Considering the life of Jeff Buckley, this song is simultaneously perfect and just about impossible to listen to.
The sea wants to take me. I know it's over, still I cling. If you're still funny, why are you on your own tonight? And if you are so clever, why are you on your own tonight, and if you are so very entertaining why are you on your own tonight? Love is natural and real, but not for you and I, tonight.
In spite of the fact that the almost-forgotten Gram Parsons was one of the best singer-songwriters of that brief interlude between the 60's and the 70's, no to mention one of the best looking men; there seems to be very little live video of him. But I found a bit. Deal with the blur.
Here's another song, said to be live, but with just random pictures. Still beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful.
I have a theory. Gram Parsons was Country. Country people have no (or even negative) taste, and so ignore him. Rockers hear the word "country" and run for the hills, not realizing the beauty they are missing, and the slight amount of amusement to be found in such behavior.
I leave you with a beautiful bit of very early Gram; thank you Paul, for introducing me to this amazing song:
It is an unimaginably georgeous day in Portland today. OK, what inspired this post is that somehow I was subjected to "classic rock," where I heard a Paul Rogers song that threw me into a complete tizzy. The song--horrible; his voice? Perfection. Serious synapse-frying moment.
It turns out we have a "Bad Company" album that I just listened to on the porch. It was perfect for an early summer day. I adore Paul Rogers's voice. It is not a surprise that Queen decided to use him as a fill-in for Freddie Mercury. (I actually prefer Paul's voice, even if it didn't have the range; it's more supple and sweet and subtle.) I just hate everything that he sang. Pretty much. But that voice! Perfect summer music. My new goal is to acquire some Lynrd Skynnrd (OK, I can't spell the name, but I blame it on "Free Bird.")
So, for the feat of getting through this entire post, here's some "Bad Company" from back in the day before Paul Rogers discovered that mysterious clothing item "Shirts." (On edit; crap, he has a shirt on. I managed to pick the only video of all that I previewed with this aberration.)
Two who left too soon: Elliott Smith singing Nighttime by Big Star.
I hoped to post some recent Alex Chilton, but everything I could find appeared to have been filmed on cell phones. So, here's Big Star singing perhaps the most underrated pop masterpiece ever.
I love chamber-punk, and now I've discovered chamber-soul. Happiness.
Wikipedia informed me not only about her real name, but that Ms. Simone was 27 when the above clip was recorded. She looks about 17.
I've been mulling a post about how the Supreme Court just legalized bribery, but I find it too depressing to write. So, yet more music.
Here's the Who on the Ed Sullivan Show. The back story here (wait to the end) is that this show (for reasons that will become obvious) permanently damaged Pete Townsend's hearing. And Keith needed a band-aid.
Off to think deepish thoughts. Or listen to more music.
If you're in an exceptionally good mood, listen and be delighted. (Keep the Lithium close for emergencies, however.)
Ian Curtis, from Joy Division, singing the Velvet Underground song "Sister Ray." Ever since I first heard this song at about 14, it has filled me with such vibrant joy (something about the minimalist, yet inexplicably swinging proto-punk groove), that the Republican party (was there ever more nauseating version of the word "party?" ) would have made it illegal, had they known. But they never tuned to "those stations". Love this version. All these years later (and even factoring in the the anguish from not starting a band when I was fourteen) it still fills me with delight.
I've been looking for some Gram Parsons--singer, songwriter, beauty, trust fund screw-up, poet, dead at 26--to put on the blog, but footage of the man is nigh unto impossible to find. However, here's one of my favorite songs of his in that youtube format where they give you a slide show. Can you spot Anita Pallenberg and Keith Richards? How about Emmylou Harris?
During my Youtube search, I found this stunning re-interpreted version by Evan Dando. I've gotta reevaluate him as a singer. Take a listen.
Here's my next-favorite song, sung by Ryan Adams and Emmylou Harris (she did the original harmonies.) Poor Ryan isn't quite the country singer Gram was, but the song is still a delight.
20,000 roads I went down, down down. They all lead me straight home to you.
I saw my devil, and I saw my deep blue sea, and I thought about a calico bonnet From Cheyenne to Tennessee.
Today I wanted to post a live version of John Lennon singing "Remember," since it quotes the Guy Fawkes children's nursery rhyme "Remember, remember, the fifth of November," but he didn't sing a live version. (Brief pause for reflection and grief.)
So, I previewed the only live concert, essentially, that he performed of his Plastic Ono Band material, and it sucks. Instead, I posted the album version that doesn't have graphics. We can imagine what it'd look like; him singing and strumming his beautiful Epiphone hollow-body electric guitar with Yoko popping up randomly in the background. Just look into the distance when the music is playing, and remember, remember.
For those of you wondering about the outcome of the vote in Iowa regarding Michael Jackson's inclusion as a butter sculpture in the upcoming Iowa State Fair, the vote is in, and Jacko is out.
But of course there are more than enough celebrations of his life and art to satiate our appetite for memorializing him. Consider chocolate Michael Jackson; although it looks nothing like him, and certainly fails to capture his pallor, at least he represents Jackson's roots.
From an array of horrible wax figures there is this likeness (on the left!) which is excellent compared to the others in the gallery. (Cher must be really pissed! Check it out.)
But still, some people can never get enough.
But who would stoop low enough to steal a prosthetic nose, reputedly Michael's, which has gone missing from the morgue?
Cheney seems like the only person evil enough, but I doubt he was a fan.
Brand new vintage Nico from 1967: Femme fatale. I love Nico beyond any reason. Listen to her sing perfectly on key as the rest of band fails to perform up to her standards. Even though she's not playing a harmonium. We're strong. We deal. Still all perfect. PS. Thanks, my BFF Beck.
OOops. Beck. Bad Beck. The original Nico version can't be embedded. You can find it here. I strongly recommend you listen. She's got perfect cheekbones. And perfect pitch.
Astonishing; Nico in her phasers set to stun phase. A brief bit of live Nico from back in the day, with her harmonium, singing her very own song. Unfortunately, for scenes of Edie Sedgwick dancing, you'll have to google youtube. At any rate, (and with this recession, one can hope that the rate is pretty minimal) even though Nico and the gang are cooler than us, to lessen our grief, they're also dead. Mostly. But the music remains. How does one deal with grief, but to tackle it straight on?
Greg was one of those annoying idiot savants--He couldn't even stay married to Cher for longer than a forgotten weekend--with a perfect voice. And a perfect face. Not a good combination. Duane, just a perfect musician who died way too young.
Plus, I have this theory that Duane Allman was one of the best musicians of the 20th century. Damn those motorcycles.
If that isn't enough, just above is a clip of Duane and Eric Clapton playing the same song. Duane does a much better job on guitar than in the earlier version with his brother; Eric Clapton is a fine fresh fellow, but to compare his vocals with Greg...not going there. There's not a single live version available, so please put up with the sound, only--well worth it. All of you with stereo, listen, intensely, to Duane's slide guitar emanating from the left speaker. Heaven.
A bit of a personal recollection. I remember on our second date geebee (my sweetie) was astonished to discover that I was a huge Allman brothers fan. Of geruning course. No one better.
Amanda Palmer, of the Dresden Dolls, performed this majestic version of "Billie Jean" the night Michael Jackson died. I confess to never particularly liking this song, but Amanda's version is sweet and heartbreaking.
And just because one Dresden Doll video isn't enough, my favorite Black Sabbath cover ever (other than the five or so bars the Replacements played one night).
I bring you War Pigs! Turns out piano and drums is just what Ozzy would have ordered, if we wasn't so busy biting the head off bats, or echolocating, or trying to see through his runny mascara, or buying big-ass crosses, or something.
I must confess; first, Michael Jackson and I are the same age, so the news that he has died hit me hard. The man who had no childhood, and then got even by never growing up.
When I was 13, all my friends were oogly googly about him (poor messed-up freak), and Donny Osmond (who seemed to turn out fine) and David Cassidy, and others that I didn't bother to even learn the names of -- (someone named Shawn?). I thought that they were out of their minds. Back in 1973, I was pretty hardcore. I watched Jackson's career from the sidelines with a certain amount of amazement. What???? Confusion; and when he ruined his beautiful pug nose I was horrified. (Having a pug myself, you may understand my dismay.)
But even I would never wish the life Michael had on anyone. The weirdly religious uber-strict upbringing, complete with beatings via a cartoon-worthy tyrannical father, the early fame with money falling from the clouds, the Beatles catalog, what was it, 7 pedophilia lawsuits to the tune of 25 million, monkeys, ferris wheels, Elvis's daughter, and so on.... oh, the mixed drinks served in pepsi cans. Lawsuits to numerous to mention. What a long, strange trip it was. Did I mention we were almost exactly the same age?
RIP
BTW, I hear that Michael Jackson left his 1/2 share in the Beatles Catalog to Paul McCartney as forgiveness for taking Sir Paul's advice about investing in song publishing rights, and then outbidding him on the Beatles catalog in 1984. I don't think they've talked since. Here. Here, Here, etc.
John Martyn was a very good friend of Nick Drake's, who didn't die young. But yet, the world has lost his beautiful voice. I must confess that I love his music. I must also confess that this allows me to put off posting something substantial about the total mess we're in now. Everybody altogether "Torture B A D." "Healthcare G O O D." Thank you. As a reward, the following clip. PS. Don't be lulled by this beautiful song--layers upon layers of complexity with just a guitar and a voice.
One more, to make no mistake (hee hee.)
I guess I'm at that age where all my favorites are dropping like ever-so-musical two winged creatures. Makes me worry. But still, such beauty.
I somehow missed the late, great Lux Interior's death, 62 wonderful years, back in February. I saw the Cramps about 5 years ago here in Portland at this beautiful old venue, "The Crystal Ballroom." It was just after I got divorced, and my ex--who left me, hadn't yet figured out that the parting wasn't mutual--had just called me to tell me that he had met someone he liked oh-so-much better than me; (my current love tells me he was similarly clueless when ending his first relationship, so please understand ... but yet, I was, well, heartbroken doesn't begin to cover it.) I left work wearing my oh-so-business suit without changing into appropriate Portland attire; three bands were on prior to the Cramps; two or three times (it seemed like many more) random people came up to me and said "are you OK?" Everyone at the venue was much younger than me, to grant the concerned some courtesy, and not wearing suits; but, needless to say, it didn't improve my mood. Did I mention that someone yelled at me, as I walked to the venue "CHEER UP?"
The Cramps came on. Lux, twelve years older than me, rocked the leopard spandex; Poison Ivy, the guitarist, equally perfect. Did I mention that they were a couple for 35 years? Rumor has it that he picked her up hitchhiking, and the rest was history.
Everything I like in music: funny, rather louder than required, Psycho-rockabilly punk, literate; and, of course, stilettos!!!!
Thank you Lux; my best thoughts, such as they are, P. Ivy.
Way back in 2004, I went to see the Cramps at the Crystal Ballroom (in Portland, OR) directly after leaving work (I'm a lawyer.) I was wearing a suit, nylons (boring as all get-out) and mid-length heels. Three people; three deeply worried interested, serious people asked me if I were "OK," or "All Right." I assured them, that inspite of no obvious, uh tattoos, piercings, latex, pink hair, etc. I was fine. But I felt bad. I blame myself.
Lux Interior in his 60's at that show totally totally rocked his python print spandex tights/pants. Poison Ivy, also was hottt. It gave, and continues, to give me hope.
Lux died, after a good life. May angels play you random guitar riffs to your sleep.
Enjoy the commentator's perfectly correct (for some other venue) pink jacket. Enjoy Poison Ivy's perfectly correct (for this exact venue) rather too fluffy to be believed pink bra/shirt.
