine John Lennon signature from a reasonable forgery.  The real value of the autographed item, apparently, is confirmation that, at one moment in time 45 years ago, this cardboard object briefly passed through the hands of the four Beatles.  But, so what?  Does the new owner experience a vicarious thrill at holding something once touched by his heroes, two of whom are now dead?  If so, isn’t that somewhat . . . odd?  Or is the buyer just a cold, calculated investor willing to gamble that, in 10 or 20 years, someone will pay even more for this piece of cardboard, which will be carefully stored in some climate-controlled safe?

Either way, $290,000 seems like an awful lot of money to pay for an album I once got for $7.99 at the neighborhood record store.

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A court recently ordered the Disney Company to pay $8,000 to a patron after he was stranded on a ride at Disneyland.

The man uses a wheelchair, and the ride in question was “It’s a Small World.”  The man, who suffers from panic attacks and high blood pressure, was stuck for a half hour after the ride broke down and non-disabled patrons got up and left.  The story linked above notes — and this is, I think, the most crucial fact of all — that the “It’s a Small World” theme song played throughout the time the man was stranded.  Oh, and did I mention that the man also had a full bladder?

If you’ve visited Disneyland and been on the “It’s a Small World” ride, you know that the ride’s theme song is one of the most insipid, saccharine songs ever written and recorded.  It’s a small world after all . . . .  Once you’ve heard it, it burrows deep into the recesses of your brain and is never successfully forgotten no matter how hard you try.  It’s a small world after all . . . .  Even worse, it is sung by high-pitched, piping, aggressively chipper child voices on a continuous loop as the ride progresses.  It’s a small, small world!  After having to listen to the music for the few minutes of the ride, any reasonably sane adult is ready to run screaming from the building.

Part of the $8,000 award was for “pain and suffering.”  I’ll say!  To be left, alone, in the ride, among the mindlessly smiling, doll-faced depictions of children from around the world, desperately needing to answer the call of nature while enduring the cloying onslaught of the banal song playing over and over and over again, sounds like a particularly awful form of personal hell.

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Today is Johann Sebastian Bach’s 328th birthday.  He was born on March 21, 1685 in Eisenach, in what is now Germany.  Today, Sirius XM marked the occasion by playing all Bach, all the time, on the Symphony Hall channel, and it made my commutes to and from work delightful indeed.

It isn’t difficult for Sirius to program all Bach for a 24-hour period, because Johann Sebastian was astonishingly prolific.  He wrote hymns, church music, concertos, cello suites, cantatas, and organ music, among other pieces.  He also was an accomplished organist who also played the harpsichord, the violin, and the viola.  His works helped to define the distinctive baroque style of music that prevailed in the early 1700s.  Interestingly, Bach’s works apparently fell out of favor after his death, and his compositions did not become highly regarded until the early 1800s.  Now, of course, he is generally regarded as one of the greatest composers in history, and his music is a staple of every classical radio station around the globe.

I love Bach’s pieces, and my iPod is filled with dozens of his compositions.  His works are so rich and expressive of a mood that it makes me wish I had met him to see whether his personality matched his music.  Bach’s compositions are vast and intricate, but at its core there is a certain radiating peacefulness.  If you’ve had a tough day and want to unwind and calm down, Bach is a good choice.  You can quickly get lost in his complex, intertwining melodies and the serenity that comes from well-ordered music that suggests a well-ordered world.

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I’m sorry to hear that Britain’s Queen Elizabeth is in the hospital.  The queen, 86, was admitted with gastroenteritis, a condition that causes inflammation of the stomach lining and intestines and can be caused by eating contaminated food or contact with an infected person.

I don’t quite get how there can still be a hereditary monarchy, of sorts, in Great Britain, but the British people seem to like it and therefore it’s really none of my business.  I’m not one of those Americans who finds the British royalty endlessly fascinating, either.  I paid no attention to the Princess Diana controversies and don’t care about royal weddings or the other events that command media attention.  Still, I commend Queen Elizabeth.  She’s reigned since before I was born — which seems hard to believe — and during that time she has done her job, presided over the openings of Parliament, awarded medals, and performed the other tasks required of a modern-day monarch.  She’s done it all without scandal and, apparently, with an appreciation for her role and the need to comport herself with dignity and discretion.  And, of course, she’s been the subject of a Beatles song.  It’s a pretty good record for a queen.

Of course, by reigning for as long as she has, Queen Elizabeth has kept Prince Charles, who seems a bit batty even by British standards, off the throne and free to tilt at global warming, modern architecture, and other windmills that attract his attention.  That may turn out to be one of her greatest achievements.  I hope she feels better soon and continues her long reign.

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They’ve come out with another study that will make us all feel guilty and worried about our lifestyles.  This one concludes that sitting down can be bad for you.

IMG_3184It’s true.  According to the report, sitting down too much increases your chances of heart disease, blood clots in the brain, diabetes, and certain types of cancer.  The study find a link between sitting down and glucose and fatty acids in the blood that are chemical markers for diabetes.  Spending just another 90 minutes standing every day, the study concludes, can significantly reduce your chance of developing diabetes.  In addition, because your metabolism is at its lowest when you are sitting on your duff, standing increases your metabolism, requires you to use more of your muscles, and will help you lose weight.  (We can all expect to begin to see TV commercials in the near future advertising the “[insert celebrity name here] Stand Up Diet” and including testimonials by ordinary people who claim that standing has changed their lives.)

The problem, of course, is that many of us have office jobs that involve sitting.  Some people use standing desks — I’m thinking of the Biking Brewer here — but I’m not sure how many employers are going to toss their vast collections of sit-down desks, cubicles, chairs, and tables and spend the money to re-equip their offices with stand-up replacements.  So, we all need to figure out ways to spend less time seated on our seats.  Walking to a co-worker’s office rather than calling them is one option.  Another is to drink lots of water so that you must rise from your chair to make regular trips to the restroom.  Yet another is to walk somewhere a few blocks away over the lunch hour, or stand when you are talking to your friend rather than plopping down butt-first somewhere.

It’s tempting to sit on our tushes on a comfortable chair.  After all, what’s the human keister for if not a good sit?  But Bob Marley apparently had it right:  “Get up, stand up” is the way to go.

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Well, Asteroid 2012 DA14 missed us.  Having briefly titillated us with the possibility that it would smash into Earth and approximate the effects of a world-wide disaster movie, Asteroid 2012 DA14 passed harmlessly by and vanished into space, going back to the anonymity that its boring name presaged.

Still, Asteroid 2012 DA14 had its impact — even if not a physical one.  If people are concerned about the possibility that, at any moment, a hurtling space rock will pulverize our planet, why not just live for the moment?  Why not adopt the Epicurean philosophy, and eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die?  (Of course, if we don’t die, we’ll have to deal with the consequences of our dissolute behavior, but let’s not think about that right now.)

Jolie Holland aptly captures such an approach with her terrific song Enjoy Yourself.  With asteroids and meteors raining down upon us, how could anyone not like a song with the refrain “enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think”?

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It’s probably declasse to admit this, but I’m drinking a Blue Moon as I listen to Aretha Franklin’s RESPECT.  UJ was here, we ate some pizza, and now I am enjoying a chilled adult beverage and, perhaps, the greatest voice in the history of American popular music.

IMG_1141What, exactly, is wheat beer, and why didn’t it seemingly exist 20 years ago?  Why does it have a fresh, clean, almost fruity taste that is such a nice contrast to a Budweiser?  And, much more importantly, how did Aretha Franklin dig so deep and find the voice that you hear in RESPECT?   It is awesome.

And, as even more of a testament to the fast-moving modern culture, how did wheat beer go from being newly discovered to being the purported beer of a poser so quickly?  It is one of life’s great mysteries.

I don’t care.  As Saturday night percolates, I still like the taste of Blue Moon Ale.

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IMG_2887I like clockwork.  We have a bunch of old clocks, pocket watches, and wall clocks in our home, and I treasure every one.

I love the intricacy of the clocks.  I love the brass fittings, the old glass, the differently sized gears, and the precisely calibrated, finely polished pieces of machinery that allow you to accurately account for time if you just keep the clock wound properly.  I imagine the clockmaker and watchmaker sitting at a cluttered desk, wearing some kind of magnifying glasses, scrupulously putting the pieces together and carefully tightening the screws.

Whenever I see an old clock, I think of baroque music.  The intricacy and precision of Bach and Boccherini and Albinoni seem well suited to provide the soundtrack for clockwork.

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Music often evokes time and place.  Hearing a particular song that was playing at the time may vividly bring back, for example, making out with your high school girlfriend in the basement of your parents’ house, or a drunken, late night bull session with your buddies at your trashed college apartment.

IMG_2621Few genres of music, however, are as tied to a location as steel drum music is tied to the Caribbean islands.  Perhaps ukelele music and Hawaii, or oompa bands and Germany, or koto music and Japan could compare — but that’s about it.  Rock music, classical music, jazz, big band: all could be, and have been, successfully played just about anywhere.  Steel drum music, though, really needs to be played outdoors, on a warm evening, with sultry breezes ruffling the leaves of lush tropical vegetation and crowds of happy, relaxed, rum-stoked people moving slowly to the ringing and tinkling sounds made by striking those gleaming steel drums.  Try to imagine hearing steel drum music in a snowbound northern location, with people bundled up and their breath visible in the cold.  I bet you can’t, because the juxtaposition is just too jarring.

My association of steel drum music with tropical warmth and beauty is so strong that I can make good use of it after I return home.  When the cold, gray, gloomy days of winter close in, I put on some steel drum music and can almost feel the sun on my skin, smell the coconut scent of suntan lotion, and see the bright turquoise waters of the Caribbean.  It makes the winter just a bit more bearable.

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