Showing posts with label song. Show all posts
Showing posts with label song. Show all posts

Thursday, October 12, 2017

An Ode to Journalism, Be It Fake or Yellow



We can do 'The Innuendo'
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done we haven't told you a thing
We all know that crap is king
Give us dirty laundry!

It is easy these days for people whose lives have not been involved in journalism the way mine has to believe that sensationalism and yellow journalism in the media are new.

But I could have told you back when I was an undergraduate studying journalism that neither is new.

On this day in 1982, Don Henley (initially of Eagles fame) released a solo single called "Dirty Laundry" that criticized the media of that time. If you listen to the lyrics, you must conclude that little has changed.

(Actually, the song was from an album titled "I Can't Stand Still," which had been released two months earlier.)

I studied print journalism in college, then practiced it in the real world. And it was an article of faith in every newsroom I was ever in that broadcasters weren't really serious journalists — that, in the words of the lyrics from the song, they only had to look good (while they read what someone else had written for them, either from the hard copy or from a teleprompter). Being "clear" was not required.

I don't know if the song fits in the modern–day debate over "fake news," but if fake news exists it is merely an outgrowth of the kind of journalism Henley criticized in the song.

I liked the song because, even though I hadn't been in the business long when "Dirty Laundry" was still being played on the radio, I knew enough about it to know that bad news will happen on its own. It doesn't need any help from journalists, whether they are legitimate journalists or not, and I have always despised those who try to stir things up needlessly.

And I also enjoyed a little tidbit that only journalists would know. There's a line in the song that goes "Is the head dead yet?" The song, as I understand it, was largely inspired by the media coverage of the deaths of John Belushi and Natalie Wood — but that particular line has a real role in newspaper history. It asks whether the major headline story (or head) is ready to go. If a head is dead, it means it is all set and is being printed — and it is too late to make a change.

I suppose that yellow journalism is the same thing as fake news. It depends on the label you want to slap on journalism that uses little, if any, research or facts and is presented in the most sensational, eye–grabbing way possible.

And that kind of thing has been going on in America since at least the 19th century and the days of Pulitzer and Hearst.

If it preceded that time — and I am sure it did — journalism historian Frank Luther Mott probably could have told us. He wrote the textbook on American newspapers from 1690 to 1940 that was used in most college journalism history courses for many years — and, for all I know, may still be in use in some classrooms today.

But Mott died in 1964. Not that he would be likely to still be around today. After all, he'd be over 130. Still, it would be good to hear his insights about modern journalism. No doubt he would be able to compare this time in journalism history to another period, whether it qualified as yellow journalism or required a different label.

And Mott, who led journalism departments at the University of Iowa and University of Missouri, was good at naming things. For example, he was responsible for the term "photojournalism."

He didn't coin the term "yellow journalism," but he did define it so I am sure he would have some thoughts to share on fake news — or whatever it is.

Absent Mott, though, you can listen to "Dirty Laundry" and get an idea what broadcast journalism was like 35 years ago.

And, as I said earlier, you will realize that things really haven't changed that much.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Nothing's Gonna Touch You in These Golden Years



"I'll stick with you, baby, for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."

The older I get, the more aware I become of the uselessness of many skills I had when I was younger.

Some of those skills were skills I learned in school — like how to process film (in my college photography class). In the digital age, dark rooms simply do not exist. As a result, that knowledge has no value anymore.

Other skills were useless even at the time. For example, I mastered the timing of the snapping of fingers and the clapping of hands at the beginning of David Bowie's "Golden Years," which made its debut on this day in 1975. I was proud of that at the time, but it has had zero value in my job searches over the years.

Employers simply aren't interested in whether someone can snap fingers and clap hands in time with the background singers on "Golden Years," and it is a skill that is incredibly difficult to work into one's resume.

It is even more difficult to work into a conversation.

But, anyway.

"Golden Years" never really seemed like it belonged on Bowie's "Station to Station" album, which came out in January 1976. Musically, I suppose it had more in common with the "Young Americans" album that was released earlier in 1975. It had kind of a funky, soul–like quality to it. It even had a touch of disco in it — but not much, really.

It was just out of place on "Station to Station." To me, "Station to Station" always seemed to have more of an edge.

Want another kick in the head? Bowie has said he offered the song to Elvis Presley, but Elvis turned him down. Can you imagine "Golden Years" sung by Elvis?

"Station to Station" was an extension of Bowie's journey into funk and soul, I guess, but "Station to Station" had more of a synthesizer sound than the "Young Americans" album — or "Golden Years," for that matter.

Bowie was in a transitional phase when "Golden Years" was released. As I understand it, his cocaine addiction was at its worst at that time, too, and he has said that he remembers little of the "Station to Station" recording sessions.

I knew nothing about his cocaine dependency when "Golden Years" was being played frequently on the radio. In my rather sheltered hometown talk of things like cocaine really didn't exist in 1975. Conversations about marijuana were about as hardcore as it got.

I don't really think about it when I hear that song now, either. But I do think of what my life was like in 1975 and the line in Bowie's song that goes, "Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."

And I think of all the people I knew, all the people I went to school with, my parents and their friends, my grandmothers (both of whom were still living at that time). The image is frozen in my memory as if we were all posing for a group photo. Many of those people I knew are gone now. Something obviously did touch them in the intervening golden years.

But I've been lucky, I suppose. I've had my share of setbacks, and I haven't had perfect health, but nothing has touched me that dramatically or directly. I have been touched indirectly, I guess — when I have lost people I cared about.

I recall once many years ago when I lost a friend to cancer. At the time, I was working as a teaching assistant at the school where I was completing my work on my master's degree. When I came home after the funeral, one of my students came up to me and asked me how I was doing.

"I'm all right," I told her. "If you live long enough, these things are bound to happen. You will lose people you care about."

I don't know. At the time, I guess I thought I was sharing some special wisdom with her, but it really isn't wisdom. It's something anyone can figure out — provided one lives long enough.

I've had far too many opportunities to reflect on that conversation in the years since. Many of the people I cared about are gone now. When I heard David Bowie singing "Golden Years," it never occurred to me which of my friends and family members I would lose in my lifetime. It just wasn't something I thought about. Of course, I don't remember giving much thought to the lyrics, either.

Yep, I've been lucky. I've lived all these years, these golden years, and nothing has touched me. One day, it will. It happens to everyone. It has already happened to many.

So Bowie wasn't entirely correct, was he? Something will touch us. Sometime.

It's still a catchy song.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

An Ode to Fame



I remember the first time I heard David Bowie's "Fame." It was this day in 1975, the day the song hit the music stores and the air waves.

I remember it for the oddest of reasons. I was at my home in Arkansas packing for a family trip to Dallas to visit my grandmothers. It was the kind of trip my family had been making at least two or three times a year every year for as long as I could remember. It was a bit more meaningful for me this time, though. I would be attending a week–long workshop for high school journalism students at Southern Methodist University the next week, and, even before it started, I knew one of the participants — the son of some family friends. We had known each other all our lives.

Anyway, I had my radio on in my bedroom as I packed for the trip to Texas, and the D.J. announced the latest song from David Bowie. It had just been released that morning, he said, and he proceeded to play the song for his listeners. I stopped packing and sat down to listen to it. Forty years later, I still listen to it. For the last 25 years, I have tended to listen to the remix that was recorded in 1990 for the "Changesbowie" CD ...

... but hearing the original recording brings back sweet memories of those days. John Lennon, my favorite Beatle, was credited as a co–writer of the song, but Bowie did most of the heavy lifting — lyrically speaking. In late 1974, Lennon and Bowie met and started jamming together. In January 1975, they had a recording session that produced a cover of the Beatles' "Across the Universe" and a recording of the new song, "Fame."

Bowie said it was "nasty, angry," and acknowledged that it had been written with a malicious edge thanks to the nature of Bowie's relationship with the management group with whom he had been working.

Maybe Lennon's role in the creation of the song is why I was so drawn to it, but the truth is that I wasn't aware of his connection to the song when it was prominent on the radio. I just knew that I liked it.

I guess the style was funk — although I'm not really sure that's an accurate description. It was at a time when Bowie seemed to be obsessing over soul music. At any rate, anything that was co–written by Bowie and Lennon was bound to be unique.

Apparently, a lot of people were drawn to it. It became Bowie's biggest hit in the United States to that point. The song hit #1 on Billboard's Hot 100 and went to #1 in Canada as well. It was in the Top 10 in Norway and the Netherlands.

"Fame" was running through my head when I went to the SMU campus the following Monday to begin the journalism workshop. It was playing on my radio later in the day when I was back at my grandmother's house, and I could smell the evening meal cooking in the kitchen. If I close my eyes and listen to the original recording of "Fame," I probably can tell you what was on the menu.

For awhile there in the summer of '75, "Fame" was everywhere.

I like the remix. As I said, I've been listening to that version for many years. It doesn't revive memories from 40 years ago. But the original one sure does.

And, frankly, I have been surprised that more attention hasn't been paid to this milestone anniversary, especially when you consider how influential the song was in the summer of '75. Maybe people are too busy paying attention to the 40th anniversary of "Jaws."

But not Ryan Book. Last month, Book observed, in an article for Music Times, about Bowie's epic duets, that "perhaps the most legendary performer that Bowie ever formed a duet with was also the least present for the recording.

"'Fame' doesn't attempt to hide the fact that the former Beatle is included on the single,"
Book wrote, "yet it was hardly advertised as a duet. Bowie just happened to meet Lennon in New York while recording for Young Americans, and the pair shacked up for a few days and jammed. One of the results was a cover of 'Across The Universe,' but more unique inspiration was found when Lennon chanted the signature 'Fame!' line while guitarist Carlos Alomar improvised a riff. Bowie seized the initiative and quickly scribed the invective–laden lyrics, and keeping Lennon on as a rhythm guitarist, tasked vocally only with chanting the single word repeatedly. The song was tossed onto Young Americans at the last moment, and Bowie gave Lennon a disproportionate amount of songwriting credit, considering that he only contributed one word. Ah, but what an important word it was."

Friday, May 08, 2015

The Beatles' Swan Song



Forty–five years ago today, the Beatles released "Let It Be," the last album they would release as the Fab Four. It was also the soundtrack for the movie of the same name.

It was released on this date in the United Kingdom. The album was released in the United States 10 days later — after the movie hit the theaters.

In the years ahead, there would be compilation albums released exploring various themes. There would be a concert album that combined tracks from concerts in the Hollywood Bowl recorded about a year apart. There would even be a couple of singles that were made by combining recordings of the long–deceased John Lennon and the then–three surviving Beatles.

But there would be no more new, original albums.

Anyway, "Across the Universe" is my favorite song on the album. I have long said it is my favorite Beatles song of all, and it probably is although there are several songs that are worthy of that designation.

As it has been with many Beatles songs, there are plenty of cover versions of "Across the Universe" out there — and, as I have admitted many times before, as a rule I'm not a fan of Beatles cover songs — but I think my favorite is the one Fiona Apple did for the movie "Pleasantville."

Her voice always seemed right for that song — well, to me it did.

The title track is certainly a fan favorite. It was ranked the 20th greatest song of all time by Rolling Stone, and I am certain that it is one of the most recognizable Beatles tunes ever recorded. Probably more recognizable than "Hey Jude" or "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" — or even "I Wanna Hold Your Hand."

I've heard — more than once — that Paul McCartney wanted to write the Beatles' equivalent of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," arguably Simon and Garfunkel's signature song, so he wrote "Let It Be." That would be plenty for most people — to have inspired a Beatles song — and I like both songs, but I think Simon and Garfunkel's song was better.

(Even though Paul Simon, who wrote most of the song, loathed the part that Art Garfunkel wrote — "Sail on, silver girl ..." — and reportedly came to believe that he, not Garfunkel, should have sung it on the record.)

I would certainly list "Let It Be" as one of the favorites from the album. It was the title track, after all.

Another favorite is "Get Back," which was performed in the famous rooftop concert on the roof of Apple's (that's the recording company, not the computer company) headquarters in London in January 1969 — the last public appearance of the Beatles.

If you get the chance to see the movie, you can see portions of the 42–minute concert that drew a crowd of curious onlookers, including British police who broke up the show.

If you listen to the album, you'll hear several songs that aren't generally well known to non–Beatles fans — like "One After 909," "Two Of Us," "I Me Mine" and lots more.

But nothing can compare to the feeling I get when I see the Beatles performing "I've Got a Feeling" for an audience.

Wish I could have been there.

Friday, April 04, 2014

A Signature Serenade



When I was a small child, my parents had an old stereo and a rather meager collection of records — both of which were stored on a shelf that was just high enough that I couldn't reach it even if I climbed up on the shelves.

I guess my parents managed to stay one step ahead of me.

A few of the records in that collection were mine — and my brother's, too, after he was born. They tended to be narrated children's stories with sound effects, and they were scattered among my parents' records. At times, I knew exactly what I wanted to hear — and sometimes I climbed up that shelf to get one. I wasn't old enough to read, but I could tell from the picture if the album was one of mine or one of my parents'.

Didn't matter, really. As I say, I still couldn't reach them, and I gave up trying after a couple of attempts. Good thing, too. I could have been seriously hurt if I had fallen.

In my parents' collection was a set of Glenn Miller recordings, and I remember watching them dance to the songs in our modest living room. They didn't dance often, but, when they did, they liked to dance to Glenn Miller.

When I got older, I could almost imagine what they must have been like when they were dating in college — dancing to Miller's music and the other popular recordings of that time with their friends — who I knew, of course, as older versions of themselves.

Anyway, when my parents danced together in our living room, one of their favorites was "Moonlight Serenade," which was recorded 75 years ago today.

It is often regarded as Miller's signature song, and it is easy to see why. It should make just about anyone's list of his greatest works.

Other people might name something else — personally, "In The Mood" has always stood out as Miller's best as far as I am concerned — but I think that most people could live with "Moonlight Serenade" as his signature song.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Playin' Those 'Mind Games'



"We all been playin' those mind games forever
Some kinda druid dude liftin' the veil
Doin' the mind guerrilla
Some call it magic, the search for the grail."


John Lennon

John Lennon has always been my favorite Beatle, and his death was (for me, at least, and I am sure for many others around the world) the kind of event of which one says, "I remember where I was and what I was doing when ..."

(That's the kind of statement, incidentally, that I have heard a lot in recent days, being as we are nearly upon the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination. Perhaps that is why it springs so easily to mind in the context of a story about Lennon.)

But on this day in 1973, Lennon was neither a Beatle (anymore) nor the murdered ex–Beatle he became in 1980. He was a solo artist, and he released his single "Mind Games," the title track from the album he released a couple of weeks earlier, in the United Kingdom 40 years ago on this day.

The rest of the album wasn't bad, but the title track was really the only truly memorable song from it.

My fellow Lennon admirers will mention a whole range of songs when asked to name their favorite Lennon composition. Some are familiar to mainstream listeners, like "Imagine" or songs he wrote when he was with the Beatles, but some are rather obscure. If you mention them to Lennon fans, they will smile and nod their heads knowingly, but, more often than not, if you mention them to mainstreamers, their faces will show no recognition.

In many ways, "Mind Games" is like that. I think it is a classic Lennon melody with classic Lennon lyrics, easily comparable to any of the best songs he recorded with the Beatles or as a solo artist after the Beatles broke up.

Lennon's admirers will know of it; casual listeners probably will not.

And that probably plays games with a few minds today, just as it did with some critics 40 years ago.

Monday, October 28, 2013

A Reminder to Make the Most of the 'Living Years'



"Say it loud, say it clear.
You can listen as well as you hear.
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye."


Mike and the Mechanics

I've never been a Mike and the Mechanics fan.

That sounds as if I don't like their music, and that isn't true. I always enjoy listening to their songs when they come on the radio. I've just never bought one of their albums or CDs.

On this day 25 years ago, I was about two–thirds of the way through my first semester of graduate school. I was also working full time for an afternoon newspaper.

I was busy, too busy to keep up with the latest music releases.

But I heard Mike and the Mechanics' hit from their second album, which was released 25 years ago today — "Living Years" — and spawned the hit song by the same name.

I have always felt that "Living Years" the song was so successful because it was so honest. And I am more convinced of that today than I was then. You see, even though I had experienced personal losses — several of them, in fact — by that time in my life, I guess I still felt that, somehow, I (and the people who were important to me) would go on indefinitely.

Of course, I know that isn't true. Maybe, deep down, I knew it then but wouldn't admit it, but I will admit it now. I don't know what happens when we die, but I do know it is something everyone will do. I can't prove that I am going to die. I just know that I will.

I think I can handle the knowledge that I will die. I guess I'm still not sure how I feel about the deaths of people who are important to me. Maybe that is because I have lost too many without telling them things I wanted to tell them. If I have any real regrets, that is it.

That is why "Living Years" speaks so powerfully to me today. Even now, I find that song as moving as I did when I first heard it — perhaps even moreso because I have endured personal losses since the song was released that have a great deal of relevance.

I can't say that I know much about the album "Living Years" because I've never listened to it. I heard the title song many times back when it was on the radio, and I liked it. At that time, I really didn't think much about the message — at least in personal terms.

But it took on a whole new meaning for me after my mother was killed in a flash flood nearly seven years later. There have been other losses for me in the last quarter of a century, but that is probably the greatest.

I guess it is only human for people to have issues with their parents. Sometimes those issues are really significant; other times not so much.

And most of the time, people die before those issues are addressed. That can scar those who are left behind. I know.

It is probably the rare individual who can say that, when his/her parents died, he/she had resolved all their unspoken issues and the air between them had been cleared. In my own case, there probably weren't any major issues lingering between Mom and me. There were just things I wanted to say to her, things that would have made it easier for me to say goodbye and deal with her death.

I'm sure my mother knew all the things I wanted to tell her. I just didn't say them. I guess I always figured there would be time.

I don't know if I have ever told anyone this, but the main reason — if not the only one — that I decided to enroll in graduate school was because it was what my mother wanted for me. I have been thankful for my master's degree many times and for many reasons over the years, but the truth is that I probably wouldn't have pursued it if not for her. I probably would have been content to stay where I was and continue to do what I was doing.

I suppose that, no matter how old one is when it happens, it is a painful experience to lose your mother. I remember what Sports Illustrated's Peter King wrote after the death of his own mother (although not word for word). He said something to the effect of: "No matter how old you are when it happens, it feels strange to be a motherless child."

Of course, "Living Years" was about the relationship between a son and his father. But its message really applied to any close relationship that ends with no warning, and that message is worth repeating any time.

An old friend of mine, who lost his father when he was 12, reminded me of this song on Father's Day this year — the ideal day to mention it and just in time to mark the 25th anniversary of its release.

I recall when my friend and I were teenagers, seniors in high school. For awhile, he insisted he would not go through our high school graduation ceremony because his father was not alive to share it with him.

We talked about it, and he eventually decided to go through the graduation ceremony. I don't know if anything I said persuaded him, but I was glad he chose to do that. His mother was still living at the time, and I remember telling him that it would mean a lot to her.

I don't know if that influenced his decision. He's never mentioned it to me. I guess I have always believed that it did.

Regardless, there was one time a few years after our graduation when my friend's mother and I were alone together, just sitting in her living room and chatting about old times. I made what was, for me, an offhand remark about one of our classmates and something that happened during the graduation ceremony. It was a very ordinary kind of thing, or so I thought.

Originally, our high school graduation was scheduled for the football field, but it rained the morning of the ceremony, and the whole thing was very nearly moved into the gymnasium. The school board — or whoever it was who made the decision — waited until practically the last minute before declaring that things would proceed as planned.

The chairs, which had been put in position the day before, had been dried off, but nothing could be done about the surface of the football field, which was soft and wet. One of the classmates ahead of me was wearing shoes that really soaked up water, and I told my friend's mother that this classmate made a rather loud squishing sound as he walked across the stage to accept his diploma.

I laughed, and she smiled, but I thought I could see her eyes glistening at the mention of the graduation ceremony. I know she wasn't getting choked up about my classmate's soggy shoes.

I think it meant something to her that my friend went through graduation — maybe she knew somehow that he had been thinking about skipping it — and I'm glad he decided to participate in it after all.

I only live a few miles from my own mother's grave. Sometimes — and for a variety of reasons — I feel the need to visit it. Often when I do, I speak to her — almost as if she could hear me. It seems like a natural thing to do. When she was alive, she was the one I turned to for advice when I faced difficulties in life, and I speak to her now the way we once spoke to my grandmother when she was in dementia's grip.

I'm not really religious. I've gone through phases in my life in which I sought the answers — hasn't everyone? — but, when you get right down to it, I don't really think that my mother can hear me when I speak in the cemetery. Why do I do it then? I don't really know.

Maybe it's because there's a part of me — probably a very small part but a part, nonetheless — that concedes that there is a possibility that there is an afterlife.

And maybe it's because there are still things I wish I had said to her in her living years.

Monday, July 01, 2013

'She Loves You' Reaches the Half-Century Mark



If there is one thing you can say about the Beatles, it is that they were exclusively a band of the 1960s — well, I guess that stopped being completely true when a couple of songs were released in the '90s that combined recordings of the late John Lennon and the three surviving Beatles, but it's mostly true.

Other than that, though, the Beatles simply can't be pigeonholed. They experimented with all sorts of styles and sounds, especially in the last two or three years that they were recording together. They were pioneers, huge influences on the bands that followed, and some of their fans will tell you that is what they liked about the Beatles' recordings. They weren't retreads of things that they had done before.

That may be why their songs still seem fresh, all these decades later. You may know the words to "Come Together," but it still has a contemporary sound, almost as if you are hearing it for the first time.

But that isn't true only of the songs the Beatles recorded in the mid– and late '60s. The early songs have their place in the evolution of pop culture as well.

In the Beatles' early days, though, their songs often were clearly commercial, designed to sell not inspire. It often seems to me that is what most 21st–century critics find objectionable.

Such listeners overlook an important point. You've got to give the people what they want before you can start giving them what you want, and the market for recorded music is controlled, as it always has been, by the folks in their volatile teen years. A catchy tune, a memorable refrain — that was what the public was looking for, and the Beatles supplied it in their early albums.

One such song was the one that was recorded 50 years ago today — "She Loves You."

Since the Beatles broke up, it's seemed to be fashionable to discuss or write about their later songs — "Hey Jude," "Let It Be," "Come Together," etc. — whenever the subject of the Beatles is introduced into the conversation.

Nothing terribly wrong with that except it disregards the early songs that brought the Beatles to America's attention in the first place.

Actually, I guess you could say it was Ed Sullivan who brought the Beatles to America's attention — and the 50th anniversary of that will be coming up in February.

But it was their music that hooked people. It was unlike anything that had been playing on the radio.

It's also what people were joking about in the mid–'60s. If you watch reruns of the popular TV sitcoms of that decade, you will occasionally encounter jokes about the Beatles. They were the hot group, the leaders of what came to be called the "British invasion" — and, consequently, easy targets for jokes.

One such popular joke was to mistake the group's name for a type of insect.

Another popular angle focused on the simplicity of some of their refrains. The refrain for "She Loves You," for example, was this — "yeah, yeah, yeah!"

When you hear the jokes that were made when "She Loves You" was at the top of the charts, they seem obvious and dated now, but they were real thigh slappers 50 years ago.

I've heard that the Beatles wrote the song after seeing a Roy Orbison concert in England on June 26 — which happened to be the day that John F. Kennedy delivered his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech in Germany.

Shortly before his murder in 1980, John Lennon, in an interview, gave Paul McCartney the credit for the song idea. They had agreed years before to share the songwriting credit on their songs, even if one had contributed much more to the project than the other, but, occasionally, each told the real story behind various songs.

For Lennon, this was one of those times.

And anyone who read the lyrics before hearing the song probably thought it was hopelessly simplistic — but after they heard the song, they were hooked.

I observed recently to a friend of mine that many Beatles songs evoke the sensation of joy, but several of McCartney's songs so relentlessly shove joy down your gullet that you are begging for mercy in no time.

"She Loves You" was an exception to that. It had an infectiousness to it that listeners were powerless to resist.

Still does.

But it could — and can — be tiresome. Hence, I suppose, the jokes about "yeah, yeah, yeah."

But that's a tradeoff I'm willing to accept.

There aren't many jokes anymore about the refrain in "She Loves You," which was released originally as a single and, eventually, was included in compilation albums, most of which (i.e., the Beatles' collection of rarities) were released years after the Beatles broke up.

It does not share the spotlight with a dozen other songs on an album. It does not lean on others, nor does it fly on borrowed wings. It stands alone.

And that makes it a true rarity.

Monday, February 04, 2013

Nothing's Gonna Change My World



"Sounds of laughter, shades of life
Are ringing through my opened ears
Inciting and inviting me.
Limitless undying love, which
Shines around me like a million suns,
It calls me on and on across the universe."


Lennon–McCartney

On this day in 1968, the Beatles recorded "Across the Universe."

Eventually, it appeared on "Let It Be," the last album the group released.

I suppose no one had ever dominated popular music the way the Beatles did in those days. Less than a year earlier, they had released "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," which was widely praised and seen as a cultural game changer.

Only a few months earlier, they had wrapped up the recording sessions for the "White Album," so named for its white cover. That was the double album that was later revealed to have influenced Charles Manson and his murderous followers some 18 months later.

That album, I suppose, was in pre–production in February 1968. They were working on tracks for their final albums, but my guess is that their thoughts were on other things.

The Beatles, as accustomed to commercial success as they were bound to have become by that time, probably were more interested in Transcendental Meditation and its developer, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

There was clearly a spiritual element to the Beatles' songs during this period. It was mostly associated with George Harrison, but "Across the Universe" was actually composed by John Lennon and was credited, as had been the practice since the 1950s, to Lennon–McCartney.

Paul McCartney had little, if anything, to do with the writing of either the music or the lyrics of "Across the Universe." It was Lennon's composition, and, in an interview with Rolling Stone in 1970, he called it "one of the best lyrics I've written."

That is certainly saying something when you think of the songs he had written — and had yet to write — when he spoke to Rolling Stone.

I don't know if I think it is the best song Lennon ever wrote — but it was definitely one of his best.

In that interview, Lennon also said he preferred his songs "that stand as words, without melody. They don't have to have any melody, like a poem, you can read them."

You could certainly read the words to "Across the Universe," but it probably helped if you brought a certain amount of spirituality to the recitation as well.

Sunday, January 01, 2012

On Such a Timeless Flight



"I'm not the man they think I am at home.
Oh, no, no, no
I'm a rocket man.
Rocket man
Burning out his fuse up here alone."

Forty years ago this month, Elton John recorded "Rocket Man."

A few months later, it was released as a single — and it has gone on to be possibly John's most recognizable recording. Oh, sure, you could mention others. "Honky Chateau," the album on which "Rocket Man" appeared, was his first album to reach #1 in America — but it was his fifth studio album.

And, within a few years of recording "Rocket Man," Sir Elton had released many others that people may be more inclined to recognize — although there is no doubt that lots of people recognize "Rocket Man."

They just don't always know the words.

That isn't an uncommon thing with popular songs, as Volkswagen cleverly demonstrated with its recent commercial featuring "Rocket Man."

The point of the commercial, of course, was to show how clear the Passat's sound system is — and it did so by showing just how many different ways a single line from a popular song can be misinterpreted.

That's really nothing new. Seems like people have been misquoting songs all my life. Doesn't really matter, I guess. Maybe that is what is magical about popular music, kind of like those write–your–own–caption contests where the cartoon is already drawn and all you have to do is supply the punch line.

In that regard, I've heard people attach such mondegreens to tunes, filing in things that were relevant to their experiences — kind of like the waitress who sings about "burnin' up the room with cheap cologne."

I certainly get the feeling, from that very brief moment in that commercial, that the waitress sings from personal experience on that one, even if it isn't the line that was originally written and recorded. The music provides the framework. The personal line gives it powerful meaning.

I knew a girl in college who equated "Rocket Man" to her own life. I don't think she misquoted the lines when she sang the song, but the song nevertheless had a personal meaning for her.

Her father drove one of those big rigs you see on the highway, hauling freight from one place to the next, and he would be away from home for long periods, trying to support a family he seldom saw and probably didn't really know.

My friend thought of her father as a rocket man.

I don't know what he hauled, and that isn't relevant, anyway. My understanding is that most truckers are contractors. They transport cargo. Doesn't matter what the cargo is. It could be food or clothing or cars — or perhaps even a hazardous cargo.

The nature of the cargo might require special handling procedures, but the objective is always the same. The cargo has to be transported from Point A to Point B. As long as the grocery store has the cookies you like to eat while you watch TV or the clothing store has the jeans you like to wear (and in your size, too), most consumers give little thought to the logistics involved.

My friend's father was one of the faceless people in America, I suppose — the ones who only get our attention when something goes wrong.

And that was the point of "Rocket Man," that a job that could be fraught with risks could be regarded by so many as routine. These days, driving a big rig may not seem terribly risky to most people — unless they watch Ice Road Truckers — and 40 years ago, many people had come to think of space travel as routine — even though they had witnessed a deadly fire during a pre–launch test five years earlier and the aborted moon mission of Apollo 13 less than two years before.

Now, of course, the space shuttle, which didn't even exist when John recorded "Rocket Man," has been retired. In spite of two disasters with space shuttle missions, it was seen as ordinary, predictable, routine.

There's nothing routine about space travel. For that matter, there's nothing predictable about life. It's different for everyone.

Kind of like interpretations of song lyrics.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Smells Like Teen Spirit



In the music industry, 1991 is remembered for a couple of reasons:
  • the popularity of contemporary Christian music, which was probably best embodied at the time in the recordings of Amy Grant and their crossover appeal to more mainstream audiences; and

  • the emergence of grunge as a popular offshoot of so–called "alternative" rock music.
Grunge had been around for awhile, but it really came into prominence in 1991.

And perhaps no other song exemplified that musical style better than the song that was first issued to radio stations on this date (it was released commercially as a single two weeks later and became Nirvana's biggest hit) — "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

TIME called it "an anthem for apathetic kids."

Rolling Stone ranked it ninth on its list of the 500 greatest songs of all time — ahead of everything by the Beatles except "Hey Jude" and ahead of anything by Elvis.

The story is that the title was inspired by some graffiti that a female friend of Nirvana lead singer Kurt Cobain spray painted on the wall of his apartment. The graffiti reportedly said, "Kurt smells like Teen Spirit," which was the name of a women's deodorant that Cobain's girlfriend wore. When the girl left him, Cobain used the line as his inspiration.

The song's success was completely unexpected — and a little contradictory to the anti–commercialism of grunge.

It was also more of a collaborative effort than anything else on the band's incredibly successful "Nevermind" album. Cobain presented the basic composition to the group, and then each one contributed at least one suggestion that was used in the final version.

Consequently, it was the only song on the album to list all three band members as authors.

The music video that Cobain and his band mates made was critically acclaimed as well.

In all fairness to Cobain, just how much success can one man stand?

Although the song was praised by the critics and brought Cobain and his band mates fame and fortune, they remained uncomfortable with it — to the extent of deliberately omitting it from concert playlists.

In what I suppose was a sign of the times, "Weird Al" Yankovic told Rolling Stone that Cobain "didn't realize he'd made it" until he heard Yankovic's parody of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

If that was so, Cobain must have been the only one who didn't know he had made it.

Monday, August 01, 2011

Like a Sad Song



"Sometimes I feel like a sad song
Like I'm all alone without you."


John Denver
"Like a Sad Song" (1976)

Today is the first day of August.

When I was a child, the arrival of August meant that the lazy days of summer were nearing their end, and it would be time to return to the classroom before long.

I'm back in the classroom these days, teaching journalism and writing at the local community college, but August has more significance than that for me now.

August is a bittersweet time for me, and the anniversaries come at me rapidly.

One year ago on Friday, my friend Phyllis died of pneumonia.

Twenty years ago on Sunday, another good friend of mine named Mike died after a brief battle with an especially aggressive form of cancer.

And this month would have been a milestone birthday for my mother, who died in 1995.

It is appropriate for me, I suppose, that this month is also the 35th anniversary of John Denver's release of his tune "Like a Sad Song."

I've written in this blog of my mother's fondness for Denver's music. I don't know how Phyllis or Mike felt about it.

Speaking of Mom, I don't specifically recall if she sang along with this recording — or if she even had it in her collection — the way she often did with other John Denver songs.

It wasn't really her style. It wasn't as cheery or upbeat as most of the folk music she tended to favor. In fact, it was really more like a blues piece — in my opinion. I don't think Mom had anything against the blues, but "Like a Sad Song" really was, as Denver says in the attached video, a saloon song — and that really wasn't Mom's thing.

But the song — one of the few Denver recordings to be ranked in the Top 10 on the adult contemporary charts in both the U.S. and Canada — seems right for thoughts of those three this month. I'm not completely sure why. The lyrics speak of supposedly young lovers sharing their lives — and that isn't what any of those relationships were about.

Still, the music is pretty. It kind of reminds me of a flute solo, which in turn reminds me of Phyllis. When she died last year, I wrote of her great talent as a musician, and I think it will always be one of my strongest memories of her. It is probably no coincidence that, when I think of really beautiful music, I think of the flute. That was Phyllis' instrument.

And the words are kind of haunting and wistful. With a slightly different spin, they could apply to all three relationships.

These days, my memories of those three dance lightly in my head, and they become intertwined at times. And "Like a Sad Song" plays in my mind like the soundtrack to those thoughts and memories.

A few years after Mom died, I picked up a CD collection of Denver's best songs. "Like a Sad Song" is on it — and, on occasion in recent weeks, I have listened to it. And I have thought about Mom, Phyllis and Mike.

I miss them all. Sometimes I do feel like a sad song.

Wednesday, June 01, 2011

Harrison's Tribute to Lennon



The murder of John Lennon in December 1980 was, as I have written before, a traumatic event for anyone who was old enough to understand what had happened — but especially if that person happened to be old enough to remember when Lennon was half of the most influential songwriting team in the world.

I was only a child when the Beatles were making records, but I really felt as if I had lost a friend when Lennon was killed. I could only imagine how devastating it must have been for those who really had been close to Lennon during his life — people like former Beatles bandmate George Harrison.

Harrison's solo career after the Beatles broke up was kind of a mixed bag, I guess. It started out with a bang. He had a huge backlog of material that he never recorded with the Beatles, and he took the extraordinary step of releasing a triple album at a time when double albums were still something of a rarity — not to mention a gamble for an unproven solo artist (even one who had been a member of the Beatles).

I always felt — and, apparently, so did many others — that the quality of the songs on that triple album justified its release. More than 30 years later, that triple album — "All Things Must Pass" — was still held in such high regard that Rolling Stone named it one of the Top 500 Albums of All Time.

In August 1971, Harrison organized what I always felt was the model for the benefit concerts that were so prevalent in the 1980s — his star–studded concert to raise funds for Bangladesh refugees that he expanded into a revenue–producing movie and another triple album.

After that, though, his success was spotty for the rest of the decade, I would say. He had a few high moments but nothing approaching the commercial reactions he got for his earlier post–Beatles efforts.

And, in 1979 and 1980, he was ensnared in the production of an album that dragged endlessly.

A few months before Lennon's murder, Harrison thought he had finished work on the album, but the record label executives told him to drop four songs because they were too downbeat — so Harrison returned to the studio.

Just before Lennon's death, Harrison was working with another ex–Beatle, Ringo Starr, on a song called "All Those Years Ago," but it was unfinished until Lennon was killed.

I'm not sure what "All Those Years Ago" was about before Lennon's murder. After that event, though, it took on its true purpose — as a tribute to Lennon.

Harrison reworked the lyrics and included references to "All You Need Is Love" and Lennon's biggest hit as a solo performer, "Imagine."

Both references must have been painful for Harrison. "All You Need Is Love" was commissioned by the BBC, which had asked the Beatles for a song that contained a simple message that everyone could understand.

And Lennon himself had said that Harrison's contributions to Lennon's "Imagine" album were "the best he's ever f**king played in his life."

Harrison still had more to say musically about Lennon and the Beatles, which he did a few years later in a song called "When We Was Fab."

And he found a receptive audience for that single, too.

But the prime time for musical tributes to Lennon was in the early 1980s.

Less than a year after Harrison's song was released, Elton John released his homage to Lennon, "Empty Garden (Hey Hey Johnny)."

That was a good song — John himself said he had been afraid that songs that were dedicated to Lennon would be "cheesy" until he read Bernie Taupin's lyrics in "Empty Garden."

But, to me, Harrison's song was more powerful. Maybe that was because of the knowledge that Lennon and Harrison had shared the staggering experience of being Beatles — something that only three other people ever shared with them.

It was actually released as a single in May 1981, but it was released as part of the "Somewhere in England" album on this day 30 years ago.

And it is to the presence of "All Those Years Ago" that "Somewhere in England" owes the success it enjoyed. As I recall, that is virtually the only song from the album that was known — or played on the radio — at the time, and it is likely the only reason the album reached #11 on the charts.

But those charts were misleading. The album's success was meteoric in nature, and it quickly fell from the heights it reached.

In hindsight, the album's commercial performance resembled the monthly jobs report with its conflicting numbers.

The album's chart position would suggest greater sales than it actually enjoyed. Its time on the charts was brief, though, and it wound up being Harrison's first solo album that failed to achieve gold status in the United States.

But Harrison's tribute to Lennon will always make that album special in his discography.

Hey Good Lookin' Turns 60



About a year and a half before his still–mysterious death at the age of 29, country music legend Hank Williams released one of his final #1 hits — "Hey Good Lookin'."

Hank was on a roll at that point in his life. He'd had a single #1 hit between 1947 and 1949, but, in 1950, he seemed to explode on the charts with three #1 hits — and he kept that hot streak going the following year, starting with "Cold, Cold Heart" — and he nearly made it three #1 hits in a row with "Howlin' at the Moon," which reached #3.

You could probably recite a list of all the #1 hits Williams had in his brief but explosive career (as well as after his death), and any one of them could almost be said to be the definitive Williams song.

His style could be bluesy and earthy, and it could be playful and lively. I always felt "Hey Good Lookin' " touched on it all.

Oh, I guess you could say the same thing about songs like "Jambalaya" or "Settin' the Woods on Fire" — or several other Williams standards. For that matter, "Howlin' at the Moon" had the same sense of whimsy as "Hey Good Lookin'," but it isn't as well remembered, even though it was released at about the same time.

In the last year of his life, Williams had five songs that made it at least to #2 on the charts — and two of them reached the top. One of those songs was "Jambalaya" (which was released more than a year after "Hey Good Lookin' ") and the other, ironically, was called "I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive."

The song was intended to be humorous, as you can probably tell from the title. It was still climbing the charts when Williams died on the first day of 1953 — and took on considerably deeper meaning after that.

But, in June 1951, that was still in the future.

Sixty years ago, Williams was crooning to someone who was good lookin' and wonderin' what she had cookin'.

"How's about cookin' somethin' up with me?"

It has been covered by countless performers over the years, but, half a century after it was released, Williams' version was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.

That's staying power.

Friday, May 27, 2011

This Booty Call Was a Wrong Number



In 1975, K.C. and the Sunshine Band released their first two #1 hits — "Get Down Tonight" and "That's the Way (I Like It)."

And I hoped — in vain — that the disco craze would be over soon. Alas, it was not.

On this day in 1976, the group released what would become their third #1 hit — "(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty" — and, whether the events were related or not, disco remained with us for a few more years.

I always felt that "(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty" represented everything that was wrong with disco.

The music captured the essence of what it was like to be young, but the lyrics were so idiotic that it was impossible for the songs to have any real relevance to people as they went through life's stages.

The priorities of disco music were reversed. That's why the songs had no staying power.

I can listen to most of the music that has been popular in different periods of my life, and the very best songs — the ones that last — always have good lyrics in common. The music is usually pretty good, too, but, in most cases, outstanding lyrics can more than make up for less–than–outstanding music.

But, by and large, the lyrics for disco songs were insipid — even the lyrics of the songs by the performers who were considered disco's best (a list that included the likes of the Bee Gees, Donna Summer and K.C. and the Sunshine Band).

And that's saying something when you consider some of the songs — disco and otherwise — that were being written and recorded in the 1970s.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Iron Butterfly's Swan Song



I have a true confession for you today.

When I was a teenager, I used to enjoy listening to comedy albums. (Still do, actually, although I'm more exclusive about it today.)

Hold on. That isn't the confession. Here it is.

I really enjoyed listening to Cheech & Chong, whose humor was (shall we say?) often high on drug culture gags.

Anyway, one of their routines had them watching a game show on TV, and the show's emcee was announcing the winner of a trivia contest. Participants had been asked to name the three most–played songs in the history of the English language, and the correct answers were:
  • "Happy Birthday to You,"

  • "Auld Lang Syne" and

  • "In–A–Gadda–Da–Vida"
(First prize in the contest, as I recall, was a "blind date with Stevie Wonder.")

I thought that was hilarious because, well, I had no idea what "In–A–Gadda–Da–Vida" was. And it sure as heck didn't sound like English to me.

I found out what it was later.

It was one of the first truly psychedelic recordings, and it was the biggest thing ever to come from a group called Iron Butterfly. It was popular when it was released — but that was really before I started listening to the radio.

(In its original studio version, which was recorded on May 27, 1968, the song had extensive instrumental solos and interludes. I liked walking while listening to a recording of it because it had about a five–minute section that was primarily a steady drumbeat. You could really get into a rhythm when you were listening to it.)

Originally, the song was supposed to be called "In the Garden of Eden." Accounts of how it became "In–A–Gadda–Da–Vida" vary — one holds that keyboardist/vocalist Doug Ingle was intoxicated and slurred the words while rehearsing or recording, creating the mondegreen by which it became known, and another holds that Ingle slurred the words when telling a bandmate the title.

(Still a third version suggests the bandmate had been wearing headphones when he asked for the title of the song and did not hear it clearly, after which he repeated what he had heard to someone else or wrote it down as the title.)

The point is that somewhere — to borrow a line from a popular movie of the time — there was a failure to communicate.

That wasn't the only thing the song had going against it.

The original studio track was nearly 18 minutes long and occupied the entire second side of the album. Nevertheless, it reached #30 on the Billboard chart — and it made it financially viable for other groups to record songs that were longer — in some cases much longer — than the standard two or three minutes.

It's held up well. Two years ago, Vh1 ranked it #24 on its Top 100 Hard Rock Songs of All Time list — more than 40 years after it was recorded.

Iron Butterfly didn't hold up quite as well. The original group disbanded 40 years ago today after playing a show. It went through various incarnations in the years after that but never enjoyed much success.

One of the original members is dead now, and Iron Butterfly is rapidly receding from view.

The Butterfly may exist again in another incarnation, but it will never again enjoy the heights it reached in the late 1960s.

It has become a relic from another time, and "In–A–Gadda–Da–Vida" is a souvenir from that time ...

... a time that was full of contradictions ...

... a time that seemed to have more than its share of sad moments ...

... but also had its silly moments ...

... a time when "In the Garden of Eden" could be mislabeled "In–A–Gadda–Da–Vida" and be a bigger success than it might otherwise have been.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Gettin' Funky with Aerosmith



Over the years, I have frequently heard Aerosmith described as "America's Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Band."

I don't know if that is true or not — but I do know that, if you were a teen–ager in the 1970s, Aerosmith's music was everywhere.

It was on the radio whenever I drove anywhere, and my friends would be listening to it on their stereos whenever I arrived at their homes. It was playing in the pinball joints where my friends and I hung out and in the pizza places where we ate.

I remember the day I passed my driving test. When I drove home that afternoon, "Sweet Emotion" was playing on the radio. It wasn't brand new in those days — but it was a relatively recent hit (like "Walk This Way").

In May 1976, Aerosmith released its fourth album in less than 3½ years — "Rocks."

The band had been steadily developing a following since releasing its first album in January 1973. "Dream On" was on that album, but it didn't reach the national Top 10 until it was re–released as a single in 1976.

As I say, Aerosmith was hot, and, by and large, you knew what you were getting when you listened to an Aerosmith album — hard–driving power rock that was strongly influenced by the blues. It re–defined things.

That Aerosmith sound was well established by the time "Rocks" was released in 1976 — which is why the second song on the album, "Last Child," really made me sit up and take notice.

"Last Child" was the most noteworthy songwriting contribution from guitarist Brad Whitford, and it had an indisputably funk feel to it.

I guess it was a fusion of funk and rock, with a healthy portion of blues tossed in, but it was that touch of funk that made the song stand out from everything else on the album.

As a teen–ager, I must admit that I didn't understand the lyrics. But that didn't matter to me.

I liked the music.

I can't honestly say that I understand the lyrics any better today than I did in 1976.

But I still like the music.

Saturday, May 07, 2011

True-to-Life Sound



It was at this time 35 years ago that Pink Floyd was in a London recording studio working on the tracks for an album that would be released in January 1977.

The album was called "Animals," and I still remember buying it and bringing it home a few months after it was released. It was the first Pink Floyd album I ever owned — although I had heard others (notably "Dark Side of the Moon" and "Wish You Were Here") — but it was hardly the last.

I suppose I was originally attracted to the album because it had been inspired by George Orwell's "Animal Farm," and I had just read that book in school before the album was released (although the record was a critique of capitalism whereas Orwell's book was about Stalinism).

But later, after I had listened to the album many times, I fell in love with the unique style of the music and lyrics and the creative use of the synthesizers, which were supposed to duplicate the sounds that animals made with uncanny precision.

I didn't realize how precise they actually were until several years later.

1976 was something of a transitional year in popular music, I suppose. I mean, albums were being released by the veterans of the music scene, like Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Paul McCartney, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones and others, but they were also being released by the lesser lights, the disco stars and the one–hit wonders.

In those days, when one switched on the radio, one was as likely to hear K.C. and the Sunshine Band or Blondie as the Who.

And you never heard Pink Floyd — except for the more commercially appealing songs, like "Money" and "Time."

I began my switch to CD technology around 1990 or 1991, I think — and the first CD I purchased was "Animals."

The first time I listened to that CD was truly memorable for me. It was spring, as I recall, and I had my living room window open to permit the gentle breeze of a spring evening to blow through my apartment.

In those days, I had a dog that was part black Lab — and part something else. He was a stray, about 10 weeks old when I took him in. Our vet never could tell me what the other part was. All we knew for certain was that my dog was not a full–blooded black Lab.

Anyway, I had had him for a couple of years when I brought home my first CD player. It seems to me that, in those first two years, I played my LP of "Animals" on a few occasions, and the dog had paid no visible attention to the sounds in it.

But when I played the CD — with its digital re–creation of those synthesizer sounds — the reaction was entirely different.

In the song "Dogs," you hear synthesizer–generated sounds that mimic the sounds of barking dogs, starting around the five–minute mark. When the CD reached that point, my dog jumped up from where he had been dozing and went over to the living room window. It was from that vantage point that he always looked for dogs that he heard (or thought he heard) outside.

But this time, there were no dogs to be seen. He seemed disappointed. A kind of muffled "Woof!" sprang from his mouth, almost involuntarily, and he slowly made his way back to where he had been sleeping.

A few minutes later, though — around the 10–minute mark of the song — the synthesizer mimicked the sound of a dog owner whistling for his dog, and my dog sprang to his feet. He looked at me expectantly, apparently certain that I had been the one who had been whistling.

But I hadn't — a fact that was soon confirmed for him when the whistling sound could be heard again. Even a dog could tell the sound wasn't coming from me.

My dog has been deceased now for more than 17 years. He got loose from me one evening and ran into a street, where he was struck by a vehicle.

I listened to that CD a few more times before he died, and his response was always the same.

He never did figure out where that barking and whistling were coming from.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Sticky Fingers



If you feel like the Rolling Stones have been around forever, you aren't alone. A lot of us feel that way.

I saw the Stones perform in concert when I was in college — and they had been around so long by that time that much of their show consisted of songs that were already designated as "golden oldies."

Don't get me wrong. It was a good show, one of the best I have ever seen in person. But the Stones clearly were a nostalgia trip by that time.

You had to go back about a generation to find someone who could remember — vividly — when the Stones were new, a testosterone–enhanced version of the Beatles.

They built that image with a list of songs that seems, in hindsight, to have been destined for greatness, for inclusion among the all–time greats — "Satisfaction," "Sympathy For The Devil," "Gimme Shelter," "You Can't Always Get What You Want," "Honky Tonk Women" and others, of course.

When I saw them, they were still cranking out hits (that hasn't changed although the Stones' pace definitely has slowed in recent years), but there was no doubt that the Stones were a relic from another era. There were people in the crowd that day who were my age, but there were also people who were 20 or even 30 years older. Even then, the Stones had a remarkable reach that spanned generations.

I can only imagine what kind of age range is drawn to a Stones show these days — everything from 6 to 60 and beyond, I suppose.

Well, whatever the size of the crowd that may come to see a Stones show these days, the Stones have earned the attention — in no small part because of an album they released 40 years ago today, "Sticky Fingers."

It was the Stones' first studio album since "Let It Bleed," the album they had been promoting on their late 1969 tour, just before the deadly free concert at Altamont. That event seemed to disrupt, at least momentarily, the Stones' momentum. The only album they released between Altamont in 1969 and this day in 1971 was a recording of live tracks.

(That live album, by the way, was a great album. For many years, it was widely considered to be the best concert album ever made — and you can still find people who will tell you that.)

There were lots of great Stones albums and singles coming out in those days. In fact, if I had to name the most productive five–year period that the Stones have ever had, I would have to pick 1968 to 1972, which included the releases of four of their best studio albums — "Beggars Banquet," "Let It Bleed," "Sticky Fingers" and "Exile on Main Street."

(Those four were, in my opinion, flawless, although some might argue that nearly every album the Stones released until about the mid–1970s was flawless or nearly so, and the same probably could be said of the albums that followed "Exile" — "Goats Head Soup" and "It's Only Rock 'n' Roll.")

But "Sticky Fingers" was the first to be released on the Stones' very own, newly created recording label, and it featured a rather risque (for the time) album cover showing a jeans–clad, presumably male figure from the waist down with an actual zipper.

In spite of the controversy that I do remember erupting around me when that record was released, I don't remember being overly influenced by album cover art at that time. I was just starting to appreciate the popular music of the day, and I tended to think of an album in terms of which songs it contained, not its theme or message.

There were two great singles on "Sticky Fingers." A lot of people would tell you that "Brown Sugar" was the best, and there's good reason for saying that. It was certainly more commercially successful. It reached #1 on the charts, and it was more of an up–tempo song, the kind of a song that the Stones have always done so well.

But I always felt drawn more to "Wild Horses."

I don't know why that is. Could be several reasons for it, I guess. I was raised in the South, and "Wild Horses" had more of a country sound to it than anything else the Stones had done up to that time. I wasn't exactly a fan of country music when I was growing up, but it was familiar to me.

But the thing about "Wild Horses," you see, is that it is really more of a ballad, in my view — and that means that people can adapt it to fit their personal styles.

So many people have done so already — including Susan Boyle, who soared to worldwide fame after her appearance on "Britain's Got Talent" a couple of years ago.

Both songs have been standards on Stones tours for years now.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Take Me Home, Country Roads



It never fails. I always think of my mother when I hear a song by John Denver.

And it was 40 years ago today that he released a recording that has come to be viewed as his "signature" song — "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

I suppose there are others that might qualify for that designation — songs that were written solely by Denver — but this one is often thought of, by people all over the world, as his signature song.

But the truth is that it began as the composition of Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert, a husband–wife songwriting team that is perhaps better known for founding Starland Vocal Band, which scored a big hit five years later with the Danoff–Nivert song, "Afternoon Delight."

According to the story, Denver was injured in a car accident in late 1970. While he was recuperating, Danoff and Nivert shared with him a song they had been working on since attending a family reunion. The three of them worked on the song all night and more or less had the finished version ready by the following morning.

And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

Denver insisted that he had to include the song on his next album — which he did. But he released it as a single first — on this day 40 years ago. It had a bumpy start but it was eventually certified as a million–selling recording by mid–August.

In the last four decades, it has accomplished something that few contemporary songs have achieved. It has been considered by West Virginia lawmakers for designation as the state song. To date, no such resolution has been passed.

But few living songwriters can claim that any of their compositions was considered for anything like that. Matter of fact, not too many descendants of deceased songwriters can claim that their ancestors were so honored, either.

Originally, the song was written about country roads in Maryland. It was adapted for West Virginia although many of the references still are more appropriate for Maryland — and, for that matter, it is my understanding that another version of the song is sung by fans of the Colorado Rapids soccer team.

But that is the great thing about "Take Me Home, Country Roads," even if you didn't grow up in a rural setting. It describes the emotions of a homecoming, of a person's return to a familiar place from which he/she has been absent for a long time.

"Country roads" can just as easily be "city streets" or "multi–lane highways" — whatever takes you home, wherever home might be. Denver wasn't a snob. He was a defender of nature and wildlife, but he recognized the legitimacy of one's feelings for home, whether one's home was in the country or the city.

And, for me, the memories that this song brings back inevitably include thoughts of my mother because she was a fan of Denver's music when I was in my early teens.

I can still remember being in the family car with Mom and hearing a John Denver song come on the radio — and Mom would hum along with the tune, sometimes singing the words.

And I remember other times when we were at home, and Mom would put on one of the many John Denver records we had in the house — and she would hum or sing along with it.

There were times when I was growing up when my home was filled with the sounds of John Denver's music. He was such a constant presence in my life that I almost felt as if I knew him — or, at least, he knew me.

We lived in the country, too, and many of the things Denver described in his songs reflected things from my existence when I was a child. But, at the same time, there were thoughts and feelings that Denver's songs expressed that, I have no doubt, reminded Mom of her childhood in Dallas.

Denver was always good at that sort of thing, and I guess it accounts for the enduring popularity of his music more than 10 years after his death.