The Personal Is Political

Ignorance is Bliss

2010-08-19T16:30:00.000-05:00

I guess I haven’t done one of these in a while. The reasons why are too many and too complicated to get into, and maybe you’ll hear about them at some future time. Today, however, I’m just interested in getting a few things off my chest, so to speak. I apologize in advance for sounding a bit whiny, but it has been a long, hot summer down here on the Jersey Shore. So without further ado, some random observations:

Re “Snooki” , “The Situation,” etc. WTF? Go back to Staten Island or Long Island or whatever planet you’re from and leave the Garden State the f*ck alone. ‘Nuff said.

When did people forget how to parallel park? Every day in my neighborhood I see people needlessly taking up two perfectly good parking spots with one car because for some unknown reason they don’t pull up close to the car in front of them. What, do you think because you’ve left space that some dumbass isn’t going to hit your car? Please. I’m more likely to hit it now than I was before because you have just taken two parking spots with one ugly ass car.

And while I’m on the subject of automobile-related annoyances, who was the total moron who invented the automatic door lock that honks the horn when you use it? Yeah, like we need another random car noise. And what is it with people inflicting their (usually godawful) musical taste on entire neighborhoods when they drive by playing their car stereos at 11? Do you need attention that badly? Grow up already; we’re not impressed with your gas-guzzling Hummer.

Why do people insist on mispronouncing ethnic names? Is there something wrong with at least making some attempt to respect one’s ancestry? If I hear one more person in my family pronounce our last name “Eye-annucci” I am going to go postal. As far as I can tell, the letter “I” is never pronounced that way in either English or Italian, so I am baffled as to where this even comes from. All I know is, it needs to stop.

Which brings me to my pet peeve of the day—the idiotic way many Americans pronounce the names of foreign countries. This is nothing new, of course; I clearly remember hearing people pronounce “Vietnam” as though it rhymed with “ham.” But really, where does this “Eyeraq” and “Eyeran” thing come from? Again, there is no such pronounciaion of the letter “I” in the English language. And then there’s the way they pronounce the “a” sound; saying “rack” instead of “rock” just sounds, well, unsophisticated. Mainly because it’s incorrect.

You wanna know why they mock Americans so much in other countries? Because we constantly disrespect their language, their history, their culture. Couldn’t be bothered to learn anything about anything that goes on outside of the bubbles in which we live our lives here in the “Good ol’ U.S. of A.” Why are Americans permitted, even encouraged, to sound so ignorant without some sort of repercussion? And why do we insist upon responding to their derision by mocking the “furriners” for actually having an education? Did it ever occur to anyone that the reason we are so distrusted and detested abroad is that so many of us are such total rubes?

Newsflash: we didn’t invent the world singlehandedly, and we’re certainly not going to save it that way. I think it’s time we opened our eyes to the fact that modern society is complex, and we’re no longer the global power we once (thought we) were. We live in a complicated world, one that requires a little introspection now and then here in America. To pretend otherwise is, well, just plain ignorant.

Only the Strong Survive

2010-02-10T18:11:00.002-05:00

Yeah it is not pleasant being buried in the white stuff not once but twice in a week. It’s no fun walking in snow up to your thighs, having the current indoor temperature be lower than it will be in a couple months outside. Yeah, life in the Garden State is far from perfect, and, as a transplant from elsewhere, I'll be the first to say so. People love dumping on New Jersey, and there are lots of things to complain about. But there must be a reason why it’s the most densely populated state in the country. Here are a few that spring to mind:

Mountains, beaches and forests.

Boardwalks, fields and marshes.

Cranberry bogs and pine woods.

Ethnic and cultural diversity

Pharmaceutical and insurance industries

Princeton, Rutgers and an excellent network of community colleges

Legalized gambling

Liberty State Park and Liberty Science Center

Some of the best regional theater in the country

Live original music from Southside Johnny to the Swingin’ Neckbreakers. Other famous names include Bruce Springsteen, Lesley Gore, The Smithereens, Dramarama, Bon Jovi, Count Basie, Frank Sinatra, The Gaslight Anthem, Connie Francis, The Misfits, Kool and the Gang, Frankie Valli and George Clinton.

Revolutionary war historical sites

Proximity to New York City and Philadelphia and their fabulousness

Films made in NJ include “Clerks”, “The Wrestler”, “Welcome to the Dollhouse”, “Return of the Secaucus 7”, “The Purple Rose of Cairo”, “On the Waterfront”, “Broadway Danny Rose”, “A Beautiful Mind”, “Big Night”, “Chasing Amy”, “Atlantic City” and “Baby, It’s You.”

“The Sopranos”

Hundreds of amazing restaurants featuring cuisines from throughout the world

Only the strong survive, baby…

So to sum up, yeah, New Jersey ain’t for everybody. But those of us who call it home wouldn’t live anywhere else. And perhaps that’s the way it should be.

You Know What They Say About Assuming

2010-01-24T14:43:00.002-05:00

See here’s the thing. I was born and raised in Washington DC. Dunno if you know this, but it’s a majority African American city. By like 65 to 35 percent. There is also great ethnic diversity there, being as we host the diplomatic missions of the countries with which the U.S. does foreign relations business, and being as there’s a significant immigrant community from Africa, Asia and South and Central America. And DC is only sixty square miles. That’s not much land when you consider a good deal of it is federal property and/or national parkland. Translation: we all get along not because it’s politically correct but because we have to. And we’ve done a pretty good job of it most of the time (or at least no worse than several other major cities I could name).

Then there’s how I was raised. Which was to judge people not by their appearance but by the content of their character. That’s not open for debate in my household. (And I would argue that it’s neither liberal nor conservative to hold such values—it’s human.) Oh, and I’m Italian American and Catholic too, a background that has historically been treated less than kindly by the white Protestant majority. Just sayin’…

So here’s the thing—why do you continue to say hateful racist crap right in front of me and act like I’m supposed to agree with you? Why do you do it when I’m at work where you know I can’t answer or even acknowledge such comments because I’ll be fired, where my silence looks like assent but is anything but? Come on; don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

I don’t know if you have gotten the memo, folks, but there’s a man of mixed racial background in the White House. A man duly elected by a majority of the people who bothered to vote. I don’t care if you agree with him. I don’t care if you like him. I don’t necessarily like or agree with every policy coming out of the Obama White House either. But here’s the thing—I respect the office, and I respect that the will of the American people put him there. And further, I form opinions about him based on fact, on reading different points of view, applying my own life experience and insight, and coming to my own conclusions. I know you probably will just accuse me of being a “socialist” or whatever because I say such things (whether or not you understand what such labels really mean is a whole other question). I don’t expect that you’ll see me in any way except the way you’ve been taught to see me, to judge me as you seem to be judging our president and people of color in general--solely on appearance.

But here’s the thing, and it’s the only thing I’ll ask of you: don’t put words in my mouth, and don't assume. Don’t assume you know jack about me or who I am or where I’m coming from or what I believe based on what I look like, where I work, how I’m dressed or anything else. Don't assume that you speak for me just because I am silent. Got me? Don’t assume. Because I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a saying about assuming things, and frankly it doesn’t reflect upon you very kindly. So the next time you see me, kindly think twice before you open your mouth.

That is all.

Tempis Fugit

2010-01-21T17:47:00.005-05:00

Another January gone by, another birthday approaches. I don’t feel any different, and yet as the last few years have passed I am starting to feel irrelevant. That the world as it is now is not one in which I am valued as a customer, a client, a participant. That there has been a fundamental shift in values, that everything has sped up, that we have lost so much in our race to have the latest technology, to have it all now now now. I feel this way because most of my friends have Blackberries, iPhones, and Twitter accounts while I remain thus unencumbered, and while I once would have felt left out, I now just regard it all with a sort of bemused detachment. It’s not that I don’t care about or want to know about all this stuff, it’s that my life doesn’t move at that pace anymore and more importantly, I don’t care that it doesn’t. Who knows, maybe it never did to begin with.

Brian Wilson once wrote a song called “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times.” Like me, he always felt like he was on the outside looking in, that he belonged to another time, another place than the one into which he had been born. That the things he thought were important were lost on others, that they valued things he found abhorrent or worse, irrelevant. I too, have felt that way most of my life. Have always been a step or two behind my contemporaries. Have always felt like I didn’t belong to their world in some indefinable way. Because of this, and because I don’t really look my age, I have always tended to fall in with people younger than myself. And yet because of this age discrepancy my friends and I lack a shared frame of reference. Which ends up making me feel even further removed from it all. There often seem to be not just distances but chasms between us.

I have never been a trailblazer or an innovator, either, a trait that just seems to add to that sense of detachment, that remove I’ve always felt. I have always been a step behind in most everything, it seems—in discovering the music that’s so important to me, the bands, the atmosphere, the fashions, the scene. I’ve always found offbeat things long after they’ve become acceptable and safe. I have no avant-garde spirit, I guess. Have always been unwilling or unable to take risks others have found necessary for their very survival. I guess it’s because my sense of self has always been shaky; after all, you can’t blaze trails without an idea of where you’re going and why. I don’t know. All I know is things are moving too fast for me and people don’t seem to pay attention to much anymore except making sure they’re keeping up.

It seems to me lately that it’s not the message that’s important anymore, it’s the medium. But that’s not the technology’s fault—it never was. After all, you can’t blame television or the telephone or the fax machine for how we have chosen to conduct our lives. No, things have changed because we have allowed them to; we failed to see the danger, and have thus become slaves to the very technological advancements that were supposed to make our lives simpler and easier. And of course most of us didn’t even realize what we’d lost until it was too late: things like sit-down dinner with the family, Sunday gatherings with the relatives, lingering over a well-cooked meal and a bottle of wine and some good conversation. Tasting the food, appreciating the labor involved in growing and harvesting it, the time and effort involved in its preparation, the satisfaction derived from having time to truly enjoy the smell, taste and texture of what we’re eating. Taking pleasure in good company while sharing these blessings. The slower pace of life, the satisfaction of simple things. We’ve lost that and we’re not getting it back. Paying attention to the small things in life seems so, well, archaic in these days of instant messaging and keeping up with the tweets.

I don’t know where all of this is leading, only that it has passed me by and I no longer have the energy to keep up with it all even if I wanted to. I guess in the end a large part of getting older is simply acceptance. Accepting my own faults and frailties, accepting myself for who and what I am. Accepting that events happen over which I have no control. Accepting there is nothing I can do about this. And most important of all, not wasting time and energy worrying about any of it.

So next week I draw nearer to the dreaded half-century mark. And as I do so, I become increasingly irrelevant to the world at large—or so it seems. (Assuming I was ever really relevant to begin with, which is an entirely different matter for another time.) I should be upset about this, I guess, and at one time in my life I suppose I would have been. But at my age, that’s just too much work.

New Year's Manifesto

2010-01-03T11:02:00.002-05:00

Just stop it.

Put down the digital camera, iPod, the iPhone, the Blackberry, the Sony Reader, the Kindle, the Wii. Stop playing with it. Turn it off, put it down and fucking pay attention.

Pay attention to the world, to your friends, to the birds perched on your windowsill. To the sound the wind makes when it blows through the trees. To the feeling of cold air on your face and inside your lungs.

Just. Stop.

Stop spending. What are you buying all that stuff for?

Relax. Why are you working so hard?

Slow down. Pay attention. Look people in the eye. Smile at them. Say “please” and “thank you” and hold doors open for people.

Stop tailgating. Don’t honk your horn. Stop cutting people off. Use your turn signal.

Don’t yell. Stop talking. Just listen.

Turn off your goddamn cell phone ringer when you are in a public place, and don’t answer it unless you are alone or you have a real good fucking reason. Call people back when you have time to give them your full attention. Turn off your phone when you are in the checkout line, at a restaurant, a movie, a concert. Turn. It. Off.

Stop texting when you are at a concert, a movie, in the car, when you’re talking to people.

Treat people with courtesy and respect. Be kind to those who serve you.

Be patient with the sick, the weak, the elderly. Smile at them and offer to help.

Pay attention to your kids. Teach them manners, teach them respect, teach them love.

Set a good example.

If you have to think about it twice, don’t do it.

Don’t buy it if you don’t need it.

Turn it off. Slow down. Watch. Listen.

Pay attention.

Love each other.

Darkness Revisited

2009-12-27T13:01:00.006-05:00

Lately I have been listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town album a lot, partially because I haven’t in a long time, and partially in preparation for its upcoming re-issue. These are songs that have never left his live sets since Bruce first played them over thirty years ago. They have stuck around because they are songs that continue to resonate not only in his own life, but in the lives of his audience. After all, he continues to play them night after night not only because he particularly favors them but because they garner a certain audience response. And rock’n’roll is show business, after all.

Darkness is a unique album in the Springsteen canon, as it is one of only two albums (Nebraska being the other) that have gained some acceptance not only by his own fans, but by the far less mainstream world of punk rock as well. And it’s not just about the anger, the frustration, the aggression that are common to both worlds. It’s that the stark rawness both of the Darkness album and of the punk rock movement are both rooted in the music of Williams and Cash, of Presley and Cochran, artists whose own music was born of the old time country and blues of the rural south. It’s no accident that both Bruce and The Clash have gravitated to Bobby Fuller, that both Springsteen and Social Distortion have covered Johnny Cash.

Why then is Bruce still such a hard sell to the next couple generations of punk rockers? Why do they embrace Mike Ness and Joey Ramone and not see that Springsteen and those punk artists exist on different branches of the same tree?

I have a thirty-something friend who plays in a couple pop-punk bands in his home state of New Jersey. I met him at a New York Dolls show and we talked for hours about that scene, about The Ramones and The Heartbreakers and all that came after. Yet he was surprised to learn that I wrote for a Springsteen fan magazine. Considered Bruce's work kind of hokey, far too broad and mainstream to be considered outsider music in the punk vein. I tried to tell him how outside Springsteen once was, what a difficult sell the Darkness album was in its time. How Bruce used to hang out with Patti Smith and Robert Gordon and Joey Ramone, how they would come to see him play. But in his mind Bruce is just that guy waving the flag, the guy his parents listened to.

I don’t know if Bruce will ever completely come to terms with the wealth and notoriety that accompany mainstream success. As though music weren’t a job, as though being both well-known and commercially successful weren’t much of the reason that musicians do what they do. In addition, I have never been altogether sure that Bruce himself has been completely comfortable with some of the compromises he has had to make in his life as a result of that mainstream success: the loss of privacy and of some of the artistic freedom that comes from not having to appeal to a mass audience. I think he has, in some sense, felt trapped by that lack of freedom, and has only recently begun to understand that it has always been within his power to reclaim it.

As for me, well, I’m going to buy two copies of that Darkness reissue next year: one for me, and one for my punk rock friend. Because I think it’s time to listen to those songs again; to give them the freedom to speak for themselves that Bruce himself finally seems to have rediscovered. And, well, that punk needs to learn a thing or two about the record that Pete Townshend himself once called "fuckin' triumph, man."

What Lies Beneath

2009-12-06T19:14:00.005-05:00

I know my grandfather’s name was John Edward Peters and my grandmother married him because he was a good dancer. He liked to party, but he had a dark side too, a side that remains a mystery. He, like many, lost a large fortune after the stock market crash of ’29; he married my grandmother not long after. My grandfather never recovered from the loss, and his black moods and drinking increased until finally my grandmother threw him out; she eventually divorced him when my mother was five or six years old.

She married her second husband in 1941, and he went off to the war in Europe. My grandfather served in Europe as well. We don’t know much about his service except that he saw action in Germany and returned with “combat fatigue” for which he received no treatment; it was his second major breakdown. There may have been more, I’m not sure. I'm also not sure why they let him in the service in the first place with his history of mental trouble.

He returned to Baltimore after the war, and though my mother and her older brother rarely saw him, he did send her spending money--$10 a month or so—while she attended the University of Maryland, from which she graduated in 1955. My mother tells me that he would occasionally turn up in her neighborhood around this time, that he followed her and tried to catch glimpses of her. These days you would call it stalking, I guess, but back then it was just considered creepy. My mom says he once made some inappropriate comments to her, and that she doesn’t remember seeing him after that. He died some years later.

Is this where the darkness and despair come from? Do my own mood swings and depression and self-destructive behavior come from the Peters side? And what if they do? Does this change anything, or is it just an excuse? I don’t know. I just know that I need to know more about this mysterious, malevolent figure whom his own children rarely saw. I don’t know if I believe in the concept of closure or not; I just know that there’s a part of me that belongs to him, and I cannot rest without knowing more.

Giving Thanks

2009-11-26T11:28:00.002-05:00

Well, it’s another Thanksgiving and today we are all spending time with friends and family, eating and drinking far too much and reflecting on our many blessings. For me, it’s been a strange, disturbing year for many reasons, and yet I still feel fortunate.

Fortunate to still be here, for one thing. Several people from the music world that has obsessed me lo these many years have died this year: John Luraschi and Larry Blasco from the Jersey Shore scene. Ellie Greenwich and Larry Knechtel from Phil Spector’s family of geniuses. Lifelong heroes like Ted Kennedy. Friends of friends whom I only hear about weeks later. But they are gone just the same, and that is always hard.

I visited Arlington National Cemetery earlier this year and witnessed the results of the savagery and relentlessness of man’s wartime folly. As rifle shots from a funeral echoed in the distance, it was brought home to me again how precious an individual life is to those who mourn; how tragic the loss of so many young, vital people. Each death leaves a gaping hole in our lives that only time can fill.

This year I have lost my precious tabby cat Suzie, who was my companion and best friend. She knew all my secrets and listened without judgment. She comforted me when I was sad and alone, and I told her things no one else would understand. She was spoiled and overweight, but she was kind and affectionate and I will miss her terribly.

There have been other changes this year. I have taken some steps in my personal life that have left me with a somewhat uncertain future, but they were changes that needed to happen and I feel certain that despite the difficult circumstances at present, things will eventually work out. My sister has finally begun to receive the medical treatment she so desperately needs, and has begun addressing some of her own personal difficulties.

But there have also been several things that have happened to me that have been nothing short of amazing. I have renewed my friendships with several people whom I haven’t seen in years. I have appeared on the radio with Dave Marsh, an old friend and mentor who always seems to be there at the right time. I have seen Bruce Springsteen perform in a small venue right in my own backyard. I have discovered another band to chase around the country, and have found several new friends along the way, a couple of whom have completely and utterly changed my life. They continue to make me feel wanted and needed when I am at my lowest, and constantly remind me that the best things in life are often so simple: a glance, a smile, a kiss. A touch, a long, warm embrace that lets you know everything’s going to be all right. These are gifts whose value has no measure, and I cannot begin to thank them enough.

There are so many things to be thankful for despite all the heartache and despair of the past year. I have a job and money in the bank. I have a roof over my head and food in my stomach. I have my friends and my family, no matter how fractured and dysfunctional it may be. I have my head and my heart and my body and my brain. I have my health—for the most part. I have a car and clothes to wear and music to listen to. Books to read, films and television to watch, culinary marvels to indulge in. I have the smell that hangs in the air just before it snows, the aura of anticipation just before a band that I love starts to play. I have the memory of the way my cat used to look at me when I’d scratch her chin, the warmth of her body in my lap. The way the sunlight glints off the breaking ocean waves and dapples its surface. The way my friends make me laugh, the taste of warm red wine and the soft buzz it gives me. The charge I still get from seeing a great movie or reading a great book or hearing great music. From discovering a new band, from those three chords and that backbeat. From Paul McCartney’s winsome smile and pure, true voice and unforgettable melodies, from Paul Westerberg’s heart and soul and wit, from Beethoven’s passion and Forster’s intelligence and Coppola’s epic grandeur and Winslet’s perfect skin and intense blue eyes and Newman’s self-deprecating grin.

I have the smell of wet grass, the light in a certain someone’s eyes and that naughty suggestive smile he sometimes gives me that always makes me melt. I have The Ramones and The Beatles, the sound of a cat’s purr, the contended snorts and munches of horses and cows when they’re fed, the gurgling of a hidden stream in the woods on a brisk fall day, the sound of the wind in the trees, the stillness of solitude in the outdoors, the awesome magnitude of a mountain range in the distance. The perfect refreshment of cold orange juice when I have awakened with a hangover; the greasy, salty warmth of Burger King french fries and the perfect tang of garlic and oregano and tomato and cheese that flavors a slice of pizza on the street in New York City. The total comfort of egg drop soup, of having a place to come home to at the end of the day when I’m tired and hungry and just need to sit down and do nothing for awhile. The way the sound of loud guitars hits me right in the chest, the way the drums pound through my head, the way the bass can be something I hear but can also be that frequency that vibrates through my entire body. The way it feels when you’re alone with someone and they take you in their arms and hold you and touch you and make the entire world disappear. The way my nephews talk to each other when they think no one else is listening, how their voices echo throughout the house, the sound of their feet running back and forth as they chase each other around at play. The soft, cool glow of moonlight that hangs above a still night meadow, the twinkling of the Brooklyn Bridge, the green torch of the Statue of Liberty in the distance. The Lincoln Memorial at night, the chirping of birds outside my window.

Yes, I am blessed by these things and many more. I am still here despite everything, and for that I am truly grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Mental Health Will Drive You Mad

2009-11-05T09:56:00.001-05:00

The latest news concerning Lindsay Lohan—that her father is using voice mails she left for him as proof that he needs to forcibly commit her—is evidence of many things, not the least of which is that for the mass audience that consumes this sort of drivel, mental health issues are nothing more than entertainment fodder, something to be vaguely amused by as they peruse their daily doses of Twitter, Facebook and whatever other passing fancies that are nothing more than a momentary distraction in their humdrum lives.

Well in my family and thousands of others like it, mental health is no joke. Depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety attacks, breakdowns, drug abuse—these are daily facts of life for us. It deeply disturbs me that in this age in which we are supposedly enlightened about so many things, mental health is not treated as a serious public health issue but as some sort of joke, a self-indulgent behavior pattern that will “go away” if those who are afflicted by it would just make an effort to “get over it.” While we have made some progress with public perception—we no longer sweep such things under the proverbial rug—I find it deeply troubling that the mass media (and the great unwashed masses who consume it) continue to treat mental health concerns of public figures with such casual cynicism.

Someone near and dear to me is going through a terrible time right now and it has been a horrible strain on everyone in the family, not the least of which are her two young boys who don’t really understand what’s going on except that their mommy who adores them is a shadow of her former self, sad and lethargic and hopeless. She is in serious trouble, in danger of doing great damage not just to herself but to those who care about her. Like poor troubled Lindsay, she struggles each day with a myriad of issues that sometimes get the best of her. She is fortunate that, unlike Lohan, she has a support system in place that continues to look out for her, but like Lindsay, she still feels sometimes as if there is no one who really understands what she’s going through, no one she can completely trust.

Having suffered from crippling depression myself, I understand the frustration of trying to convey what it is I’m experiencing to someone who has never had mental health issues. When I describe the medication and treatment program that I have undergone, for example, the response is often skepticism instead of empathy. They don’t understand why the drugs are necessary, a fundamental aspect of the course of treatment, instead seeing them as a sign of weakness, as some sort of crutch we choose to lean on instead of just dealing with the disease. To those who haven’t experienced it, depression is not a disease at all, is no more than a bad mood that will soon pass. How many times have you heard someone who is perfectly ok say something like “I’m so depressed” and then go on to cheerily describe the latest travails with their current job, boyfriend, etc.? That, my friends, is not depression at all, and it’s about time we started delineating the difference.

It’s time for people to wake up and realize that depression is real, bipolar disorder, anxiety, breakdowns—these things are not some trumped up behavior indulged in by rock stars and actors to get their names in the headlines. Counseling, drug therapy, hospitalization—these are not extreme measures or a sign of laziness, but fundamental aspects of a treatment regiment designed to help the mental health patient get better. Lindsay Lohan is in a lot of trouble right now, and instead of mocking her, we should be hoping and praying that there is someone out there who can help her before it’s too late. Because, you see, I’ve seen that look that she has on her face, and I am all too familiar with what might come next.

Just Another Saturday Night

2009-11-01T08:53:00.001-05:00

I have never really had much imagination when it comes to Halloween costumes. Mostly just bought a cheapie mask at Sears or some such. Nor have I ever really had much enthusiasm for the holiday beyond the obvious candy windfall. These days, like many things in our Modern World, Halloween has become competitive to the point of ridiculousness. As in, how obscure/trendy/ironic can you be and still have people know who you are? Just having a well made costume and a well thought out idea isn’t enough anymore. And if you’re in a major city and are of the female persuasion, there is, of course, the mandatory (and completely unimaginative) sexy fill-in-the-blank costume outfitted by your favorite lingerie store. If you’re in the ‘burbs, however, it’s all about documenting said event by taking endless photos of your adorable kids that no one else really wants to see and then following behind them while they’re out collecting treats with a cooler of cheap beer (my guess—Coors Light). If you’re somewhere in the middle, having a Halloween party is the way to go, which is cool except for usually I have to work on Halloween night and am too old and tired to want to do anything afterward. So this year, like most, I busied myself with a classic movie on TCM, a strong drink and some wonderful scented candles while my more creative and talented friends lit the night with their imaginations.

Sense and Colonel Brandon

2009-10-22T22:33:00.003-05:00

I somehow got away with not reading any Jane Austen until I was out of college. Don’t really know why; I guess she didn’t appeal to me until I was old enough to have had some of the life experiences she dealt with in her amazing novels. In the last ten years or so, however, I have grown fond of Ms. Austen and her cavalcade of characters: the righteous Mr. Darcy, well-meaning Emma Woodhouse, mischievous ne’er do wells like Wickham and Willoughby. But lately I am especially enamored of the saintly Col. Brandon of Sense and Sensibility fame.

For those not familiar, Col. Brandon is pretty much the perfect man. He’s wealthy, steadfast, reliable, good-natured and though he is not conventionally handsome, he is not unpleasant to look at. He’s a good friend: kind, generous, brave. He’s modest, soft-spoken and self-assured. But what’s best about the Saintly Colonel is his uncanny ability to be at the right place at the right time, to offer hope and salvation to the hopeless. He’s a Knight in Shining Armor come to life for Marianne Dashwood, that’s for sure. Heartbroken and defeated after a traumatic and doomed love affair, she goes for an ill-advised walk in a rainstorm and passes out. Things look grim for the luckless Miss Dashwood. Grim, that is, until the ubiquitous Col. Brandon—who has, true to form, kindly volunteered to brave the storm in search of the beleaguered young lady—comes upon her limp form lying in the sodden grass and proceeds to carry her a not insignificant distance back to shelter, whereupon the unfortunate Marianne comes down with an infectious fever of some sort (aka “heroine disease”) and becomes gravely ill. Her sister Elinor, who has been nursing her, encounters the good Colonel roaming the halls outside her sickroom (what else would he be doing?) and when he asks what he can do to help, she instructs him to go fetch their mother as the younger Miss Dashwood may not last the night. This being Jane Austen, you just know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? Why of course—the saintly Colonel returns with Mother Dashwood post-haste, Marianne recovers, Willoughby (the cad who dumped Marianne in the first place) gets his comeuppance, Brandon marries Marianne, and all’s well that ends well. Sigh. If only…

I was thinking about Col. Brandon last night driving home from a visit with my sister. It seems life has never been easy for Nicole—poor decisions, depression, a host of physical ailments, career setbacks. She has had a couple close calls along the way, but she has never given up. I don’t know how she does it sometimes, because for my sister, the good luck that usually follows bad for the rest of us never seems to come to her. She’s not a weak person, but she is a lot more fragile than she’d care to admit, and I often become frustrated and angry at the world for all the things it keeps doing to her. She’s made mistakes—we all have—but does she have keep paying for them her whole life?

Nicole has always managed to get through it all somehow, but those of you who know her know that this year has been especially trying for her. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and when I visited with her yesterday, I was taken aback at how sad and defeated she looked. I hadn’t seen her look this bad in a long time. I know it’s bad, because she’s usually pretty stoic, and last night she confided to my mother and me that she was really struggling. We left her place very concerned for her safety and well-being, and I lay awake worrying about her much of last night. Well this morning I received the news that indeed, things had gotten worse after we left her, and the sinking feeling I had carried with me most of the year was drowned in waves of sadness and despair. We all have our ups and downs, but dammit, why can’t Nicole catch a break? What has she done to deserve this?

Today, needing the movie equivalent of comfort food to distract me a bit, I indulged in the umpteenth viewing of Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, which, being a huge Kate Winslet fan, is my favorite film version of the masterpiece. But instead of taking my mind off my worries, today the movie only reminded me of them. Why, I thought, does my sister keep encountering the Willoughbys of the world when she so richly deserves a Col. Brandon?

Well truthfully, we all--male and female--deserve a Col. Brandon figure in our lives, don’t we? Even if we like to think of ourselves as strong, independent, capable, don’t we all secretly hope that if, heaven forbid, something terrible happened, there’s a Brandon waiting in the wings out there somewhere ready to Make it All Better? Don’t we all want to believe that the good guys win and the bad guys get punished, want to trust in the ultimate fairness of the universe?

I don’t know what’s going to happen to Nicole, I really don’t. She’s gotten through this type of thing before and gone on with her life, but for some reason she has never really been able to completely move past the trauma and get a solid foothold. I am not sure why; perhaps it’s because she really does need a Col. Brandon-like figure in her life. Not so much for the financial security he’d offer, or even for the romance. No, what Nicole really needs her Col. Brandon for is the simplest, most basic thing of all—something that sadly, she’s lacked most of her life. My sister needs someone who’ll be there when she needs him, who'll listen with compassion and without judgment, make her feel safe and secure, needed and most important, loved. In short, my sister needs Col. Brandon the friend. But really, don’t we all?

God's Driftin' in Heaven

2009-10-21T23:53:00.003-05:00

At one time missing a Springsteen show at The Spectrum would’ve been unthinkable to me, but lately it just hasn’t seemed to matter that much. Not even the fact that last night was the last time he’d be playing there—for real this time—made a difference to me. He could play my dream set list and I’d still feel there was something missing.

And there was. Yeah, despite the fact that he played not one but two of my handful of favorite (and obscure) songs—one of them hadn’t been played in 28 years—I remain convinced that I would have, on some level, been disappointed by last night’s final performance at the venerated arena in South Philly had I been there. Convinced because even with superior song selection it was still a performance with no coherent set list, a show that relied on two major crutches—playing an entire album in proper sequence as part of the set, and having “stump the band time” (in which people wave signs with song requests at him). These things—coupled with shameless audience pandering, booty shaking to teenage girls younger than his own daughter, oversinging, sluggish arrangements—all this and more (poor fan behavior, for example) made the City of Brotherly Love a place I didn’t want to be last night.

So nope, though my first ever Springsteen show was at The Spectrum in December of 1980, I didn’t feel the need to be there for the swan song. I used to believe in poetic justice, in events aligning themselves just so; at one time, being at The Spectrum last night would have been a no brainer, missing it unimaginable. But listen to the songs—Bruce is always talking about living your life, finding your place in the world, connecting with people, taking care of each other. And I think, upon reflection, that I can honestly say that I’ve done those things—maybe not as much as I should have, but I’ve tried. I’ve tried to break out of my closed off shell of a personality, discard the self-hatred, attack the despondence and depression. I’ve gone out and lived in the world. And to me, that is far more important than any one show--even by The Boss himself.

Know Thyself

2009-10-19T17:06:00.005-05:00

My mom doesn’t know who her father was. Not literally; he did live in the same house with her and her mother and older brother for a brief time. But he was never there much, she was really young when he left, and he never really had much to do with her anyway. So though she knows his name and dimly recalls his appearance, she can’t really say that she ever really knew him.

When I was a little girl, everything surrounding my grandfather—her dad—was a big mystery. I knew the man my grandmother—we called her Nana—was married to at the time was not my mom’s dad and was curious about what the circumstances were that brought her to divorce my grandfather and marry him, but I knew better than to ask. Whatever had happened with my grandfather was not to be spoken of, and I somehow knew this without being told. Later on, as a pre-teen, I went through a box of old photos that had been in my grandmother’s attic, and noticed that a bunch of them had half the photo cut away. It had not even occurred to me that I might find a picture of my grandfather in there, but the mutilated photos were concrete evidence that whatever had precipitated my Nana’s divorce from my grandfather must’ve been pretty bad. Must’ve made her angry enough that she never wanted to see his face again, not even in old blurry black and white photos. Angry enough that she didn’t care if my sister and brother and I—her grandchildren—ever got to see what their grandfather looked like. She was pissed off that I had even found and pilfered the box of photos, I guess because she knew I might try to ask her a lot of difficult questions on a subject she did not wish to discuss. Of course the mere fact that she yelled at me for doing it was enough to keep my mouth shut, so I never worked up the courage to ask anyway.

My mom doesn’t know who her father was, so she can’t really describe him to us except for some vague memories—how he smelled, the sound he made coming in the front door from work each evening. But he must’ve been pretty good-looking because my Uncle Brooke—mom’s older brother—was quite a handsome young man, and my mom was a knockout in her day. She used to get mistaken for Ali McGraw all the time—and this was with wearing no makeup and already having two young children and a third on the way. I know my uncle was good-looking because Nana kept a photo of him from his days in the Coast Guard on a bureau in one of her spare bedrooms. I remember curly hair, a round smiling face, a devil-may-care grin and twinkle in the eyes that told me he must have been Trouble.

Indeed, my mom always spoke of Uncle Brooke—when she could be persuaded to speak of him at all—with palpable resentment, because Nana just adored him, and never tried to hide the fact that he was her favorite child. She always favored boy children (and grandchildren), and my uncle was the apple of her eye. Got away with murder, so my mom said. I never met him, though; despite the fact that Nana kept his photo around, Uncle Brooke was, like his father, persona non grata. We children didn’t know anything about him except that he was married and had some kids of his own who were our cousins. We didn’t know where he lived or what he did for a living or the names of his wife and children. Like my grandfather, he just wasn’t talked about. In fact, most of the time it was like we didn’t have an Uncle Brooke at all--that is, until the day when my mom got the phone call informing her that he had died. It was one of the only times I’ve ever seen my mom cry, and I still remember the look on her face when she hung up the phone. Seems our uncle—like his father before him—had drunk himself to death. Of course, we knew none of this till years later, and only then because we questioned my mom about it; she wasn’t giving up any information on the subject on her own, that was for sure.

I have a couple friends who were adopted, and who don’t know who their birth parents are. Matter of fact, one of my best friends in high school was adopted. She was totally up front about it and didn’t really seem bothered by it. But just from my own experience with the mystery surrounding my grandfather, I know it’s got to sting. The insecurity, the not knowing. The fear that people are going to leave you, that you don’t really know yourself: why you do certain things, look a certain way. These feelings of loss and confusion can make dealing with adoptees a difficult proposition at times. Intimacy is difficult, complicated. In my own experience, it’s just so hard getting them to trust you as a friend, companion, lover. I want so much to tell them that I understand; that, as with them, there are things about myself I don’t yet know and may never discover. Want to look them in the eye and tell them that it’s ok; that I care about them for the people they are, not for who their parents might have been. That despite knowing my parents and most of my immediate family, I don’t really know myself that well either.

But there are times when I look in the mirror and think—did my grandpa have this nose, these eyes? This temper, this tendency toward self-loathing and despair? Did the black cloud of depression hang over his head, too? And I wonder—if I had known him, would it help me know myself?

Like a Bridge

2009-10-11T11:46:00.003-05:00

A couple days ago they were handing out free promo CDs at work, which they still do on occasion (yeah, believe it or not there are still labels out there and they still manufacture actual CDs), and I came across Live 1969 by none other than Simon & Garfunkel. I couldn’t believe a) that something of that magnitude had come out and I didn’t know about it (it was actually released in April) and b) that no one else had already absconded with it. I mean really, people, Simon & Garfunkel. I know it was a long time ago and all, but geezus, at one time they were as big as The Beatles here in the U.S.

How time flies, and how tastes change. Funny thing is, theirs is the type of music that is so unique that they really were and are their own genre—to me, they exist out of time just like Dylan or the Fab Four or Beethoven—so in my mind, it’s not a question of being in or out of style. It’s about total frickin’ genius. And this particular CD—an assemblage of selections from various dates on their 1969 U.S. tour—is just stunning. They're at the height of their powers, their voices at their pristine best—the harmonies that are at once so complex and so intertwined it’s as though you’re listening to one voice instead of two; they know each other so well, complement each other so perfectly. And the material, which is culled from their first three albums as well as from their forthcoming masterpiece, Bridge Over Troubled Water, is just stellar. It’s all there, from the whimsical “At the Zoo” to the tuneful “59th St. Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)” to the profoundly moving “Sound of Silence.” Listening to these songs and these voices again, I am instantly transported back in time to when I was five or six years old. All of this was brand new then, and in a time of chaos and bloodshed, of assassinations and unrest, riots and war, these songs, this music—so soothing, so literate, so biting and true—were just what we needed.

I listened, and the lyrics came back to me instantly, almost as if I had always known them, and in a way, I guess I had. After all, I grew up on this stuff—literally. My father was a huge fan and early supporter of the boys from Queens, and it was perhaps the only time that he and I were passionate about the exact same music, one of the few times we actually agreed on something. And it was gone all too soon. But for those few years, 1967 or so to the end of the decade, we shared something something ethereal and fleeting, a bond deep and unspoken. We didn’t really talk about it, but when my dad went out to the record store to buy Bridge Over Troubled Water the week it came out, I was right there with him. It was as if we both knew this would never happen again.

And the audiences at these shows had to know that they were experiencing something that happens only once in a lifetime, too—you can hear it in the profound silence of their complete attention, in their enthusiastic response to the performances. It’s totally mesmerizing, and totally unforgettable, that old cliché about genius—you can’t really define it, but you know it when you experience it. But the real jaw dropping moment on this CD is one that the audience is completely unprepared for. But really, though you know it’s coming, nothing can prepare you for it either—how does one prepare for a watershed moment? You hear Larry Knechtel (yes, that Larry Knechtel—S&G were touring with their studio band, which just happened to include three members of Phil Spector’s famed Wrecking Crew) play the opening arpeggios that are so familiar to you, and you think to yourself that this audience has no idea that after hearing this song, they will be forever changed. That’s right, they are going to hear “Bridge Over Troubled Water” for the very first time (can you imagine?)—no studio arrangement, no lush instrumentation, just Larry on the piano and Artie’s unearthly tenor. You can picture him standing at the mike, a single white spotlight, hands in pockets, eyes closed—even on CD it’s breathtaking, one of those indelible moments you never forget. He finishes, the final chords fade, and there is a stunned silence, a pregnant pause followed by long, loud ovation. It’s truly a cathartic moment on an album filled with them, and I just wish I could have been there one on of those nights to witness it in person.

Night after night (so the liner notes indicate) in that turbulent fall of 1969, audiences had the exact same reaction—in packed concert halls across the country, people felt the power of Simon’s profoundly moving lyrics, Garfunkel’s crystalline harmonies, and for a moment, the real world was forgotten; the turmoil and despair a distant memory drowned in waves of sound.

We needed Simon & Garfunkel then, and didn’t realize how much we’d miss them when they were gone. But (as Bud Scoppa so aptly states in his excellent liner notes), history is cyclical, and everything comes back again. In this era of unrest and uncertainty, we need them again, perhaps more than we ever did. Well, with this essential release, Simon & Garfunkel are back and in their prime, as if they’d never been away. I just wonder if anyone’s listening.

Au Revoir, Les Giants

2009-10-10T13:42:00.006-05:00

So that’s it for Giants Stadium, and for the epic event known as “Bruce at The Meadowlands.” Over. Done. No more. And not only was I not there, I wasn’t in contact—The Twitter, The Facebook, The Blackberry—with anyone who was. And you know what—that's just fine with me.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I’m not a big fan of these technologies, but that wasn’t the reason. Nope, the reason was I simply didn’t care. That’s right, Didn’t Care. To me, Giants Stadium is not hallowed ground, a place in which everything of significance in my entire life has taken place. It holds no special piece of my heart, no acreage in my memory bank. Nope, to me, Giants is merely a place where New Jersey’s masses go to Party in the Parking Lot and Maybe Hear Some Music Later. You know, pay way too much to park (take up two or three spots—one is needed for car, the others for grill and/or tent, chairs, etc.), get really drunk on (mostly cheap) beer, play with fire/grill, toss a football (or some other available object), play whatever new conglomeration of game—hacky sack, etc.—that passes the time and you can play whilst inebriated, pee in really disgusting porta-potties, eat way too much, talk really loudly about yourself and where you’re sitting tonight, blast some random bootleg that everyone’s heard a million times, ogle that hot girl/guy that just walked by and generally annoy everyone in the immediate vicinity in whatever way you can. Giants Stadium is New Jersey’s Main Street, The Parking Lot to that great big outdoor shopping mall known as The Garden State. Never wanted to be anything else, never tried. And to me, that’s exactly as it should be.

But not being from New Jersey, I have never understood parking lots or tailgating. You might get to an event a bit early to scope out the place, but in Washington DC in the ‘70s there was no such thing as hanging out in the parking lot. You got your ass inside and into your seat, and that was that. After all, there was a game to be watched. My parents were Washington Redskins season ticket holders back in the day, so I know from game day activities. On Sundays (and later Monday nights too) you’d get up and get down to the stadium no later than 11:30 am--just in time for pre-game warm-ups (except every once in a while you’d maybe grab a hot dog along the way if Mom hadn’t had time the night before to make sandwiches). It was well nigh impossible to get into RFK Stadium in those days, and by god you were there to pay attention. There was no thought of doing anything else. And to this day, the smell of peanuts and spilled beer makes me nostalgic for that simpler time when football was just football, when it had the power to miraculously unite one of the most diverse, divided cities in America around a single cause for just those three hours or so on those long ago fall afternoons of my youth.

So tailgating, not so much. And beyond that, well, I have already discussed my feelings about Bruce, about this tour. I felt at the beginning—and this opinion hasn’t changed—that the latest record was rushed, poorly thought out, mediocre. Bruce didn’t seem to have anything of any great import to say on Working on a Dream, and the live shows were just concrete evidence of this. I don’t know whether it’s getting older, being distracted by parenthood, or maybe just life getting in the way—realizing that there was more than just The Music—I don’t know, and maybe he doesn’t either. But I do know uninspired material when I hear it.

And then there were the performances, which to me reeked of desperation, of trying too hard. And for someone like Bruce, for whom it was once all so effortless—the danger, drama, excitement, pathos, despair, resurrection—to have fallen to the ranks of the mere mortal, well, I just couldn’t bear to watch. He once spent hours carefully plotting out set lists, orchestrating each moment of his nightly marathons, and this laser-like focus resulted in some of the best live performances on record. But the shows he does now have no direction, no purpose. And sadly, though he has recognized that there is something drastically out of whack, Bruce seems to have absolutely no idea what’s wrong or how to fix it. So he’s resorted to the old throw-it-on-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks method: light shows, giant graphics or crawling lyrics on a giant screen behind the stage, backup singers, stage dives, endless audience participation schtick and most heinous of all, request time. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that the shows are so lackluster that Bruce needs to do these things, or the fact that he’s up there doing shows at all. All I know is that the whole thing made me cringe, made me embarrassed for him, made me want to get up and shake him to his senses. At one point in my life I would have been so distraught that I would have written him a letter or something, but now I just can’t be bothered. Because to me, though he spends hours in the gym, rehearsing the band, etc., Bruce just doesn’t seem to have a real good reason to be there, and if he doesn’t care, why should I? What once meant Everything to him now seems like something he’s doing just because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. I don’t know, maybe it’s just that he felt like he needed to get out of the house for a while. But for god's sake, do I have to pay over a hundred dollars to see it?

I know some of this is just me (and Bruce) getting older, having different priorities. But dammit, I know in my heart that he’s still got it in him; the Seeger Sessions Tour was proof of that. I know the old, risk-taking Bruce is in there still, but it seems that something has made him sad and desperate, has sapped all of the old desire and longing and purpose from his music, from his life. He thought he was falling into the bottomless pit of aimlessness known as Midlife Crisis, and so he grabbed at the one thing he knew he could always count on: The E Street Band. I wish I could tell him that he doesn’t need them anymore, that he has all he needs within himself if he would only dig a little deeper. I want to take him and shake him and tell him those old things don’t matter anymore. I wonder if he’d even listen.

But All Things Must Pass, or so they say. To me, The E Street Band’s finest hour, its apex, was the 2004 Vote For Change Tour. I really hoped Bruce would see that, too, and would call it quits. But his myopia is such that he can no longer see what’s right in front of him, no longer sense what used to be second nature. And that just makes me sad.

So no Giants Stadium for me, and maybe even no Spectrum, too. I don’t know if I’m going to any more Springsteen shows this year at all, and I can’t really say that I’m too upset about it. Life goes on and all that. Besides, there’s this band from Liverpool that has a new box set out…

In Memoriam

2009-10-06T21:41:00.000-05:00

Arlington Memorial Cemetery is one of my favorite places to visit in my beloved hometown. Today, for the first time in a very long time, I visited the cemetery grounds with my mom. She doesn’t go often; it’s always very emotional for her, and so we try to make it a special occasion, to really give it our full attention when we go. It was a typical fall day in DC—warmer than you dressed for, but not as humid as it has been only a few weeks before. We like to walk rather than taking the ever-present Tourmobiles; you see more that way, and anyway we were stiff from being in the car for a while. But everything in Arlington is uphill, so it takes a while to get to the spot we like best: the front lawn of the Lee Mansion and the JFK gravesite just below.

Arlington is a favorite destination of mine because it’s quiet and peaceful, demands solicitude and respect from all who enter; it seems to be one of the few places left in this country in which people actually show some degree of decorum without being browbeaten. (Sad that it takes the sight of literally thousands of gravestones to evoke this reaction.) So it’s quiet when we reach the grounds of the Mansion on top of the hill and look back across the glistening Potomac to the broad vista of the Nation’s Capital. It’s miraculous to me that so much riverfront acreage has remained undeveloped; if you concentrate (and if no planes fly overhead) you can see pretty much the same view they saw from that very same hilltop 45 years ago.

It’s hard to believe it’s been that long since the JFK funeral. My parents, like hundreds of others, felt they had to be there, and I am told that I was there too—I was almost two years old and my mom brought me in a stroller. Time has gone by outside the cemetery gates, but it seems to have stood still within them. Not much really changes here: grass is mowed, leaves raked and bagged, graves manicured. And to my middle aged eyes, it looks the same as it did all the other times I was here—as a little girl not knowing what she was seeing, a teenager struggling to understand, a lost and confused adult still trying to figure things out. Looks the same, but really it’s not, because they’re having funerals again here.

I don’t remember there being funerals here when I was here before, though I’m sure there were. It’s just that the funerals were for older veterans of more distant wars; nowadays they’re burying people in Section 60, a new area designated for the service people from new conflicts in old places we still can’t quite pronounce. Today while we were walking up the hill we heard rifle salutes—three distinct shots—several times. It’s chilling and heartbreaking. You know what it means but you don’t want to know, don’t want to think about the fact that they’re probably burying someone young enough to be your son or daughter somewhere down that hill.

My mom likes to come here; she was (and is) a proud Kennedy supporter, and always makes a point of stopping off at the Eternal Flame and the small white cross a few feet to its right (RFK). Only now there’s another white cross farther down past it. It’s hard to imagine Ted Kennedy being buried there; hard to grasp that the huge, vital presence we were so used to seeing out and about on the streets of DC was here, forever stilled. It’s probably the last time my mom’s going to make it here, so I gave her a few moments to herself to take it all in.

It’s always hard to go back home again, and I never leave DC without a pervading sense of melancholy. Doesn’t help that it’s fall, the season that always leaves me unsettled, homesick for a place or time I can’t quite pin down. I loved living in Washington, but am not sure I’ll ever live there again, and that saddens me. I had so many wonderful experiences there, too many to count. But though it’s still a great city, it’s not the city of my youth anymore, and I would want something from it that it was no longer able to give if I tried to live there now.

So we drove back to my mom’s place in Pennsylvania, the first beginnings of autumn color appearing on the fields and foliage we passed. I don’t know where I’m going to end up settling now; so much of my life has been unsettled, and I am not sure where home really is to me anymore. I’ve often heard that home is the place you go where they have to take you in (or some such thing, it’s a Robert Frost quote, I think), but I’m not so sure. I think maybe home is where you are most comfortable, where you are your truest self. I guess I’ll know when I find out who that self really is.

Slow Down, You Move too Fast

2009-10-05T15:48:00.001-05:00

Ok, I know I’m not Miss Cutting Edge. Never have been. As a matter of fact, I would say that if life were like a vacation getaway, I’d be not the young painfully hip trendies with the “Let’s Go” book under one arm and a backpack over the other, I’d be the person in sensible shoes and slightly unkempt but comfortable clothes perusing the Frommer’s guide whilst trying not to spill coffee on myself.

I know I’m not at the forefront of anything, which isn’t to say that I don’t discover great stuff—it’s just that I usually latch onto it relatively late in the game. Of course, I’ve always told myself—and I do believe this—that it doesn’t matter when you find something; the important thing is to find it. This doesn’t help, however, in this day and age of searchable files. These days, you can dig up info and stories on just about anything on those wacky Internets and drive yourself absolutely nuts finding cool stuff you weren’t a part of, fabulously rockin’ bands and hot clothes and dark, dangerous rock’n’roll bars and brilliant novels that you love passionately but that are long past their prime, that are not even yesterday’s news but last year’s. Go crazy wondering why you weren’t there, trying to figure out where you were instead, what you were doing, and what it was that kept you from whatever fabulous trend/movement/phenomenon you’ve discovered months and sometimes even years too late. As in, “why why why wasn’t I there when The Clash played Shea? When Bruce was at The Capitol Theater? When Joey got onstage with that great garage band at The Continental?” Answer: because I was a) 200 miles away from most of this and b) painfully unhip.

And though I have made some concessions to modernity, things haven’t really changed very much in my world over the years. I don’t have an iPhone or a Blackberry. The iPod I was given over five years ago sits on a shelf unused. I still haven’t really figured out the digital camera I was given several years back. Oh, I am not in the Dark Ages by any means—I text message, I have a Facebook account—but I don’t do the Twitter, don’t know what # or @ mean except “number” and “at.” That’s who I am, and it’s far too late to change.

But really, does it matter? I’m far past the age at which it’s reasonable to make massive changes in the way I do things. Little alterations, maybe, but not life-altering drama. Really, do I need to know that this or that FB post was “sent from a Blackberry” or “via MobileWeb”? How does this make my life better? What am I supposed to do with this information? Seriously, you’re already telling me what you’re eating for dinner; do I need to know you’re telling me whilst sitting on your ass clipping your toenails?

A month or two back I was feeling really exhausted mentally and physically, and took a mental health day off from work. Did nothing but play with the cat, eat my favorite food and walk on the beach. No computer, no phone, no technology of any kind. And you know what? I had more energy the next day than I had had in weeks. Lately I’m finding that keeping up with what’s what on Facebook, MySpace, Yahoo, Google, etc. is an undue stressor in a life already crammed full with stressful stuff, and frankly at my age, who needs it? After all, it’s not the technology; it’s how you use it. It’s living each day to the best of your ability and being happy with what you have. Enjoying small things, like the way your cat looks at you when you rub her chin, the way the sun plays off the breaking waves of the Atlantic, the way a cold drink tastes when you’re thirsty.

Yeah, I’m a Frommer’s girl in a “Let’s Go” world, and for me, that’s just about right.

Apologia

2009-10-03T23:41:00.000-05:00

Ok, true confessions time. I know the previous post was more than a little self-pitying; so sue me, I’m in that sort of a mood. But I do believe in telling the whole truth—well as much as is relevant, anyway—and the whole truth in this case is that I haven’t been a terribly good friend to my Springsteen fan compatriots of late, either. So asking people to contact me out of the blue about a particular event when I haven’t written, called, emailed, or texted myself is perhaps a bit much.

I have been remiss, and for that I am sorry. And truthfully, it would’ve been a tossup as to whether I would’ve gone to the Costello taping anyway being as my bestest friends Maybe Pete were having their CD release party at the exact same time.

I guess what I’m trying to say is there are two sides to everything, and I’m constantly looking at the glass half empty side. Sorry ‘bout that.

[But really, were y’alls phones and ‘puters not workin’ last week or what? ;) ]

What's So Funny?

2009-10-03T20:14:00.000-05:00

I just finished watching the recent film version of the Edith Wharton classic The House of Mirth which, for those not familiar, is the story of a woman’s slow decline from the heights of Gilded Age New York society into poverty, addiction and eventually, death. It’s a story that might happen to anyone: a person who is industrious, intelligent and attractive endures a series of setbacks that, taken one at a time might be relatively insignificant, but experienced in rapid succession, they become so overwhelming that he or she loses heart. The courage and self-confidence required to rise above circumstance are gradually eroded as the person is swept downward by an inexorable tide of tragedy. In Wharton’s novel the woman—Lily Bart--is forced to repeatedly demean herself in order to survive, and the friends and relatives upon whom we all depend in times of trial grow fearful of the social repercussions of associating with a “tainted” woman and begin to distance themselves from her as she sinks lower and lower. At length she is offered assistance, but it is too little, too late.

The real tragedy of this tale, of course, is not Lily’s demise, but the failure of those closest to her to intervene on her behalf. In turn-of-the-century Manhattan, it’s every man (or woman) for himself. Unfortunately, here in the 21st century of iPhone and Internet, things don’t seem to be all that different, and I wonder what that means for the future. Technology that is supposed to bring us all closer has made us ever more self-absorbed, less conscious of each other, less cognizant of the simple joys of life, of the small miracles—a butterfly on a flower, a bird’s song, a phone call from a friend, the sun reflecting in a puddle—that make each day unique. But it’s not technology’s fault, really—it’s how people use it that has eroded our humanity.

Lately I have been thinking a great deal about why it is that I have not felt compelled to trek up to the lovely Garden State to partake of the current run of Springsteen shows at Giants Stadium, and I must say that a great deal of it has to do with how his fans have begun to treat each other these last few years. I remember a time when it was so difficult to get tickets that you pinched yourself when you walked into a venue because you couldn’t believe that he was actually going to be on that stage right in front of you later that evening. You didn’t care where you were sitting, or that your friends might have slightly better seats. You were all in the building, and you were going to share this magical experience together. And for less than twenty dollars, you got three-plus hours of pure adrenaline—an emotional rollercoaster ride that was elating and cathartic. It was such a high that all you could do was talk about it. Your unadulterated joy was such that you would develop an overwhelming desire to share it with others, to bring them to a show with you just so you could watch their reaction. You’d sit for hours in the rain and the cold overnight on the sidewalk just to make sure you’d get a ticket, and if you were short a dollar or two, someone else in line would lend you the money. You always knew you’d get it back—we were Springsteen fans, and there was a rare, unspoken level of trust amongst us unlike anything I had ever experienced.

But no more. Just last week, Bruce taped a segment of Elvis Costello’s “Spectacle” show for The Sundance Channel at the Apollo Theater in Harlem. Tickets were difficult but not impossible, but I seriously thought that there was no way I would ever get into the event, so I didn’t really follow up on initial efforts to gain entrance. And I’ll admit, a great deal of this lack of effort also had to do with the increasingly privileged attitude taken by some of Bruce’s most ardent fans. What was once the most uplifting, unifying experience imaginable to any music fan has now become nothing more than an exercise in self-importance. It’s no longer enough just to be there—you now feel compelled to look around (I’ll admit I’ve done this myself) and see where everyone else you know is sitting, confirm that you have a better (or worse) seat than they do (how did that happen? Who do they know that I don’t?), make a mental checklist of who didn’t make it in at all and feel very smug and self-satisfied that you are well connected (it’s never luck, you see) enough to be there. And while this is by no means indicative of the behavior of every single attendee, it’s prevalent enough that, though I shouldn’t allow it to bother me, it detracts so much from my enjoyment that I can’t concentrate on the show. And yeah, some of that’s my fault, but dammit, whatever happened to being satisfied with what we’ve got? With feeling blessed by our good fortune, with wanting to share that good fortune with others? I knew perhaps a dozen people who ended up gaining entrance by one means or another, and not one of them—not one--contacted me either to find out if I were going or to perhaps offer assistance. Of course, it turns out that, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I had the power to get in all along and didn’t even know it. But unlike Dorothy, there was no Glenda the Good Witch to point that out to me, so I spent the night of the taping elsewhere.

There’s a great bit by comedian Louis CK on a recent episode of Conan O’Brien in which he opines that people are never satisfied, that everyday life in the Modern World is nothing short of a miracle: high speed Internet on an airplane thousands of feet above the earth, telephones that beam signals back and forth like fireflies, a new technological marvel seemingly everyday, and yet people complain about the mechanical wonders that were unthinkable even ten years ago. “People bitch about stuff that, five minutes ago, they didn’t even know existed,” he cracks. So true, and so sad. What has happened to us?

So yeah, I didn’t go to the taping, which was, by all accounts, an amazing experience. And while I am sorry to have missed it, what has made me saddest of all is that, like Lily Bart, I was left to my own devices at a time when I needed help, and though I was in nowhere near the level of danger she experienced, I was nonetheless, for all intents and purposes, cast adrift. Not attending the show was bad enough, finding out I could have attended after all was worse. But what hurt most of all was being left to fend for myself by my friends and fellow Springsteen fans, when a simple phone call, email or even text message would have meant everything.

So the next time someone speaks of the Springsteen “community,” I will smile and shrug and turn on some Elvis Costello.

Transformation

2009-10-03T13:53:00.000-05:00

10-2-09

It’s Friday night, the first Friday in October, and somewhere a couple hundred miles or so to the northeast Bruce is about an hour into the second of five shows at Giants Stadium, the soon-to-be-demolished monstrosity just off of Exit 16W on the New Jersey Turnpike. I should be so upset that I’m missing it, that I’m probably going to miss the entire stand—the Last Hurrah at the fabled venue. I should care—I’ve loved Bruce, lived for him since I was a teenager—but instead I feel nothing at all.

The concept of romantic love is, by historical standards, a relatively recent phenomenon. Its mythology reaches back hundreds of years, back to a time when marrying for love was a luxury, was the exception not the rule. Romantic love has been examined ad infinitum in literature, film, art. It’s fantasy, really, but we’re raised on it, and so we grow up believing in “true love,” in finding the one person for whom we’re perfectly suited, with whom we can walk off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But people are imperfect; circumstances change, priorities shift; over the years, because we are human, we evolve. We become bored if we stand still, so we seek new challenges, hunger for new ideas and experiences; we are in a constant state of forward motion until we die.

The institution of marriage, on the other hand, depends on stability, reliability, steadfastness, compromise. On being true to another person in body and mind, acting as one half of a whole regardless of the inevitable ebbs and flows of emotion, attraction and desire, or of different rates of change within each individual. To ask both members of a romantic couple not just to be flexible and accommodate such changes, but also to absorb them and then synchronize their own growth and transformation to them seems a well nigh impossible task.

And so it is that many romantic couples break up; over time, whether married or not, they slowly, almost imperceptibly, distance themselves from one another until they have grown completely apart. This is often a painful process for one if not both of the parties involved, because one person may have moved at a different speed or headed down a different path from the other, leaving him or her behind in the process. And it’s tough leaving someone you care about. Relationships are difficult, marriage is work, this we know. But what if all the work and all the tribulation and effort no longer bring both parties to common ground? Human beings hate stagnation; we love nothing more than adventure, broadening our mental and physical horizons. The surprise, therefore, is not that we break apart, it’s that we can ever stand to be with each other for any length of time in the first place.

Tonight Bruce is playing Giants Stadium, entertaining some 80,000 people on a chill autumn evening in a building that will soon be nothing but dust and rubble. And I should, by all rights, be there. But it’s 2009. He’s 60 and I’m not far behind, and nothing is the same anymore. The shows are shorter, more stagey, less dangerous. The tickets are more expensive, the fans less intense in their dedication, more self-absorbed. And, inevitably, as Bruce and I have grown older, both of us have changed. The things that seemed so important to us have, as he once wrote, “vanished into the air.” I have found new passions, new interests; he has married and raised a family. New people have entered our lives and others drifted from sight. I once thought Bruce and his music would always mean as much to me as they did in my youth, just as he himself once thought rock’n’roll would always be everything to him. But I must now admit to myself—as he no doubt has—that that is no longer the case.

So tonight I am experiencing the breakup of what has been a long, intense relationship, and I should be devastated. Instead, for the first time in a very long time, I am optimistic about the future. Bruce’s music is still great, and it will always be there. But tomorrow holds the promise of new experiences, new people, places to go and things to see and hear and do. Perhaps that’s what he really meant for those two characters in his classic “Thunder Road”—that the couple was never really running away from something, but running toward something—the exciting changes that lay just ahead down that dusty beach road. Or perhaps not. But really, what can one do but wait and see?

Violation

2009-09-29T22:24:00.000-05:00

I don't know what is going on out there in the world right now, but I feel like I have to say something about some of the comments I've heard both about the Roman Polanski thing and about Mackenzie Phillips' recent admission of incest with her father in her new memoir, High on Arrival.

Re Polanski: Rape is rape. I don't care who you are or what you have done in life. This does not erase the fact that you violated someone. Not "had sex" with her, but committed an act of violence. Look up the word "rape" in the dictionary if you don't believe me. And I must ask: how, in this day and age, is this even up for debate? As a woman I am appalled, as a human being I am speechless.

As for Mack, well yeah I suppose in some world it's amusing to dismiss her past actions with her dad as some "crazy celeb" thing. Problem is, Ms. Phillips is stone cold sober and brilliant to boot. She's not doing it to sell books, and it angers me that anyone would even think that and/or laugh it off. As though incest were some sort of cheap joke or shock tactic. Not now, not never, people.

I have read Mack's memoir and it is one of the bravest pieces of writing I have ever experienced. I am sorry that a frank discussion of incest makes people uncomfortable, but guess what--that's the whole point. This is a woman so far gone in her addictions, so desperate for her father's attention and love that she allowed him to physically violate her. Which was not really that much of stretch given that he had been emotionally violating her all her life. Six words: "Not now honey, daddy's shooting up." Sends a shiver down your spine, right? Imagine being that little girl. The one who watched her dad do drugs, who learned how to shoot up from her own father.

This is tough stuff, people. So yeah, it makes you uncomfortable and maybe you make a joke to cut the tension or ease your conscience or whatever. But let me assure you, if you have ever been that little girl who just wants daddy to pay attention, to listen, to show you he loves you just a little; if you are in enough pain you will do anything--anything. I am just as appalled as anyone at what happened to Ms. Phillips--and intellectually, I am repelled and disgusted, of course---but emotionally, I am right there with her. And I'm sorry if that's hard to understand, but she's not really doing it for the mainstream folks who have led (mostly) happy lives; she's doing it because there are other kids out there just as fucked up as she was who are enduring similar hellish situations and who need--desperately--for someone to listen, to care, someone who understands. She has done a very brave thing by telling this story, and if helps even one kid then she will have done her job.

So please read the book before you judge. Read with an open mind and an open heart and you will see the incidents in their context, will understand that this is not a lurid tale of debauchery but a heartbreaking saga of incredible pain and amazing triumph. It's a hell of a story, and she's a hell of a person.

As for Herr Direktor Polanski, it's going to be very hot where he's going.

The Joy of Sax

2008-06-04T19:14:00.002-05:00

Saxophones rule. They are at once responsible for both the happiest and the saddest sounds in music. But popular music these days, (outside of The Dap Kings/Amy Winehouse) seems to have forgotten about horns altogether. And that, in my humble opinion, is part of the reason contemporary music—what passes for both rock'n'roll and R&B—sucks.

Saxophones are scary. There is no avoiding them—they are confrontational and they are in your face. They express deep emotion, and let's face it, most of us would rather not do that most of the time.

But sometimes you just need that release. That's where the sax comes in. So much great rock'n'roll features the saxophone that it's hard to imagine the music without it. So...you can take away the piano, you can take away the organ. But please don't take away my sax.

Joey Stann and Ed Manion (Asbury Jukes)
Clarence Clemons (E Street Band)
Maceo Parker (James Brown)
Arno Hecht, Crispin Cloe (Uptown Horns)
Junior Walker
Andrew Love, Lewis Collins, Ed, Logan, James Mitchell (The Memphis Horns)
Bobby Keys (Rolling Stones)
Lee Allen (Little Richard, Fats Domino, Clarence "Frogman" Henry)
Steve Douglas, Jay Migliori, Jim Horn, Plas Johnson (The Wrecking Crew)
Hank Crosby, Andrew "Mike" Toney, Norris Patterson, Thomas "Beans" Bowles, Teddy Buckner, Ronnie Wakefield, Lefty Edwards, Eli Fontaine, Ernie Rodgers (The Funk Brothers)
Louis Jordan
Gene Barge (Church Street Five)
Gene Upshaw ("Come Go With Me")
Herb Hardesty (Fats Domino)
King Curtis. Duh.

There are more, and that list is biased. That's the point. And feel free to advise me of major omissions (though I may not listen).

PS—even Mr. Westerberg has saxophones on "Can't Hardly Wait" (courtesy Jim Dickinson and the Memphis Horns). Need more proof than that?

******

NOTE: I am currently reading Pattie Boyd's memoir, Wonderful Tonight. Yes, I know Eric Clapton is a major league tool and responsible for what is perhaps the most annoying, offensive song in the annals of rock history (unfortunately, also the title of her book). But it turns out that Pattie's a) a pretty good writer and b) far more interesting than Clapton will ever be. Plus there's lots of good Beatles gossip, and for those of us who can't get enough, that's more than enough reason to read.

We need more intelligent rock chicks like her (both onstage and off), but that's the subject of another blog for another day.

Selling Points Too

2008-06-04T19:14:00.001-05:00

By popular request:

I like it on top.
Size 8 1/2, but my left foot is a little bigger than my right.
Corona with lime and tequila shots. Vodka tonics and margaritas with salt. And sometimes Bloody Marys.
Bob Dylan is a genius. Clapton bores me to tears.
Fishnets and (occasionally) cigarettes.
Cheese ravioli, french fries, grilled cheese on rye and corn on the cob.
I'm a good kisser but I don't get much practice.
I took ballet for 4 years and totally fucked up my knees.
Yes, that's my heart on my sleeve.
I have big hands and my ears stick out.
There is nothing better than a rock'n'roll road trip.
Sinatra.
Independent record stores and independent bookstores.
I'm a pretty good swimmer and used to be a certified lifeguard.
I'm not really a girly girl but don't be surprised if I get a manicure now and then.
I love Paul McCartney. Why won't he call me?
I've never been to Europe but I love Canada.
Boys with guitars.
Long slow dinners by candlelight.
I used to know how to sail but haven't done it since I was a teenager.
I played one of the rats in a production of The Nutcracker and got to wear a badass costume with a big rat head.
Bette Davis, Katherine Hepburn, Lauren Bacall and Susan Sarandon.
Brown hair, brown eyes.
I can't cook and I don't care.
I am from Washington DC, birthplace of Marvin Gaye, Duke Ellington and Henry Rollins.
Bikini underwear and bikini bathingsuits. Just not on men.
Red wine at room temperature. Pinot grigio chilled.
I love mankind, it's people I can't stand.
Aretha Franklin, Al Green, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding.
I love the outdoors and enjoy hiking and camping. Just don't make me put up the tent.
Jack Lemmon, Paul Newman, Henry Fonda and Humphrey Bogart.
Hot bubble baths and hot sex.
Truman Capote before alcohol and fame ruined him.
"I love the boys, I really do. But there's a reason ladies my age are as pissed off as they are." – Raff (my hero)
Walking in the rain and violent thunderstorms.
Leather jackets, tight jeans and motorcycle boots.
I'm a beach bum. Just give me a good book, some sunscreen and a cooler full of diet Coke with lime (and maybe a couple Coronas) and leave me alone.
Austin, San Francisco, Chicago. St. Louis, Boston, Philadelphia.
George Lucas lost it after American Graffiti.
Wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims and strap your hands 'cross my engines.
Um, Paul Westerberg.

For J.T.

2008-06-04T19:12:00.000-05:00

My heart hangs on my sleeve it is a dead weight that grows heavier by the day.
But I don't know who else to be so it beats there and will not be silenced.

R.I.P.

Reach Out and Touch Me

2008-05-28T18:58:00.002-05:00

So last night I'm minding my own business (as much as one can on these here Internets) and I decide to stop by the Myspace to see what's what, when lo and behold I have a message from Jim Walsh. Must be some sort of mistake, I say to myself, he doesn't even know me.

But no, he read my Myspace status update and emailed me about it. Now, you're saying to yourself, just who is Jim Walsh? Welp, he's a musician and writer and Minneapolis scenester who recently released All Over But the Shouting, an oral history of The Replacements. And better yet, he knows Paul Westerberg (sigh). So what's he doing contacting little ole me? Damned if I know, but he said to look him up when he's in the city in July. Perhaps go out for drinks. He's hosting some sort of music series and invited me down for it. Out of total nowhere. I guess I'm cooler than I thought.

Also out of the blue, my friend Jesse (no, not the one who Won't Speak to Me, the other one) emailed me and wanted to get together to "get drunk and listen to music." Which I haven't done in a long time, and which I have never done with him (though I have spent the night at his house (long story). Said he was "concerned" about me. As well he should be given all that's happened. But how nice of him to get in touch.

It's funny, the more ways of communicating we have, the more ways we have of ignoring each other, of isolating ourselves. We always carry those cell phones and iPods and whatnot to "stay in touch," but it seems like we're more out of touch than ever.

I guess that's why the iPod my brother gave me several years ago sits untouched in its box, why I insist upon walking around without some damn headset thing in my ear. (Who would've thought back in the '60s that we'd be sporting phones with earpieces that look like some Star Trek costume?) Because I believe in paying attention, in listening to what's going on around me. To the birds singing, the breeze blowing through the trees, the pounding surf. To the car horns and babies crying and random chatter of people on the street. Because it's all life, and it's all we have.

Memorial Day Past and Present

2008-05-26T20:43:00.003-05:00

It's been a weird Memorial Day Weekend 2008. Let's see:

On Friday night, I was supposed to meet up with some friends for the reopening of The Wonder Bar but I fell asleep after drinking a couple glasses of wine.
On Saturday afternoon I was in the sun too much with my sunglasses on and now look like a raccoon.
On Saturday night, a guy who had to be 20 years younger than me tried to pick me up in a bar by discussing Dave Matthews.
On Sunday night, I drank more Coronas than I should have while listening to a Springsteen cover band (Hey, they were $1 till 5, $2.50 after that. C'mon, now).
On Monday I had to work. Then I came home feeling like shit. I was supposed to meet up with some friends in the city and go to The Living Room. Didn't happen. Went to bed instead.

Well, I still feel like shit but I can't sleep. (Noisy neighbors.) So I'm playing on the computer for a while and I come across this piece. It's been 8 years already. Wow. Anyhow, there have been a couple memorable Memorial Day Weekends here on the Jersey Shore since I wrote this (not the least of which was a Southside Johnny/Graham Parker double bill at which Bruce showed up and played for a good 45 minutes despite a tornado warning). I originally wrote it for Backstreets magazine, but it never got used. So since I'm not feeling particularly well, I'm delving into the vault for today's post. The piece is a bit gushy but I'm too lazy to fix it. Whatever.

Enjoy.

Tonight I'm Ready to Grow Young Again

Memorial Day Weekend 2000 was a special one in Jersey Shore music history: the legendary Stone Pony, scene of many a magic night, staged a “grand re-opening” celebration featuring names and faces from the glory days such as Lance Larson and Paul Whistler. Many of my friends decided not to make the pilgrimage. Some told me it was due to of lack of funds, but several I spoke to commented that the whole thing was not going to be any good because there was no resurrecting the past, that there was something happening in that time and place that could never be repeated. In some ways, I agreed with them, but nevertheless made a last-minute decision to head north to the Jersey Shore. Some of it was admittedly curiosity, but this whole affair came at time when I was questioning a lot of things in my life and needed to remember some of the steps I had taken along the way.

I hadn’t seen either of Saturday night’s acts in many years, and feared that time would have taken its toll on both John Cafferty and Gary U.S. Bonds. In addition, there was the fear that the Pony would be nothing like its former self. There was definitely potential for major disappointment on both counts. Filled with eager anticipation as I drove down Kingsley Street, my heart sank as I took in the decimated surroundings. While Asbury had been frightening before, it had now assumed the feel of an abandoned war zone. This was not blight, it was catastrophe.

We made the turn onto Second Avenue, and there was the Pony, same as it ever was. The new owner, Domenic Santana, had rented searchlights for the weekend’s activities, and they illuminated the sky in front of the club, lending it the aura of a Hollywood theater on premiere night. We had left late, and surprisingly, the parking lot was almost full. Being veterans of this place, my husband and I braced for the inevitable ill treatment we had come to expect on entering the club, and were pleasantly surprised by the friendly and efficient staff that greeted us at the door.

Inside was mostly as expected: an improved sound system, clean bathrooms (at last!), minor changes to décor, but it was undeniably the same old Pony. Much of the same photography graced the walls, and there was still that same old uneven black and white tile floor that had always lent it the careless air of an amusement park. There was a feeling of anticipation in the air, and as we walked through, we saw many familiar faces from the old days. As always, there were musicians hanging around the back bar. We thrilled to see John Cafferty and several of his bandmates walk right past us, looking the same as they ever did. There was always something about this place: you never knew who was going to walk in, and some nights, you could just feel the magic.

Amongst the more notable changes was the absence of the Stone Pony’s DJ extraordinaire, Lee Mrowicki, who always seemed to play the right song at the right time. The place wasn’t particularly crowded, so we headed outside-the new owner had preserved the previously installed outdoor patio, which provided respite from the heat and smoke (how had we ever withstood that?). At the outside bar, a few feet away and looking slim and happy, stood Gary himself, happily chatting up a local reporter. It struck me how unusual this place was in terms of the respect given to musicians who graced its stage. Previous to 1984, Bruce Springsteen used to come in and sit at the back bar virtually unnoticed. Here was a place where you could see the artists as people, and you truly felt like one of them. The value of this lack of distance between performer and audience cannot be overestimated in terms of the level of intimacy and trust that existed at those storied nights at the Pony . I am convinced that this was a major factor in the consistently high level of performance we had witnessed within these hallowed walls.

Introduced by Lee Mrowicki himself (to our surprise and delight, he had been invited back for opening weekend), Cafferty & Co. took the stage, and we hurried back inside. An enthusiastic crowd greeted them, and they responded with their usually high-energy set, which featured both the hits from the “Eddie & the Cruisers” film soundtrack, as well as the usual well-chosen cover. Cafferty leapt down from the low stage and into the crowd, climbing on top of the bars to perform with the energy of someone half his age. He told us that he had cancelled an appearance in his home state of Rhode Island to be there, and jokingly wondered how many disappointed fans would show up that gig. It was worth the risk, he said-who would turn down a chance to play on this stage again?

There was a short set break, and Gary took the stage. He looked and sounded great, and the band , which featured Joey Stann on sax and Gary’s wife and daughter as backup singers, was tight. It was crowded and hot, but something drew me to the front of the stage. Gary told us a story about when Bruce had first contacted him about working together. He was playing some cheap place in Las Vegas, and Bruce was taking time off at home in New Jersey in the midst of a major US tour. “How ironic,” said Gary, “tonight he’s playing Vegas, and I’m in Asbury Park!” His joy at being there again was evident in his beaming face and his unique voice, which was stronger and more versatile than ever. It was just like the old days--the fans knew all the songs, and sang along vociferously, often drowning him out. I think he was even a bit surprised--he had started a call and response, and muttered “holy shit” to himself at the boisterousness of the crowd, and we all picked up on it and started singing that phrase back to him. During the quiet moments between songs, a bemused look would appear on his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe this was really happening, a feeling that was shared by those of us in the audience.

As I stood there under the hot lights, breathing in the smell of sweat, cigarettes and stale beer, I knew that there was nowhere else on earth that I would rather be at that moment (well, maybe front row center in Vegas…). All the years melted away, and I was youthful and innocent again, free of the responsibility and the regret of decisions made and things left undone that had made me feel old and useless. Let the word go forth to a new generation of Americans: there is still no better music venue in the country than the Stone Pony.

Rock’n’roll at its best is the great liberator. It frees us of our inhibitions, of our self-doubt, and of the social constrictions that keep us apart as people and indeed, as a country. Its powerful spirit lifts us up and gives us hope. The Stone Pony’s resurrection may fail, and it may fall victim to the seemingly inevitable decay afflicting the once-proud seaside resort of Asbury Park; that would be a shame. Those who love this music can only hope that this does not happen. We should try desperately to keep this special place and this transformational spirit alive for others to experience, if only for nights such as this one. When I had lost faith in myself, at a time when what passes for popular music is nothing more than soulless product, the Stone Pony gave me the greatest gift I could possibly have received--a chance to be young again, if only for one night.

Unsatisfied

2008-05-24T14:42:00.001-05:00

Look me in the eye
Then tell me that I'm satisfied
Was you satisfied?
Look me in the eye
Then tell me that I'm satisfied
Hey, are you satisfied?

And it goes so slowly on
Everything I've ever wanted
Tell me what's wrong

Look me in the eye
And tell me that I'm satisfied
Were you satisfied?
Look me in the eye
Then tell me I'm satisfied
And now are you satisfied?

Everything goes
Well, anything goes all of the time
Everything you dream of
Is right in front of you
And everything is a lie

Look me in the eye
And tell me that I'm satisfied
Look me in the eye
Unsatisfied
I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied
I'm so dissatisfied
I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied
I'm so unsatisfied
I'm so, I'm so unsatisfied
I'm so dissatis,dissattis...
I'm so

(c) Paul Westerberg
Published by NAH Music ASCAP

Any questions?

Selling Points

2008-05-24T14:40:00.000-05:00

36D.
I apologize a lot. I'm sorry about that.
Jerry, Johnny, David, Arthur and Syl.
I can drive stick and check the oil.
I probably have an opinion about it and am not afraid to tell you.
Nashville and Memphis, Asbury Park and Coney Island.
I have a nice alto voice and I can sing harmony.
I like my coffee black and my men intelligent.
Thunders, Richards, Berry. Moore, Vincent, Harrison.
i can stay up all night and go to work in the morning. With a hangover.
I will walk a mile in your shoes. Just don't make me go to the gym.
I love and embrace my potty mouth. Motherfucker.
Marty Scorsese, Billy Wilder, Howard Hawks, George Cukor.
I have been to Poland and would go again. Just don't ask me to eat there.
I can groom, saddle and ride a horse. English style.
I love animals and don't eat them.
Marah and Malin. When they're speaking to me.
I can recite the preamble to the U.S. Constitution. And I Know My Rights.
Rodgers & Hammerstein, Lerner & Lowe.
I used to be able to read and speak a little German, and probably still could with a day or two of practice.
Mary Weiss kicks Mary Wells' ass.
I can explain the infield fly rule and the third strike rule.
I can drink you under the table.
I don't eat anything I can't pronounce.
Beer and wine, not Jaegermeister and Sambuca.
Love men, just don't marry them.
Jones & Strummer. Leiber & Stoller. Whitfield & Strong.
I have a Master's Degree but I love "Beavis & Butthead."
I know who Tom Dowd is and can explain why you should too.
I have read War and Peace.
New York style pizza with onion, garlic, oregano and enough cheese to choke me.
Beatles and Stones. Apples and oranges.
I can read music and play the piano decently if you let me practice first.
I know the difference between the Wrecking Crew and the Funk Brothers.
I can copy edit and proofread just about anything.
5' 8" but I wear heels and I don't care if I'm taller than you.
I can assemble just about any computer or stereo system. Just don't ask me to program them.
Moon and Starr. Helm, Blaine, and Fontana.
I love Uncle Jimmy's Dirty Basement and think it kicks Rocky Horror's ass.
I can't play the guitar but I love power chords.
I know just enough HTML to fuck it up.
Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Dickens, Austen.
I throw like a girl and I don't care.
Italian American with a little bit of Irish.
I take myself way too seriously. Feel free to smack me upside the head at any time.
I wear Chuck Taylor and Salvatore Ferragamo (when I can afford it).
I remember rock'n'roll radio.
I do not understand women any better than you.
"Let's Do it Again." "Sexual Healing." "Let's Get it On."
I have a big mouth and I'm not afraid to use it.
I suck at calculus but kick ass at algebra.
I can quote extensively from Diner, Raising Arizona, Dazed and Confused and The Godfather.
I know the difference between the Brill Building and the Chrysler Building.
Baseball, hot dogs (veggie, with mustard and onions) and a red 1968 Camaro.
I'll ride any rollercoaster. Just do shots with me first.
I love to laugh but don't do it nearly enough.
I hate myself for loving you.
I'm very, very sorry.
36D.

Any questions?
(There's more. I'll tell you if you ask me.)

Under The Sun

2008-05-18T19:55:00.002-05:00

There are some songs that just seem to define your life. "Under the Sun" is one of those for me. I first heard it years ago on Southside Johnny's excellent At Least We Got Shoes album. But it really came to life in places like my beloved Stone Pony, where Bobby Bandiera's beautifully evocative tenor pierced my heart. It's a song that has always seemed to resonate for me, though when I first heard it I never knew why. I guess it's only now that I really understand how accurately it presaged my own life. And I think, also, that it has always gotten to me because although it's sung to a woman, it's clearly written with the kind of self-knowledge that only a woman could have. That it was co-written by the multi-talented Patti Scialfa, then, is no great surprise. But let's not leave out Mr. Bandiera, whose own vast talents, long undersung, finally seem to have been acknowledged by the music world at large. (It's about time.)

But back to the song. I don't listen to it often even though it's one of my favorites--not just by the Jukes, but by anybody--because it takes me back to my misspent youth, to the sweaty, beer-soaked summers spent inside the Stone Pony. To a time when anything seemed possible. I'm older now, and a lot of the dreams I had then have faded. Time passes, people move on. We grow up and priorities change. But those times will always live in my memory as some of the best of my life, and no one can take them from me.

Both Patti and Bobby have gone on to bigger and better things, but in my opinion this song still ranks with their best work, and in my mind's eye, I can still see them as they were then, standing in the middle of the Stone Pony stage, leaning in to share the mic and singing this incredible lyric that still rings so true for me. If you're lucky, you can catch Southside performing this song every once in a while, too, but it's usually by request only. Maybe singing it reminds him of those days, too...

Under The Sun
(B. Bandiera/P. Scialfa)

Queen of sorrow ain't that your name
In a world of darkness with no one to blame
You watch from a distance and wonder how come
Some people walk so easily under the sun

Tell me darlin' what are you thinking of
When you give your loyalty to strangers
And betray the ones you love
Is it because of all those strangers
They help you go on hiding from
Your loss of faith to your rightful place
Under the sun

Once you walked so proud to a rebel drum
But all your victories were too hard won
And all the precious gifts of the land
Fell through your tired hands

Queen of sorrow ain't that your name
What's born in anger ends in shame
Trust me darlin' we shall overcome
Take my hand and face your rightful place
Under the sun

Bandiera Songs BMI/Rumble Doll ASCAP

It's My Life

2008-05-18T19:55:00.001-05:00

Hey, why don't you just chill out?
Settle down, relax.
You drink too much, you talk too much
You say whatever's on your mind
Don't you know that's dangerous, that it scares people?

That's right I'm a pretty scary person until you get to know me
Then I am even more scary because I say things you don't want to hear
Tell you things you don't want to know.
I need too much, I want too much, I feel too much.
it is my blessing and my curse.

But if you let me in just a little
If you really listen to me.
i will give you my heart.

(Please don't break it.)

Actual Lines Musicians Have Fed Me

2008-05-11T18:19:00.000-05:00

(quoted verbatim to the best of my memory—why would I lie?)

You look really sexy tonight.
You're a really pretty girl.
So are you coming in?
Where are you spending the night?
I think you're a really great person.
Relax, you're too uptight.
You have a good heart but you're really moody.
I was just admiring your ass but then I realized you were my friend.
I like the way your tummy shows.
You look really hot.
Come lie on the bed with me.
Where are you spending the night?
I think you're really sexy.
Are you driving home tonight? I have a foldout couch. (said while holding hands with his date for the evening).
You're a really beautiful girl—you shouldn't look so sad.
You sure you don't need a place to stay?
Come outside and watch the sunrise.
You have a big heart but you have a dark side.
Where are you spending the night?
(the same person kept saying it—don't they know we remember this shit?)
I think you're really sexy but I can't invite you in.
I like your hair better loose (said while attempting to undo my ponytail).
You look really nice (while staring at my chest).
I think you're really beautiful and really smart and really cool but I'm not into you that way.
You need to get laid.

What's Your Damage?

2008-05-11T18:18:00.001-05:00

I opened up my heart to you
It got all damaged and undone
I believed in you but you only believe in yourself
In your monster ego that needs to be fed over and over again
Who was it that helped you, that supported you
That loved you unconditionally for so long
Asking nothing in return except to be treated as a friend
With courtesy and kindness and respect
Like any human being deserves

You are all alike, you all need to be reminded that you exist
Need to have people love you, different ones every night
Looking up at you in rapt wonder, in awe at your talent
At your brilliance

Well guess what we all get older, we all need to be loved
and admired and respected, need to have others to believe in us
because it's sometimes so hard to believe in ourselves.
You are not as special as you think.

Those who look on you in awe, in rapture and admiration
Will not be with you tomorrow when you wake up alone in
some hotel room wondering what city you're in
or if anyone will show up to hear you play
There are always bright new shiny faces, but the ones
who really care about you, who love and respect you
for who you really are -- that list grows shorter and shorter
because of the gnawing black hole inside you that will not be filled
because you push us aside we are nothing we are disposable we are
Too Much Work
It's so much easier not to get close, not to deal, to look at only the shiny surface of
things

Whether it's free or whether they pay thousands of dollars it's you,
it's what's inside your head you must live with.

So when you wake up tomorrow, alone or with someone, you
will always be alone in your head until you deal with what's
inside you that makes you hate yourself so much that you
lower yourself to associating with shallow meaningless people
Demand so much to be in your presence that only those who don't know
the cost are willing to pay it

You are better than that, or at least you used to be. If you look in the
mirror, maybe you can still see that person looking back. Don't look
twice, don't look back, don't look don't look don't look

Stay Positive

2008-05-04T10:42:00.001-05:00

Stay positive things will get better we are all getting older age gracefully
But women do not get to age gracefully we are pushed aside and
forgotten like yesterday's newspaper
We are nothing if we are not young and beautiful
It doesn’t matter how smart you are how graceful or accomplished
Doesn’t matter what you’ve done with your life because
You don’t exist anymore.

No one looks at you no one listens you are irrelevant.

When you are a young woman they don’t care what’s inside your head only what’s outside
what you look like your hot body they want to use that body for their own pleasures and move on
They tell you it’s not true go ahead develop your mind don’t worry about it the right person will come along
But he never does she never does most people spend their whole lives alone.

Stay positive age gracefully get older and smile there is always hope
Yeah sure there is if you shut down your brain the part that thinks the part that sees things as they really are
Hope is the thing with feathers that takes a crap on your dreams
That taunts you with possibilities and flies away and is gone.
Evil wins don’t you see, it has feathers too and it sits on your bedpost in the darkness and watches and waits

Sometimes You Gotta Wear it On Your Sleeve

2008-03-09T19:44:00.003-05:00

Jesse Malin's covers record On Your Sleeve is the shit. But don't take it from me--buy the damn thing yourself from One Little Indian.

That is all.

Get Up and Dance

2008-02-16T17:30:00.000-05:00

"Good music makes you wanna sing along and dance and feel like anything is possible, right? That's what I want my music to make people feel! And if I'm ever in a position to have a platform to change something in my world for the better I hope I'm brave enough to accept the challenge and inevitable criticism and questioning of motive to follow."

Dave Petersen just said everything that needs to be said about why music is essential, and why it can still change the world. I love him.

Obama For President

2008-02-09T15:06:00.000-05:00

With Edwards gone, is there really any other choice? Caroline Kennedy said it best in a recent speech at American University in Washington D.C.:

"I want a president who understands that his responsibility is to articulate a vision and encourage others to achieve it; who holds himself, and those around him, to the highest ethical standards; who appeals to the hopes of those who still believe in the American Dream, and those around the world who still believe in the American ideal; and who can lift our spirits, and make us believe again that our country needs every one of us to get involved."

What she said. Enough incompetence--we need change and we need it fast.

Farewell Mr. Edwards

2008-02-02T10:36:00.001-05:00

A good man dropped out of the presidential race this week. I supported him from the beginning because of his stance on poverty. If he did nothing else in his run for the White House, he forced the two major Democratic contenders to make that a part of their agenda, and for that we are forever indebted to him.

Thank you John, for running because you believed in something so strongly that you could not be silent. And thank you Elizabeth for supporting him. You both are true class, and you will not be forgotten.

Here's John's speech from Wednesday:

Thank you all very much. We're very proud to be back here.

During the spring of 2006, I had the extraordinary experience of bringing 700 college kids here to New Orleans to work. These are kids who gave up their spring break to come to New Orleans to work, to rehabilitate houses, because of their commitment as Americans, because they believed in what was possible, and because they cared about their country.

I began my presidential campaign here to remind the country that we, as citizens and as a government, have a moral responsibility to each other, and what we do together matters. We must do better, if we want to live up to the great promise of this country that we all love so much.

It is appropriate that I come here today. It's time for me to step aside so that history can blaze its path. We do not know who will take the final steps to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but what we do know is that our Democratic Party will make history. We will be strong, we will be unified, and with our convictions and a little backbone we will take back the White House in November and we'll create hope and opportunity for this country.

This journey of ours began right here in New Orleans. It was a December morning in the Lower Ninth Ward when people went to work, not just me, but lots of others went to work with shovels and hammers to help restore a house that had been destroyed by the storm.

We joined together in a city that had been abandoned by our government and had been forgotten, but not by us. We knew that they still mourned the dead, that they were still stunned by the destruction, and that they wondered when all those cement steps in all those vacant lots would once again lead to a door, to a home, and to a dream.

We came here to the Lower Ninth Ward to rebuild. And we're going to rebuild today and work today, and we will continue to come back. We will never forget the heartache and we'll always be here to bring them hope, so that someday, one day, the trumpets will sound in Musicians' Village, where we are today, play loud across Lake Ponchartrain, so that working people can come marching in and those steps once again can lead to a family living out the dream in America.

We sat with poultry workers in Mississippi, janitors in Florida, nurses in California.

We listened as child after child told us about their worry about whether we would preserve the planet.

We listened to worker after worker say "the economy is tearing my family apart."

We walked the streets of Cleveland, where house after house was in foreclosure.

And we said, "We're better than this. And economic justice in America is our cause."

And we spent a day, a summer day, in Wise, Virginia, with a man named James Lowe, who told us the story of having been born with a cleft palate. He had no health care coverage. His family couldn't afford to fix it. And finally some good Samaritan came along and paid for his cleft palate to be fixed, which allowed him to speak for the first time. But they did it when he was 50 years old. His amazing story, though, gave this campaign voice: universal health care for every man, woman and child in America. That is our cause.

And we do this -- we do this for each other in America. We don't turn away from a neighbor in their time of need. Because every one of us knows that what -- but for the grace of God, there goes us. The American people have never stopped doing this, even when their government walked away, and walked away it has from hardworking people, and, yes, from the poor, those who live in poverty in this country.

For decades, we stopped focusing on those struggles. They didn't register in political polls, they didn't get us votes and so we stopped talking about it. I don't know how it started. I don't know when our party began to turn away from the cause of working people, from the fathers who were working three jobs literally just to pay the rent, mothers sending their kids to bed wrapped up in their clothes and in coats because they couldn't afford to pay for heat.

We know that our brothers and sisters have been bullied into believing that they can't organize and can't put a union in the workplace. Well, in this campaign, we didn't turn our heads. We looked them square in the eye and we said, "We see you, we hear you, and we are with you. And we will never forget you." And I have a feeling that if the leaders of our great Democratic Party continue to hear the voices of working people, a proud progressive will occupy the White House.

Now, I've spoken to both Senator Clinton and Senator Obama. They have both pledged to me and more importantly through me to America, that they will make ending poverty central to their campaign for the presidency.

And more importantly, they have pledged to me that as President of the United States they will make ending poverty and economic inequality central to their Presidency. This is the cause of my life and I now have their commitment to engage in this cause.

And I want to say to everyone here, on the way here today, we passed under a bridge that carried the interstate where 100 to 200 homeless Americans sleep every night. And we stopped, we got out, we went in and spoke to them.

There was a minister there who comes every morning and feeds the homeless out of her own pocket. She said she has no money left in her bank account, she struggles to be able to do it, but she knows it's the moral, just and right thing to do. And I spoke to some of the people who were there and as I was leaving, one woman said to me, "You won't forget us, will you? Promise me you won't forget us." Well, I say to her and I say to all of those who are struggling in this country, we will never forget you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you.

But I want to say this -- I want to say this because it's important. With all of the injustice that we've seen, I can say this, America's hour of transformation is upon us. It may be hard to believe when we have bullets flying in Baghdad and it may be hard to believe when it costs $58 to fill your car up with gas. It may be hard to believe when your school doesn't have the right books for your kids. It's hard to speak out for change when you feel like your voice is not being heard.

But I do hear it. We hear it. This Democratic Party hears you. We hear you, once again. And we will lift you up with our dream of what's possible.

One America, one America that works for everybody.

One America where struggling towns and factories come back to life because we finally transformed our economy by ending our dependence on oil.

One America where the men who work the late shift and the women who get up at dawn to drive a two-hour commute and the young person who closes the store to save for college. They will be honored for that work. One America where no child will go to bed hungry because we will finally end the moral shame of 37 million people living in poverty.

One America where every single man, woman and child in this country has health care.

One America with one public school system that works for all of our children.

One America that finally brings this war in Iraq to an end. And brings our service members home with the hero's welcome that they have earned and that they deserve.

Today, I am suspending my campaign for the Democratic nomination for the Presidency.

But I want to say this to everyone: with Elizabeth, with my family, with my friends, with all of you and all of your support, this son of a millworker's gonna be just fine. Our job now is to make certain that America will be fine.

And I want to thank everyone who has worked so hard â€" all those who have volunteered, my dedicated campaign staff who have worked absolutely tirelessly in this campaign.

And I want to say a personal word to those I've seen literally in the last few days â€" those I saw in Oklahoma yesterday, in Missouri, last night in Minnesota â€" who came to me and said don't forget us. Speak for us. We need your voice. I want you to know that you almost changed my mind, because I hear your voice, I feel you, and your cause is our cause. Your country needs you â€" every single one of you.

All of you who have been involved in this campaign and this movement for change and this cause, we need you. It is in our hour of need that your country needs you. Don't turn away, because we have not just a city of New Orleans to rebuild. We have an American house to rebuild.

This work goes on. It goes on right here in Musicians' Village. There are homes to build here, and in neighborhoods all along the Gulf. The work goes on for the students in crumbling schools just yearning for a chance to get ahead. It goes on for day care workers, for steel workers risking their lives in cities all across this country. And the work goes on for two hundred thousand men and women who wore the uniform of the United States of America, proud veterans, who go to sleep every night under bridges, or in shelters, or on grates, just as the people we saw on the way here today. Their cause is our cause.

Their struggle is our struggle. Their dreams are our dreams.

Do not turn away from these great struggles before us. Do not give up on the causes that we have fought for. Do not walk away from what's possible, because it's time for all of us, all of us together, to make the two Americas one.

Thank you. God bless you, and let's go to work. Thank you all very much.

Things I Like Vol. 42

2008-01-26T11:46:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Marah. Like a phoenix from the ashes, baby.

2) "Goodbye Daughters of the Revolution" - New from The Black Crowes. So what if it's another Stones ripoff--it rocks. Plus it's got Luther Dickinson on slide guitar...

3) Brighter Than Creation's Dark - The Drive-By Truckers. Still mining that goth-Skynyrd meets Springsteen vein. And the problem is?

4) On Your Sleeve - Jesse Malin. Expected and unexpected covers that shed new light both on the songs themselves and on the person performing them.

5) Paul McCartney. Staying alive and just trying to be yourself is a lot harder than it looks when you're an ex-Beatle. Plus "I'm Down" is, like, the best two minutes of Richard Penniman ripoff you'll ever hear. Don't believe me? Watch for yourself:

6) Jeff Raspe - DJ extraordinaire.

7) Frankie & Kelly McGrath - Two of the best people you'll ever meet. Thanks for everything.

8) Play it As it Lays - Patti Scialfa. Still one of the most underappreciated women in rock, and a hell of a nice person besides.

9) Convention Hall, Asbury Park NJ - Come see before it morphs into Disneyland.

10) Daniel Wolff. 'Nuff said.

Hero of the Week: CF, for caring enough to tell me things I need to hear, and for putting up with my endless psychodrama. You are a true friend.

Villain of the Week: Gary Mottola, Madison Marquette. For totally misunderstanding Asbury Park's past and thereby fucking up its future. Read a book, dude.

A Simple Twist of Fate

2008-01-19T15:17:00.001-05:00

Driving home to the Jersey Shore yesterday, I heard local up and coming singer/songwriter Nicole Atkins performing at WXPN radio's Free at Noon show in Philadelphia, and it brought the reality of what has happened to Philly's own Marah this week into sharper focus and just made me sad all over again.

On the radio was a woman who, like Marah, started from nothing, who pushed her way up from the street--sleeping in cars, recording in a makeshift studio--to get her music out. Like them, she worked hard and finally got lucky. She got noticed by the right people and ended up with a major label deal. Now, in this day and age, that's a dicey thing--most new artists who sign with Columbia Records live to regret it, as misguided record production and lack of tour promotion (amongst other things) are the usual result.

But Nicole has gotten luckier still--the folks at Columbia seem to actually know what to do with her, and have really kicked her career up a notch in a relatively short time. She's been on national television (Letterman), had some excellent bookings (The Bowery Ballroom), even done an American Express ad. And yesterday she was on WXPN sounding great --in complete control and enjoying herself. I should be happy for her--another local Jersey Shore musician getting props--but I can't help feeling more than a bit resentful at the odd twists of fate life hands people. Several of my friends have signed to that very same label and received the royal screw--they all worked just as hard and made the same sacrifices as Nicole, and for that they ended up with nothing. How did she get so lucky, and why?

As for the members of Marah--current and former--they are most likely still pondering what has happened to them; how they went from the highest high (a national television appearance, a brand new record receiving stellar reviews, a hotly anticipated national tour) to the lowest low (postponed tour, dismembered band) in a few short days. But they can't afford to linger too long with their thoughts. After all, there are new tours to prepare for, lives to be led, and this is only a brief pause before they move on to the next stage of their lives.

And that's all it can be--for now. "You just gotta keep on livin', L-I-V-I-N" (Wooderson, Dazed and Confused, 1993). But one day they'll be out on the road again--on a lonely tour bus in the middle of Nowhereland, or lying in bed staring at the ceiling late at night--and their thoughts will inexorably turn to the events of this week, and to what might have been. The regret and pain they feel at those moments may be something they carry with them for the rest of their lives.

So congratulations, Nicole--you deserve every minute of your newfound success. With any luck, you'll never experience anything like what happened to Marah this week. Never know what it is to falter when your dreams seem so close to coming true, to fail with the whole world looking on--to hold the brass ring for a brief instant only to have it slip through your fingers.

The Shys Return

2008-01-17T22:06:00.000-05:00

With all the recent news of band implosion, isn't it nice to know that a totally rockin' band is still together and will soon A) be releasing a record and B) hittin' your town? I though so. New tunage and photos are now up on their myspace page. These guys are the shit. But don't take my word for it. See/hear/experience the magic for yourself.

That is all.

R.I.P Johnny Podres

2008-01-14T12:04:00.001-05:00

It's truly a sad day for Dodger fans--and God knows they've had more than their share. (Just HOW did Walter O'Malley--aka Satan--get elected to the Hall of Fame, for example?)

Yep, Johnny Podres is dead. For those of you who don't know, Podres shut out the Yankees 2-0 on eight hits to win the deciding game of the 1955 World Series, the one and only time that Brooklyn ever conquered their nemesis.

"Just get me one hit and I'll beat 'em," Podres supposedly said. The Dodgers got him two, and for one year, joy finally reigned in Mudville as the long-suffering Brooklynites finally had their championship. But it was to be short-lived, as the aforementioned O'Malley would soon set plans in motion that would result in the team moving to--EEEK--Los Angeles.

The day Ebbetts Field was torn down was one of the saddest in the history of baseball, for it signaled the end of an era when teams lived in the towns they played in, when you could walk down the street and bump into Duke Snider or live next door to Pee Wee Reese. The players were not only your heroes, they were your neighbors. The unique relationship they had with the citizens of Brooklyn will never be duplicated, and the loss to baseball was incalculable.

So R.I.P. Johnny. And as for Walter O'Malley, well, let's just say it's pretty hot where he is...

Marah on Conan

2008-01-11T19:58:00.000-05:00

My Marah boyz (and the lovely Christine) on Conan. Righteous!

Things I Like Vol. 41

2008-01-09T21:34:00.001-05:00

Ok, so it's a New Year and I promised to keep this here thing up, so here goes.

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Vodka tonics. I have recently rediscovered the joys of Absolut over ice. Yay.

2) Panera, all locations - I know, it's a franchise. But damn, that sourdough bread is addictive like crack.

3) Speaking of crack - Clancy's, Neptune NJ - the potato soup is, well, you guessed it...

4) Scene of the Crime - Bettye Lavette. Yeah, right on, sis. Being an older chick fucking rules! Don't even try to tell me I'm irrelevant cos I don't dig Hannah Montana--this is music by and for adults, baby!

5) Just A Little Lovin' - Shelby Lynne. All of the above, plus it's all (or mostly all) Dusty Springfield music. Righteous.

6) The Twisted Tree, Asbury Park NJ - Acoustic Maybe Pete, candlelight, health food and BYO wine. Plus it's stumbling distance from my front door.

7) The New York fucking Dolls. Better than most bands even on a bad night (sorry to disagree with you, JM). Coming soon to the legendary Stone Pony for a return engagement. Gotta love Syl's gold Les Paul!

8) Hillary. Ok, so I'm not a huge fan. I thought she and the hubby kinda sold out. But I'll admit it, the crying bit got me.
Can anyone say America's Family Reunion (on the Mall) Volume 2? (If you don't know what that is, use the Google, dummy!)

9) "Lowlife (Livin' the Highlife)" - Kid Rock. Ok, so he didn't get the joke. It's still a great song, and the money goes to one of my oldest, dearest friends. What's the downside?

10) Peter Criss lives in Wall NJ. No no no...in WALL NJ! I know a couple people who might be up for some stalkin'...

Hero of the Week: John Edwards. Everyone's counted him out, and yeah, he probably is out. But he's not going without a fight. Not bad for someone who continues to accept no corporate donations.

Villain of the Week: Roger Clemens. I'm sorry, but you're a lying sack of sh*t. You have been blessed with one of the best arms in the history of the game, and you go and blow your reputation for the sake of a couple of extra years. Say it ain't so.

Another Year

2008-01-06T12:06:00.000-05:00

Listen to me watch me
I will hold you in my thrall and
You too will be stars

In the light the moths flit to and fro
Vacant eyes
Different dresses same pain
Dissipated dance
Vodka and hesitance will you won’t you
One night full of empty
Desperation but

The hole will not be filled until you dig deeper.

The Malin in Crawdaddy

2007-12-26T22:25:00.000-05:00

Just in case you might have missed it (hey, I was in non-self-promoting mode back in July), here's my Crawdaddy piece on my favorite drinking buddy (that is, when the McGraths are not available).

Jesse Malin Comes Full Circle

Thank you and good night.

"God helps those who hype themselves..."
(hey, Dave Marsh said it...)

Kyle Krone

2007-12-23T12:01:00.000-05:00

Is fucking badass. If you don't know who he is, well that's your problem. Merry Christmas!

Things I Like 2007

2007-12-16T19:42:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I haven't done one of these things in a long time. I know, they're supposed to be weekly. Welp, what with school work and shows and um, a little too much overindulging, I have been seriously crunched for time this past year. That will change in January, when I promise to get back to the job of annoying y'all with my opinionated self on a more regular basis. In the meantime, go see/hear/read/check out the following. (You can thank me later.)

No Country For Old Men - dir. by Joel & Ethan Coen. The best film I have seen in years, and the Coens at their creative peak.

Everyman - Philip Roth. Yeah, it's not his latest, but novels don't get much better than this. And it's got a couple Jersey Shore references too. Give the man his Nobel already.

The Other Side of the Mirror: Live at Newport Folk Festival 1963-1965 - dir. by Murray Lerner. Further proof of Dylan's genius. As if we needed any.

The Live Stuff:
The Hold Steady at The Stone Pony, Asbury Park NJ - 1/19/07
Jesse Malin at The Mercury Lounge, New York NY - 4/21/07
Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes at The Stone Pony, Asbury Park NJ -7/3/07
The New York Dolls at The Stone Pony, Asbury Park NJ - 7/20/07
Two Cow Garage at The Saint, Asbury Park NJ - 7/23/07
Ryan Shaw at The Highline Ballroom, New York NY - 7/31/07
Marah at Johnny Brenda's, Philadelphia PA - 9/7/07
Marah at Union Music Hall, Brooklyn NY - 9/13/07
Hudson Falcons at The Stone Pony - 11/30/07
Maybe Pete - anytime, anywhere
I'm sure there were more, but that's what I can think of for now. Damn, July sure was a great month for live music.

Petal Pusher - Laurie Lindeen. Yeah, it's not perfect, but it's well-written and engaging, and it makes you want to start a band despite it all. Can't ask for much more from a musician-type memoir.

She's About to Cross My Mind - The Red Button. Power pop at its finest.

Federico's Pizza, Belmar NJ - Try the white pizza with garlic and tomato. So what if they don't have a liquor license.

Back to Black - Amy Winehouse. Totally badass.

Fins, Bradley Beach NJ - Tortilla soup. 'Nuff said.

The Beach Cinema, Bradley Beach NJ - Movies and organ music for under 5 bucks.

Tearing Down the Wall of Sound: The Rise and Fall of Phil Spector - Mick Brown. Well-researched and incisive, not just about Phil, but about the Brill Building era as a whole. Not to be missed if you're a music fan.

Eastern Promises - dir. by David Cronenberg. Viggo Mortensen's performance is nothing short of astonishing.

Fontana's, Chinatown, NYC. Cool not-so-new hangout for what's left of the NY punk scene. Also the Lit Lounge on 2nd Ave. And Midway on Ave. B, Lakeside Lounge on Ave. B and Manitoba's, on um, Ave. B.

Little Steven's Underground Garage -- The website, the radio show, the live shows, the merch, and now a record label. Further proof (as if we needed any) that Little Steven is the living embodiment of rock'n'roll as it was meant to be, as well as just badass in general.

The Sopranos, the finale.

Coney Island, Brooklyn NY - long may it live. The Mermaid Parade, The Cyclone, The Wonder Wheel, and Ruby's Bar to take the edge off. It's Disneyland for adults.

Booeymonger's, Washington DC. How can you not love a place that still has a sandwich named after Patty Hearst?

Asbury Lanes, Asbury Park NJ - How could a venue this cool be in danger of extinction? (Answer: Asbury Partners.)

The Twisted Tree, Asbury Park NJ. The heart of the acoustic music scene in Asbury Park, and the only cool place left on Cookman Avenue. Go before they f**k that up, too.

The Jefferson Market Branch, New York Public Library - One of the few real landmarks left in Greenwich Village. It's got a clock tower that rings on the hour, and it's in at least one Woody Allen movie. Plus it just looks cool.

Electric Lady Studios, New York NY. Thanks JM, for giving me one of the coolest days of my life.

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee - dir. by Yves Simoneau for HBO films. Required viewing for every American.

Rick Shapiro at the Sidewalk Cafe, New York NY - Comedy that jolts you awake.

The French Roast, 6th Ave., New York NY - Candlelight, great food and more coffee drinks with alcohol than I even knew existed. And you never know who will be at the next table. The epitome of Greenwich Village cool.

There are more CDs and films and stuff that kick ass, but I can't think of them now, so check back for updates.

Oh, and thanks to all my friends for being there when I needed you, and for putting up with me all year long (you know who you are). You guys rule.

That is all. Happy Holidays and shit.

Angels on a Passing Train

2007-11-06T20:14:00.001-05:00

Just posting a link to my piece on Marah for Crawdaddy online. Enjoy. Or not.

Marah: Angels on a Passing Train

Peace.

Vote.

Impeach.

Dice Behind Your Shades

2007-11-04T17:43:00.000-05:00

Some of this is true, some of it only marginally so. Figure it out for yourself.

I am a cancer survivor.
I drink too much.
I love cheese and salt and garlic on just about everything.

I can check the oil and drive stick but can't change a tire.
I hate washing my hair but love long hot showers.
Ryan Adams is a genius and so is Paul Westerberg. Neither one of them will talk to me, though.

I stay up way too late and drive when I probably shouldn't.
I am loud and opinionated and uptight.
Most of my friends are men but they don't understand me any better than I do myself.

I am lonely and bitter and confused, and I don't like myself very much.
I have a pretty good sense of humor despite all outward appearances, and I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.

I used to play the piano but I don't anymore. I wasn't that good at it anyway.
I can sing a little bit but no one ever asks me to anymore.
My favorite color is blue, and I can quote extensively from just about any Barry Levinson movie.

I don't get kissed nearly enough and listen to way too much Hank Williams for my own good.
I like tequila and whiskey and Mexican beer, and can probably drink you under the table if you'll give me a chance. (Alcohol tolerance courtesy many late nights with Mr. Jesse Malin.)

I used to think Hemingway was overrated but lately I think he's pretty amazing. (Though I do think drinking oneself to death like Fitzgerald is an infinitely superior method of suicide than a gun to the head.)

Jon Bon Jovi has a great ass and is a pretty good guy, too. (Hey, we can't all be Townes Van Zandt…)
I think sex is great but there's not nearly enough to go around.
Ipods and iPhones and video games and Blackberries can all go to hell—the best form of portable entertainment is still a good book.

I spend way too much money going out to eat and can't live on a budget to save my life.
I love rollercoasters and bumper cars and hot dogs.
NASCAR confuses me.

We would all be better off if everyone turned off all their gadgets for one hour a day and took a long walk. But that being said, I love my laptop.
I secretly dream of being carried off by a hot young musician. Ok, it's not such a secret.

Happiness is where you find it. So is sadness...

Livin' in the Future

2007-10-07T16:57:00.001-05:00

Bill Flanagan wrote something in his review of Bruce Springsteen's new release Magic that really resonated with me. While I disagree with his overall review, I really liked what he said about Bruce himself:

"[He is] more defiant and less sure that the comforts of old friends and shared experience is a real defense against the world's darkness."

After the events of the last few years--election debacles, Katrina, and countless other disappointments that have made me lose faith in just about everything, that's pretty much how I feel, too. I guess I've always had an affinity for Bruce outside his music because I seem to see the world the same way as he does, and like me, he has gotten more bitter, cynical and disgusted as he's aged. Not much to be done about this I suppose except continue to do what you do and hope someone's listening. But it's gotta be frustrating to be producing some of the best work of your career with material like the Seeger Sessions and know that most people just wanna hear "Badlands" for the 95th time.

For what it's worth, Bruce, though I have some issues with your new record, I'm still with you because, like me, you live with the darkness every day and still manage to come out on the other side. Thanks for everything.

What is a Friend?

2007-09-28T18:43:00.000-05:00

I have been thinking a lot this past week about what being a friend really means. I looked up the definition and found this:

n.
1. A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
2. A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.
3. A person with whom one is allied in a struggle or cause; a comrade.
4. One who supports, sympathizes with, or patronizes a group, cause, or movement: friends of the clean air movement.

After the events of this past week, I don't like or trust a bunch of people I thought were my friends. Goodbye and good riddance. Guess I needed the wakeup call. I suppose I ought to think of it as a blessing in disguise, but I can't help feeling sad and hurt and confused just the same.

I guess I just want to believe that people are basically good until proven otherwise. Sadly (and ironically) it takes Bruce Springsteen--a performer known for his generosity and humanitarianism--to really bring out the absolute worst in people. It's been real easy to feel sorry for myself this week, but I'm not going to do it, not while there are kids lying in hospital beds missing legs, arms, sight or hearing, kids who have become vegetables before they were even old enough to take a drink legally. So no, I won't feel too bad about things. I'll just work really hard at remembering what true friendship and sacrifice are, and at not taking anything I have for granted. That's what Bruce's message has always been--living each day to the fullest, being in the moment, treating each other with courtesy and respect. After all, even if I didn't get into any of the three rehearsal shows this week, I still have ears to hear them with. And even if several of my so-called friends were nowhere to be found, I know that I am still a good person. I will not sell myself out for the companionship of people who only think of themselves.

If it takes being a liar, a conniver or a cheat to get in to see Bruce Springsteen, I guess I'm not going to be attending too many shows on this upcoming tour. Which is good, because other people need my money and support more than he does.

"Step into the light."
--Marah

In Memory of Diana

2007-08-31T19:44:00.000-05:00

It has been ten years since the tragic death of Diana Frances Spencer, former Princess of Wales. Yes, it was a tragedy. Look up the definition and try to tell me otherwise.

Diana never thought she was special; she never thought she was important. She was told she was dimwitted, shallow and common by her own family—those who should have given her nothing but unconditional love. But happily, she had the support of several key people who made her believe in herself, and you could see the transformation happening before your eyes. All at once, she knew who she was, and the world was a better place for it.

Because she had come to believe that her calling was to help people. She discovered that she had an enormous heart, a deep compassion for others that came from her own sense of what it was like to not feel loved. She could be manipulative and melodramatic—she lived in a world not of her own choosing, a media hell that she sometimes responded to less than admirably. But she made a choice to put her power over the media to good use. She forced them into places they didn't want to go—AIDS hospitals, minefields, hospice facilities—and made people see what she knew and understood intuitively—that everyone—everyone--deserves love and respect.

So say what you want about her sometimes petulant nature, her narcissistic tendencies, her mood swings and manipulation. There were so many good things about her that far outweighed her flaws. She taught the world how to truly live, to be present and alive and in the moment. To look deeper and give more. She was so much more beautiful on the inside than she was on the surface, and no one can take that away from her.

Diana's death is still an open wound for many. It still hurts, not because of the "glamour," or because she was a princess. It hurts because she loved without judgment, because she reached out without fear. A previous generation looked up to Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy as a kind of heroine or role model. But Diana was from my generation. She was my age; we went through so many similar things in parallel lives, and I felt a deep kinship with her, a tremendous sympathy and understanding that are difficult to explain even now. I never met her, but she was my hero for so many reasons, and I still miss her every single day.

So R.I.P. Miss Di. Maybe we'll meet someday.

Things I Like Vol. 40

2007-08-06T18:54:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Made in the Shade - The Rolling Stones. Yeah, I know it's a cheesy collection and not a proper album, but the song selection is pretty badass.

2) The Washington Nationals. Say what you want, but we Washingtonians had baseball taken away from us and then waited 30 years to get it back. You think you're a baseball fan? Try not having a hometown team to root for, pal...

3) Backbeat - dir. by Iain Softley. Damn, I love The Beatles.

4) Status Green - the best new band on the Jersey Shore, and a bunch of great guys too.

5) Federico's Pizza, Belmar NJ. Best pie on The Shore.

6) Da Vinci chianti. Wine doesn't have to be expensive to be good.

7) Oh Brother Where Art Thou? - dir. by Joel and Ethan Coen. Brilliant and subversive and cool.

8) The Terror - Dan Simmons. How have I never read this guy before?

9) Two Cow Garage. The best band you've never heard of. Like Westerberg and Black Flag rolled into one, Ohio-style.

10) Lakewood Blue Claws. Baseball, single A style. Who needs Shea when you've got it in your backyard?

Hero of the Week: Terry Magovern - R.I.P, brother. Also that guy who jumped in and rescued the school kids from the bus in Minneapolis.

Villain of the Week: Barry Bonds, Bud Selig, Michael Vick, and all the other morons ruining professional sports. Oh, and that guy being a d*ck about A-Rod's home run ball. And I don't even like the Yankees...

I Got Soul

2007-08-05T12:39:00.000-05:00

You may not have noticed it but—be very quiet—there’s a soul revolution goin’ on. It’s not making headlines—yet. Yeah, I know, there’s Amy Winehouse and—eek—Joss Stone. But that’s not it; they’re not there yet.

No, I’m talking about SOUL. The kind that makes you wanna get up and shout, the kind that lifts you up, that hits you in your stomach and your throat and your hips, the kind that that sends shivers down your spine and makes your feet move and your butt shake and your spirit soar. SOUL. It’s hard to define, but you know it when you experience it.

There are lots of cheap imitations out there, lots of wannabe Dreamgirls. But soul isn’t something you can manufacture—you either have it or you don’t. Otis Redding. Sam & Dave. Wilson Pickett. Aretha Franklin. Ryan Shaw.

Who?

No kidding, folks, this kid Ryan Shaw is the greatest raw talent I have ever seen. I’m not talking about polished professionalism; I’m talking about untapped ability, limitless possibility, star quality. This kid from Decatur, Georgia is the real deal. He came to New York to appear in a gospel musical a couple years ago and did some gigs on the side, including a regular slot at the Motown Café. He eventually settled in Brooklyn, and was soon recruited into Johnny Gale’s Fabulous Soul Shakers. The rest, they say, is history. His debut disc came out earlier this year and has received excellent reviews, and he just completed a major tour opening for the aforementioned Ms. Stone. But that’s not the whole story.

This kid is on his way somewhere, and he’s moving fast. Shaw made his debut headlining appearance at the Highline Ballroom in Manhattan this past Monday, and more than lived up to the hype. Now, the Highline is not my idea of a warm friendly room. This place has the B.B. King’s money grab gouge going on from the minute you walk in the door. We’re talking they serve ice cream on a plate with garnishes, people. So it took some doing for Mr. Shaw to warm the place up, especially because the folks running the show made us wait close to an hour after a tepid opening set on acoustic guitar by Atlanta singer/songwriter Anthony David.

But this kid has balls. He walks onstage and opens the show with “A Change is Gonna Come.” It probably wasn’t the right Sam Cooke song—“Let the Good Times Roll” might’ve been a better choice—but you have to give the kid props for trying. He had me. And then he proceeded to knock the show out of the park. Shaw has style and power and charisma. He doesn’t just hit the notes; he feels them way down deep. He’s a gospel singer, and he sings the only way he knows how—with his soul.

The set was brief because he doesn’t have much material yet. The record, comprised of soul almost-weres and near misses like Bobby Womack’s “Lookin’ For a Love,” sounds like the great lost Stax record that’s missing from your collection. His originals sound like classics, and it’s hard to tell them apart. Interspersed with songs from This is Ryan Shaw (even the title is retro!) were several jaw dropping covers, including a gospelized “Let it Be” and, of all things, a sing-along to the folk standard “If I Had a Hammer.” Introducing it as a song he used to sing with his mom, Shaw performed it as a rousing testament to the power of love to change minds. And before you could pick yourself up off the floor from that, he was on to the dance portion of the program, “Mish Mash Soul,” calling the audience down front to join him. Closing the set a few minutes later with a rousing “Do the 45,” (which kind of sounds like “Shotgun” with different lyrics), he had everyone up and dancing again (I defy anyone to sit still when this man is onstage). And then he was done. It was short, sweet and to the point. It was energizing and joyous and deeply satisfying in a way you can’t get from rock’n’roll (well, except when said rock’n’roller performs soul shaking gospel-influenced material--that his fans hate…but I digress.) Nope, I love rock’n’roll as much as the next guy, perhaps a lot more, but this music is different. Soul gives you hope. It makes you see life’s possibilities, gives you the strength to go out and face the world. It’s not “head” music, it’s “heart” music. It’s muscle and power and nerve. And it’s uniquely, profoundly American.

Whew. It was 90 minutes of pure unadulterated joy. And the best part is, like all great soul music, it’s sensual without being dirty, it’s spirited but not obscene. It’s life affirming. It makes you feel like dancing and shaking your groove thing, like moving your hips and shouting to the rafters, “I am alive!” This kid Ryan Shaw has resurrected the true soul magic of yesteryear. He’s all about love and hope and positivity, a one-man self-help seminar—and it's all genuine. Midway through the show, he introduces one of his songs by prowling the lip of the stage proclaiming, “I want you to think about that heartbreak, that bad break, that bad job and scream ‘It’s OVER AND DONE!’” This would be cheesy in lesser hands, but it’s clear he believes so strongly, his faith is so deep and pure, that you are carried along with him, and so you shout “Over and done!” right along with him. And just like that, your pain is washed away, your frustration is exorcised.

The show was not perfect; Shaw needs to work on smoothing out the set list, developing his onstage persona, and most importantly, learning and/or writing new material. But his natural talent, his ability to silence a room, is something that you can’t teach. You either have it or you don’t. So go see him now, before you have to pay $100 to sit in the back of Radio City or something. Cos this kid’s not stickin’ around the $10 rooms for long…

Frustration and Heartache

2007-07-21T18:08:00.000-05:00

Last night the New York Dolls saved my life.

I know that sounds melodramatic but let me explain. It’s been a bad week. No. I take that back. It’s been a bad couple of months. A fender-bender I can’t pay for. Job interviews that didn’t pan out. Too many bills, too much debt. Family drama and more family drama. Each item not enough to be more than a petty annoyance individually, but taken together, along with my usual low self-esteem and tendency toward depression, enough to send me on a downward spiral. Usually when I hit these black moods, I look forward to a good rock’n’roll show because it is often the only thing that lifts me out of it. Takes me out of myself. Awash in the music, I know I am not alone.

On top of the aforementioned issues, I had been looking forward to a couple weekend getaway shows to see a friend of mine play whom I have not seen a lot this whole summer. He’s been away on tour, and being around him always makes me fell better about myself, so I had really been anticipating these shows as a chance to get away from the routine, to get my mind off some stuff and just enjoy. So it was with great disappointment that I learned in the last couple days of the cancellation of four upcoming shows that I had planned to attend.

Suffice to say I was low—really low—and being surrounded by Harry Potter-mania all week didn’t help. So it was that, feeling miserable and alone (all my friends had bailed on me) I lined up by myself at 6:30 outside the venerable Stone Pony for a night with the New York Dolls.

These guys are professionals. Entertainment is their life as well as their profession, and they take it very seriously. You know when David Jo and the boyz take the stage it’s going to be a night to remember. The Dolls are the band everyone stole from: oft imitated but never duplicated, as the saying goes. They have every reason to be bitter –and after the loss of four band members (3 of them founding members), every reason not to ever set foot on a stage again. But they are showmen at heart, and they can’t help themselves. So when Morrissey called David J up 3 years ago and requested a reunion performance, it wasn’t really too hard to say yes, and the result was one of the most talked about events of the decade. I myself had never seen the Dolls in their previous incarnation—I was too young and certainly not knowledgeable enough—so it was all very new to me. New and yet instantly familiar. Attending their first NYC show after the reunion with a friend who is a hardcore Dolls fan, I was enraptured and in awe. These guys live and breathe rock’n’roll—ooze it from every pore. They have grit and style and class. Musicianship and showmanship and skill. Raunch and debauchery and lust and lasciviousness. But most of all, they know how to Bring The Rock. They are the masters of their domain, kings of rock’n’roll the old fashioned way, and they know it. They start each show with “Lookin' for a Kiss,” [“When I say I’m in love, you best believe I’m LOVE, L-U-V!!”] their Shangri Las homage, and from that point on, they have the audience eating out of their hands.

A word or two about the audience. It is, in my estimation, the epitome of what a rock’n’roll audience should be. It is, in a word, democratic. Old and young, gay and straight, punk rockers and office workers, urban and suburban, male and female. It’s a place where no matter who you are you always belong. And that’s truly what rock’n’roll is all about. Going to a Dolls show and being a part of the audience is that gentle pat on the shoulder, that warm embracing hug, that voice in your head that tells you it’s all going to be all right. That most rock’n’roll audiences are not like this speaks volumes about the shoddy state of the music at present.

Back to last night’s show. So it took longer than it usually does for me to break out of my funk. I was tired and cranky and didn’t feel much like dealing with people. The opening band bordered on Spinal Tap parody, while the second band was good but went on too long. As it was, I stood there for 3 hours until the Dolls finally took the stage around 10:30. It took a while but it happened. The moment of breakthrough came at the end of the night on the penultimate song, “Personality Crisis.” Long a Dolls signature song, it sums up best what the band is really about: sex, love, rock’n’roll, and fucking triumph, man. I had been smiling all night as I always do when the music overtakes me, but still felt a lingering funk that it seemed nothing could cure.

And then suddenly … “Frustration and heartache is what you GOT!!” belted David Jo.

And it hit me. YES! YES! YES! That’s it, that’s what I feel, and those guys get it. They understand! It hit me, and suddenly tears were running down my cheeks. Here these guys were—a bunch of misfits, a band that had never truly been understood by the rock’n’roll world—a world that had saved their lives—much less the world at large. They had suffered the same frustration and heartache and had SURVIVED. Goddammit, despite the tragedy and illness and despair and death, they were still here. They were on stage smiling smiles that lit the room, exchanging knowing glances and playful banter and enjoying every minute of their time up there like it was their last. It seemed that after all they had been through, they were just happy to still be here on this earth playing rock’n’roll, David looking at Syl and Syl winking back at David and Steve and Sami smiling and wailing away on their instruments like madmen, Brian Delaney pounding the drums behind them. These guys have been through so much—endured so much of their own frustration and heartache—and goddammit, they’re still here. They know in their bones that they still have the power to save lives, and that is a fundamental part of what drives them every single night.

So on this night, though nothing in my life had really changed, I regained some of my faith in the world when I needed it most. I felt, finally, that I could go on. Because (with help from David and Syl and Co.), I saw that no matter how the world treats me, how many bad breaks, how many disappointments and cruel twists of fate I am forced to endure, the Dolls will be there. They’ll be there, and they’ll understand because they get it, because they know. Standing there with tears in my eyes, I realized at last that as long as the New York Dolls are alive and well and playing shows, there will always be a place where I am accepted for who I am, a place where I will be welcomed into the fold with open arms.

Because it’s the Dolls, and in their world, everyone belongs.

John Doe

2007-07-16T22:54:00.001-05:00

John Doe is my husband. Shhh, don't tell Mr. Westerberg...

Oh, and that Dave Alvin wrote some pretty amazing songs. What a great f'ing band. Screw those pesky bands from "over there."

The Seventies Ruled

2007-07-16T21:15:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know they did. Here's a few of the reasons why:

1) Television.
Laugh-In. Saturday Night Live. M*A*S*H. The Odd Couple. All in the Family. Sonny & Cher. Dick Cavett. Merv Griffin. The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And that's just for starters.

2) Movies.
Too many to list, but a few of the best would include: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the Godfather films, Taxi Driver, Mean Streets, The French Connection, Deliverance, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, Doctor Zhivago, Rocky.

3) Music.
Top 40 Radio. Album Rock. Progressive Radio.
The Stones, The Who, Earth Wind & Fire, TSOP, Springsteen, Parliament, Sweet, Jackson Browne, The Clash, The Ramones and on and on...

From the depths of the cultural wasteland of 2007, we can only wonder if our American culture will ever reach those heights again.

PS-The '70s ruled even in high school. Check out Richard Linklater's classic film Dazed and Confused if you don't believe me.

Things I Like Vol. 39

2007-07-16T20:28:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Tequila. Margaritas that give you that buzz, shots that freeze your face.

2) F.D.R. - Now more than ever. This country would be fortunate to elect a president with half of his talent, energy, intellect and integrity in 2008. If you don't believe me, read the excellent new biography by Jean Edward Smith.

3) White Stripes - "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do What You're Told)." This song would rule for the title alone, but it rules even more because it rocks so hard.

4) Starland Ballroom, Sayreville NJ. Great sight lines, excellent sound system, plenty of room, enough bars to handle even a packed house, and -- wonder of all wonders -- air conditioning that actually works!

5) Booeymonger's, Washington DC - Ruling the sandwich world in DC since 1975. How can you go wrong with a sandwich named after Patty Hearst?

6) Cary Grant. Do I need a reason?

7) "Get Smart" - No, not the dumbass movie remake, the original and brilliant TV show created by the most excellent mind of Mel Brooks. [Man was TV great in the '70s. Man does it suck now.]

8) Coney Island. How can you not love an amusement park where you can get wasted and then get on America's greatest rollercoaster? See it now while you still can. And don't forget to ride the Cyclone.

9) Joe Strummer. Can't wait for Julien Temple's documentary.

10) Washington DC. My hometown, and possibly one of the most underrated and misunderstood cities in the world (for too many reasons to get into here). A great place to grow up and a great place to live. (Shh, don't tell...)

Hero of the Week: The McGraths--for understanding what real friendship is all about and living it every day. And for making some pretty cool music to boot.

Villain of the Week: Asbury Partners. For oh so many reasons.

Revolutionize This

2007-07-06T16:12:00.001-05:00

Over the years, The Beatles' "Revolution" has been called naive, pessimistic and wrongheaded. But they never mention the most important thing: it ROCKS!

Exiled

2007-06-22T21:57:00.000-05:00

My friends and I have been arguing Beatles vs. Stones forever, or so it seems. My friends are dyed-in-the-wool Stones fans. I, on the other hand, grew up on the perfect pop of the Beatles. I was only 6 or 7 when I fell in love with John Lennon's voice on "Tell Me Why." Then of course, there was Paul...Hey, when I was a kid, they were ubiquitous. On the radio. On television. In the movies. On your lunchbox. I didn't even know who the Stones were until several years after the Beatles broke up. (Yeah, ok, I was a little bit sheltered, but I did listen to Top 40 radio...)

Unfortunately, the 35th anniversary (can you believe it?) of what is arguably the best pure rock'n'roll album of all time, Exile on Main Street, is upon us, and with it, a steady stream of articles in the music press about what geniuses they were on this disc, etc. Well who can argue? I'm not even gonna try. If you want reasons, read Bill Janovitz's excellent addition to the 33-1/3 book series, aptly titled The Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street (wow, how did they think of that title?). Anyway, much to my great disappointment, all these articles have done nothing whatsoever to bolster my case because not one music journalist has stood up for the Fabs as being equals, at least none that I have seen. What the?

Anyway, the debate has been revived amongst us for the umpteenth time because some ninny on the network of the OTHER New York baseball team hosted the great Little Steven on his show and one of the totally dumbass questions he asked him was (apropos of his Underground Garage empire), "Beatles or Stones?" What an idiot! You have one of the great rock'n'roll historians in for a Q&A and that's what you ask him? Unbelievable.

So we were discussing Steven's guest appearance on that network [shudders] prior to watching the final Sopranos episode, and the subject came up. It was, naturally, 3 against 1--not even close. (Where are all my Beatlefriends when I need them?) I got creamed with the "World's Greatest Rock'n'Roll Band" argument once again. Ouch. It was truly ugly. Of course, I thought of all my snappy comebacks on the drive home. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until a week or so later that I finally had the proper ammunition with which to counterattack, and by then it was far too late. Figures.

Well, in my humble opinion, there shouldn't even be an "either/or" question when it comes to The Beatles and The Stones. They were both unbelievably great, and it's apples and oranges. But since most of the rock world insists on forcing the issue, I'll play along. So, without further ado, below are some of the arguments I've seen and heard on this issue. C'mon, which side are you on? Read and decide for yourself...

Beatles: They came, they saw, they rocked, they broke up.
Stones: Still around 30 years later. Um, why?
Beatles: 3 out and out geniuses in one band, and the 4th guy wasn't bad either
Stones: Mick & Keith.
Beatles: 4 solo careers, a couple of which have been pretty damn impressive in their own right. Two of them are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as solo artists, for god's sake.
Stones: Xpensive Winos aside, not even a question.
Beatles: They did it all first: met Dylan, smoked pot, went psychedelic, etc.
Stones: They're bad boyz playin' rock'n'roll. It's all about stealing from your influences. Who cares who did what first?
Beatles: They could go from raw and raucous to unabashedly sexual to poppy and sweet to joyfully alive to heartbreakingly sad all on one record -- and it was never forced.
Stones: Um, Exile on Main Street.
Beatles: They practically invented power pop, but who's counting.
Stones: They are a genre unto themselves.
Beatles: Perfect and polished on vinyl, raw and real live.
Stones: Sloppy and messy and unforgettable. The essence of rock'n'roll.

I would say it's a draw. But my Stones friends always insist that they win because the Stones play rock'n'roll--understand the American musical tradition--better than the Beatles ever could. To which I say, check out the following Beatles covers:

"Please Mr. Postman"
"You Really Got a Hold on Me"
"Anna (Go With Him)"
"Long Tall Sally"
"Roll Over, Beethoven"
and last but most definitely NOT least:
"Twist and Shout" - the definitive version of a definitive rock'n'roll song. Yes, it's rock'n'roll, not pop, because it comes from R&B roots. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, pal...

I rest my case.

Oh, and Paul's new record is pretty good for a 64 year old. Sigh.

Beatles vs. Stones? Who cares? It's all great! Just to show that I have no allegiances, I will state that though my new favorite record is by this L.A. duo called The Red Button who play note perfect Brit pop--and they're both huge Beatleheads to boot--shocking, I know (please do check out their new disc, She's About to Cross My Mind--totally rules, right?)--though I love love love this record, I do also love (on the more rockin' side) The Shys and their most excellent garage rock. And they're also from L.A. Wait'll I tell my Stones friends. Could be a new battle in the making. Stay tuned...

Things I Like Vol. 38

2007-06-05T21:20:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Live in Dublin - Bruce Springsteen with the Sessions Band. Fantastic performances of amazing material beautifully shot and reproduced. Why have we had to wait so long for something of this caliber from Our Boy?
2) Easy Tiger - Ryan Adams.
3) Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee - dir. by Yves Simoneau for HBO Films. Impossible to watch, impossible to look away. It will break your heart over and over again. And the book ain't bad either.
4) Waitress - dir. by Adrienne Shelly. Start fresh.
5) Petal Pusher - Laurie Lindeen. For those of us chicks who will never be in a band but wish we were. And there might be some stuff about Mr. Westerberg in there, too...
6) Adam & Dave's Bloodline - the band, the record, the live show, the guys.
7) Johnny Brenda's, Philadelphia, PA - cool new venue in a cool town
8) Exile on Main Street - the Stones, natch. Well, why not?
9) Johnny Pisano, the coolest guy I know and the nicest, too.
10) Sunday nights at the Headliner, Neptune, NJ - cold Coronas (with lime) for $2.50 and some pretty good Springsteen covers. Great way to bid adieu to the weekend.

Hero of the Week: Francis J. McGrath. For saving my life by playing rock'n'roll.
Villain of the Week: Lewis I. "Scooter" Libby. Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Sunday Morning, 2 a.m.

2007-06-04T13:32:00.000-05:00

Some people get it. They understand that because of rock’n’roll music, the world can be a better place. And so they consume it compulsively, listening to it on the radio, shouting along to it in their cars when they think no one can hear, discussing it endlessly with their friends late into the night, falling asleep with its healing magic echoing in their headphones. And if they’re lucky, some people even get to play this music, get to be part of its history and traditions themselves.

It’s a compulsion for these people, they don’t do it for the money or the fame, but because they don’t know what else to do. And so they learn to play the guitar or the drums or the piano, they write songs and form a band and rehearse till 4 a.m. in their parents' garage. They all have jobs and lives but they make time because they have to. And if they’re lucky they get booked to play shows and perform before a real live audience. Sometimes they even get paid for it.

Some bands are just passable; they borrow and steal from those who have gone before them and get away with it because mostly people are just there to drink and don’t really notice or care that much who’s up there on the stage. But there those that are good at this; they come up with their own sound, their own look and style and presence, and after a while people begin to notice. People come out to see them regularly, and they ask them if they have a record out. And they say no, not yet, and then they write some more songs and go into some cheap studio and do the best they can, and actually it’s not half bad at that.

And they’re not on a major label—they sell their CDs at the shows and on the Internet, and local papers that practically no one but other musicians and writers even reads give them good reviews, and they take heart from this and keep working hard and the bookings increase. And the same handfuls of people keep coming to see them. And they find out that not only are these people talented musicians, they are also warm and generous and funny. And they get to be friends.

And that is the best part of all, because these are the only people who really get you, who really understand your compulsion to be out every night listening to music, to get drunk and scream and shout along, to voraciously consume and then memorize everything you can find on your favorite artists, to purchase endless books and CDs until they spill over into every nook and cranny of your tiny apartment. They really get you, and you love their music and you can’t believe that they let you hang out with them, that they actually think of you as a friend. You can be yourself with them, you can say or do whatever you want and it doesn’t matter. And when you’re with them, you’re more alive somehow, every moment is electric. You feel you are at your best, that perhaps there really is a place for you in the world after all. You laugh until your stomach aches, you eat and smoke and drink and suddenly it’s 2 a.m. and the place is closing and how will you get through the week now without them? You wake up the next morning and wish you could have put it all in a bottle and taken it with you so you could open it up and enjoy some of it when life becomes too dull and painful and meaningless. You wish it would all last forever, but deep down you know that what makes these nights truly special is that they will, like everything else in life, eventually come to an end.

These people save your life again and again, and you do whatever you can to help them, but they are modest and self-effacing and really, you don't have that much power in this world; there is not much you can do but write the occasional essay and hope someone reads it, submit queries to magazines and pray the editors bite on them. Like them, you can learn to believe in yourself a little, to be persistent and hope it pays off. But in the end, all you can really do is say thank you.

Empress

2007-05-30T22:29:00.000-05:00

The label on the bottle says cheap vodka
Watch out I am dangerous
I will swallow you up
The black hole
Will claim another victim.

I am so I am so unsatisfied
Kiss away the void I want to
Drown in your laughter in your blue eyes
The sun rises just another minute
Is not enough is too much
But I want to
Sleep now it will be ok.

Top Ten Reasons Springsteen Fans Should Love the Hold Steady

2007-05-23T20:38:00.000-05:00

Admit it, the wait has been arduous, and it’s hard to find ways to occupy your time while Bruce is off making a new record. We’ve all been forced to take up new hobbies. Because I am music junkie myself, I am constantly buying new stuff. And I have, in the last six months or so, developed a severe addiction to Vagrant recording artists The Hold Steady. Here’s why you, as a Springsteen fan, should too.

Top Ten Reasons Springsteen Fans Should Love the Hold Steady:

1) The Sound. The Hold Steady’s sound has been likened to Bruce, but that’s too simple. Yes, it’s dense and guitar driven. Yes, they have been compared to everyone from Modest Mouse to The Replacements, but there’s more to it than that. Floating among Craig Finn’s nasal vocals and Tad Kubler’s juicy power chords are some pretty lovely melodies. There are Franz Nicolay’s lush, romantic keyboards, Galen Polivka’s dynamic bass and Bobby Drake’s solid backbeat. But what hits you hard, what grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go are the passion and the drama of the music; filled with unabashed emotional intensity, it’s the sort of addictive stuff that’s hard to find either on the air or on iPods. Simultaneously unique and comfortingly familiar, it’s the first thing you want to hear in the morning and what you listen to on headphones all day.

2) The Shows. While not overly long (usually under two hours), they are sonic blasts of energy that leave you pumped for days. Thoroughly satisfying and addictive like crack.

3) The Fans. They know every word to every song and aren’t afraid to sing (or shout) along. They have memorized every nuance, every Craig Finn gesture. They are passionate and intense and at showtime, they are 100% focused on the stage. No bathroom breaks, no beer runs (ok, there’s usually one or two), no talking, no whining. They are totally there. They are a true community, and some of the coolest people you’ll ever meet.

4) The Guys in the Band. How else can you say it? This is just a bunch of nice, normal guys. They’re smart and funny, the kind of people you want to hang out and get drunk with. But it’s more than that—they really love what they do and they have a great time doing it. Above all, they’re music fans too.

5) The Lyrics. Clever, dense, intellectually challenging, tender, passionate, funny, joyful, tragic playful, heartbreaking. They steal your heart, fill your soul and power your brain. Craig Finn’s lyrics are reminiscent of early Springsteen, and his characters every bit as memorable. And he’s even working the trilogy thing: where Bruce has the Born To Run/Darkness/River trifecta, THS gives us Almost Killed Me, Separation Sunday, and Boys and Girls in America. And where Bruce tells the stories of Wendy, Mary and Sherry on those records, Finn gives us Halle, Gideon and Charlemagne.

6) They’re Springsteen Fans Too. These guys love Bruce as much as you do and aren’t afraid to say so. And don’t challenge them on the trivia, because they know their B-sides.

7) Tickets. Easy to get and inexpensive. Nuff said.

8) They’re Coming To Your Town. Their record’s out now (not at some undisclosed future time), and they’re currently on the road. Coming soon to a town near you.

9) Bruce is a Fan.

And this is the most important reason of all…
10) They will make you believe in rock’n’roll again. (No further explanation needed.)

So without further ado, buy the record –Boys and Girls in America – and give it a listen. And by all means, go to a show. Who knows—you might just bump into a certain Mr. Springsteen…

For further info: www.theholdsteady.com
www.myspace.com/theholdsteady

Things I Like Vol. 37

2007-05-09T22:07:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Warren Zevon - Like I have said in the past, it's tough to describe genius, but you know it when you see it.

2) I'll Sleep When I'm Dead - Crystal Zevon - Finally the unvarnished truth about one of the most remarkable, fascinating talents of this past (or any other) century.

3) The Sweet Smell of Success - dir. by Alexander Mackendrick. One of the most brilliant screenplays ever written (by Clifford Odets) and some pretty great performances by Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis. And then there is the beautiful nighttime photography of mid-50s Manhattan. Not to be missed.

4) Dazed and Confused - dir. by Richard Linklater. The closest thing to my high school experience (outside of the utterly brilliant "Freaks and Geeks") ever to appear onscreen. So much truth that it's hard to watch.

5) Fontana's, New York NY - rock'n'roll in Chinatown

6) Richard Bacchus and Sammi Yaffa - 'nuff said

7) Uncle Jimmy's Dirty Basement - New York, NY - Punk rock, puppets and filthy sex jokes. NIICE.

8) Rich Shapiro, comic madman

9) The French Connection - dir. by William Friedkin. They don't make 'em like this anymore. Classic for the car chase scene alone. And Hackman's not bad, either.

10) Adam and Dave's Bloodline - The boys from Philly (Florida, Indiana?) have finally put out their debut disc, eponymously. Couldn't be happier or more proud.

Hero of the Week: Joe Strummer, for walking it like he talked it.

Villain of the Week: Our illustrious president, George W. Bush, for making sure that our National Guard is nowhere to be found when they are needed most. Kansas thanks you.

We Don't Wanna Be Alone

2007-04-15T12:43:00.000-05:00

I am not the popular one. When I was a teenager, I was not the one the boys gathered around in a crowded room. I had a tendency to be on my own all the time, preferred the company of animals to people, preferred curling up with my favorite book to running around in the mud with the other kids. Now that I’m grown up, alone is what I am all the time still, even with other people. I have always been the one who doesn’t quite fit, who is the third person of a pair, the oldest one of a young crowd, the only girl in a room full of guys. I should be terrified of being alone; my divorced parents have shown me how lonely it can get, especially after a certain age—but I am alone so much even when I am with other people that it’s nothing I can’t handle. In fact, I am quite accustomed to it. I have always preferred the company of music, books or movies to people. After all, in the world of literature, Jane Eyre will always have Mr. Rochester in the end, Elizabeth Bennet her Mr. Darcy. “Baba O’Riley” will always end on a note of triumph, Louis and Rick will always walk off into the Casablanca dawn arm in arm. Music, books, films, those things don’t let you down because they are works of art; etched in history, they are unalterable. It’s people who let you down; they have their own agendas, their own interests to look after, and when something bad happens, they will always look after themselves first. Nothing to be done; it’s human nature. So we are born alone and we die alone regardless of what everyone tells us, and we’d better get used to it. But there’s nothing horrible about being alone if you are happy with who you are; it’s only society that tells you have to be with someone all the time for the rest of your life to be happy.

Despite blissful solitude, however, despite the writings of Thoreau, there are yet still times when you want to hold someone, to have them look into your eyes with complete love and understanding, to reach out in the dark and feel them breathing softly next to you. But such companionship is elusive, and searching too desperately for it, you may grasp it only to have it slip through your fingers. So live your life, do what makes you happy, and when you find a person who can stand to be with you for more than a few minutes, who actually pays attention to you, listens with both ears and whole heart, looks at you when you talk and really sees you, grab on for dear life. Because it is all fleeting, and we are always alone in the end.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

-William Shakespeare, sonnet 116

I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.
--W. H. Auden

Things I Like Vol. 36

2007-04-14T17:40:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Love and Danger - Joe Ely. "Settle for Love" (see previous post) is the best song I know about what it feels like to fall in love and want everything. Plus the man is just flat out gorgeous and rocks harder on an acoustic guitar than most people do with twin Marshall stacks.

2) Housekeeping - Marilynne Robinson. On the NYT list of best books of the century. With good reason.

3) Back to Black - Amy Winehouse. Forget the hype, buy the record and listen for yourself.

4) Daniel Wolff, my pal and mentor

5) "The Twilight Zone" - Not every episode is brilliant, but the majority are better than anything that has been on television before or since.

6) "Someone Left the Back Door Open" - John Eddie. New (much darker) music from my dear friend and inspiration. Good luck with the new record.

7) "Another Cigarette" - maybe pete. Watch out, their new stuff rocks hard.

8) Christine Smith. Be happy, be well, adieu.

9) The Hold Steady. Need I say more?

10) To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf. For anyone who has dared to dream.

Hero of the Week: JM, who came through for me in more ways than one this week. You're the best.
Villain of the Week: I would like to say Don Imus, but he's more pitiful than anything else.

Would You Settle?

2007-04-12T20:06:00.000-05:00

This song says about all there is to say on the subject of love, on how it can obsess and possess you, shake you to your core, make you see the world differently. But what makes the song really resonate is its focus upon what love really means--being there for someone every single moment of every single day, without question, without judgment. All of us deserve this kind of love, but so few of us seem to get it...

Settle For Love
by Joe Ely

You say you want drama
I'll give you drama
You want muscle
I'll give you nerve
You want sugar
Would you settle for honey?
You want romance
Would you settle for love?

Would you settle for love?
Would you settle for love?
Would you settle for love,
Or do you need
All that meaningless stuff?
Would you settle for love?
Would it be enough?
Baby, would you settle for love

You want fire
I'll give you fever
You want kisses
I'll give you all I got
You want diamonds
Would you settle for rhinestones?
You want romance
Would you settle for love?

Would you settle for love?
Would you settle for love?
Would you settle for love,
Or do you need
All that meaningless stuff?
Would you settle for love?
Would it be enough?
Baby, would you settle for love

Things I Like Vol. 35

2007-03-04T20:56:00.000-05:00

Wow it's been since August--before the move--that I have written one of these. And that's far too long, So without further ado....

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Minor Characters - Joyce Johnson. Like looking in the mirror.
2) Get Steady - Jonny Lives! - You don't have to be deep as long as you rock.
3) In Search of Lost Time - Marcel Proust - I don't know why it took so long for me to read this.
4) HiFi (bar) - New York, NY - pretty cool jukebox, I would say...
5) "Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is" - Jet
6) 7A (restaurant) - New York, NY
7) The Queen - dir. by Stephen Frears - a thoughtful take on the price of fame and royalty
8) The Lives of Others - dir. by Florian Henckel-Donnersmarck - While American filmmakers disappear into mediocrity, those furriners just keep doing great work.
9) Mr. USA - is it possible to be both hot and cool at the same time?
10) "The Office" - proof that while American television is out of ideas, the Brits can keep it real...so we can steal it.

Hero of the Week: Dana Priest and Anne Hull of the Washington Post, who finally pulled the wool off the eyes of the American public about the deplorable situation at Walter Reed, and about the true cost of the war. It's about time.
Villain of the Week: Dick Cheney. Fitzpatrick's waiting for you, pal...

I Want You Back

2007-03-02T01:24:00.000-05:00

I was eight years old when I first started listening to the radio. It was the late ‘60s, and Top 40 was king. I lived in Washington DC, and as it was in most places, you could turn on the radio and hear almost anything without having to change stations. From British Invasion stalwarts to novelty tunes, from bubblegum pop to country ballads, from one-hit wonders to stone cold soul, it was all on your AM radio dial. I fell in love with The Beatles and Donny Osmond. And I practiced the dance moves I learned from the Jackson Five in front of the mirror in my bedroom.

Michael Jackson was six or seven years old at the time—just about my age—and his joyous smile and undeniable talent were irresistible, especially to a sheltered, shy kid like me. He and his brothers had a weekly cartoon show on Saturday mornings, and I was enthralled. The music of the Jackson Five wasn’t serious and cerebral like John Lennon or simplistic throwaway pop like The Archies. Here was a bright, rhythmic sound that seemed to encapsulate joy itself, that made you want to get up and just move. To a kid raised on Joan Baez and The Kingston Trio, it was truly exotic and just a little scary. I wasn’t sure what this music was called, but knew I wanted more. My grandparents gave me a little transistor radio when I was nine or ten, and I carried it with me everywhere. It was like a secret world had opened up to me that my parents weren’t a part of; my friends and I would discuss our favorite songs, endlessly debating the meaning of song lyrics. Just what was Patti LaBelle talking about in “Lady Marmalade?” I made a friend of mine go ask her French-speaking mother. Of course, the answer to our question wasn’t really a secret, but we were more than a little scandalized nonetheless. And in truth, the sociological ramifications of the song eluded us. We just liked it because it annoyed our parents, and because we could dance to it.

By the time I entered high school, though, something had changed. There was this new radio trend called “Album Rock.” Geared toward an increasingly suburban audience, it had located itself on the far right end of the FM dial, a forbidding place I had never been before. Formerly a no-man’s land, FM was now where the “cool kids” tuned their radios to listen to rock’n’roll, a change that seemed to me to have happened almost overnight. But something else had happened; the breathtaking diversity of Top 40 had been replaced by a curious sort of radio apartheid. R&B and soul music, dance music and funk—all had been exiled to another new FM format called “Urban Contemporary,” a moniker that confused me when I first heard it. After all, I lived in a city—wasn’t I an “urban” radio listener? Why did the purveyors of “Album Rock” think I didn’t want to hear Marvin Gaye and James Brown? And why were these artificial walls being built around musical genres—R&B and rock’n’roll—whose roots were so inextricably linked? What was it they didn’t want us to hear?

In the first half of the 20th century, the powers that be in the radio business had tried once before to keep blues and R&B—what they called “race music”—hidden. It was very simple, really—they just didn’t play it. If you wanted to hear Howlin’ Wolf or Big Mama Thornton, you had to listen to stations that programmed this outlaw music, obscure AM stations that were far from the bright sunny world of commercial pop radio—stations that most of white America considered taboo. But hiding it didn’t work; kids would stay up late and tune in these forbidden sounds after their parents had gone to bed. They connected with this music; R&B took them outside their realm of experience into an adult world of deep passion and profound despair and joyful transcendence. It was hypnotic and mysterious and exciting. It was the sound of oppressed people expressing themselves, and listening to its infectious rhythms, you wanted to dance and sing and shout, to announce your presence to the world. These kids who listened to R&B bought records, too, and when music industry people realized there was money to be made from “race music,” it began to show up on mainstream radio, to creep into the public consciousness. By the 1950’s, artists like Fats Domino and Ike Turner were household names. R&B was the authentic voice of people who had been silenced for too long and who would no longer be denied, and its visceral power forever changed the cultural landscape of America.

But something went wrong in the mid-‘70s. In the transition from AM to FM, popular music was re-segregated. Instead of reaching for the masses, radio programmers targeted their stations to very specific audiences, eliminating entire genres from their playlists. The message seemed to be that you weren’t supposed to like R&B if you were a white kid, weren’t supposed to like rock’n’roll if you were black, weren’t supposed to like country music at all. Advertisers on these stations picked up on this trend, and so radio ads, too, began to be targeted to one market or the other. We were all urban kids in DC, but we lived in different worlds. This music that had once brought people together—kids from Harlem and Detroit and Birmingham and Philadelphia—was being used to divide us in ways we were very slow to recognize.

****

There is no instruction manual for being a teenager; most of the time you just show up and do the best you can. I remember the unique hell of high school dances, of being 15 or 16 years old and standing awkwardly in a corner of the school cafeteria with a couple girlfriends and feeling small and insignificant. We would each be dropped off at eight o’clock and told to have fun, but were never quite sure how we were supposed to accomplish this task. After all, the same kids would still not speak to you, that cute boy you had a crush on would still have no idea you even existed. Why did anyone think things would be different just because it was dark outside and there was music playing? The cafeteria’s dingy fluorescent lights would be dimmed, lending the room the somewhat stodgy air of one of those museum exhibits in which there are precious documents on display that can’t be exposed to the light. The dining tables would be stacked on top of each other and pushed haphazardly against a far wall as though they were trying to hide. The room usually smelled of floor wax and disinfectant and yesterday’s meat loaf. I would spend most of the night standing around whispering to my friends just like we did in class when we were supposed to be paying attention. Dances were like school with bad lighting and no desks.

I went to a few of these tortuous evenings, and each time I walked through the industrial metal doors leading to the cafeteria, I would wonder why I had bothered to show up. I would sigh and look at my watch and wish I were anywhere else. Until the music started. The atmosphere of the room instantly changed when people started dancing. There was terror and anticipation in those songs—anything could happen. (Would that cute guy finally ask me to dance?) There was despair. (Probably he wouldn’t.) But there was also salvation: I could close my eyes and dance with anyone I wanted. “Every man has a place/in his mind there’s a space/ and the world can’t erase his fantasy.” The mellifluous voice of Philip Bailey would wash over me telling me that it wouldn’t always be this way, that there was a world outside this sheltered, unforgiving place, a place in which I belonged. “All your dreams will come true right away…” The lyrics of Earth Wind & Fire songs were not exactly deep, but it didn’t matter. They lifted you out of yourself, called you out onto the dance floor and compelled you to move. With their irresistible brand of R&B music, they created a rhythm that let you dance all over your blues. I never did get asked to dance much, so I danced by myself and I didn’t care who saw me.

Some anonymous social committee always seemed to control the music at these dances. They would hire a DJ who would play pretty much what I heard on the radio. But one night, standing off to the side as usual, I was assaulted by the sound of pounding, thumping bass and drums. It was like nothing I had ever heard before, a thick stew of noise that made the room vibrate. I looked up and was startled to see a group of older boys dancing together in the middle of the crowded floor, shouting along to the song at the top of their lungs: “Flash- light! Spot-light! Day-light!” They were wearing black jeans and white t-shirts and black masks that covered their eyes, and they each held a household flashlight. They were inciting the crowd by pointing the flashlights at people and turning them on and off. Each boy had an odd nickname sewn onto the back of his t-shirt as though it were a sports jersey: one was “Dr. Funk-enstein”, another “Capt. Cou-Cou.” They danced and shouted, parading through the dance floor and shining their flashlights at the surprised teenagers around them, who laughed and joined in the chant. “Flash-light!” Soon the whole room was caught up in the frenzy. I watched, awestruck. Clearly the perpetrators had requested that this particular song be played, and had planned this flashlight outburst for weeks. But how did they know about this wild, energizing music? And what was this song that had entranced them so?

I later learned that it this music was called “funk,” and that the song was called “Flashlight” and was performed by a band called, of all things, Parliament/Funkadelic, led by one George Clinton. George was a huge, burly, flamboyant character who wore his long hair in multicolored braids that fell to his waist and a large feathered headdress on his large head. He had quite a cult following—an audience that came in all colors and sizes. P-Funk didn’t care who you were—they just wanted you to join in the party. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about him or his music at the time—he was a still little “out there” for my teenage taste—but like the Jackson Five, he had shown me a world quite apart from the one in which I lived, and I begin to see things a little differently. I was intrigued.

As the ‘70s progressed, popular music became increasingly fractured. By the time I was 16, I, like most of my friends, was listening to “Album Rock” and thinking that the world of “Urban Contemporary” stations was a scary, unfamiliar place. Though I liked a lot of the R&B music that was played on such stations, the programming and advertising—for hair relaxers and skin tone cream—clearly wasn’t directed at me. To find the music that I loved I had to listen to stations that didn’t acknowledge my existence (and I suppose it was that way for African-Americans wanting to hear rock’n’roll, too). It was divisive and depressing. Why was I being forced to choose? Wasn’t it all just music?

This troubling trend came to a head during the punk rock vs. disco “controversy” of the late ‘70s. Somewhere out there in America, the cultural divide had escalated into full-blown war, and it seemed like every kid had to choose sides: did you like “punk rock” or disco? There was no middle ground. Far away from the epicenter of this controversy, New York City, I knew little about either genre—it was all still music to me. But when the powers that be at my high school followed the national trend and scheduled a “punk rock vs. disco” dance, I was confronted with the question at last. The format of the dance was designed to create tension: the DJ would alternate playing “punk” and disco, and we kids would “vote” by dancing to the songs representing whichever genre we preferred. I remember some of my friends danced to punk and some to disco, and how conflicted I felt. I wanted to dance to all of it and wondered why it was that I was being forced to choose. The atmosphere at the dance began to get ugly—people booed and harassed each other on the dance floor—so the organizers ended the evening early. I left the dance with a terrible sense of foreboding—what was happening to American music, and to America itself?

It wasn’t until I was in college that I really delved into the world of R&B, began to understand its history and cultural significance. I became a true junkie, devouring every book on the history of American music I could find, buying countless records and immersing myself in the glorious shouting of Aretha Franklin, the sad entrancing croon of Sam Cooke, the dynamic vocal interplay of Sam & Dave. I listened, and I began to understand things about my country’s history that I had never learned in schoolbooks—how jazz, blues, gospel, and R&B had been born out of the suffering of African-American slaves, and how it had been a tremendous force for social change. I had felt for myself how powerful it made me feel, and so I began to understand that perhaps people had tried to keep it hidden away precisely for this reason. This music was life-affirming; it told you that you mattered, that you were somebody—and then it made you dance all over anyone who dared to question it. In a country that had spent so much energy and lost so much blood trying to keep people apart from each other, trying to keep things just as they were politically, economically and socially, it was a potent instrument of change. And if you were wealthy and powerful, change was a dangerous thing.

Boys and Girls in America

2007-01-20T12:59:00.000-05:00

Every now and then you have an experience that lets you know you are still alive, that restores your faith in yourself and in the things you love. It makes you believe again, lets you know that you were not foolish to open your heart to something in this frightening, cynical world. Last night at the Stone Pony was one of those nights.

The Pony will be gone soon, perhaps in a matter of months, and I have experienced many magic nights there. But the people I shared them with are mostly gone from the scene now; other priorities have taken over their lives, and music is not what it once was to them. But I have not changed. To me, this place, this music is everything, and it kills me to see it dying before my eyes.

It is dying, but it will not go without a fight. Rock’n’roll has long since fractured into a million pieces, and other idols have replaced it in the hearts of America’s youth. But every now and then a band comes along that understands what this music has meant, that loves it as much as you do. A band that keeps the spirit of rock'n'roll alive, that picks up the standard and carries it bravely and unabashedly into the future. That wears its heart on its sleeve and doesn’t care who knows it. The Hold Steady is such a band.

I don’t know how this is happened. How does it ever happen? The power of music is a mysterious thing; the process by which it insinuates itself into our hearts and minds is innate, organic. It is part of who we are. How else to explain it? You are in a room full of people whom you have never met, that you have nothing in common with. And then suddenly the band you love walks out and begins to play these songs that mean so much to you, and you are instantly old friends. You share a deep connection that needs no explanation. Which is a good thing, because how would you ever explain it?

How would you explain that feeling you get when the band walks out and picks up their instruments, strumming and tuning and grinning in anticipation? That moment when the first chords sound and the room lifts off the ground and starts whirling in space. When a song has caught fire, has moved out of itself and become a physical presence. When the band is caught up in the swirling wall of sound; when they smile at each other with joy and love and abandon, and you know that they feel like you do—they wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world at this moment. That moment when everyone in the room knows this is it, this is the place to be. You are there and you know that tonight, you are watching the best band in America. You are in on the secret; you know something no one else knows yet. But still you want to share it. It’s so amazing, so mind-blowing that you want to shout it to the world—this is it! This is where you need to be right now! This is the band, this is the moment!

The Stone Pony will soon be gone; and this band will move on from this time and place. They may become huge stars, may be on the cover of Rolling Stone. And they may remain a cult band that never sells more than a couple hundred tickets a show, a few thousand records. They may have a long career or they may crash and burn tomorrow. But they will never again play like they did last night. This was a special night in a special venue, and they knew it. And that’s fine. That, as they say, is rock’n’roll; you wouldn’t change it even if you could. And you don’t care. Because this band gave you this night, and you were there to see it. On this one night, for those two or three hours in a run-down bar in a faded resort town that once meant so much to so many, they were the best band in America. And if you love this music, that is all that matters.

Christmas Comes But Once a Year

2006-12-24T16:03:00.000-05:00

Ok, so when I first saw Jet as an opening act –before their first record had even come out—I’ll admit I was not impressed. I found them laughably derivative and thought they took themselves way too seriously. Then came Get Born, and “Are You Gonna be My Girl?”. It rocked. But the song quickly became ubiquitous to the point of being annoying. And later on that summer, when I saw them at the poorly conceived Across the Narrows Festival, they had graduated to arena rock level, complete with ponderous light show and annoying posturing, and so I wrote them off.

Flash forward to two days ago. I am driving home after a particularly crappy day at work. I am tired and cranky and well, a bit shall we say, on edge. I have the radio on but am not really paying attention. All of a sudden I hear this voice that sounds like Bon Scott and this groove that knocks me on my ass. And then the lyrics kick in, and I remember why I fucking love me some AC/DC: because they were the masters of the fire down below.

Yes folks, believe it or not, crotch rock is not now and has never been just for the male of the species. We women folk like it too. But it needs to be dirty, it needs to groove, and it needs a voice. You know, the kind that makes you wanna…Bon Scott had that. Even his replacement Brian Johnson had it. But I thought that once those guys faded away, there would be no more songs that hit you right between the legs like that. No rock band appealed to both men and women like they did--at least in my humble opinion--and no one ever would.

I was wrong. That dude Nic Cester from Jet can bring it. “Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is” is the hottest thing since, like, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal making out in Brokeback Mountain. No kidding, man. I almost had to pull the car over. Had to go get the record, had to put it in the CD player and drive around and hit repeat a few times. (Yeah, it’s been a while….) It’s as good as when Bruce does that thing with his hips, or when Prince hits that screamy falsetto, or when you are the recipient of a really hot kiss and you get all warm and shaky and your brains get scrambled and your legs turn to jello. Hell, it’s almost as good as the real thing. Almost.

So thank you Jet for making Christmas 2006—when I am even more cranky and cynical than usual, when I walk around muttering curses about the shallowness, stupidity and greed of the American public and cursing humanity in general—the most wonderful time of the year. Ever since I bought Jet’s Shine On, I have been driving around and listening to “Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is” and thinking about, well, you know. And for that, I thank them.

Christmas comes but once a year. Me, on the other hand, well…

You Can't Buy Magic

2006-12-10T13:19:00.000-05:00

Last night I attended a benefit concert honoring the founders of the Asbury Park sound. I skipped what I knew was going to be an amazing show—the annual Marah Christmas extravaganza in Philadelphia—because I knew that this would be a once in a lifetime chance to see some these people all together on the same stage. They’re not young guys, after all, and who knows how much longer any of them will be around.

They had gathered because one of their own—Johnny Shaw—had died of a heart attack last spring, and they decided to honor him by getting together and staging a reunion show of sorts. They also dedicated a memorial plaque that honored people that made it happen. Some of the names on the plaque—Bruce Springsteen and Steve Van Zandt—were famous. Some were virtually unknown outside the Jersey Shore. But they made it on there because they were once a part of something really special—the Asbury Park scene.

A lot of us, myself included, were too young to have been around in those days. (As Doc Holliday said at the beginning of the night, “If you remember [the Jaywalkers] you should be in bed.”) But if you cared about this music and were curious about where it came from, you came to Asbury Park and you learned. You hung out at Mrs. Jay’s and the Stone Pony and you watched and listened, and gradually got to know some of those faces and the names from back in the day: Big Dan Gallagher, Norman Seldin, George Theiss. And if you spent enough time in Asbury, you even got to meet some of them and get to know them a little bit. Asbury was unique even in the early 80s—a forgotten town left behind and abandoned, a place out of time. But it was a place where musicians famous and not so famous could be themselves. It was a bit of an insular world. I remember walking into the Stone Pony wide-eyed and awestruck and feeling like an outsider. I was sure everyone was staring at me. There were so many regulars there—it was a hangout spot like any other corner bar, and everybody knew everybody. So you felt like a bit of an interloper. But you came back because you loved the music, and eventually you were accepted. You began to know people, to make friends. And soon you were one of the people in the back bar gossiping with the musicians who hung out there. You were part of it in some small way. It was a special place, a special time. So though I wasn’t there in the 60s, I understand what those guys were talking about last night. How everyone was equal, everyone helped everyone, people looked out for each other, supported each other’s music,. And when someone like Bruce or Southside made it big, they applauded.

But times change and people move on. The Internet happened, and people now have all sorts of information they didn’t have before. In the old days it would take weeks for you to find out that Bruce had played at the Pony if you didn’t live in the area or weren’t a regular on the scene. Now you can get reports from events as they happen; there is no mystery, no suspense. And Bruce had a “reunion” tour for all the fans—and there were many—who had never seen the E Street Band before, and people loved it. But somewhere along the way, they began to realize what they had missed, and so they began to grab onto any little shred of the Bruce magic that they could. They jostled and fought for tickets to his shows, for spots in “the pit.” They lined up outside the Stone Pony and pushed and shoved, not understanding that a Bruce appearance is not a guarantee but a gift. They wanted—no needed—it to be 1982 again. They know they missed something very special. But those days are never coming back, and deep down, they know it. And so they whine and complain and “feel cheated” when Bruce doesn’t show. But what they don’t know, what they don’t understand is that you can’t buy your way into that world—you have to earn it. You have to show up and support the scene. You have to be in love with the music and the people and the place. And then, only then, if you are lucky, lightning strikes, magic happens.

There were people there last night that had flown in from all over the country, and spent thousands of dollars on airfare and hotels and tickets—all for a $15 benefit show. And they stood there staring at the stage like zombies waiting to be led off a cliff. They weren’t really watching the show, weren’t really listening. And as the night progressed, the hostility in the room became palpable. But the musicians didn’t care; it was their night, and they were not about to let these people ruin it.

For me, it was a great night of music. It was disorganized and shambolic and raw, just like a late night jam at Asbury’s famed Upstage. And I saw three original members of the E Street Band on the stage: Vini Lopez, who has clawed his way back to re-establish his music career on the Shore scene. Garry Tallent, the ageless wonder standing stage right all night with a smile that lit the room. And David Sancious—still looking suave and sophisticated, his grey hair reflecting the stage lights. But the best part of the night for me was watching those original Asbury guys onstage together, enjoying each other’s company and musicianship, and finally getting some long overdue respect and acclaim. There will never be another night like that at the Pony and those guys knew it. They are spread far and wide now; many no longer live in the area. And they’re not getting any younger.

So last night while the pretenders, the people who continue to take from the Asbury music scene and never give anything back (and who ironically call themselves a “community”) complained or looked bored, I enjoyed myself. It wasn't earth-shattering, it wasn’t mind-blowing, it wasn’t profound. It was just another jam night at the Pony, just like the old days. And those are the nights no amount of money can ever buy, because the Asbury scene is not and never has been for sale. You can never know when lightning is going to strike, and you can’t buy magic.

Wish That I Knew What I Know Now When I Was Younger

2006-10-29T16:56:00.000-05:00

It’s always a little sad when something you’ve been looking forward to for a long time is over. It’s like a little piece of you has died.

I had been looking forward to this Marah weekend for a long time. There are fans, and then there are Marah fans. They are the best people in the world. And when you have to go home to an empty house and work looms and you are tired and lonely, these are the people you think of to cheer yourself up. They are the people you want to hang out with, the folks who will accept you for who you are no matter what. And in quiet moments, you will remember their faces and smile.

Dave P., the proud poppa-to-be was so happy last night I thought he was going to burst. He has worked so hard for so long and it is gratifying to see everything coming together for him seemingly all at once. I’ve known him for a couple years now, and he is good people. It’s nice to see the world giving him some love in return.

And what can you say about Adam from England? He has spent the last few days sleeping on Dave’s couch. Said couch is not that big, and Adam is a tall drink of water. He gets brownie points just for that in my book. He has amazing songs and a mesmerizing stage presence, and he will go places. I hear he is staying in the U.S. for a while. Good for us.

I can’t get over how amazed I am that my dear friend Christine Smith is now a member of both my favorite bands. I had always seen a synergy between the two, but never dreamed she would be the link. She is the perfect foil, the true musician in Marah, and I can’t imagine them without her now. Her new record is truly dark and sad and beautiful, and I am a bit sad that this lovely, talented person whom I have come to know and love over the last three years is going out into the world and I will have to share her with others. She has come so far in that time that I barely recognize her, and that’s a good thing. I always felt there was something more inside her than what she showed to the world. This record tells us that story.

How to express the intensity with which Dave sings? That force that comes out of his body, the sweat pouring from his face, which turns red with the effort. The smile that says he knows something you don't know, and he isn't telling. The gesture when he raises his hand to acknowledge the audience—often with beer in hand, half toast, half fist pump—always gets me. Yes, I am at a Marah show now.

Kirk plays the trumpet. I have known that for a long time, but we have not been blessed with the dulcet tones much before this weekend. On Friday night, it seemed out of tune with guitar. Last night it was all power and fury and drama. That horn needs to come on the road with them.

And Serge—there are moments when I see him smiling up at Dave with such joy that I want to scream and shout and say, “Yes! This is what life is all about, right here, right now!” It is a smile of pleasure, of admiration, of bliss. We all need moments like that in our lives. Those moments don’t come often. Catch them and hold onto them when they do, because they will pass and your life will go back to the same dull drudgery. But you will have those moments in your mind etched in your memory, and they will get you through. I don’t know how to thank Serge for that smile, but it burns in my brain and keeps me warm when I am cold.

The night ended with Jesse and Tommy T. in the front pumping fists in the air to “History.” Jesse later told me that it was his favorite Marah song. The looks on their faces said it all: joy, transcendence, love. They were totally within themselves, totally in the moment, and yet part of the big beautiful family that is a Marah audience.

There are moments in your life you wish you could capture and put inside a bottle and let them out when you are sad and lonely and life has dealt from the bottom of the deck once again. The moment when Dave is on his knees at the lip of the stage strumming like a madman, completely lost in waves of sound; the moment when Dave P. closes his eyes and smiles from ear to ear and you think his face will crack in two, and he pounds away on the drums like he is powering the whole city of Philadelphia; the moment when Christine smiles her beatific smile shyly, almost to herself, sways back and forth, her tiny hands moving across the keys and filling the air with sound; the moment when you catch Kirk’s eye and he grins that shit-eating grin that tells you he wouldn’t trade being right there right then for anything in the world; that moment when Serge looks over at Dave and Dave looks at Serge and they all look at each other and they are suspended in time and space and music. You wish you could take a picture; you try to record the sounds. But those won’t do. Neither will writing about it later. You had to be there.

And then it is gone and you are driving home and The Faces are echoing in your head. And you feel older and emptier, and the melancholy hits you in waves. The wind gusts through the blue October sky, and winter will be here soon. But you have this night, this memory, and no one can take that from you.

You Can Look

2006-10-29T15:12:00.000-05:00

I am the beautiful untouchable.
I am the ball everyone plays with but when the boys and girls
Are called in for dinner I am left out on someone’s lawn in the rain and the cold
Where I lie forgotten in a pile of leaves leaking air, oozing life
Until the next time the children want to play with me and look for me
And find instead an empty, used up shell that falls to pieces when it is touched.

I am the beautiful untouchable.
I am praised and loved and bought drinks and made to feel special
Until two o’clock in the morning when everyone is tipsy and warm and headed home
Together in small groups laughing and embracing and stumbling into the night air
I am the one left behind, walking alone on the sidewalk unsteady and disremembered.

I am the beautiful untouchable,
The Virgin Mary, the Venus de Milo, the Mona Lisa
The cold and lonely lovely work of art, carved in stone, painted on a canvas
Watch out you can look but you better not touch
I will fall apart in your hands.

Keith Olbermann, Savior of Democracy

2006-10-23T14:07:00.000-05:00

Here I thought Keith Olbermann was just another sports bimbo turned talking head on MSNBC. But lo and behold, he has emerged as a latter day Edward R. Murrow. Check out this scathing indictment of the Bush administration's recent anti-terror legislation and see if it doesn't remind you of the CBS great.

The beginning of the end of America indeed. Let's hope somebody was watching.

Bookstore Light

2006-10-22T14:06:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you get just what you need when you don't know you needed it (previous post). Tonight I got something I needed--and knew I was going to get it all along.

This band Marah does that to you. Doesn't matter how pissed off you are, how fucked up your life is, what kind of a hellish day you've had. Doesn't matter how drunk you are and what a fool you are making of yourself. Doesn't matter if you don't know all the words, or if this is your first show or your hundred and first. This band will lift you out of your own personal shit into another place; they will make you forget about whatever it is that's bothering you, pull you out of your head and back into the world, and will make that world a place that's beautiful and messed up and profoundly moving and downright silly and it will all be all right.

Tonight they were just back from a show in Germany and going on pure adrenaline. Sleep deprivation can be disastrous, but it can also be cleansing. There is no room for overthinking when you're exhausted; you go on heart and talent alone. And that's really what rock'n'roll is all about anyway, so in a sense it's the best way to be. Tonight they were alternately focused and shambling, intense and loose, heartbreakingly sad and outrageously funny. They are brothers, and so they know each other's weaknesses and are able to poke and prod and needle each other in uniquely destructive fashion. It's hilarious onstage but the words are often true, the complaints ancient and ongoing. But no matter; in fuzzy sweaters to ward off the suddenly winterish air, with a couple of swigs of beer and a buzzing amp, they make the night their own. And you are there, and you are a part of this big family that is so warm and welcoming that you just don't want to leave, you wish it really were your family, that your real family understood you the way these guys do.

It's dark in the bookstore where the show is taking place; the three of them sit in a row, and the shadows and candlelight create a ghostly vibe but in an odd way sort of highlight everything; the way their faces keep shifting in and out of the light somehow makes it seem like you are watching a play, makes you pay attention. But how could you not? These are extraordinarily talented people having an extraordinarily good time, and you are fortunate to share it with them. I wish I could tell you how beautiful their faces looked while they were singing, explain the perfection of missed notes and guitars that won't stay in tune.

But it's late and I'm tired, and what stays with me tonight more than anything else is this--on a night when I felt like shit about myself--about the world--these guys made everything all right again. And for that I thank them.

No Future

2006-10-16T18:45:00.000-05:00

It's Sunday night in Red Bank, and somewhere north of here about an hour or so, it's closing night at CBGB's. Not everyone can be there; most of us who think that they want to probably shouldn't be anyway. Tonight is reserved for those who made the place what it was--those who created it. (Or at least those of them who are still alive.) I had though about going, but decided against it, partially because I'm not really a big Patti Smith fan. But mostly because it was not ever my place. I had only spent a couple evenings there, and both were in the last year or two. I would've felt like an imposter if I had gone there tonight. It wasn't my night; I didn't belong there. So I stayed in Red Bank and sat in on a trio set by Maybe Pete at a very trendy and swank bar called, oddly, Red. This town is full of such upscale hangouts; there are expensive looking black tables lit with small candles, and very low chairs (what is it about these places with the low furniture--does being closer to the floor signify hipness?).

Onstage, lead singer Frankie dedicates his song "This Town" to the lost souls who had found home at CBGB's over the years, and to Lenny Kaye doing the robot (ok, inside joke). And I smile and nod.

But it was never my place. So though the music fan in me is sad, I am not heartbroken the way I will be when the places I have known in Asbury Park are gone. (I know this because it has already happened to those places I loved in my hometown of Washington DC.) When they go, that's my youth disappearing right there. And that's a strange thing to experience. But it really doesn't happen all at once; it happens little by little, eroding slowly so you don't notice. So enjoy these things now while they're still there--get out and see those bands and drink that beer until you're drunk, and scream and shout and dance like an idiot. Because one day, you'll just wake up and it'll be gone. And then it will be too late.

In a sense, CBGB--the real place--was dead a long time ago. The things that made it what it was--the bands and their fans that made it their home--are long since gone. So last night was really just a formality. But everything has its time and place; nothing lasts forever, and that's as it should be.

So R.I.P. CBGB's, and long live rock'n'roll.

Onstage at Red, Maybe Pete rock into "Just My Imagination," and for now, the future is here in Red Bank.

Things I Like Vol. 34

2006-08-26T19:43:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:
(ok, this week it's 11...)

1) Quiz Show - dir. by Robert Redford. Television has irrevocably altered our world both by devaluing books and learning and by disengaging people, especially families, from each other. This is one of several films produced or directed by Barry Levinson that show us just how much of ourselves we have lost.

2) Special Topics in Calamity Physics - Marisha Pessl. I wanted to dislike this book. I really did. And it is not without flaws. That being said, however, it is by far the most engaging novel by a new writer I have read in years.

3) Blue Monday: Fats Domino And the Lost Dawn of Rock 'n' Roll - Rick Coleman. Highly readable book that makes the case for Fats as one of the true fathers of rock'n'roll, and an excellent history of New Orleans to boot.

4) The River in Reverse - Elvis Costello and Allen Toussaint. A true giant receives recognition from a new generation of music lovers. Too bad it took the Katrina disaster to do it.

5) New York Dolls live at South Street Seaport, 8/18/06 - Ok, so the new record isn't a masterpiece and there are only two original members left. Go see the live show. Now.

6) Little Miss Sunshine - dir. by Jonathan Dayton & Valerie Faris. There is no substitute for a good chase scene.

7) Nanci Griffith - One of the truest, most powerful voices in music, period. She's got a new song about Vietnam that is just staggerlingly lovely. Can't wait for the record.

8) Harry & Tonto - dir. by Paul Mazursky. A time capsule of the '70s and a brilliant, heartbreaking performance by the incomparable Art Carney.

9) When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts - dir. by Spike Lee. Though there are several other major docs in the works (including one by Jonathan Demme), this is the work that will stand as the definitive portrait of the horrors of last fall. Not to be missed.

10) Michael Eric Dyson. A brilliant mind unafraid to ask the tough questions and dig deep for the answers. All his books should be required reading. See Come Hell or High Water and Is Bill Cosby Right?.

11) Douglas Brinkley. Ditto. See The Great Deluge.

Hero of the Week (3-way tie): Spike Lee, Michael Eric Dyson and Doug Brinkley for speaking truth to power. Oh yeah, and that guy in Mississippi who told Dick Cheney to fuck off. He rules.

Villain of the Week: There are so many. Pretty much every Bush administration official in Lee's film: Condi, Cheney, Brownie, Chertoff, and of course, the man himself. May they all rot in hell for all the suffering and death they have caused.

Special recognition to the citizens of New Orleans for fighting to keep their beloved city alive when some would rather see it bulldozed and gentrified--their unquenchable spirit is truly remarkable. And props also to the Gulf region just for keepin' on. God knows you won't get any help from anybody in this administration.

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I have a lot more to say about the ongoing debacle in the Crescent City, so stay tuned.

Katrina Plus One

2006-08-23T23:08:00.000-05:00

A million thoughts crowd my head. I have recently viewed a documentary on the catastrophe in New Orleans—it has been almost a year already—and still cannot wrap my mind around all that has occurred and continues to occur in that once beautiful region. (How does one comprehend the incomprehensible?) Sadly, in August 2006, we have moved on. Last year at this time, Americans viewed the disaster transpiring in the Gulf with fascination, then horror, then anger, then despair. And because we could do nothing—or felt we could do nothing—or because we had our own lives to deal with, we let go, we forgot. The suffering of thousands of our fellow countrymen drifted from our thoughts, and we moved on. But those people are still there; the destruction and the madness are still there. They have not vanished because we have left them behind; they have merely taken refuge in the shadows, in the darkness, just out of sight. There is a hungry wolf at America’s doorstep, and he will bide his time, watching, waiting until we are too weak to stop him.

This unspeakable devastation in the Gulf region will not let us be. It is a part of us; we have all suffered because of it, and will continue to suffer, though we may not recognize it. For though we have looked, we have chosen not to see, and so the deep harm we do to ourselves as a people continues. There is poverty and hopelessness and despair in this country though most do not ever come in contact with it. Most of us live our lives carefully shielded from the poor and the desperate. Hunger and homelessness and racism do not exist, so we do not have to deal with them. And so, on it continues unabated. But this comfortable myopia will not protect us; the wolf is there yet, and the day of reckoning will come.

The Italians and the Dutch have built levees to protect their great cities. We have not, I believe, because Americans lack the reverence for the past Europeans seem to possess in abundance. Though every bit as greedy, selfish and materialistic, the people of Italy and Holland have not forgotten from whence they came. As citizens of their countries, they have a shared history that is an important part of who they are. And so they do what it takes to preserve this past, and to protect the people who guarantee its future. As individualistic Americans, it seems we lack the will to even comprehend such notions.

Americans have enjoyed 200-plus years of wealth and prosperity, and we have yet to acknowledge the horrific pain and suffering we have inflicted in order to achieve our standing in the world. Many hundreds of thousands have died—directly or indirectly—because of this failure to come to terms with our bloody past. America is and always has been a forward-looking nation. That is both its greatest strength and its greatest weakness, for until we understand our history and value it—both the good and the bad—for the lessons we can learn from it, we will not respect the culture we have spent these 200 years building.

No nation can survive if it does not value its past or its people. As Americans, we have allowed terrible damage to be done to our national consciousness by the many acts of callousness, greed and neglect displayed in the hours, days and months following Katrina. We have allowed our fellow Americans—citizens of this country—to be treated like cattle while we looked the other way, pretended we did not see. Our souls have been corrupted by the promise of the future, and we have forgotten to live with and love each other in the present. It will take years—perhaps a lifetime—to repair the damage done to New Orleans. But buildings can be rebuilt; they are just material things. I wonder if, as a people, we will ever possess the will to repair the gaping wounds we have inflicted upon our Spirit.

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The people still need help--desperately. To contribute, please visit Network For Good for a list of charities assisting Katrina victims.

Leave 'Em Home

2006-08-14T07:38:00.000-05:00

I know it’s not their fault—most of the time—but dammit, I really don’t like kids. I know it’s politically incorrect. I know they are the future (or so the song goes), and as a society, we need to do the best we can to bring them up properly so that our culture and species can continue to thrive. And some of them—the exceptions, I call them—are actually kind of cool. But in general—and I know I am not alone in this—I just don’t like them.

I work in a bookstore, where shelf upon shelf of books about parenting confront me every day. Earlier in my life, when the parenthood choice still loomed, I remember looking for books that would help me make the decision easier. I had never had a natural affinity for kids, never felt the parenthood instinct, and so I looked for books that would confirm that I was not alone. There weren’t more than one or two amongst the literally hundreds that crammed the shelves. I wondered what was “wrong” with me, why the gut instinct I had that children would be wrong for me was not something more people felt. I remember feeling even more desperate and alone than I had before. Was I really that much out of the mainstream?

Well a few years have gone by, and my decision to remain childfree proved to be the correct one for me. With my personality, inclination towards solitude and quiet, and with the odd trajectories my life has sometimes taken, there is no way that I could have been a proper parent. Some people are just not cut out for it, some people do more harm than good in rearing their children, and I just don’t want to be one of them. I have since found a couple books that confirm what I thought—that there are more than a few people out there who feel as I do about children and parenthood, that I am not alone in my revulsion toward the little humans. Indeed, the vast majority of my friends do not have children, and I often wonder why it is that we have mysteriously gravitated toward each other over the years. We never talk about it, but it’s definitely a part of why we are friends.

I also wonder about why it is that human society continues to celebrate parenthood to such a degree when there are so many overwhelming reasons not to procreate. The globe is heating up at an alarming rate; there is trash everywhere, and pollution and greed continue to destroy what’s left of our bounteous landscape. Where will these children go, I wonder, to enjoy the carefree aloneness that I felt growing up? Mankind has a lot of catching up to do in the procreation department. There is no reason to keep spitting out the puppies, and yet we still do. There are powerful forces that create the cultural zeitgeist, that control the advertising with which we are inundated on a daily basis, and they make money by reinforcing cultural norms, and more importantly, by creating new consumers. Yes, that is what we are, and that is why our earth is so much trouble. The sad truth is that the huge multinational corporations that dominate our world on both a personal and global basis make too much damned money from people’s procreation, and it is not until it becomes an enormous burden upon most people that things will begin to change.

The truth is that people have children for many reasons, and many of them aren’t any good at it. Parenting is as much instinctual as it is a skill, and like any other human trait, some of us are better at it than others. That’s just the way it is. It’s so easy to mess up childrearing—a fact that always terrified me back when I was still thinking about doing it—that I wish more people would think a little bit harder about what their real priorities are in becoming parents. (You can really mess up your kids, and while some may still thrive, some may never recover. Do you really want that hanging over your head your whole life? I don’t.) Do the parents out there feel a natural affinity for kids, or are they just doing it because “everyone else” is? Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. And you know what, I refuse to be made to feel inadequate, like less of person, because I have made the (very wise) decision not to be a parent. It’s not “greedy” or “selfish” to not want kids. On the contrary, I think it is both those things to recognize how messed up our planet already is, and to go ahead and bring children into this overpopulated, overburdened world in order to be one of the Joneses so one can “fit in” at the office, at the club, at the supermarket, is just plain asinine. If I want to look after someone else’s wishes beside my own—an argument people always use to slander the childfree is that we are too self-absorbed—I can go volunteer in a hospital, a nursing home, a school, a community center. I don’t need to bring a new life into the world in order to become less obsessed with mine.

Which is not to say that I don’t respect the choice to be a parent. I am in total awe of those of my friends who have chosen to make this leap. It’s a huge responsibility, and an irrevocable decision. And even those who didn’t do it by choice always say that they don’t regret a thing. But I know that sometimes people do, and that there are powerful social norms that keep them from ever saying anything. I know there are people out there who just should not have had children, who were forced into it by carelessness, by their parents and relatives (who, by the way, are not the ones who have to assume the physical, psychological and financial burdens of childrearing), and who often wish they had not become parents.

So modern society lies to us with all those books on the shelf. I know that there are people out there like me who are afraid to stand up and be counted on this issue. But I know that I am not alone, and I am not afraid. I have worked too long and too hard to discover who I am, to piece together the person I have become. And I know deep within myself that kids are not for me, and that this does not make me less of a person (though those who are secretly jealous of my childfree status constantly try to make me feel otherwise). And I will not apologize, and I will not explain. I don’t like kids, and I don’t want to be a parent.

So when I am out enjoying myself at an adult event in the adult world, I do not want kids around. You guys made the decision to have children, and it comes with a price—your freedom of choice and flexibility are gone. You have to plan, you have to hire a babysitter, you have to spend money to leave them behind. And that’s not my problem. If you can’t afford a babysitter, if it’s inconvenient, well that’s too bad. That’s the decision you made. I made mine, and I’m comfortable with it. You guys seem to be really good at making me feel selfish for being childfree. Well I think you’re selfish for dragging your kids every damn place where they don’t belong and obviously don’t want to be. One of the things about parenthood that so turned me off was the idea that you always have to put someone else’s needs ahead of your own. (This never seemed fair to me. I mean, you work hard all your life to get somewhere, to become who you are, and then suddenly this person you’ve become takes a back seat to the whiny little entity who wants to dump sand down his sister's shirt in the playground.) But that’s the choice you made. When you get up in the morning, and as you go through your day, that’s the priority you chose. So you know what, live with it. You can’t have it both ways. Children don’t belong in expensive restaurants, in bars, at loud rock shows. They don’t belong in R-rated movies, in strip clubs, or in casinos. That’s life. I mean, I made the choice to not have kids—don’t really like them—and yet they’re all around me. I don’t have a choice about that. But I do have a choice to sometimes go where children are not wanted, where they are not expected. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be happy about finding a five-year-old running around underfoot whilst I’m trying to get my drink on. Life gives us more than enough crap to deal with—do we have to raise your children for you too?

Human society doesn’t have to be a war between the parents and the childfree (not childless—there is a difference). We really need to take better care of each other, and that only comes from—surprise, surprise—thinking about someone besides yourself. So you parents out there, hey, I know you’re desperate sometimes and you just want to have a little fun adult-style. Well guess what, so do I. As Bruce Springsteen often says, life is the series of choices you make and how you live with them. I’m living with mine, so please, you live with yours, ok? Leave ‘em home.

Bring the Rock

2006-08-03T21:17:00.000-05:00

I had planned on trekking into the city last Saturday night to check out Walter Lure’s Waldos at the Continental in the East Village. Sometimes you just need that fix. But to paraphrase David Jo & Co., something happened on the way to Manhattan…

It was very hot and humid last Saturday afternoon—the kind of heat that makes you stick to the furniture. The kind where no matter how many beverages you drink, all your energy is consumed in just being. It’s hot like that, and we are sitting outside in the middle of downtown Long Branch, N.J. in a parking lot. This part of town is heavily Mexican; small groceries and taquerias line the street. For this afternoon gig outside the Shore Institute for Contemporary Arts (S.I.C.A.), an asphalt lot outside a converted warehouse has been transformed into a music venue, and as they run their Saturday afternoon errands, the locals wander by and pause to listen as various bands make their glorious noise. For many, this is probably the only live music they can afford. The sight of a band standing in the middle of a parking lot is even enough to lure the occasional car to pull over and listen. Live music just doesn’t happen in this part of town very often.

The sun blazing above them, the last band of the afternoon sets up in the lot by a brick wall. Outdoor shows are a unique challenge for any music outfit; you never know what the conditions are until you get there and start setting up. Today, this particular band is met with a performing space where the ground slopes slightly, and the drum kit keeps sliding towards the street. The smallish sound system is just barely enough. Undaunted, they have the soundman crank it as high as it will go, and they’re off. “Can’t Hardly Wait” opens the set. This song means everything to me, and I am fairly particular about where and when I hear it. I have heard plenty of bands cover the Westerberg classic, including two of my favorite bands ever, the BoDeans and Marah. It gives me goosebumps every time I hear it, and often brings tears, too. It’s just one of those songs. Today, instead of closing the set with it as bands so often do, Jersey Shore stalwarts maybe pete choose to open with it. An unusual choice, but it works.

Most bands work up to peak intensity level by the end of their set; maybe pete has it -- on a 90 plus degree-day -- from the beginning. This is professional show business, kids, and not for the faint of heart. Strap yourself in. And on and on they go, driving through one song after another, their faces flushed with heat. Amongst the original material is a rocking cover of Abba’s “Dancing Queen,” which I have also heard other bands do, and which I don’t recognize until Frankie, the lead singer, opens his mouth. This is a band that will try anything, knowing that their audience, which is seated somewhat incongruously across from them at white picnic tables, is always right there with them.

Cars continue to pull over to take in the proceedings. Folks stroll by in small groups; moms and babies, fathers and sons, groups of young men wandering aimlessly. They stop to listen, talking amongst themselves. They can't quite seem to figure out why this particular brand of entertainment has come to their neighborhood, why it is that today, they can hear this stuff for free. The music of maybe pete, which is loud even for a parking lot, is a deft mixture of Joey Ramone power and Jersey Shore passion. It draws a small, devoted following down here on the Shore, but Long Branch is a bit off the beaten path; usually to hear this music you have to drive down the road apiece. It is an odd audience for this show, the devoted fans and the casual observers, but somehow, it is exactly what is required.

After about 40 minutes, the set ends, and after a brief pause, it’s time for an encore. They play “Exit 140A,” a driving song about disappointment and survival. The beat picks up, and the song reaches its apex with a furious guitar duel between (husband and wife) guitarists Frankie and Kelly. The latter walks out into the parking lot towards the paying customers, while her husband edges closer and closer to the low wooden fence that borders the parking lot to his left. He is eyeing the fence—no, he is stepping up on it while he continues to wail on his guitar like a madman. He stands there, precariously balanced atop the fence, completely in the moment. We all hold our collective breath, convinced he is going to fall. He is tall and thin and ungainly, and does not appear to have the physical coordination to survive this foray unscathed. But in the blink of an eye, he is down off his perch on the fencepost and onto the sidewalk outside the parking lot, where a startled group of passers by stands transfixed. He is standing inches from a small boy, motioning to him to strum the strings of his guitar. The boy doesn’t quite get the message, but Frankie doesn’t care; he continues to wail away on his Fender before the startled throng. He walks back into the parking lot, and turns to face the band, feedback raining down around him as he puts his guitar down on the ground at center stage. Kelly has had enough; she hands him her guitar and walks off to the snack bar to get a well-deserved drink of water. Her husband increases the cacophony by adding her guitar to the mix before, at last, turning again to signal the song’s end to his band mates, leaping in the air and collapsing in a heap. Sweaty and red-faced, the remaining band members slowly walk off in search of liquid relief. Frankie finds his way to a chair and sinks down, shaky and drained.

Some days you just need the music. You need someone to bring the rock, to lift you up and out of the mundane. I had been anticipating this feeling all week, waiting for Saturday night so I could go into the city and rock it with Walter and his Waldos, waiting to come to life once again after another week of drudgery at work. But even on their best nights, Walter and the Continental represent a bygone era. They are figures from the past, their best days behind them. When I got home Saturday evening, I thought about whether I had the energy and the inclination to make the one hour-plus trip into Manhattan. It didn’t take me long. After that hot afternoon on the Jersey Shore, resurrecting the past no longer seemed necessary. The rock had been brought to the people, right there on the street--where it started, where it belongs. The spirit of Johnny Thunders and his Heartbreakers was alive and well in the present in a parking lot in Long Branch, N.J.

I’m sure Walter was great; he always is. But I never did make it into the city last Saturday night. I didn’t need to.

Things I Like Vol. 33

2006-07-24T20:05:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) The New York Dolls. Nuff said.
2) The Complete Stories of Truman Capote - Say what you want, the man was a master.
3) Amy's Omelette House - Long Branch, NJ
4) The Bitter End - New York, NY
5) Ryan Adams & the Cardinals - Catch the new clean, sober Ryan and prepare to be amazed all over again.
6) The Ryan Adams Archive and Answeringbell.com - Trying to organize the crazy world of Ryan Adams is a monumental pain in the ass. These guys have done a great job and deserve mucho kudos. The definitive Ryan Adams sites.
7) Concerts in the Studio - Freehold, NJ - The Costanzos are in it for nothing but love of the music, and that's the best part.
8) "Message to the Boys" - The Replacements. Three-fourths of the band playing a not-so-new Paul Westerberg song is still better than 90% of what passes for music these days.
9) Holme - Proof that cover bands don't have to suck.
10) The Baronet Theater - Asbury Park, NJ - Recently reopened and fighting eminent domain catastrophe. The last movie theater in Asbury Park. Catch it while you can.

Hero of the Week: All those who are fighting eminent domain abuse around the country and here in Monmouth County, NJ. People have the power!
Villain of the Week: Larry Fishman and the ghouls at Asbury Partners.

Things I Like Vol. 32

2006-07-11T20:53:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) Capote: A Biography - Gerald Clarke
2) Rockwood Music Hall - New York, NY
3) Hudson Falcons - what happens when Joe Strummer meets Bruce Springsteen
4) The Deep - Asbury Park, NJ - punk lives in AP
5) Bobby Bandiera - still the coolest guy on the Jersey Shore
6) My Life So Far - Jane Fonda - you may not always like her but you gotta respect her
7) Hail! Hail! Rock'n'Roll (DVD) - Chuck Berry & friends
8) The Complete Reprise Sessions - Gram Parsons - Cosmic American Music
9) Three of Cups - New York, NY - vino and good friends
10) Daniel Wolff - a great writer and a great friend

Hero of the Week: Spike Lee & Jonathan Demme (and anyone else making a documentary on New Orleans)
Villain of the Week: George W. Bush - do I need a reason?

You're Missing

2006-07-09T10:03:00.000-05:00

The city is not the same without you in it. It lacks sparkle and glow and energy. It is still the greatest city in the world; of that there is no doubt. It is a diamond isle, the land of dreams. But without you in it there is nothing to look forward to, no humor, no vibrancy. Its light is dimmer, its voice muted.

Tonight you are not there and the city is filled with nonsensical youngsters dressed in what they think is fashion with no imagination, no sense of adventure. Shhh, be quiet, they are Looking For Fun. The city smells of flowers and cigarettes and subway and beer, it is a romantic smell filled with hope as though something were about to happen. There are older single men in guinea tees carrying shapeless plastic shopping bags out for their daily walk to get the paper and bet the numbers (they have lived there forever and it’s summer and they are not about to start getting dressed up to go out now, pally.) There are pairs of women everywhere (why do women travel in pairs—are they afraid of something?), women of all ages talking and laughing. There are street vendors and flower salesmen and coffee and donuts and guys on bikes that weave and whiz through the traffic performing death-defying acts. There is the Chrysler building, its glittering silver tower shining brightly in the night sky. There is even a full moon peeking out from behind the scattered, shifting clouds, casting its glow on the city streets below. But you are not there; there is no one to shine on and so it moves along back from whence it came.

I am the Scarecrow

2006-07-03T13:03:00.000-05:00

I am not one of the lucky ones whose problems all work out, whose life and loves and ups and downs all balance each other and are in harmony and everything finds some resolution. I am a tangled knot of loose ends and pieces that don’t fit. I am the misshapen remains of last night’s party, slightly hung over and bent out of shape, sore and misguided. There are pieces of me spread everywhere like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. There’s my brain drifting off somewhere taking me back to times and places purged of pain and heartache by memory so I see only the good, only what I wish had happened instead of all that actually did.

There’s my heart, scattered in pieces. It is in the distant echoes of epic Springsteen marathons long gone; it is in every corner of that pizza oven with a stage, my beloved Stone Pony. It is in the sunny meadows and cool, dusty barns of my youth, long since torn asunder by bulldozers and real estate greed. It is in the warm haze of childhood playgrounds and bicycles and Popsicle sticks. It is in the great city of Washington, misbegotten and forgotten, cast aside and trampled upon by the country it serves, the country that misunderstands and uses and forgets. It is in the rainy Sunday jaunts to the Smithsonian with my dad (before he got sick when he could still walk and everything was ok), in the hours spent wandering the musty halls of art museums and technology exhibits, watching free puppet shows and riding the carousel on the Mall and waving my arms in the air and smiling. It is in the cool salt water rushing over my head, the freedom of just you and the ocean and being a teenager, when anything seemed possible. It is in the great state of New Jersey, where so many wonderful things have happened to me; where I fell in love and shared my life with someone for the first time. It is in New York, the place that haunted my childhood and now drives my imagination.

But these days, the biggest piece of my heart belongs to someone who will never acknowledge it. There is nothing I can do but wait and hope, and that is not enough. I am the scarecrow, and there are pieces of me everywhere.

So We Beat On...

2006-07-02T11:54:00.000-05:00

Life sends you things that you don't need when you don’t really want them. And then it sends you exactly what you need when you don’t even know you need it.

Last night I went to see Southside Johnny at his old stomping grounds, the Stone Pony in Asbury Park. A lot of my friends from the old days don’t come out much any more; it takes something like this annual Fourth of July Weekend bash to get them to hire out babysitters and get out from under. Walking into the Pony at the annual event is (as my good friend Lori said last night), like coming home. It’s like walking into your living room and someone has organized a surprise party for you and all the most important people from you life are there. Only it’s different ‘cause you’ve been going there for 20 years and every square inch of the place holds memories. I have loved and lost here; I have seen the best rock’n’roll has to offer grace this stage—its legends, its upstarts, its stalwarts. I have fought with my best friend here. (I made so many friends here over the years. And lost a few along the way, too.) I have felt my heart swell with sorrow and anguish at what the years have done to people. And I have felt it swell with joy and pride and happiness watching musicians—my friends now—get up on that stage and make magic happen.

Last night was one of those nights. You have to understand, the Pony was where everyone hung out. When they weren’t up on the stage, musicians hung out in the back, shot the breeze, exchanged gig information, gossip, and girlfriends. It was where deals were made and hearts were broken. Where beers were consumed and love was found and lost. Down here on the Shore, there once was a thing called a musicians’ community; so much great music happened here. In the beginning, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes were the friggin’ house band!. There was Cats on a Smooth Surface and Joey and the Works and John Eddie and the Front Street Runners and John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band and La Bamba and the Hubcaps. And those were just the regulars. Every Saturday night was national act night, and you could see legends like Gary U.S. Bonds and Ronnie Spector and Gregg Allman. You could see established acts like Dave Edmunds and Graham Parker and Ian Hunter. You could see up and comings like the Smithereens and Concrete Blonde and the BoDeans. And every now and then Somebody Famous would drop by. Somebody who lived right up the road and was on the cover of Time and Newsweek. You wouldn’t recognize him from seeing him walk around the club, for that was when he looked like just another face in the crowd, just another Jersey Shore musician out for a good time. But when he got onstage, which he did every now and then, he was magically transformed, as though someone had plugged him into an electrical socket and turned him into the very Spirit of Rock’n’Roll. This happened fairly regularly for a while, and when it did and you were lucky enough to be there, it was enough to get you through the week, through your shitty workaday job, your boring ass life. The Stone Pony was where the magic happened; it was where your life changed forever. It was the only place to be if you were a music fan, the only place you wanted to be, the only place that mattered.

But those days are gone. They came to an end, as all good things must. We grew up and got older and the music changed and people moved on. But every now and then, on nights like last night, you can go back again like Peter Pan and be young again.

Last night, one of my very favorite young bands, maybe pete, played on the indoor stage opening up for Southside Johnny. This alone meant the world to them. You see, they would not be playing music if it were not for SSJ and his world-class band of misfits and geniuses. Frankie and Kelly met and fell in love over this music; they used to sneak into the Ritz in NYC when they were 16 to see their heroes in person. And now they were sharing a bill with them. But that was not enough. Previous to their set, Jukes guitarist Bobby Bandiera had run into Frankie in the men’s room and asked if he could sit in. Frankie agreed, not really believing that this was going to happen. Life deals you many cruel hands as a musician, and you learn very quickly not to get your hopes up. So they played their set as always, and when it came time for their closing number, a cover of the Stones’ version of “Just My Imagination,” Frankie called for Bobby to come up. For a minute or two, nothing happened. And then suddenly, through the crowd came a diminutive, instantly recognizable figure. It was Bobby, and he was going to play with them. It wasn’t earth shattering, it wasn’t transformative, but for a moment there, I thought my heart would burst in two seeing my friends up there so happy, so in the moment, with their hero giving himself so generously (as he always does; he’s just that kind of guy) and making their night special, giving them something they could take with them from this place for the rest of their lives. I spoke with them after the show and they still couldn’t quite believe it. I do believe it will take them weeks to recover.

Oh yeah, there was an amazing Southside Johnny show after that. I’ve seen him a lot and it was a Top 5 show for sure. My ears are still ringing and my feet and legs are sore and I am hung over and a bit sad that it is all over, that the reunion has come to an end for another year. But that’s not important. What’s important is that, in some small way, people like Bobby Bandiera make the Stone Pony magic continue.

There will never be another place like the Pony. When it is finally gone, it will leave a huge gaping wound in my heart. For there was where we were once young and alive, and anything seemed possible. It is a place out of the past; its best moments are long gone. But people like Bobby know what it has meant to us, what it continues to mean. He understands. And so, on a night when we were all carried back into the past, Bobby helped bring the spirit of the Pony into the future.

June Sunday

2006-06-25T21:02:00.000-05:00

Every time I get to feeling a little bit better, like I might be moving forward, might be going somewhere I get knocked flat by reality. I am meaningless in the great cosmic joke of a world; my presence has little value except to myself. I can do nothing for anyone; there are no favors, nothing special that makes me indispensable. I am nothing--my presence is irrelevant. Why would I think any differently? It’s a cruel trick the world plays on us that makes us think we matter. The reality is we are here and we are gone. We do the best we can, we try to help people and they stomp on us and backstab us and cast us aside; we open up and give of ourselves and are pounded with cold steel hammers. So you have to live for yourself, you have to tell yourself you are worth something because no one else will. The rest is cold and dark and meaningless.

Things I Like Vol. 31

2006-06-16T18:53:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) maybe pete-the coolest band from New Jersey that no one knows about (yet)
2) Streets of New York - Willie Nile - the best record I've heard so far this year
3) Amusing Ourselves to Death - Neil Postman - 20 years after publication it's more timely than ever
4) Fox Confessor Brings the Flood - Neko Case - ethereal vocals and stellar songwriting
5) Three of Cups - New York, NY - late night grand Italian and fabulous red wine
6) All Seasons Diner - Eatontown, NJ - late night bullshit and good times
7) Sami Yaffa - just 'cause
8) Netflix - sure beats what's showing at the multiplex
9) Chocolate Genius - the man, the music, the hats!
10) The Falls - Joyce Carol Oates - why doesn't this woman have a Nobel yet?

Hero of the Week (tie): Rep. Robert Murtha (R-PA) - for speaking the truth about the quagmire that is Iraq and refusing to back down and Chris Isaak - for doing the USO thing both in the Middle East and at Walter Reed - and for just being damn fine!
Villain of the Week: George W. Bush. NOW you go to Iraq?

WTF of the week: Karl Rove is not going to be indicted? Are you kidding me?

June 5, 2006

2006-06-05T13:10:00.000-05:00

Life throws you some curveballs. And they always seem to come rapid fire right in a row like you’re standing in a batting cage instead of being spaced out so you can breathe. Last week was like that for me. Kind of makes you wake up and realize what’s really important—the slap in the face we all sometimes need. It’s so easy to get jealous of what other people have—or what it looks like they have—so easy to get caught up in what everyone else is doing. If you don’t feel good about yourself, it’s natural to compare yourself to others and come up short. Then you beat yourself up, call yourself a loser because you didn’t do this or that, weren’t there when such and such happened, and are therefore not hip or cool or interesting. It’s easy to find fault with yourself, so hard to tell yourself you’re special and unique just the way you are. That all the experiences you have had in your life—the good and the bad—have brought you to where you are now. One thing done differently, one choice you might have made could have led you down a completely different path. Easy stuff to say— much, much harder to internalize and make real to yourself. This world beats you down, it sands down the rough edges, it wills you to conform and surrender and shuffle along meekly and unquestioningly. So much harder to forge your own path in life, to not care what other people think, to come to your own conclusions about yourself and your place in the world. And people have agendas, they will suck you in and milk you dry and tramp you down and break your spirit. It will happen. But it is the journey, not the arrival that matters. Eyes on the prize and all that. We are walking in the footsteps of those who have gone before. It’s the truth. Believe it. But more importantly, believe in yourself. That is the hardest thing of all.

I Know Who My Friends Are

2006-05-07T16:53:00.000-05:00

Like most of us out there these days, I have a Myspace page. It seems like a lot of people have a few bands listed as friends, but mostly they have people they know from work, school, etc., or just from living life. That’s as it should be. People should have friends. But on Myspace, the line between friendship and stalking is unclear, and there is an odd phenomenon in which people add "friends" they have never met and really don’t know. I am not quite sure what to make of all this; in order to be on my "friends" list, you have to be someone I know and/or a band that I like. Period. None of this collecting friends, or living voyeuristically through the Myspace pages of friends of friends of famous people, or whatever. Creeps me out. Why would you want someone as your “friend” if you are really not friends with him or her other than to "look cool" or to spy on them?

You can look at my “friends” list, which is somewhere in the 200’s these days, and it’s pretty clear who my friends are—the people I know and trust. But mostly it’s bands. Not because I know them personally—most of the time, I don’t—but because when things get really bad (and they have been pretty damn bad a lot lately), these are the people I count on to get me through. It’s like that scene in Almost Famous when Penny talks about what the music means to her. How if she’s every really down and lonely, she can always go to the record store and visit her friends. Of course, she really does know a fair number of those bands, and ironically enough, the friendship is far from reciprocated; in fact, to those musicians who do know her, she is no more than a plaything to be traded away on a drunken gambling spree. But to her, these people, this music is everything. It’s the reason to get up in the morning; it’s the medicine that makes everything all right. People are people, and they will always let you down. But the music is always there, always the same. You know you will always get that charge when you hear the opening rim shot of “Like a Rolling Stone,” when the opening guitar riff to “Rocks Off” blows through your speakers. Or when it’s late at night, and you’re lonely and sad, you know that you can always listen to the lonely, sad voice of Ryan Adams and it will be all right. Screw people; they always let you down. They all have agendas and egos and misplaced priorities, and when it comes down to it, they will always put themselves first. So when life sucks, and the world hits you in the head with a cold steel hammer, put on the music, turn to the bands. Because the music is always there and does not change.

So take a look at my Myspace page—if you know me, you will see a few familiar faces. But mostly, you will see my friends.

Things I Like Vol. 30

2006-05-01T16:02:00.000-05:00

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World

1) Status Anxiety - Alain de Botton - the book every American should read but won't
2) The Animal Years - Josh Ritter
3) Entourage - HBO and Adrian Grenier, perfect together
4) cold Corona and lime - can summer be far behind?
5) The Tiki Bar - Asbury Park, NJ- margaritas and tasty waves
6) Comfort Food - Rachael Ray (yeah, I know, I know)
7) Nagle's Pharmacy - Ocean Grove, NJ - ice cream the way it was meant to be
8) Chilangos Authentic Mexican Restaurant - Highlands, NJ
9) Ryan Adams - just 'cause
10) The Mercury Lounge, NYC

Hero of the Week: Cindy Sheehan - still the authentic voice of America's outrage
Villain of the Week (tie): Donald Rumsfeld (no explanation needed) and Condoleezza Rice (ditto)

Rain

2006-04-24T10:37:00.000-05:00

It’s dark and grey and rainy and melancholy. I can feel my life passing by in small episodes of memory. What is it about rainy days that makes you think about the passage of time, about other rainy days? About where those people are now, what happened to those places? Why on earth was I doing that, why did I spend so much time in jobs I hated? Why was it so important to do what everyone expected of me all the time? Why didn’t I just pick up and move somewhere where things were happening, where I could have been a part of something? You do the best you can at the time, but days like this make you question everything, make you recognize the fleetingness and the loss and the ethereal nature of life itself. I hear the voices of people who are gone; I feel the presence of ghosts.

The wind blows and the rain falls and I am 8 years old staring through the screen door and listening to the thunder. I am inside I will be all right it is only thunder. But there is that knawing melancholy fear and sadness. As though every time it rains something dies.

The smell of the rain on cement reminds me of all the people I’ve worked with, all the boring ass jobs and wasted time in drafty, sterile office buildings and people I’ll never see again whose names I’ve forgotten who I once saw every day, who once were so important to my daily life. How easy it is to just walk out the door one day and never come back, to forget everyone and everything so completely.

The smell of the rain on grass reminds me of blissful hours spent on horseback, in barns caring for those beautiful, graceful animals who love you back without question, who were often my only friends. The sound of utter contentment at feeding time, of large jaws and teeth munching oats and hay, the snorting and stamping and slurping. The sound of birds chirping, wet hay and wet animals and solitude and peace. Animals don’t care who you are or what you look like or who your friends are or what you do for a living; they trust you totally, they are grateful for the simple things in life like when you show up to feed them, brush and groom them, keep them warm and happy and fed.

The cold rain falls and it is New York and I am 12 years old and my dad is flat on his back in a hospital bed and he has been there for a year and he may be there for another year. No one at school, none of my so-called friends understands this; I have given up trying to explain it to them. About the therapy, the rehab; about the endless illnesses and recoveries; about the depression and the rage and the dirty, corrupt scary New York City of the early ‘70s. About the terror of knowing and not knowing what will happen next; how your whole life changes in an instant. It takes me a long time to get over this memory/vision of Manhattan. For many years, it is a place of darkness and filth and fear.

The rain falls and it washes everything away, and the smell of the salt air wafts toward me and cleanses my lungs. All the weight and the sins of the past are meaningless; the smell of the sea reminds me that we are mere specks in the vast universe, that it is all transient, that the big important monumental things in life that we think will destroy us, that are irreparable and destructive and dangerous are just the blinks of an eye. The sea has been here before us; it will be here when we are gone. What are the cares of today beside the wind and the sea and the waves?

The rain and the grey and the melancholy linger. It drips from the rafters, it blows against the window as if to remind me that there is not much separating me from the dampness and the penetrating cold. It is easy to be jolly when the sun shines. Is there true happiness when it rains, or only the absence of sadness?

Don't Get Sentimental On Me

2006-04-24T09:36:00.003-05:00

I know you’re tired, I’m tired too
Loosen up, sing me a song and I’ll dance
Cause I don’t move, or get moved too easily
Take me home, just don’t get sentimental on me
Cause the wind, the wind, the wind
is carrying us down the darkness of Broadway
And it’s fine, it’s okay: here tomorrow, gone today
Take me home, just don’t get sentimental on me

I know you’re fine,
I followed all the lines on the dress
You know, yours the lover bought you
And these drinks turn into maps of places we will never go but once
So don’t get sentimental on me
Cause the wind, the wind, the wind
is carrying us down the darkness of Broadway
And it's fine, it’s okay: here tomorrow, gone today.
Take me home just don’t get sentimental on me
Take me home, take me home
Just don’t get sentimental on me

(c)2006 by Mr. David Ryan Adams

(In)security

2006-04-23T09:50:00.000-05:00

It's amazing what security (or the lack thereof) can do to some people. Apparently there are people who are so incredibly threatened by me that they will go out of their way to shut me out; to be mean and hurtful and spiteful, to verbally harass and threaten me with no discernable provocation (and believe me, I am great at provoking people, and well aware of when I am doing it). I find that interesting because I am not really in a position to do anything to anybody; I have a shit job, no money and most times am just barely able to keep it together. I have very little power in this world to do anything to anybody. And yet around some people, I command great armies. Good Queen Bess I am not, but there are those who will have me beheaded just the same...

How Can A Poor Man Have Such Fans and Live?

2006-04-21T17:04:00.000-05:00

Thanks, no really--thanks!

To all of my so-called friends who couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone yesterday and tell me what was going on at Convention Hall with the GA line. And who rubbed it in my face that they were in "The Pit and I wasn't. Thanks, guys. You're real pals. Remind me to call you when I find out some info or have a tip that might help you. NOT.

It never fails to amaze me how self-centered and shallow Springsteen fans are. He is one of the coolest, most intelligent and talented individuals making music today. With some of the biggest assholes on the planet for fans. Narrow-minded, greedy, self-important, arrogant, sexist, racist...you get the picture. How do they just totally not get it? Not get what he's about, what his music's about, what it can teach you about tolerance and fairness and justice? How can you go to a show and listen to "We Shall Overcome" and all the while push and shove each other like animals? How can you not get how incredibly priveleged you are to be able to afford hundred dollar tickets to anything, and instead whine, complain and make other people feel small about something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things as where you stand at a Springsteen show?

Wow. Unbelievable, right? But then again, we all live in a country where people are arrogant enough to believe that they somehow deserve the natural beauty and wide open spaces, the vast wealth and economic privilege that they have been handed. Who are just now waking up to the Bush Administration's unbelievable corruption and complete incompetence. DUH. So why would I expect them to understand anything with any degree of sophistication? Read a book? Can't even be bothered to read the crap that passes for newspapers. I don't need to know anything. I'm American, everything will be taken care of for me. I can do no wrong, the world loves me. So....

I'm moving. Somewhere. Anywhere but here in the US. Because when the bill comes due for the Bush II years, it will not be pretty. Springsteen will retire to warmer climes. Maybe we'll sit on the beach together in Baja sipping Tequila and laughing about America's Glory Days...

I am a Storyteller

2006-02-20T11:39:00.000-05:00

I am a storyteller.
I open my mouth and your life spews out
You hear your life, your most painful memories
Your happiest moments and I know them

I know them all because I am a storyteller
I tell you things you hear and recognize but don’t want to know
I have lived a thousand lives inside my own head
And those voices sometimes tell me that it’s not worth it
That I should give up and let it go
And they are so convincing, they almost have me until

Someone else who is not any good, who gets all the acclaim and
The fame and the notoriety
For being a self-absorbed, self-loathing dolt
Who tells us all the thoughts inside his head for no good reason except
He needs to be noticed, he cannot help himself
He tells us things we have no business hearing, he drops names
like bird seed that we consume and then dispose of in endless scattered droppings

He makes me keep going, makes me want to keep telling stories
Because it is worth it, it is all I can do
Because though I push papers and shovel garbage and
Wait on customers and listen to bullshit until I want to scream
I am a storyteller and it is all I know.

For L

2006-02-13T21:21:00.000-05:00

What happens when all that you love, all that you care about is denied you? When, through fate or circumstance (or just plain bad luck) you finally find that person who understands you, who loves you despite your faults, who encourages you to do better, who eases you through the bad times and with whom you enjoy the good like you would with no one else— and you cannot be with him or her, and you are forced to live your life in an agony of self-denial and emptiness, to spend year after year endlessly longing for this person who makes you feel whole at last?

You lack the strength or the will or the courage to take action to change your situation. Or the opportunity never arises. What can you do except force your emotions deep down inside where they can’t surface? Except sometimes they boil over and you lash out at whomever gets in your way. Or you tear yourself apart, seething, loathing yourself, rotting from within.

Happiness comes when you least expect it, and sometimes you don’t recognize it until it has been taken away. What then? What if it’s too late? What if the only truth you know is what you feel in the moment, and the sense of what has happened only becomes clear afterward? You feel stupid, senseless, used, used up. Drained, hopeless. How is one to make life decisions in the midst of a whirlwind?

Opportunity knocks once and the door slams shut…and the worst part is, there is no warning, and all too soon the moment is gone.

What happens when you deny yourself happiness, or when happiness is denied you by society, by what others might think or say or do? What kind of toll does that take on you? Do you go on as before, or do you die slowly, one day at a time? You push the happiness and the thoughts and the memories aside, but every now and again they surface to torment you, and you wonder how things might have been different if only you had made different choices, if circumstances had been different, if only, if only…

So you stare off into the distance, holding on as best you can, wondering what might have been. And you drink to forget…

Ain't This What Dreams are Made of?

2006-02-06T10:25:00.000-05:00

Do buildings have sense memory? Do they remember you when you’ve been there before? Why do particular places exert such a powerful hold on our memory? “Last night I dreamed of Manderley again” is still one of the most famous phrases in literature. Our dreams take us back to particular places in our lives, to events of great power and significance. We always go back to places where we belonged, where things made sense, to where no one could touch us, and life was simpler.

But is that really true? Sometimes we go back to the messed up parts of our lives and try to fix them. How many of us have dreamt of high school or college—you know the one in which you forget your locker combination, show up late for class and everyone stares at you, sit down and take the exam you didn’t know you had and didn’t study for? Maybe our dreams are the great levelers—we go back and try to fix things in our dreams so we don’t have to deal with them again in waking life. Or maybe we just yearn for the comfort of the familiar. When the present is so terrifying and sad, why not?

R.I.P. Coretta Scott King, 1927-2006

2006-01-31T19:00:00.000-05:00

Another one of my heroes has died, and along with her, another little piece of the once-powerful American civil rights movement. She was every bit the intellect and talent her husband was, and made many personal sacrifices over the years in order for him to continue his relentless work in support of the cause. She maintained her composure and dignity through some of the worst moments in this nation's history, and raised four children as a single mother.

Coretta Scott King helped us to recognize what was possible both for ourselves and for our country, and to dream of a future in which the impossible could become reality. She will be sorely missed.