Bill Janovitz - Part Time Man of Rock

New Site! Say Goodbye to this One.

2011-07-28T12:04:00.003-04:00

BillJanovitz.com and PartTimeManofRock.com will both be the same site now. All new covers and post will live there as this site comes to an end.

Keep checking in!

B

Summer Songs for Boston Mag

2011-07-28T11:48:00.004-04:00

This is the full, unedited version of a post I wrote for Boston Magazine.

With my day job marketing real estate entering the semi-dormant state of the dead of summer, my attention veers back to music, specifically, songs that I love to play during the summer. Since I am trying out Spotify (user name billjanovitz), I will attempt to share a playlist there for the first time. Let's see if this experiment works with this link. I make no claim that these are the 10 best summer songs of all time (you would need "Summertime Blues," "Dancing in the Street," and "Heat Wave" on such a list.) These are not necessarily even my top 10, but they are the first 10 that jump to mind right now.

One of my band's (Buffalo Tom) best-known songs is called, "Summer," in fact. And like that song, many of my picks here have to do with the passing of summer or are otherwise melancholy. In fact, one of my song's lines goes, "Summer's gone, a summer song/You've wasted everyday." Uplifting, eh? I think this has every thing to do with growing up in the Northeast, where summer is so precious, and every year it seems to pass ever more quickly. We trot out all the cliches about the passage of time. And that is what my favorite summer-themed songs explore. Make the summer count, goes the sentiment, and by extension, make every day of life meaningful.

1. The Beach Boys, "Surfer Girl"

How could any list of summer songs not include a Beach Boys song? In fact, I could easily constitute the list with all Beach Boys numbers, including other melancholy numbers like "In My Room." This song is all about pining all summer for a girl from afar, an elusive surfer girl, over the classic pop ballad chord progression and a bed of plaintive Four Freshman-like harmonies. Poor old Brian wasn't the surfer. His brother, Dennis was. Brian was just a fish out of water more comfortable in his room. Pet Sounds was the real Brian. And so was his lament, "Surfer Girl."

2. War, "Summer"

OK, let's stop wallowing for a minute and just enjoy summer with this one from the band War. I am a child of the 1970s, so more than a couple of my picks are from that era. War sings of many of the cultural highlights of the '70s: "Riding 'round town with all the windows down/Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds." Late they sing about vans and CB radios. It was like they had a direct line to my heart and soul, or at least my fantasy world. It has such a good latin-funk groove that you can't help but chill.

3. Sly & The Family Stone, "Hot Sun in the Summertime"

This is one that would appear on the lists of many folks, no doubt. From 1969, the genre-smashing Sly & the Family Stone, offering a nostalgic look back at summer's past, but still celebratory of summers present. Sly could ease off of the funk pedal now and then with a big blast of horn-driven pop like this one.

4. Lou Rawls, "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"

Some songs just remind you of summer, even if the lyrics have nothing to do with the theme. This Gamble & Huff smash was released in 1976. Every time I hear it, it brings me back to summer of that year. I was 10, growing up on the north shore beaches of Long Island. This latin-funk-tinged slab of Philly soul was number one in July 1976. It poured forth out of every little Panasonic transistor radio on the beach, wafting over the gentle breakers on the jetty. I remember watching Lou on the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" that summer. Johnny asked Lou, "do you like any of the new singers out today?" Lou replied, smoothly, "awww yeah, man. I love 'em all." Probing in that hardball way Johnny was known for, he pressed on, "anyone specifically you like to listen to?" Lou, kept his cool, undaunted, not prone to the sort of panic that would result in a weaker man blurting out something like "K.C. & the Sunshine band," just purred again, "aww, I just love 'em all." And I believed him.

5. Frank Sinatra, "The Summer Wind."

Frank Sinatra once said that Lou Rawls had "the classiest singing and silkiest chops in the singing game." Which leads me to a Sinatra number. I grew up with this song (my mother is a 100% Italian New Yorker) but when I heard it over the opening scene ofThe Pope of Greenwich Village, with Mickey Rourke getting all dressed to the nines for his gig as a restaurant manager, it was sort of life-changing, or at least a revelation. I went to thinking Frank was actually cool. Sure, we all know that now, but this was 1984. I was 18. Sure, I liked Frank, but I didn't think he was cool. What the hell did I know? I was a kid, for chrissakes! I have sung this song at weddings, piano bars at Frank's Steakhouse, and the Paddock, not to mention karaoke joints around the world. What a lyric by Johnny Mercer: "Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by/The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky." And what a powerful Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Henry Meyer composition! It swings, baby! the version on my Spotify playlist is an older Frank, live at Radio City, from 1990. The years in his voice adds another layer of depth to the poignant lyric.

6. João Gilberto, Meditação ("Meditation)

The bossa nova stylings of Antonio Carlos Jobim and João Gilberto make for deeply satisfying summer listening. Gilberto is credited as creating this style, which take the beat of the samba but brings it to a stripped down, mellower context. Gilberto worked with the writer and producer Jobim to record some of the 20th century's most sublime melodies and lyrics. Depending on the translation from the native Portuguese, these songs can achieve the same Zen effect of Haiku, with nature, solitude, and meditation common threads that run between the art forms. Gilberto provides this evergreen Jobim song with his unadorned vocal style, which allows the listener to just soak in the melody, rest in the gentle samba sway, and ponder the rich lyric.

7. Chet Baker, "There Will Never Be Another You."

Chet Baker is closely identified with the "West Coast cool" offshoot of bop, which traded influences with bossa nova. One can here the similar "flat" style of singing, the relative straightforward presentation of the melody, and the gentle swing. There are few hard edges, but don't this stuff as "light." Chet's singing is deeply emotional and he was a real jazz player, surrounded by some of the best in the business when he tok to the microphone for his seminal Chet Baker Sings (1956)

8. The Rolling Stones, "Memory Motel"

Growing up on Long Island, we heard about this being written at and/or about the motel of the same name out in Montauk. This record, like many of the Stones' middle period, is actually quite underrated. This ballad screams 1970s summer and is one of my all-time fave Stones numbers. "When I asked her where she's headed for/'Back up to Boston, I'm singing in a bar.'"

9. Elvin Bishop, "Fooled Around and Fell in Love"

Elvin Bishop was one of those guitarists who had an act under his own name but had his biggest hit with a guest vocalist, Mickey Thomas, a top blue-eyed soul singer who went on to become the lead singer in Jefferson Starship. This smash was peaked at number three on the charts in May of 1976 but was all over the radio that summer, hence its effective placement in movies like Boogie Nights and Summer of Sam. It has that "burned out at the end of a hot summer's day" feel to me, driving home all sunburned at the beach.

10. Grateful Dead, "U.S. Blues"

As I said, I am unapologetically a child of the 1970s, and this is an shameless summer anthem, filled with images of Americana, name-dropping the likes of P.T. Barnum and Charlie Chan, flag waving and bits of other old-timey summertime fun.

Summer Songs for Boston Mag

2011-07-28T11:48:00.002-04:00

This is the full, unedited version of a post I wrote for Boston Magazine.

With my day job marketing real estate entering the semi-dormant state of the dead of summer, my attention veers back to music, specifically, songs that I love to play during the summer. Since I am trying out Spotify, I will attempt to share a playlist there for the first time. Let's see if this experiment works with this link. I make no claim that these are the 10 best summer songs of all time (you would need "Summertime Blues," "Dancing in the Street," and "Heat Wave" on such a list.) These are not necessarily even my top 10, but they are the first 10 that jump to mind right now.

One of my band's (Buffalo Tom) best-known songs is called, "Summer," in fact. And like that song, many of my picks here have to do with the passing of summer or are otherwise melancholy. In fact, one of my song's lines goes, "Summer's gone, a summer song/You've wasted everyday." Uplifting, eh? I think this has every thing to do with growing up in the Northeast, where summer is so precious, and every year it seems to pass ever more quickly. We trot out all the cliches about the passage of time. And that is what my favorite summer-themed songs explore. Make the summer count, goes the sentiment, and by extension, make every day of life meaningful.

1. The Beach Boys, "Surfer Girl"

How could any list of summer songs not include a Beach Boys song? In fact, I could easily constitute the list with all Beach Boys numbers, including other melancholy numbers like "In My Room." This song is all about pining all summer for a girl from afar, an elusive surfer girl, over the classic pop ballad chord progression and a bed of plaintive Four Freshman-like harmonies. Poor old Brian wasn't the surfer. His brother, Dennis was. Brian was just a fish out of water more comfortable in his room. Pet Sounds was the real Brian. And so was his lament, "Surfer Girl."

2. War, "Summer"

OK, let's stop wallowing for a minute and just enjoy summer with this one from the band War. I am a child of the 1970s, so more than a couple of my picks are from that era. War sings of many of the cultural highlights of the '70s: "Riding 'round town with all the windows down/Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds." Late they sing about vans and CB radios. It was like they had a direct line to my heart and soul, or at least my fantasy world. It has such a good latin-funk groove that you can't help but chill.

3. Sly & The Family Stone, "Hot Sun in the Summertime"

This is one that would appear on the lists of many folks, no doubt. From 1969, the genre-smashing Sly & the Family Stone, offering a nostalgic look back at summer's past, but still celebratory of summers present. Sly could ease off of the funk pedal now and then with a big blast of horn-driven pop like this one.

4. Lou Rawls, "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"

Some songs just remind you of summer, even if the lyrics have nothing to do with the theme. This Gamble & Huff smash was released in 1976. Every time I hear it, it brings me back to summer of that year. I was 10, growing up on the north shore beaches of Long Island. This latin-funk-tinged slab of Philly soul was number one in July 1976. It poured forth out of every little Panasonic transistor radio on the beach, wafting over the gentle breakers on the jetty. I remember watching Lou on the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" that summer. Johnny asked Lou, "do you like any of the new singers out today?" Lou replied, smoothly, "awww yeah, man. I love 'em all." Probing in that hardball way Johnny was known for, he pressed on, "anyone specifically you like to listen to?" Lou, kept his cool, undaunted, not prone to the sort of panic that would result in a weaker man blurting out something like "K.C. & the Sunshine band," just purred again, "aww, I just love 'em all." And I believed him.

5. Frank Sinatra, "The Summer Wind."

Frank Sinatra once said that Lou Rawls had "the classiest singing and silkiest chops in the singing game." Which leads me to a Sinatra number. I grew up with this song (my mother is a 100% Italian New Yorker) but when I heard it over the opening scene ofThe Pope of Greenwich Village, with Mickey Rourke getting all dressed to the nines for his gig as a restaurant manager, it was sort of life-changing, or at least a revelation. I went to thinking Frank was actually cool. Sure, we all know that now, but this was 1984. I was 18. Sure, I liked Frank, but I didn't think he was cool. What the hell did I know? I was a kid, for chrissakes! I have sung this song at weddings, piano bars at Frank's Steakhouse, and the Paddock, not to mention karaoke joints around the world. What a lyric by Johnny Mercer: "Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by/The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky." And what a powerful Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Henry Meyer composition! It swings, baby! the version on my Spotify playlist is an older Frank, live at Radio City, from 1990. The years in his voice adds another layer of depth to the poignant lyric.

6. João Gilberto, Meditação ("Meditation)

The bossa nova stylings of Antonio Carlos Jobim and João Gilberto make for deeply satisfying summer listening. Gilberto is credited as creating this style, which take the beat of the samba but brings it to a stripped down, mellower context. Gilberto worked with the writer and producer Jobim to record some of the 20th century's most sublime melodies and lyrics. Depending on the translation from the native Portuguese, these songs can achieve the same Zen effect of Haiku, with nature, solitude, and meditation common threads that run between the art forms. Gilberto provides this evergreen Jobim song with his unadorned vocal style, which allows the listener to just soak in the melody, rest in the gentle samba sway, and ponder the rich lyric.

7. Chet Baker, "There Will Never Be Another You."

Chet Baker is closely identified with the "West Coast cool" offshoot of bop, which traded influences with bossa nova. One can here the similar "flat" style of singing, the relative straightforward presentation of the melody, and the gentle swing. There are few hard edges, but don't this stuff as "light." Chet's singing is deeply emotional and he was a real jazz player, surrounded by some of the best in the business when he tok to the microphone for his seminal Chet Baker Sings (1956)

8. The Rolling Stones, "Memory Motel"

Growing up on Long Island, we heard about this being written at and/or about the motel of the same name out in Montauk. This record, like many of the Stones' middle period, is actually quite underrated. This ballad screams 1970s summer and is one of my all-time fave Stones numbers. "When I asked her where she's headed for/'Back up to Boston, I'm singing in a bar.'"

9. Elvin Bishop, "Fooled Around and Fell in Love"

Elvin Bishop was one of those guitarists who had an act under his own name but had his biggest hit with a guest vocalist, Mickey Thomas, a top blue-eyed soul singer who went on to become the lead singer in Jefferson Starship. This smash was peaked at number three on the charts in May of 1976 but was all over the radio that summer, hence its effective placement in movies like Boogie Nights and Summer of Sam. It has that "burned out at the end of a hot summer's day" feel to me, driving home all sunburned at the beach.

10. Grateful Dead, "U.S. Blues"

As I said, I am unapologetically a child of the 1970s, and this is an shameless summer anthem, filled with images of Americana, name-dropping the likes of P.T. Barnum and Charlie Chan, flag waving and bits of other old-timey summertime fun.

CoTW 108 - Jersey Girl

2011-07-21T16:08:00.003-04:00

I've been going to Cape May, NJ since 1986, the year I met my own Jersey Girl at UMass. Despite growing up on nearby Long Island, NY, I did not know much about "the Shore," as it is known south and west of the Tappan Zee and north of Delaware Bay. As a teenager, my mother used to make occasional trips down to Wildwood and that town still retains its honky tonk boardwalk feel. It is similar in reality to what people now unfortunately picture, thanks to the MTV sensation, "Jersey Shore." Most, almost all, of the Jersey Shore is nothing at like that depicted in that unfortunate cultural blip. Wildwood, however, is the kind of place that has an insurance fire at the Pier almost every winter and continuously struggles to reinvent itself, whether it be a preservation and celebration of its authentic 1950 Doo Wop culture and architecture, or trying to lure a minor league ball team. I, of course, will always fondly remember the transvestite shows at the (F)un Spot Cabaret, recalled in this past post.

The city is so close to charming Cape May that is a jarring study in contrasts. I came to this town for the first time 25 years ago and fell in love with it. Shhh, almost no one in New England knows about it. People around here think the Cape has the best beaches, or shockingly, Maine. Sure, Maine is beautiful to look at. And I love the Cape and spend a lot of time there, the outer Cape beaches are stunning. They are just different from the Jersey Shore. See, I like to actually go in the water and enjoy it for more than 10 minutes without freezing my balls off, which I can not do in most of New England. I also like long stretches of fine sand and real surf. And I like being able to walk along a promenade and going for an ice coffee and a felafel roll-up. Not many would expect me to be a beach person. I dig the beach. I need an umbrella to keep my precious alabaster skin from frying like bacon, but I love the beach, especially with kids and boogie boards.

I look forward to going every year, despite the truly horrific traffic down the Garden State Parkway which usually turns what should be a six-hour trip into a nine-hour stop-and-go vein-popper. My kids are educated in the finer intricacies of profanity as I pund the steering wheel. We used to take Laura's Pinto down. It was white. Red bucket seats. No AC. No reverse. Then we graduated to taking the Impala I inherited from my grandfather. I would not be able to do that without taking out a second mortgage right now. Same goes for the old Buffalo Tom Dodge Ram van, which was our next set of wheels and was almost the length of Rhode Island. Wait a minute, when exactly did I go from aspiring to be Keith Richards to becoming Dave Barry?

We used to stay at my mother in-law's little house. Then the kids came and we needed to get our own place. We have been renting the same house a block from the beach for three years. We shake off the traffic nightmare with a gin-and-tonic or two, and leave the car parked for more or less the rest of the trip. Everything is walking distance down old gaslit (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) treelined streets of Victorian, Shingle-Style, and Craftsman homes, people enjoying sips out on the front porches. There are world-class restaurants, great cycling routes, arcades for kids, and bars with live music. In fact, there remains a pretty decent jazz scene alive in Cape May. On my last night there, I have made a little tradition of going our for a nightcap on my own after everyone else has gone to bed (I am the only night owl in the family). Last year, I stumbled into the famous Mad Batter, where we usually have brunch a couple of times a trip, shuffled up to the bar for a G&T and ended up staying for a few more, as this singer named Lois Smith floored me with her vocals. Check out that link. She just sat at the bar with a wireless mic as the band played behind here. There were maybe five people at the rectangular bar. We chatted between songs. Lois is also a gospel singer.

Here is my "live at the dining room table" version of one of Tom Waits' most accessible songs. This is a real Brill Building/Bert Berns-like number from Heart Attack and Vine. You can read my essay on the song at Allmusic.com from back in the old days. It will always have special resonance for me and any other Joe married to a Jersey Girl.

Indian Wrestling

2011-07-20T17:13:00.002-04:00

I grew up with a guy, let's call him Neil Eruzioni. His father was a barber and - at least back then, when I was growing up in New York - used to cut the hair for wise guys who "played bocce" at the... let's call it the "Fisherman's Club," an Italian-American social club. Neil's mom was a large woman, older than my parents. They lived near the downtown village.

Neil was a fantastic drummer -- one of the best musicians any of us knew in those early adolescent days. Problem was, he liked jazz fusion and we liked the Stones and Neil Young, primarily. He is still a great drummer and I still like the Stones and Neil Young primarily. But now, I think Neil also like the Stones and Neil Young more than the Mahavishnu Orchestra.

One day, Neil was telling me about how his mother would break into uncontrolled hysterical laughter at the mere mention of the phrase, "Indian wrestle." Indeed, if for some reason Indian wrestling was being televised, say on the "ABC's Wide World of Sports show," she would also lose it. Basically, if she just brushed up against the concept of Indian wrestling on any level, she would lose it.

I doubted this whole story a bit. But our mutual friends present testified to the veracity of these claims. And on the whole, I am pretty gullible, and was even more acutely naive back then. No one could explain it, the tale went.

Then I moved away. In some of my idle time of lonely exile in the high pines of Medfield, Massachusetts, it occurred to me that I had been had with this whole "Indian wrestle" business.

I was back for a visit about half a year later and Neil's dad gave me a crew cut. And the band got back together for a jam, for old time's sake. At least, this is how I remember it. We often practiced at his parents' house. This is how it goes for drummers. They would rather make Faustian bargains with their parents to allow amateur rock bands rehearse in their basement than pack up, lug, and unpack all the equipment.

One day, during a break from band practice, we were sitting around the Eruzioni's living room.

"Neil," I began. "You probably don't even remember this. But a while back you told me this story about your mother. It was about how she would laugh..."

"At the words 'Indian Wrestle.' Right," he answered. "What about it?"

"Well. That was not true, right? I asked. "I mean, you guys were pulling my leg."

"You don't believe me?" He asked. "You've never seen it?"

I made a skeptical "oh, come on" face.

He put up his index finger. "Ma!" he yelled. MA!!"

"Yes, whattaya want, Neil?" We heard his mother's voice from the kitchen.

"Come here! Ma, come in here!"

"OK, OK," she was saying as she came through the dining room and leaned against the doorjamb, drying something with a dishtowel. "Whattaya want."

Neil paused, looked her in the face, and said, blankly, "Indian wrestle."

She started to laugh. Sort of a normal laugh. But then it began bubbling up. And soon, like in a manner of a few seconds, she was in absolute, unbridled hysterical laughter. I'm talking tears. Catching her breath, she left the room. Laughs still emanated from the kitchen.

We could all not help but laugh along with her. Neil just smirked. It was something he grew up with. No one has ever explained it. His mother grew up with this... this little quirk. Something way back in her brain is tickled by the concept of, the name "Indian wrestle." Something from the past.

You Got the Gig, Kid...Dispatch from Nantucket Film Festival

2011-06-29T12:44:00.005-04:00

(from Boston Magazine.com)

For the past few years, I have had this website with the ironic title of Part Time Man of Rock. We all know there is not supposed not be any “part time” in “rock.” When my wife was a kid, she misheard the Kiss song “Rock & Roll All Night” lyric. It famously goes, “I wanna rock & roll all night and party every day.” She heard it as “I wanna rock & roll all night and part of every day.” I mean, in our minds, that’s still a pretty good level of commitment to The Life of Rock. Even just part of every day seems a worthy goal now that I am 45.

But I still find myself caught between the rock & roll and multiple other worlds on a regular basis. I sell real estate in Lexington, Lincoln, and other western suburbs. Sure, I get some maturing rockers buying modest homes, but I get many folks buying and selling swankier digs and they tend to be running in different circles than I do. And I did not exactly grow up poor. But nothing prepares me for the rarefied air of Nantucket.

Each time I go, I am astounded by the consistency of that life’s (truly, deeply, profoundly) rich pageant: men in “Nantucket red” pants from Murray’s, whale belts, and open collared Brooks Brothers, and skinny ladies with perfectly blonde tresses flowing down over their Lilly Pulitzer sundresses, gliding across finely manicured, croquet-court-quality lawns at evening garden cocktail parties. It is rare when you see someone in something as shabby as even Banana Republic chinos or (gulp) jeans. Listen, I can be as cranky as anyone about the slob-ization of Americans on holiday, but that's a costume party down there for cryin’ out loud.

I was on the island this past weekend, invited to be a featured guest at the event’s Storytelling Night. Other participants included such up-and-comers as Brian Williams, Anne Meara, Jerry Stiller, Tom Perrotta, and director, Dave McLaughlin. The packed house of 250 people included Chris Matthews, and a lot of people with extremely white teeth and the sort of healthy glow that yacht-loads of aged money brings. This is not my typical crowd. I sensed that I should be reconsidering my story about getting strip-searched for drugs at the French border and then spit in the face by a skinhead chick at a club in a squatted factory in Paris 20 years ago (story linked).

I was under no illusions of why I was there; I am a FOM, a close friend of the host, Mike O’Malley, who is riding the kind of hot streak that only someone with such a giant heart who has paid his dues for decades deserves. Mike has been going down there since he was in college, but he also hails from a different world than most regulars down there. Yet his success, his willingness to always help out worthy events, his extreme talent as an MC and host (never mind as a charity auctioneer) and his ties to the island make him a natural choice, even if he is a bit -- let’s say earthy -- for the finely bred folks there.

Years ago, I was pleased to be able to introduce Mike to Tom Perrotta, whom I had met at one of the legendary Earfull nights at the late and lamented Kendall Cafe, when authors would read and rockers would stomp. Tom, while able to hobnob with all strata of society, also seems far more at home at grittier events like those. And Tom’s success as a novelist and in Hollywood (Election and the Oscar nomination for his screenplay adaption of his own Little Children), also made him a natural choice as a storyteller.

Tom, his wife, and I shared a ride down with Dave McLaughlin, who directed the film On Broadway, for which I provided th musical score, and which starred Joey McIntyre, Eliza Dushku, Lance Green and (have you picked up the connections yet?) Mike O’Malley. Dave is the youngest of 11 kids in a West Roxbury Irish family, has written at least two screenplays, one of which played at an earlier Nantucket Film Festival, and worked for the Mayor for a while. You think he has some stories? Again, slam dunk as a choice.

Then there is me. A real estate agent who also played in a modestly successful post-punk rock & roll band called Buffalo Tom (polite applause from the man in the blue blazer and the perfect hair in row three, two seats over from BriWi, as Anchorman Williams is affectionately called by the locals). The organizers like to mix in some local, non-celebs to tell five-minute stories, like the Moth Radio Hour on NPR. So, it is not like I was the only person there of little renown -- unlike the time Mike brought me to Nomar Garciaparra’s “Nomar Bowl” charity bowling event circa 1999. I thought I was going to that shindig to rub elbows with ballplayers. I did not expect to be enlisted onto a team as a “celebrity” when someone else did not show up. Neither, it seems, did the visibly and audibly disappointed hedge fund managers on my “team” who had paid good dough to be at that event.

Mike has such famous friends that anywhere he turns, he could get some big names. And Tom Perrotta is not exactly just low-hanging fruit. The fact that Mike invited me, even though we have been best buds for a dozen years, was still flattering, and I was glad to accept the challenge. Though I have performed in the course of 25 years on some huge stages (60,000 at the Reading Festival a couple of times, e.g.), I am not a good public speaker. I will not say that the only speech I gave as a best man at a wedding was the worst of all time; I will only point out that it was the only one I have ever given. I believe I have since been passed over for the role after word of my deficiency got out.

But I think I can write well enough and I have a couple of good stories from over the years in a rock band. But I felt the night, the theme of which was “off on the wrong foot,” was indeed off on the wrong foot for me. First, the extremely sweet and efficient organizers asked if I would also consider bringing my guitar to provide a little music and, mainly, to signal to the speakers that they were nearing their five-minute mark. But as the first speaker went closer toward the 15-minute mark, despite my polite gentle, harp-like arpeggios, I knew I was sunk. How could I possibly be the Bad Guy, up on stage, while this person is soaking in the laughs? Next up was my buddy, Tom, followed by Jerry Stiller. Who am I to play over the comedic genius who brought George Costanza's father to life after decades as a headlining act my parents enjoyed? Never mind that I am simply not the “give ‘em the hook” type; I had to tell my own story later. But the hosts of the event became increasingly strident in their throat-slitting gestures from the side of the stage.

Mike had the crowd in the palm of his hand all night. Anne played off of him expertly. And when Jerry came on, I really enjoyed having the best seat in the house. I greatly relished watching this legendary husband-and-wife comedy at work. They may look their age, but their timing has never been better. I watched as Anne’s lips twitched, anticipating Jerry’s story, and jumping in at just the right time, only to have him comically swipe back, as if this was just muscle memory. It was as if you saw an elderly couple slowly shuffle up to a tennis court for a doubles match only to shed off their years and destroy all comers like they were Navratilova and Agassis in their prime. Tom told a story about a high school fight that conjured up the perfect mix of comedy and pathos that he mastered long ago. And Dave told a story about losing his virginity while wearing a brace bolted into his head after breaking vertebrae in his neck. BriWi slayed the audience with a series of one-liners about Nantucket -- not exactly a story, but perfect laugh lines nonetheless. And talk about skinny -- someone at the cocktail reception afterwards described him as “lady skinny.”

I managed not to collapse in a puddle of sweat, stammer, or otherwise embarrass anyone during my turn at the mic. I was just glad to be able to get a couple of laughs. But it was not my audience. This was not a “rock & roll all night,” or even “part of every day” crowd. But there were a few who knew the band and the story went fine.

As I packed up my guitar, I wondered why the hell I had lugged it into a minivan, a ferry, and a cab, only to pluck a few notes. I did no songs. The audio techs just faded up classic rock in between performers. But after the reception, it seemed there were enough people who wanted to keep the party flowing. Mention was made of heading “around the corner” to the Summer House Bar/Restaurant. Sounded good to us. Dave, Tom, Tom’s wife, Mary, and I literally felt our way in the foggy darkness down sleepy narrow lanes, and over a footbridge. A few wrong turns and a leap of faith later, and we had finally arrived, the warm yellow glow welcoming us as if we had traveled over the misty moors to a local pub in the English countryside. The place only had a handful of people there, but it was hopping and the martinis were flowing. I had not even sat down when a slightly older fella named Jamie saw my guitar case, opened up the piano, shouted to the bartender to shut off the music on the house stereo, and asked me what songs I knew. I sat on a couch and started “Tupelo Honey.’ I looked up to find another dozen or so folks had made there way over from the Story Night. It turned out that Jamie was an old pro. We all ended up harmonizing on about a dozen classic rock and country songs, Van, Neil Young, Petty, the Stones, Merle Haggard, etc. We had the whole place singing along until last call (hear a snippet here, captured on Dave's iPhone). It was a perfect, spontaneous end to a fun night. The lubricated owner told me, “be here tomorrow night, kid. Dinner and drinks on me.”

Well, he probably did not say “kid,” but that was how I heard it. I had the Nantucket gig if I wanted it. I guess if I can't join 'em, I can at least play some songs for 'em. Its good to have a contingency plan. Even as the Part Time Man of Rock.

Crossposted at bostonmagazine.com

New Target Cancer Tracks

2011-06-22T13:10:00.004-04:00

Two new songs up at the web site for the charity, Target Cancer, RightTrackTunes.org. You might remember the Christmas tunes we did for the same organization. One is a Van Morrison cover, the other is a Staples Singers cover. Many of you who used to come to the Toad and Lizard Lounge residencies of yore probably have heard me cover these songs before. Download them for a great cause.

More info:

Bill Janovitz and the Q-Dee Revue-y -
Cul De Sac & What You Gonna Do?

Cul De Sac

This is a Van Morrison number from an almost criminally overlooked album called Veedon Fleece. In many ways, the album is an answer from a slightly more mature Morrison to the Astral Weeks of his younger days. Granted, though there were five albums (six if you count the live It's Too Late to Stop Now), Van was still only 29 by the time VF came out in 1974. The yearning, the sense of place and of home, of comforting the restless soul -- all those great Van themes appear here. Most interestingly, though, VF represents his first album written after a long hiatus from his native Northern Ireland. While Astral Weeks was about making it back home, Cul De Sac says in a few words all that needs to be said on the subject. The meaning is in the heart of Van's voice as he sings over the gospel/soul progression.

This song was originally recorded by Van Morrison in 1974. This version was recorded live in Studio B at Q Division Studios in Somerville, MA on December 9, 2010 by The Q-Dee Revue-y – exclusively available here.

Bill Janovitz – Lead Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Tom Polce – Guitar
Ryan Spraker - Guitar
Matt Pynn – Pedal Steel
Matt Tahaney – Bass
Steve Scully – Drums
Phil Aiken – Piano
Andrew Jones – Percussion
Paul Ahlstrand – Baritone Saxophone

Produced by Tom Polce
Recorded and Mixed by Pat DiCenso

What You Gonna Do?

I don't personally know of any other versions of this song aside from the Staple Singers. At least, I have not heard any. The recording on Freedom Highway was done in a Chicago church in the late 1960s and you can hear how its influence seeped into the late 1960s/early-1970s roots revival, with The Band and the Rolling Stones absorbing that full gospel tilt. This was a great late-night session just before Christmas, and I was able to sing with and off of Chris Toppin and Jenny Dee.

This song was originally recorded by The Staple Singers in 1965. This version was recorded live in Studio B at Q Division Studios in Somerville, MA on December 9, 2010 by The Q-Dee Revue-y – exclusively available here.

Bill Janovitz – Lead Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Tom Polce – Guitar
Ryan Spraker - Guitar
Matt Tahaney – Bass
Steve Scully – Drums
Phil Aiken – Piano
Chris Toppin – Background Vocals
Jenny Dee - Background Vocals
Andrew Jones – Percussion

Produced by Tom Polce
Recorded and Mixed by Pat DiCenso

Download both here.

Vinyl Confessions From a Man Cave

2011-06-15T11:02:00.001-04:00

From my latest post for Boston Magazine dot com:

Since today is June 15, 2011, known in Boston as Stanley Cup Game 7, I have a confession to make: watching hockey makes my eyes glaze over. I know this is ridiculous coming from a baseball fan who can spend four hours watching (and with intense interest) a meaningless Sox-Angels game in April. I try, but after a few minutes of watching bearded Canadian dudes skating back and forth and bumping each other into the walls while slapping around a little black speck (I thought HDTV was going to vastly improve this aspect of viewing), I am soon paying more attention to the music at the Garden or the Rogers Arena.

At the home ice, the Boston stereotypical classic rock comes out — a bit of the Cars, Boston (the band), and, of course, Aerosmith. For some updated flavor, they might throw in “Shipping Up to Boston” from the beloved modern classics, the Dropkick Murphys. All of this is an improvement over present-day Fenway. One would be forgiven for thinking that the “lyrical little bandbox” has been transported to suburban Nashville for all the lamestream modern country-pop music played there this season. And I guess we can be grateful that at least hockey players and the fans of the sport share a reputation for the sort of toughness that would not allow for the unfortunate tradition of “Sweet Caroline” (made worse as a post-Fever Pitch phenomenon) played between periods. (Or is it? I am never at live hockey games, but I can’t imagine that would fly.)

Either way, during the series, I’ve found myself turning down the volume (though I really enjoy the excellent play-by-play of Doc Emrick) and reaching for my records — yes, my old, dusty records. They reside in my basement man cave, which just was improved by the addition of a knock-off of the classic Eames Lounge. Mine is a Plycraft recliner variation and, damn, if it isn’t one of the most comfortable listening/viewing spots. Coupled with some recent turntable tweaks, I have been back to enjoying the vinyl experience again on a regular basis.

Now, I am not one of those old record-collecting SOBs who will bore you with tales of what has been lost with the age of digital music. For me, it has been less of a revolution (excuse the pun) and more of an evolution, embracing the new without forsaking the old. However, I actually had the old records in the attic for a while after we moved house. They were up there for a couple of years during which I did not play records at all. It wasn’t until trying to describe to my daughter the experience of acquiring Sgt. Peppers and Magical Mystery Tour LPs that I decided to get all the records out again and actually show her.

Read the whole post here.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

CoTW 105 -- Heart Full of Stone

2011-06-11T15:56:00.003-04:00

Don't have much to write today. I am written out. But I recorded this version of my favorite Yardbirds song for your consideration.

As mentioned in nostalgic reveries here in the past, we had five or six record stores in town growing up as kids. I got this great 10-inch at One Way Records. It was next to a diner/lunch counter called Tom Vos Snacks. The Pop Shop was in the rear of the same building (I think), a sort of beverage wholesaler. Later on, Edui, the school bully was shot to death in an apartment above it.

Heart Full of Stone mp3

CoTW 104 -- Deacon Blues

2011-05-27T13:57:00.002-04:00

I struggle with Steely Dan. When I was a kid on Long Island in the 1970s, suburban New York was awash with the mellow, edgeless sounds of Steely Dan coming down the powerful FM airwaves ("no static at all"). Not that I could articulate it at the time, but they represented a sort-of grown-up, studied jazzy pop that had little to do with the stuff that had immediate appeal like the the Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Stevie Wonder, Jackson Five, and later punk rock and post-punk/new wave influences. In fact, Steely Dan stood in stark contrast in the late '70s to music coming from even mainstream acts like Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, the Allman Brothers, and Patti Smith. Grown-up smooth stuff did not appeal. "Clinical" was the term often used to describe their meticulously recorded, perfectionist sounds.

But I can't say I hated most of it. It was like aural wall paper. I mean, there were some SD songs that I absolutely hated, like that one about Dr. Wu. But then there were some pop songs like "Reeling in the Years," "Peg," "Hey Nineteen" and my real fave of theirs, "My Old School." That's just a blast of early '70s R&B. Nothing to dislike there. And I have this funny home video of my 12 y.o. daughter singing to "Any major Dude,' which her masochistic substitute music/chorus teacher subjected on a bunch of fifth graders last year.

"Deacon Blues." That's just a head-scratcher to me. I think there were times in my life that I actively disliked this song. I don't think it was around the time it came out and was all over the radio. I think the dislike came later, in the '80s, when I started to get further away from the mainstream in my musical tastes (or the mainstream moved from me). By that time I was playing guitar. I was never a finesse player, knew only basic chords and scales, and suffered from both a lack of ambition and a lack of desire to learn more than was necessary to play Clash, Neil Young, and Stones songs. And "Deacon Blues" is just too damned smooth sometimes. Crazy-assed chords.

Many who follow this blog and related social networking sites of mine are already up-to-date with my ongoing struggles with the Dan. But a funny thing happened: I started listening and paying attention to this song that had been omnipresent in my life. I feel like I have come 180 degrees on this song. In fact, it has been an obsession for the past year. The lyric is genius. The protagonist ranks up there with distrustful and delusional suburban narrators of post-war AmLit. like Frank Bascombe, Harry Angstrom and the like. The humor is biting and ironic: "I crawl like a viper through these suburban streets/Make love to these women, languid and bittersweet." And of course, the famous refrain (which probably went by my 1000 times before I really paid attention). "They got a name for the winners in the world/I want a name when I lose/They call Alabama the Crimson Tide/Call Me Deacon Blues." But there is also real pathos there to match the gorgeous chord progression (someone called it "Ellingtonian," I believe) and the absolutely sublime melody. "I cried when I wrote this song/Sue me if I play too long/This brother is free/I'll be what I want to be."

Those lines were echoed in other songs later on, such as Prince's "I was dreaming when I wrote this, so sue me if I go to fast." And maybe it is Prince, or Ron Isley who inspired my falsetto here. Honestly, I raised the key because the original is too high for me to sing in the same octave as Fagan, so by raising it, I thought my low ocatve would be high enough. I realized after I recorded the guitars that this was not so. Rather than scrap the track, I tried falsetto, which I ended up liking a lot.

Eager to hear comments about other songs in people's lives that they have changed their minds about, or anything in art/life for that matter. As we grow, we mature, maybe the mind even opens up some more. I am also eager to hear interpretations of this song's lyric.

Deacon Blues mp3.

Almost Famous

2011-05-25T09:56:00.001-04:00

From my latest on BostonMagazine.com:

I just got home late Saturday night from the last of the Buffalo Tom touring for 2011. (Because, really, why would a rock band want to play on a Saturday night and come home instead on a Sunday?) It had been an especially intense little run of five West Coast shows in four cities, three states, and four days — flying each leg from Boston to San Fran, to LA, to Portland, then driving overnight to Seattle for a daytime lunch performance, which was broadcasted live on the excellent KEXP, and then a late-night club performance the same night. Flying home the next day, you would excuse me for sleeping the whole flight.

Back at Logan, I rounded up my guitars (always the last bit of luggage to arrive at baggage claim), and bid adieu to the band and two-man crew until the next time. I loaded up the cart and went up to meet my taxi driver, an enormous individual who did not leave his seat as I loaded the stuff into the trunk.

Making small talk, in between labored breaths, he proceeded to list all the classic rock knowledge he had accumulated, with a particular slant towards local rock history, such as the warehouse in Waltham where Aerosmith once rehearsed and recorded. Sadly, limits of his expertise betrayed him before he could come up with the name of the lead singer for the J. Geils Band.

“Peter Wolf,” I volunteered.

“What’s dat? Oh yeah, Petah Wolf. Right,” he affirmed. “So, are you famous?”

“Well,” I wearily started to explain, “Not really. We had our day in the 1990s, but never hit it really big like all of those guys.”

He paused in pensive silence for half a minute. “I can tell you’re not famous because you’re carrying your own equipment.”

You noticed that, eh, I thought. While you were sitting there watching me load my guitars into your cab, for which I will nevertheless tip you 20 percent for some stupid reason?

And that’s about how it goes. No respect for trying to keep a dream alive in one’s 40s. We must suffer the indignities of a cab driver pointing out that he can tell we’re not famous.

Rest of post here

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The Giant Kings Scare Me

2011-05-18T11:55:00.001-04:00

Last week, after a middling Wednesday of trying to sell and market real estate with mixed results, instead of throwing in the towel and wrapping myself in a Snuggie to watch the Celtics get eliminated, I did the only thing that made sense at the time: shook myself a small, ice-cold martini.

It was just enough to perk me up and make me want to listen to some music. I checked Facebook and was reminded that the greatest band in Boston, The Giant Kings, were playing that night, the second-to-last of a residency at the beloved subterranean Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. These gigs are relatively rare, and seeing as though I am leaving town for a short Buffalo Tom West Coast tour and would miss the final night, I sent out the Bat Signal and managed to round up a foursome to go down and listen to some great music. When you are in your mid-40s, the enormity of this accomplishment on a Wednesday night cannot be overstated. I must also point out that I had already gone out the previous Monday night to see the legendary Echo and the Bunnymen, my 80’s heroes, at the Paradise. Two nights in one week during the busy spring real estate market makes me feel even more boastful. Combine this with the fact that I have been spending more than my usual allotment of nights in rock clubs these past few months while touring with Buff Tom, well, yes, I am beating my chest! (I made it a trifecta with the Feelies at the Middle East on Saturday.) And those bags under my eyes? They are a a badge of honor....

More here at a post I wrote about the incredible Giant Kings

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CoTW 103 -- Girls Talk

2011-05-08T22:06:00.003-04:00

We come from a land east of here, a land also quite northerly, where the winters hit almost as hard as they do here. We have travled many miles, from one frozen land to another, on a flying machine, to play here in your city, in your land. And we have one question for you: What have you done with all your womenfolk?

Though this particular prevarication was not verbalized as such until we reached Minneapolis, the question had started passing through my mind weeks prior, as Buffalo Tom was a few shows into our first tour of 2001, in the Benelux and UK countries (with a quick stop in Köln). Scanning the ever-decreasing audiences we pull into our shows at this stage in our career, we started to notice: very few women are left.

Don't get me wrong; I am quite happy for the passionate, paunchy, balding, middle-aged mirrors of ourselves that take the time and make the effort to be there late at night in some club that they have likely been coming to, perhaps with less frequency, for the past 20-odd years. I know that feeling of getting myself off a couch after dinner, on a week night, tired from work and the kids, perhaps it is cold out, and going to stand in sticky dried beer as my back starts to give out and my ears ring. But when I am looking forward to seeing a band whose records I love, the result is more often offers transcendence above that mundane stuff. It is like exercise -- the last thing you want to do, but it makes you feel so much better when you have done it.

But my own wife now attends maybe one or two shows a year (not just Buff Tom -- I mean all shows). Someone has to be responsible and care for the children. And I imagine this is what has happened to many of the BT fan womenfolk. And, to be quite honest, we were very grateful for that brief moment in the sun, when the lovely light of having "Late At Night" featured so prominently in a pivotal episode of the beloved-by-chicks show, My So Called Life. And that light shed down its rays on us, pierced the darkness of big-necked dudes in white "COCKS" baseball caps, who in the early-1990s parted their hulking flannel-shirted shoulders to all of a sudden let a parade of young women in to see Buffalo Tom!

Alas! Like the sun, the light was here and then it was gone. And we are left to ponder the dark and dank smell of dude, as if in a cave with a council of hunter-gatherers. Or something.

So, for all you women who DO still come (yes, I see you! I am so happy to see you!), thank you for coming!

But I still don't pretend to fully understand you. Hence this week's cover, a perfect pop song that completely summed up my adolescent gropings -- physical and mental -- when I was a teenager. A song which, in its effervescent pop shimmer and clever wordplay, actually lent a tinge of romantic erudition to my lost wanderings through vacant high school hallways. And Costello wrote quite a few of those.

I adhere closer to Dave Edmunds' hit version here. Sorta. Edmunds' version owes more than a bit to the Everly Brothers in feel and arrangement. And of course I stole the sentiment and half the title for my own solo song, "Girls Club"

Girls Talk mp3

Charlie Byrd and the Emphemeral

2011-04-21T22:54:00.004-04:00

This might be the most sublime of all of Jobim's melodies and therefore one of the most sublime melodies of all-time.

When I was just starting to learn guitar, my dad and I went to a little clinic and concert that Charlie gave at the Munro Music store in Huntington, NY in about 1980. He signed our (Dad's) copy of this record. I still have it. Let's hear you say something like that about an mp3.

Cover of the Whenever 102 -- A New England

2011-03-31T10:09:00.005-04:00

Billy, the Kendall Bros., Tanya, Billy J., Harry Horgan, Natalie at the Shake a Leg benefit in Newport back in the heady 1990s.

When I was 16, I came downstairs into my family's living room wearing a blazer (I still don't know the difference between sportcoat, sportjacket, and blazer) with the sleeves pulled midway up the forearms. This being 1982 or '83, this was a fresh look that I was trying out. The jacket was a heavy Filene's tweed jobber, not quite the Don Johnson, lightweight linen style. The sleeves did not want to stay up. But I thought I would try it out.

It was a weeknight in suburban Boston. The thick-pile carpet of my family's living room served as my catwalk. My parents, the fashionista critics. I kind of sidled in, though, not parading like model. Kind of waited to see if anyone noticed this bold new look.

"What the hell are you wearing?" asked my father, from the GQ Magazine seats.

My mother turned her head from the television, taking it in. "He's trying. To look. Punk," she pronounced. The last word came out more like, "apunk." Not like "a punk." "apunk."

"Go take that off. You're gonna wrinkle it." Said my father. The critics had spoken.

I don't think I was trying to look punk. New wave, maybe, but these were distinctions that were hard for my parents to follow. They had never quite adjusted to men growing their hair over their ears. Truth be told, I think I was going for more of Alex Keaton. I hadn't thought it worked for me either, but just like the time I got my ear pierced, I figured it would be worth trying to get a rise out of the critics before abandoning the look on my own terms.

They might have had their guard up looking for punk-rock warning signs in the apparel/body modification department, but they could not care less what I listened to. Every Christmas found some new vinyl under the tree. In 1983 or '84 I recall I got Billy Bragg's Life's a Riot With Spy Vs. Spy record among others.

I had been way into Echo and the Bunneymen and got to see them around this time at Boston's Opera House venue. I believe I came armed with the knowledge, or found out right after the gig, that they had this guy opening up for them who they had discovered busking in front of a venue where they were playing a gig. They invited him to tour. I would not be surprised if this is a myth or just something I got in my head on my own. I like the story. And Billy was great in that solo electric setting.

A New England is one of the great songs of the 1980s.

A New England mp3.

*****

Thanks to all who came to see us in Belgium, Holland, Germany, England, and Scotland. After that little tour, the family headed to Disney World, hence all the delay between covers. There will certainly be more time between these posts as Buffalo Tom heads out for dates in the States this spring. Hope to see you out there.

Cover of the Whenever 101

2011-02-26T09:05:00.003-05:00

I have been a fan of Mark Kozelek since his Red House Painters records on 4AD, which was the sister label of our home label, Beggars Banquet. But it was songs of the Sun Kil Moon project that really drew me in. I honestly wasn't paying much attention, just as I wasn't to the Mescaleros, when my friend, Billy, put a couple of sample songs on a year-end mix CD he gave to friends. I was taken by both selections, making me frustrated that I can't even keep up on all the great music from artists I already dig, never mind new ones. I need to meditate more.

I had no idea who Glenn Tipton or K.K. Downing were when I heard this. I was never a Judas Priest fan. Tom Maginnis was, as a kid. I recall posters in his parents' basement when we went over to watch him play in his pre-BT band in college. That may be a false memory, though; those Priest posters were standard issue for many suburban homes in the '70s/'80s.

But this is what Mark is great at, enigmatic songs that draw you in and want to listen more closely. I always say that music and melody are the first pull for me as a listener. Lyrics come secondarily, but they will seal the deal, making or breaking the song for me. One bad lyric and I may not even return to the band/artist (depending on just how poor it is). I say this as an artist who has certainly not risen to every occasion with lyrics. Hopefully people give me/us a chance beyond first listen. But, as noted above, there is just so much stuff out there that it takes effort to keep listening, reading, viewing.

The original of this song is lovely. Seek it out if you don't already know it. Mark's voice is a high, smooth tenor. Mine is especially worn down after a Buff Tom practice for this upcoming tour. Hope to see you on the road. By the way, speaking of cover, Mark is one of the finest interpreters of other artists' music. He has done whole records of others' songs, like those of Modest Mouse. He deconstructs and rebuilds songs much in the imaginative way Chan Marshall/Cat Power. He is also an actor, playing a role as a band member in Almost Famous.

I recall this also being a request from someone. That person should feel required to hit the tip jar in the form of a donation to one of the suggested charities on the right side of this page.

Glenn Tipton mp3

Late Night with Bill Radio Vol. 2

2011-02-19T21:33:00.004-05:00

Photo by Anders Petersen

A little shorter this time: Bill Radio Vol. 2

I have to work on my on-air persona a bit more.

The Late Night with Bill 99 Minute Radio Hour Episode 1

2011-02-13T12:11:00.003-05:00

Some nights I am just spinning tunes for myself and figure it is easy enough to share. Uploading it is another matter altogether. Here is a 99-minute set of tunes, with some commentary.

The Late Night with Bill 99 Minute Radio Hour Episode 1 mp3

Cover of the Whenever 100 -- (Give it up for 100!) The Bugle Sounds Again

2011-01-28T22:52:00.003-05:00

I was capable of being a mopey sonofabitch at college -- well, many nights anyway. It was like the Sorrows of Young Werther in Pierpont dorm after some of my few romantic misadventures. There you might find me on the top bunk, the big Anton Corbijn "Love Will Tear Us Apart" Joy Division poster, Meister Brau in hand, watching the sun set over the parking lot as I listened to This Mortal Coil do their versions of "Kangaroo" and "Holocaust" loudly on the stereo, bumming the highs of all the shroom heads who would come to our floor for the famous Grateful-Dead inspired mural outside my door.

Sooner or later, enough beers in me, my buddies would come and round me up and would snap me out of it. We would get ready to go out, priming ourselves with more $3.99 12-packs of gut-burning swill, while listening to whatever I played as D.J. on the stereo, alternating between records and tapes. The glom and doom of the evening would soon make way for an eclectic mix of something like Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Clash, the Stones, Stevie Wonder, the Smiths, T. Rex., Hall and Outs, the Jam into the Style Council, the Gun Club, Marvin Gaye, Husker Du, UB40, XTC, REM, the Dbs, Gang of Four, the Who, the Replacements, Neil Young ("hey Bill, can you give me a hand lifting Decade?), and so on.

Of course, "getting ready to go out" implies we had somewhere to go. Even if there was some party somewhere, we generally ended up cemented in our chairs near the mini fridge as more people from the floor stopped by and ended up hanging out as well.

And I had that live EP from Aztek Camera. I must have heard Jim Neil play the famous version of Van Halen's "Jump" on WMUA. Wow, I though, they really reinvented one of the worst and stupidest songs of all time into a nice, wistful folk-rock song.

It didn't take long to find out the the band was really just Roddy Frame with some other guys. And Roddy wrote, played, and sang these genius pop songs and ballads. Songs like "The Bugle Sounds Again," "Mattress of Wire," and "Birth of the True" were stylistic crossings of Dylan and Gerswhin, with perfect classic arrangements and brilliant lyrics over big. juicy, piano-like chords that ebbed and flowed from an acoustic 12-string Roddy played. The modulation at the end of "The Bugle Sounds Again" is pop transcendence. It was just the tonic for a weary lovestruck loser like I was.

Man, now it is clear that I got it all going on. But back then, Jesus. Pass a beer and put on "Isolation," wontcha?

This past week there was an insightful discussion of "Jump" on my Facebook page that serpentined into the Aztek Camera version. That reminded me that I should cover one of those old songs for CoTW. You really have to check out Surf and some other Roddy Frame records. Surf is one of the least discovered records most deserving of your attention. Roddy is just one of those guys who can do it all: beautiful voice, genius songwriter, and exceedingly talented guitarist. There is not dud on Surf. It is just him and an acoustic.

I am not worthy of this cover. I bring nothing but my voice to this one. Roddy's versions kick almighty ass. We listened this one to death, after "Let's Get it On" back then in 1985.

The Bugle Sounds Again mp3

Buffalo Tom Tour Dates

2011-01-28T08:25:00.000-05:00

Here are the dates we have so far. Our time on the road will be extremely limited on this record, so if your city is not listed below, please consider meeting us at one of these places:

MARCH

5 HOLLAND GRONINGEN VERA CLUB http://www.vera-groningen.nl/

6 BELGIUM BRUSSELS AB
http://www.abconcerts.be/nl/concerten/p/detail/buffalo-tom-06-03-2011

7 HOLLAND AMSTERDAM MELKWEG
http://www.melkweg.nl/artikelpagina.jsp?language=nederlands&batchno=5&offset=48&artikelid=199111&disciplineid=muziek&agendaitemid=199110

8 GERMANY COLOGNE LUXOR
http://www.luxor-koeln.de/di-08-03-2011-buffalo-tom/

9 Off / TRAVEL

10 ENGLAND LONDON DINGWALLS
http://www.dingwalls.com/

11 ENGLAND MANCHESTER Sound Control (A hometown homage to "She's Lost Control"?) www.soundcontrolmanchester.co.uk

12 SCOTLAND GLASGOW ORAN MOR
http://www.oran-mor.co.uk/

APRIL

8 BOSTON -- PARADISE ROCK CLUB

28 NEW YORK -- BOWERY BALLROOM

29 PHILADELPHIA M ROOM

30 WASHINGTON D.C. THE BLACK CAT

Cover of the Whenever 99.5 -- Today I Started Loving You Again

2011-01-22T23:19:00.006-05:00

Nothing like coming home after dinner and a few drinks with friends to make you want to listen to some classic country. I was about to post some Merle Haggard YouTube clips, but since everything was already set up from the day's earlier cover session, I figured I would sing some Merle my own damn self.

I sing this song with Session Americana from time to time. The way they sing the backing vocals make me get the goose pimples.

CoTW 99.5. I had actually forgotten I did a live YouTube version of this earlier, at CoTW 75/76. I thought for sure I had recorded it before, but didn't see it on the list to the right. This is a better version anyway.

Today I Started Loving You Again mp3

Cover of the Week 99 -- Oliver's Army

2011-01-22T12:15:00.005-05:00

One more to 100! Woohoo!

As this CoTW project progresses there should start to be a few artists who reappear, and some already have, some of the meat-and-potato foundations blocks of my musical education: Stones; Beatles; Neil Young; Tom Waits; Van Morrison; Replacements; Clash; and so on.

I have only done one other Elvis Costello song, as far as I recall. Well, here is maybe my favorite song from Elvis. I had no real idea of what the lyrics were about when I first heard it in early high school, even as I was learning in class about Oliver Cromwell. But the music is so powerful, influenced by Abba, according to Elvis and the various Attractions. If you listen to the original recording, you can detect bit of "Dancing Queen" in Steve's piano.

So what happens when you take the undeniable melodic hooks and harmonies of Swedish pop sensations and marry them to biting satirical (satire should always be biting) Costello lyrics about imperialism, the Troubles in Northern Ireland, and a career in the military? Why, you get "Oliver's Army."

The brilliant lyric unfolds a few smooth double entendres like, "have you got yourself an occupation?" All of this is great stuff, but the music always has to hit me first. Even with Dylan, my favorite songs of his are the ones that I find musically compelling, then I listen to the lyrics. Lots of great poppy bands/artists grab me and pull me in on the music, only to repel me with lyrics. Elvis is at his best when he is firing on all cylinders. The harmonies have always delighted me. I hear harmonies naturally. Some people do not. Many people are great at countermelodies, like Chris Colbourn and Mike Mills. Me, I hear 2-part harmonies on almost every melody I hear. I want to put them on everything. It takes a studio full of others to hold me back. The Everlys, the Loudins, the Beatles, Mick and Keith, Gram and Emmylou -- gimme the harmonies!

I always start these covers thinking I am going to do something different. But not sure if I ever do enough interpretation. Same here; all I do is strip it down a little, I think.

Oliver's Army mp3

99 songs and this is only my second "O" title.

New Buffalo Tom SongPreview

2011-01-20T17:38:00.001-05:00

"Guilty Girls." Here with an interview at Spin.com.

CoTW 97, 98

2011-01-11T19:28:00.003-05:00

Just unearthed, these Husker Du songs with Grant Hart playing and singing with Buffalo Tom in Chicago in December 2000. Grant supported us solo on a couple of shows in the Midwest during a mini tour promoting our A-Sides collection. Also notable in his support was Howie Day, who went on to reach the heights of rock stardom, thus joining a long line of openers for Bt who received our midas touch and went on to leave us in their dust: Hole; Pearl Jam; Goo Goo Dolls; Jewel...

It was a thrill for us to play with Grant, Husker Du being directly influential to us when we started, as outlined a bit in this blog (particularly here). By the way, I have been wading into the four or five boxes in my attic that constitue the Janovitz Branch of the Buff Tom Archive and I stumbled across that article where Grant picks the first BT LP as "Album of the Decade." I am still riding the high of that one 22 years later. I will scan it and insert it here when I find it. I have posted a bunch of scans over at the BT Facebook page. Then I have to let go of the nostalgia for a bit and BT gets ready to release our 8th LP.

I've always loved Grant's songs. Here are a couple of my faves.

Pink Turns to Blue

Never Talking to You Again

CoTW -- (Let's Just Call All of Them Number) 96

2010-12-21T10:49:00.008-05:00

These old Christmas covers of relatively obscure but great songs are a lot of fun. Please consider downloading them for a great cause.

After 25 years as a professional musician, I never fail to be impressed by the sprit of community of musicians in general and the Boston music community in particular. A further reminder of this occurred this past weekend. Tom Polce, a music producer with whom I used to be in a band but who now lives in LA, tweeted or sent a message on Facebook last Friday that he was back in Boston to work on some music at Q Division studios in Somerville. He and I went back and forth about, "come on man, we have to get together this time," over the various media available to us nowadays. "When are you available?" We often have these situations where he is in for a week of 12-hour days, or my band, Buffalo Tom, might be on LA for one show and we fail to hook up, or only do so for a few minutes on the way in or out of town.

But both of us intrinsically understand the one almost fail-safe way to get musician buddies together: Book a session or a gig. Build it and they will come! So, texting back and forth last Friday night, looping in the selfless Ed Valauskas -- who was at that moment playing a gig in Albany with his band, Jenny Dee and the Delinquents, and who books Q Division sessions -- by the end a couple of the night we had time and a plethora of musicians booked at Q Division for that Sunday, two days later. Sunday was the night of the Boston Music Awards, but the event was starting early. While I was not able to attend, most of the area musicians planned to, so a bunch of people would stumble in later in the night, carried along by the momentum of the event. We had decided to do a couple of holiday tunes and thought, if they turned out OK, maybe we could upload them to the Target Cancer Foundation web site, Righttracktunes.org where musicians have contributed songs in exchange for listeners to donate to the foundation.

Listen, I know most people have had enough of Christmas songs by the week after Thanksgiving. And no one really needs any new recordings. But we felt we had dug up a couple of little-known numbers that should be classics, "Christmas Everyday," by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, and "Christmas Must Be Tonight," by The Band.

The core band of Mike Piehl on drums, bassist Joe McMahon, Phil Aiken on piano, Tom on electric, and me on acoustic guitars, set up first and ran through the Band song. We set up in a small room, live, with just a few microphones, no separation, and banged the song out old-school style, arranging it in our own version as we recorded a few takes. Done. Beautiful, if I may say so.

By the time we were ready for the Smokey tune, more musicians started filing in -- singers Kristin Cifelli, Steve Scully and Dave Brophy (both drummers by trade), and my younger brother, Scott Janovitz. And then local saxophone colossus, Paul "The Ostrich" Ahlstrand snuck in and lent a baritone sound. This recording absolutely swings. (play a snippet) I love the idea of sitting in a room together, not worrying to death over separation of sound, arranging on the fly, the way musicians all used to do before the exponential expansion of multi-track recording technology. But here is the trick: you have to start with good musicians.

And not only are these people good, they are tops at what they do. They would be in-demand session players in LA or Nashville. But here in Boston, they are just folks you see around at the clubs. Go out any night in Boston or Cambridge and there is an embarrassment of riches here, mostly musicians with day jobs who can play or sing any current Top 40 artists to shame. But we also have some luminaries who are known for touring or recording with big artists. And most of them would swing on down to such a hootenanny as this on at the drop of a hat.

Because here is an ill-kept secret about musicians: they will play for free. The whole music industry rock star myth was built on this business model. Music is not what they do; it is who they are. We didn't have to tell any of these folks that this was for charity. No one was sitting on their phone asking "how much? Am I getting scale?" They wanted to play. But once you tell them there is good cause, almost every musician I know will rally and make arrangements to show up. I know, because it is part of my role as one of the founding members of Hot Stove Cool Music, which is well known in Boston for benefit concerts for the Foundation to Be Named Later of Red Sox GM, Theo Epstein" and former Baseball Hall of Fame commentator, Peter Gammons. I call and email musicians and they line up to play these shows every January in Boston.

And all one has to is look at FB profiles of musician friends to see them rallying even faster and determinedly when one of our own is in need. I have countless local examples here in Boston, even just in the past year.

Music is about community, a room full of people sharing something otherworldly, soul satisfying. Once you have spent an evening playing music with someone you had might not even met, it is easy to feel a kinship with them, and that is hard to let go. So when my brother Tom Polce is in town, I call up my other bothers and sister literal and figurative. We play music. It was the one sure way to get everyone together for the holidays.

That session was such a blast of impromptu fun and good will, that we rushed to book another one for a few more xmas tunes a few days later. Jenny Dee came in to do a duet with me on a Big Dee & Little Eva number (a Goffin/King-penned ditty); Chris Toppin came to lend some beautiful vocals; and we had Ryan and Freddie from Eli Reed's band; plus Matty Pynn, Steve Scully, Ed V., and more folks. We ended up with three Christmas numbers and a couple of extras that will make their way to release some day soon.

So come Tommy, and Philly, and Mikey and Eddy. Chris Toppin, Steve Scully, Kristen and Joey. Come Scotty, and Dave Brophy, Matt Pynn and Jenny, Paul Ahlstrand and Ryan, and Andrew and Freddie.....Dash away, dash away, dash away all.

There are our three numbers plus a whole slew of new and unreleased Christmas covers from other great artists here:

Right Track Christmas Series

And the regular download series here:

Right Track Tunes

Just an Old Buff Tom Story for Christmas

2010-12-20T09:37:00.003-05:00

People have asked We Three Buffalos Tee for stories from the road. We have relatively few good ones worth telling. Certainly none of them are Zeppelin level. No arrests or major property damage. No bans from any hotel chains. So we usually come back to a small handful, and in particular, this one from Paris. It happened so long ago, probably 1990, and that fact in an of itself shows how few stories there are. In fact, I would not be surprised if I have not already told it in this space. How sad would THAT be?

I searched Dan and Camille Speca's site, which documents almost all of the live shows we have played, This particular show seems to be missing. In fact, I do not see any shows in Paris in my quick scan, and even though it was not a hot spot for us, I know we have played at least two or three times there, once opening up for the Gun Club. Anyway, it is just as well, as this show should be expunged from the official record.

It started out just as our previous trip to Paris had. During that first european tour, in 1989, we had a day off or two and figured we would drive down to Paris just for the day, even though we had no shows in France that first year. But we had all our gear and records with us (we sold vinyl as merch' - goes to show how far back this was). When we got to the border on the way in, we were stopped and taken aside by the French customs agents, who took one look at the rock band with a Dutch driver and a van registered in the Netherlands, with boxes full of rock records and t-shirts and decided we were worth a search. The first BT album, some of you may recall, had a series of symbols in a hand-drawn logo designed by yours truly, a semi-arbitrary assemblage of a peace sign , a heart, a yin/yang, a cross, and -- naturally -- a hypodermic needle, for no apparent reason except to invite problems.

The French agents did not need to see anything more to order us out of the van. They brought a dog in to sniff through everything. The van was completely emptied and each section was taken apart, ceiling and door panels removed, and all our bags brought inside the building. Tom's duffel, filled at this point mostly with dirty laundry, was placed in front of us as we watched them search each item, with the dog sniffing all of it. And they strip-searched everyone but me. I was actually a little offended.

We were afraid enough of border crossings to know not to have anything on us and none of us had any sort of drug habits that would require taking such risks. So, after a few hours, they finally and reluctantly let us go on our merry way to enjoy the fair city of Paris as warmly welcomed tourists.

The next year, we came back to actually play a show. We were never very popular in France, but we had been booked at an ad hoc club in an old abandoned hospital campus that was being squatted. With our history at the border, we figured it would be best to get an early start. I believe that this time we were coming from Zurich, with its infamous Needle Park, home to hundreds of junkies. But that might have been the first visit, I forget. Needless to say, we were again held up for hours at the broder, with a similar bienvenue committee. Instead of being early, we had to speed into Paris so as to not arrive horrendously late. Of course, we were stopped by the police again on the highway, who seemed to have a sense of curiosity similar to their countrymen back at the border. "The French police wouldn't give me no peace/They claimed I was a nasty person..."

By the time we pulled into the right location, having circled the serpentine back streets of Paris looking for this squatted club, we were quite tardy, a fact made clear by an otherwise pretty lady running toward the driver-side window of our van, screeching her head off at us in a Gallic tempest of unmitigated fury. Stephen, our tour manager was a young guy from New Zealand, but I think it was Jan, our long-time Dutch soundman who also acted as our tour manager at times, who was driving and received the brunt of this vitriol. The poor guy was often stressed and took the job quite seriously, and, unfortunately, he understood some French. He mostly took it, though he tried here and there, in the milliseconds the mademoiselle paused, to explain what happened. She was having none of it. She started in on us in hilarious broken english that made her sound like an enraged female Inspector Closeau. The day in France was not off to a good start.

We were finally allowed to drive through the gates, past huge security guards dressed in DEA black, cargo pants tucked into boots, each holding German shepherds on short leashes. Yes, this was the "rock club," a walled campus that was like entering a prison.

We drove in and started to unload our gear, trying our best to ignore the ongoing stream of abuse from Fifi, who we soon deduced was the promoter. While Bob -- who was our graphic designer and was out selling merch for us -- unloaded the van, Jan, who did not see Bob, slid the van door shut on his head. Bob was woozy and eventually had to be taken to the hotel to rest. He may have gone to the doctor. I know he did eventually, I just don't recall this detail. It turned out that he got a concussion of some degree which made him nauseous.

Soldiering on, we completed a soundcheck in one of the many euro venues that resemble an airplane hangar, with a tin barrel ceiling, clearly the optimal conditions for the sort of hi-fi sound that warms the heart an exacting Dutch sound engineer with frazzled nerves and guilt compounded by arriving late and slamming his friend's head in a van door. But as you can tell, we were not so egregiously late as to miss a soundcheck; just enough to summon the blackest stuff from the bowels of a demonic French chick's damned soul.

As we made our way out for a quick bite, the bassist from the opening band asked Chris if he could borrow Chris' P-Bass. Chris, generous soul he is, sort of shrugged and said, sure, I guess so. When we got back in after dinner, the band was finishing up their set. I was first in the club. There was a rowdy audience watching and listening to the cacophonous racket, as the bassist repeatedly threw Chris' P-Bass up in the air, the strap holding it to his body, and letting it slam and bounce against his upraised thigh. I turned around to grab Chris, "look at what this guy is doing. You'll want to see this."

Chris came in and stood, mouth agape. He confronted the kid backstage afterward. "What the fuck? Why did you do that?"

The kid was very blase -- there's a nice French word for you. "Hey c'mon," he said. "Eet eese poonk rock, men."

Chris replied something like, "where's your bass? What happened to it, and why did you need mine?"

The guy just shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his bass. He just wanted to use Chris's and got overexuberant. Chris simply did not know how to respond. But he let the kid have it.

Finally, the moment we were all waiting for, the time that we get to play; it is all about the music, man; the hour or so that makes it all worthwhile. We started our set to a packed crowd in this little room. The kids had paid around the equivalent of $20, which back then, for a band our size, was a lot of dough. I was actually starting to feel good. The crowd was definitely boisterous. And as a song or two went by, I felt myself getting beer spilled/thrown at me. Cups seemed to be flying. And one hit my right at the top of my guitar and drenched my torso.

Sort of half laughing, in my slowest, clearest speech, to try to convey my message to the French crowd, I said something like, "OK, I know it is a rock club and you all paid a lot of money to come and have fun, I have to politely ask whoever it is throwing beer up here to please stop." I heard a lot of yelling and jeering, people pointing fingers, and so on.

We started into the next song, "Mineral," which starts slowly, quietly, and with just me playing the guitar. The screaming continued and I saw a bustle in the crowd, just behind the first few rows of people, who started to look over their shoulders at those behind them fighting someone off, pushing around, trying to get out of the way, as this other insane-looking girl with a shaved head made her way forward, literally clawing her way up to the front. By the time it came for me to sing the first lines, she was in front of me yelling at me.

Mistake number one: I stopped playing and made eye contact with her, allowing her to engage me. She was still trying to gain ground and people were pushing her back. "What are you saying?" I asked. Mistake number two.

She yelled something to me in French or gibberish, or some combination of the two. Either way, I had no idea what she was saying. Mistake number three: I say, "hold on, hold on, what is she saying? Let her talk."

She wrestled her way right in front of me and yelled, "I thought eet would be refreshing to you! I thought you wanted to be refreshed!" She had been the one throwing the beers at me.

"No, ha ha, no that's fine," I said. I don't need...."

Splat! She spit right in my face before I could get my sentence out. Hawked a loogy right in my face.

Mistake number four comes next. Instead of walking away, which is something I am not too good at generally, and starting the music again, I instantly and instinctively spit right back in her cute little face. Well, before I could even straighten up, the skinhead chick was ON me, grabbing a hold of my guitar strings and my face, her nails slashing as she clawed up onto stage, kicking slapping, pulling my hair, my guitar clanging away. I looked to the side and saw Chris, again with mouth agape, but just standing there, along with Stephen, our guitar tech, stock still, the both of them. My face must have been in a panicked expression of, "a little help here?"

Finally, somehow, we were separated. Shaken, I left the stage and exited out the back door. In this setup, the dressing rooms were in another building up a flight of stairs. I was shaking and scratched up. We had only played maybe three songs. Fifi the promoter lady comes in, now all gooey sweet, begging us to go back on, telling us how the people loved the music and it was only one bad apple and so on. I told her to fuck off, that we had been badly treated this whole day, and that they have this heavy security presence and yet no one there to stop this one petite Tasmanian devil from nearly taking me out? She begged us, but my adrenaline was pumping and wanted to make her sweat, maybe a small riot from the outraged kids in the offing, so we refused to go back on for a while. She kept begging and we relented, telling her it was "for the kids, man!"

We were escorted back down the steps toward the entry to the stage. But we had to pass back through a courtyard between the two buildings. There, in a doorway, was the skinhead girl and two of the huge security guys and she was pummeling them while they tried to restrain her. They sort of seemed like they didn't want to hurt her, but she was trying their patience.

We played our set, which was good for a few laughs. People in the front were apologizing for her, telling me she was clearly on bad drugs. We wrapped up an otherwise uneventful and fun set.

Afterward, we were up in the dressing room again. enjoying a few drinks with some folks. I was discussing the bizarro incident with a French guy.

"Oh yeah, man," he said. "She was very high on something. She had been making problems all night."

"She was insane," I told him. "I mean, she really hurt me. And then we saw her outside going nuts on some big security guys."

"Yes, yes!" he replied. "You know, they had to shock her," illustrating some sort of movement with his hands."

"Huh? They had to shock her? What do you mean?"

He kept up the prodding motion. "Yes, oui. They had to give her electreek shock."

"What?! Like a cattle prod? A stun gun?" I asked (I don't think the word "Taser" had yet entered the lexicon -- english or french).

"Yes, yes, 'stun gun!.' Can you believe it, man?"

Here is the kind of place we played: huge SWAT team security guys patrolling a prison-like campus with German shepherds and stun guns, waiting for an opportunity to send high voltage into an out-of-control skinhead chick, and yet not being able to rise to the occasion when they were actually needed.

Merry Christmas kids!

CoTW 95 -- Beautiful Boy

2010-12-08T17:33:00.005-05:00

I have seen and heard much about John Lennon today, the 30th anniversary of his murder. I was a teenager, 14, living in suburban New York when I heard the news. I don't recall the details of that night, aside from watching the news. But I recall sitting in a barber chair getting my hair cut (at a "unisex salon," not barbershop by that point) as they talked and played his music on the then-still-relevant FM radio stations. I vividly recall watching in the mirrors, the stylists crying, the diagonal rough-hewn pine paneling framing the sad view.

We grew up with the Beatles. For those of us now in our 40s, they were always there. John's life in New York was part of the whole tale of the band The story is so well known by now, and yet, I was compelled to watch the PBS documentary that artfully focused on that era of his life. And it was beautiful. There was nothing new to learn, really. But to hear the voices and see the aging faces of those closely associated with him during that period, and to hear all the chatter in-between takes during his return to the recording studio in the late 1970s, added some visceral "you are there" reality to what has sort of become part of the pop culture mythology. It was a moving portrait and well edited and assembled.

It is too easy and tempting to boil public figures -- especially one as outspoken as Lennon -- to caricatures. To wit: Lennon was a snide arrogant rocker with lefty political views who abandoned one wife and son as he selfishly pursued worldwide fame and fortune; John, the working-class orphan; John the would-be revolutionary and/or avant garde art scenester; or Saint John of NYC, the icon in Central Park in the New York City t-shirt who, after being lost in the sin of his own exile in the desert, got wise (found?), gained perspective and served as stay-at-home nuturer to young son Sean in a scene of domestic bliss upset only -- but finally - at the end by the gun violence so endemic of the culture in his new home, citizenship he fought hard to gain.

All of this is true, likely. So many contradictions when seen as a whole. And that's the point that so many have been making, finally. A more complicated and slightly more nuanced picture has emerged over the years. Such snapshots make up a whole portrait, like a Chuck Close work, but those micro shots are difficult to come by. Here is a nice one from Yoko in today's Times. John Lennon, as hard as it is to believe sometimes, was not a demi-god; he was a human being, with all the baggage that comes with it. An artist tries to control what the public views, both with his/her art and, also, of his/her life. Generally, these more intimate moments are kept private, sometimes forgotten, good, bad, or indifferent. Of course, what remains -- and maybe what is most important -- is the art.

I am not religious, but at times like this holiday season, I like hearing songs about Jesus ("I don't want to walk and talk about Jesus, I just wanna see his face") and enjoy the whole nativity story as a beautiful allegory about rebirth, the cycle of life, light in the darkest of winter nights, and, as Rick Danko sang, "how a little baby boy brings the people so much joy."*

And it brings me a lot of confort to believe in John Lennon the artist, as a demi-god, the life he presented to us as maybe part of the art, but no less real. He was showing a version of how to age and become a father to a generation. It brings me great comfort to think of John as a softening man and a nurturing father to a baby and then young boy. And it therefore brings me great pain to think of his murder and the loss of a father who can write a song such as this for his son.

Beautiful Boy mp3

* speaking of The Band song, "Chistmas Must Be Tonight," stay tuned for news next week of a download of that song and the Smokey Robinson & the Miracles' number, "Christmas Every Day," to benefit Target Cancer. We recorded these on Sunday night with a bunch of musician friends at Q Division -- all live in a small room together. They sound tremendous, if I may say so myself. I am eager to share them.

CoTW 94 -- A Little Bit of Soap

2010-12-03T23:03:00.005-05:00

A few things have occurred recently, conspiring to bring the memory of my Uncle Vince back to the forefront of my mind. To be truthful, though, he has never been far out of my immediate consciousness since his murder (if you are new to the site, you can refer to CoTW 53 and 54) just over a year ago.

As I write, the United States Senate is holding the first of two days of hearings about the repeal of the shameful "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" law banning openly homosexual Americans from serving in the military.

Any reasonable American should be ashamed and embarrassed that this is even a topic of discussion, especially at this point in our history. I'm not here in this space to argue it; there is no argument. Such a law is, at minimum, a disrespectful insult to men and women who have and continue to serve, fight, and die for their country. Vincent Pravata served his country overseas during Vietnam while in the Navy. And he was a gay man. As his nephew, godson, and executor of his estate, I feel obligated to add his name and face to the context of this pathetic debate, during which Sen. John McCain continues the downward spiral that is the unspooling of his own reputation as a once reasonable senator.

There have been other reminders, mainly his birthday, the one-year anniversary date of the murder, trial updates (the killer is in a jail cell awaiting a trial that is unlikely to happen until late 2011 at earliest), and some small things, like the song I wrote borne from the experience, “The Big Light,” about to be released on the upcoming new Buffalo Tom record.

In many ways, Vince fit a stereotype of a gay man -- interior designer; antiques importer; health nut who did everything he could do to slow the signs of age (not afraid of a bit of Botox either); had a penchant for Amy and David Sedaris, Maria Callas, and Eva Cassidy; he drove a sky-blue Audi convertible; and so on. He got a little kick out of an email friendship he had with the author Augusten Burroughs. I loved spending time with him, especially in his house, picking up on design tips, trends (63 year-old man more up on trends than his nephew 20 years younger), eating well, and using his myriad grooming sundries. He gave me travel candles to bring on tour that would make any shitty motel room feel like a room at the Four Seasons. Well, almost.

And the soaps, oh, the collection of soaps! This was a man who took orders for friends and ordered wholesale quantities of imported Italian and Scandinavian olive and lemon soaps. I remember from the time of my adolescence the fine smells that made me feel like I was in a spa. He was my personal Queer Eye for this Straight Guy. Though, to be truthful, I think he thought I was mostly beyond any help he could provide. We still turned each other on to music, books, and movies, though.

Adding salt to the wound of his death was the fact that at the time of his murder, he had just finished a spectacular master suite addition to his modest South Miami three-bedroom house. The master bath was a truly spa-like Zen masterpiece. He did not have more than a couple of weeks, if that, to enjoy it. It was where I spent my time there while I attended to the estate and selling the house itself. I went through the drawers using grooming tools, creams for every imaginable part of the body, and would linger in the five-head shower with a big window overlooking a lush tropical garden.

As we emptied out his house, we saved most of his special items, many of which were specifically bequeathed in his will. We sold some other things to the buyers of the house. And we donated bedding, clothes, appliances, and housewares to charity. I loaded up by luggage with many things I could fit into my luggage, mostly things of sentimental value. I brought home is iPod Touch and a vintage 1950s glamour statuette bust of a starlet with eyelashes flickering for my daughter. And I grabbed his and his father’s service medals and colors for my son and Navy dog tags for my brother. I packed away crates of stuff to ship home. And I made sure to clear out the bathroom closet all the bars of soap my bag could hold.

We only ran out of the last sliver of the last bar of that soap earlier this autumn. As I scrubbed and watched the last fragment turn to lather and the suds disappear down the drain in our own newly remodeled bath (funded in part from a bit of an inheritance he left), I was pretty sure it was a tear running down my face in the shower.

A Little Bit Of Soap mp3

I have been boring people with my cover of this old Bert Berns-penned song for years. I remember playing it live on a short solo acoustic run down the east coast about 10 years ago with my co-pilot, Mike O'Malley riding shotgun. The refrain has been running through my head for the whole year, for obvious reasons.

New Buffalo Tom

2010-11-29T22:37:00.001-05:00

Find the premier of the new track, "Arise, Watch," here at Stereogum for a free download.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

CotW 93 -- Death Party

2010-11-24T17:30:00.003-05:00

A pretty rough reading of the Gun Club song, Death Party, from the Mercury Lounge last week.

I think I will have some time to add some more new covers and posts in the coming month or so. Check back.

Death Party mp3

Buffalo Tom Updates

2010-11-24T10:14:00.001-05:00

Hey, we are gearing up for the new record, called Skins, due out mid-February. We have a new Facebook page, Twitter feed, designer stage wear, hair pieces, and low-profile trusses to keep things in place.

There is a new interview, here, and it contains a preview of a new track from the record.

In other news, this very blog -- yes, this one -- was nominated "Best Music Blog," no, not by the Pulitzer Committee, but by the Boston Music Awards. A friend of mine asked why I had not been plugging it and if I was afraid of self-promotion. Hahahahahahahahaha. You can vote here, if you like. And also see nominees, Tom Janovitz for best folk record with his nom de rock, Sodafrog, and Scott Janovitz for his band, the Russians, in the singer/songwriter category.

More as it comes!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

CoTW 92 -- Annie

2010-11-02T11:03:00.004-04:00

I have been thinking a lot about mortality this year. I am sure many of you have been as well. Starting to see more friends leaving. I have discussed this in this space already, so no need for the site to be a repository of a singular obsession.

And yet, here is a beautiful autumnal song by Ronnie Lane, apparently co-written by Eric Clapton (and Kit Lambert?), from the album Rough Mix that Ronnie recorded in collaboration with Pete Townshend. It is a sleeper gem. Thanks to my buddy, Rick Wells, for handing it to me. I had heard a bit of it back in the 1980s when one ore more friend had it in their collection. But I never picked it up for some reason or another. The greats like Pete and Ronnie put out so much music, so much of it great, it is hard to keep up. When I was a kid, I only had about two decades of rock & roll to catch up with. Now a person starting a band that cares deeply enough has four or more decades to survey. And that is just rock & roll. Never mind all the great jazz, folk, etc. It is all there for you, kids. Go get it.

Annie mp3

I am afraid my recording is not pristine. There is some distortion. Often, I am trying to rush these things in between other commitments such as soccer coaching, day jobbing, Buff Tomming, etc.

CoTW 91 for Billy

2010-10-29T08:46:00.002-04:00

Some recently unearthed Billy Ruane-related videos. This first one is the gig I mentioned in the last post, when Billy booked us for one of, if not our first Boston gig. You can see the cash flying when he throws money at us during the song. There here is on stage after, in full MC mode. "My Sweet Lord" for Billy's cover.

The second one is from his birthday party. Unfortunately, Billy's intro gets cut off at the top and you can only catch a glimpse of his dancing near the very ed. I am sure there are better videos to show that particular talent. The dates seem off on these. The first one is definitely closer to 1987, as I am playing my old amp and I know we had few gigs before that. In the other one, we are paying a song from our second record, Birdbrain. It was probably brand new. And I am playing through the Marshall amp, which was not obtained until later. This is called rock anthropology.

Billy Ruane, Rest in Peace

2010-10-27T08:40:00.003-04:00

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”

-- Kerouac

Billy and Billy. Photo by Ken Okaya.

Boston just lost a legend and a giant-hearted friend. Billy gave Buffalo Tom one of, if not our very first gig in Boston. For those of you who are not from Boston, and/or didn't know him, Billy was more than a fan, more than a promoter, more than a friend. He is responsible for so much good music, so many good clubs, and endless generosity and good will. He singlehandedly brought music to the Middle East Restaurant, which became, simply, the Middle East. But there were stunning memorable nights at Green Street Grill, galleries, bowling alleys, lofts...

The loss is staggering. My eyes are misty as I write this. He will be missed and his death marks the end of an era. We mourn Billy as we mourn the passing of our youth.

Photo by Wayne Valdez.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

CoTW 90

2010-10-26T18:04:00.004-04:00

Kitchen Door, a Buffalo Tom Song usually sung by Chris Colbourn. But I have some assistance from Will. Sorry for the cutesyness.Will gets cut off on the blog screen ratio. I would go watch on Youtube for the complete effect:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXrlq65CEIo

While we are on Buffalo Tom covers, here is one by the band the Stents, led by the pediatric oncologist, Pat Brown, of Johns Hopkins, an old family friend. OK, so he is doing amazing work and does a pretty amazing job here. But his voice DOES crack on the chorus. So I guess I have that going for me:

CoTW 89

2010-10-10T19:38:00.010-04:00

I first learned about Solomon Burke when I was a kid via the Rolling Stones -- the gateway to many things in my life. But all I knew was that he did the original recording of "Cry to Me." which I felt the Stones did better on their Out of Our Heads LP. It was not until reading the monumental Peter Guralnick book, Sweet Soul Music in the early 1990s that I really turned my attention to the King of Soul himself, Mr. Burke. And as the age of CD reissues came upon us, it became easier to revisit the past and catch up with whole careers via a few retrospective CDs. Listening to Solomon was to hear a master class in early-1960s soul singing -- power when needed, supple cooing when balladry was called for, and just the right amount of church. And his late-career resurgence was also quite fulfilling, the closing of the circle, the re-appreciation fueled by records produced indie roots rock heros like Joe Henry. So, as with many artists from Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Bettye Lavette, Mavis Staples, etc., a giant (literally?) away from whom the spotlight strayed, had his rightful place on the throne reestablished (literally!) with some help from some younger alternacats.

I got to see him on that throne, playing a set before Van Morrison about 10 years ago. He was the powerhouse and showman I hoped he would be, in great voice and with undeniable regal presence. The tie between Burke and Morrison was more than master/protege. It was more than the influence of a slightly older American soul man and a younger Belfast Cowboy; there was also the chain of Bert Berns, who wrote a ton of pseudo-Latin, peppy numbers for a myriad of acts back in the heyday of the Brill Building-era. The relationship between Van and Bert is a tortuous one, and well-documented.

Think of the Berns-penned song "A Little Bit of Soap" as sung by the Jarmels and you have the idea of how Solomon was probably given the demo version of "Cry to Me." In other words, too upbeat for the subject matter. I mean, I got to know the song via a young Mick Jagger spilling out such lines as, "nothing could be sadder than a glass of wine alone," and "when you're all alone in your lonely room/And there's nothing but the smell of her perfume." This was my favorite song on the record that had "Satisfaction" on it. I was 8 years old. There is something primeval about songs like this.

We tip our hat and raise a drink for the recently departed Solomon Burke. He was 70. Hard to believe that's the same age John Lennon would have been today. Have you ever heard Emmylou Harris do "For No One," by the way? It is one of those rare covers that, for me, comes close or even surpasses an original classic. I heard it again this morning for the first time in ages. "Cry to Me" as done by the Stones is in the echelon as well.

Now, there are tons of Solomon songs that kill me. And Jagger learned about 1/4 of what he knows about singing from him, along with Don Covay, Otis, etc. But Jagger and the Stones took Ol' Solomon's song away from him, as far as I am concerned. It is the sound of loneliness, and "loneliness is just a waste of your time."

Here is a cover Phil Aiken (piano), Tom Polce (lead guitar), and I did late night after a recording session at Q Division in about 2002 or so, a bottle of wine or two being drained as the wee small hours of the morning ticked off the clock and the tape rolled:

Cry to Me mp3

Edit: And here is a great old Solomon B-side, from the essential Red Kelly sould site (one of a few great sou blogs he runs):

"What Am I Living For"

Rejected TV Theme

2010-09-22T10:09:00.003-04:00

I took a stab at a theme for a new TV show. No go. Some might recall I did the theme song for "Yes Dear" some years back. So, here are two demo versions of the newest attempt at network-TV-paycheck glory, rejected, alas! Anyone else out there want to buy one?

Rock Me Daddy-O I

Rock Me Daddy-O II

CoTW 88

2010-09-11T10:23:00.004-04:00

I was invited by old friend, Jim Sampas to contribute a cover of a Bob Dylan song as an exclusive iTunes bonus track for a tribute to Dylan's LP, Bringing it All Back Home. Jim is the kind gent who put together the Lost Songs of Lennon and McCartney LP on which I got teamed up with the spectacular Graham Parker and Kate Pierson. What started out as rock & roll fantasy camp, sharing a microphone with one of my heroes, Graham, and a spectacular band of Duke Levine, Dave Mattacks, and Paul Bryan, bunking and working at the dreamlike Longview Farm studio, eventually led to one of the most enjoyable rock tours I have ever been on, with yet another backing band behind Kate, Graham, and me.

On this Dylan tribute, they already had all the official tracks from the BIABH LP covered, as well as outtakes from the sessions that were eventually released on the Bootleg Series. I wanted to therefore come up with an inspired choice, a song that has not been covered to death. I chose "Rock Me Mama," an outtake from the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid sessions. I love that score for the film, But to call "Rock Me Mama" an outtake is actually misleading; it was only a rehearsal tape, recorded live, of what seems to be a spontaneous burst of inspiration, with Bob leading a few musicians and singers through a song with just a few barely decipherable verse lyrics, seemingly off the top of his head, solidified by a more concrete chorus. There is no arrangement; Bob just repeats the chorus a bunch of times in a row to teach the musicians and see if the song sticks. But it was never released in any official way. It seems to be recorded only with a live mic. Sounds like a campfire recording.

Well, a band called the Old Crow Medicine Show took the Dylan bootleg and Ketch Secor of the band supplied his own verses, titling the song "Wagon Wheel" and crediting the song as "Dylan, Secor." I have heard this version a few times, from a friend playing it on his iPod on a few of our poker nights. While I really dug the Old Crow version, I wanted to sort of go back and reclaim the original as much as possible, filling in the gaps with my own lines and trying to stick to the theme, however vague, in Bob's original recording.

Jim had asked me on really (really) short notice to come up with something and he loved this version I recorded overnight. I am pretty sure, though, that Old Crow had to jump through some hoops to get the approval needed from the Dylan camp. So I raised this thorny issue a few days later, i.e. how to credit the song. My idea was Dylan, arranged by Bill, with additional lyrics from Bill. Or to just leave it as Dylan. Needless to say, this will bring on a roadblock to the project, so we are going with something else from the official catalog. More details on that to follow.

So, in the meantime, here is my version of the song, given sort of a freewheeling, almost "Sweet Virginia" vibe. I like the idea of this found song, with different artists interpreting, adding, editing -- as in the folk music tradition. Of course, it just adds headaches from a legal perspective. Not sure how long I will be able to keep it up here on the site. So hopefully you will enjoy it, now and for a little while.

Rock Me Mama mp3

Cover of the Whenever 87

2010-09-04T12:28:00.004-04:00

Cover of the Week has seemingly settled into Cover of the Month. CoTW was suggested to no be Cover of the Whenever, which seems accurate and nicely non-committal. I am going to try to get a bit of the rhythm back, but summer has been filled with sun and fun, travel, cycling, and G&Ts. Sometimes, and other projects. I even worked! By the way, the new Buffalo Tom record is being warmly received by those who have heard it and it should be out in February. Not sure why these things still take so long.

This week's (month's) cover does not feature the usual semi-related essay. It is the writing part that takes the most time for these posts. I do have a few notes from over the summer that I will write about soon, for those of you who like to read these.

Too many of these posts have been tributes to recently deceased musicians. And so it is with this one.

Since adolescence, I have been a casual fan of Little Feat. The band was always one of those groups that my friends' older siblings knew about. You could see their album logos meticulously sketched on Meade denim loose-leaf binders in junior high. The vibe surrounding them was similar to that of the southern rock bands I dug. However, they were different. I couldn't articulate then that it was a New Orleans influence -- Toussaint; Meters; Longhair; et. al. But I knew that it was different than the full tilt boogie from the other acts I was used to.

But I did not buy a lot of records. I enjoyed them whenever they were on the radio, or in friends' rec room turntables. But my appreciation grew over the years. So it was a thrill to be able to play with Paul Barrere at a few of the Hot Stove Cool Music events. Never mind his role in rock & roll history; he is just a tremendously soulful player (and singer). And he is a great guy to hang out with.

I never got to meet Feat drummer, Richie Hayward. Like many others, I was sad to hear of his passing this summer.

This is just one of those favorite old classic rock covers I have chosen to do. We got to sing harmonies on this with Paul (with him taking the Lowell George lead). I love this simple song. Buffalo Tom used to collect trucker tapes for our long van rides. They were received with a mixture of irony (Red Sovine) and genuine love of some classic country songs like "White Line fever" and "Six Days on the Road," which made me feel a sort of false kinship with the men that drove the big rigs. That whole thing about truckers knowing the best place to eat? Don't believe that myth. That must have vanished with Rt. 66 into the ghost world of Americana.

Willin' mp3

Cover of the Week 86

2010-08-10T00:17:00.006-04:00

The back lawn of Coindre Hall, Huntington, NY. This was a Gatsby-era mansion on Huntington Bay at the lip of Huntington Harbor that had become a school and other things over the years. All the freaks in town used to hang out on this lawn playing guitar, playing frisbee, drinking, smoking, etc. When I first heard "Sugar Mountain," I would have sworn that Neil wrote it about this place.

We all understand the pull that music holds on our memories. Smells, tastes, and other sensory stimuli, like the madeline cookie in Proust's Remembrance of Things Past, can also elicit powerful memories, but music has the deepest affect, at least for me. This in part explains my weakness for nostalgia. Or perhaps the nostalgia vein that runs through me explains my attraction to music.

In addition to launching into direct and predictable reveries, certain songs bring me back to certain places. I don't just mean that in a general sense, as with New Order's "Age of Consent" reminding me of my high school days, my bedroom, and the store, Newbury Comics on Newbury Street in Boston. What I'm saying is that there are many songs which place me directly at some specific suburban street corner; or maybe next to some aluminum bleachers in a school yard; or a glimpse out of a backseat car window as my father drives. Some of those are easily traceable; maybe a first impression of this or that song occurred while being in or passing that specific location. These memories are usually kind of vague, but are often vivid enough to be a specific time of day, in a specific season, as the light falls a certain way.

But more perplexing are the songs I hear for the first time later in life which bring me back to one of those specific geographic spots from my past. I'm sure there is some neurological name for this phenomenon, as there is for people who cross up their senses, like synesthesia; seeing the taste of fish, or hearing blue, and so on.

There are at least two songs which bring me to a specific street corner in Huntington, New York, my old hometown on the north shore of Long Island. The corner is at the outer edge and corner of a public park, which forms the home plate and backstop area for a little league baseball diamond. This is the field on which I launched my first and only home run, in my last year in little league. By then I was stretching the eligibility age cut off. Field seen here at the end of the clip as I drove past it a couple of weeks ago. Not great cinematography, but a preserved relic.

The first song that places me at that corner any time I hear it is "Suite Judy Blue Eyes." The other is the Bobby Hebb classic hit, "Sunny.”

Bobby passed away this week. He had a great friend up in in Boston named Joe Vigilone, a fella I know a little. Here is a review of the song that I wrote years ago on allmusic.com It is this week’s CoTW. Scroll to end to avoid reading another memoir.

*****

If Facebook is good for nothing else -- indeed, some, myself included, would argue that the bad is running neck-and-neck with the good -- it scratches the itch that sentimental people like me have, satisfying pangs of nostalgia and cravings to revisit the past, or at least people and places from our past.

As much as the Buddhist-curious ("Bu-curious?") part of me would like to think that the past is simply gone and that we are something like empty vessels who can move through time and space adapting endlessly, I am more a prisoner of those times and places than I would care to admit at times.

The chicken/egg examination of this particular aspect of my personality would have to include discussions of nature/nurture, my innate predispositions and emotionality, my upbringing, and so on. And primary in this examination shall always be the fact that I lived my whole life in an idyllic town until I had to move to a sleepy rural exurban hamlet in a different state at the truly vulnerable age of 16, during the summer between sophomore and junior years of high school. I have written about it enough. I mean, for chrissake, enough already! Moving? That's the biggest event? Or maybe not. Clearly it was one of the defining events, if not the most defining event of my life. For, all things followed. And most of them ending up being good. Massachusetts led to University of Massachusetts, which led to forming Buffalo Tom and meeting my future wife, which led, respectively, to producing pretty good music and better children. But the few years that bridged that move to those good things felt like a lifetime.

To leave during the beginning of summer, just the perfect season in Huntington (those hard core among you might recall the line, “your favorite time in your home town”), playing in my band, which was the love of my life, for my own farewell party, made the whole thing worthy of a suburban angstfest tragicomedy; John Cheever as directed by John Hughes.

To leave a place and relationships that you know like the back of your hand is difficult enough. To have to do so when you have not yet attained the coping tools offered by maturity is more difficult still. To leave someplace dynamic, someplace where you don't need a car to have mobility and freedom, a place that offers few excuses for ennui, and to arrive someplace that is boring in the best of times (Curt Schilling has chosen to settle there. Enough said), in the dead of summer, with no friends and no car... Well, I'm not comparing myself to the tragic adolescents of history; surely reading Anne Frank or even Anne Sexton could wake me from that notion. But it was not easy for an emotional weakling like me.

All of this leads me to tell you little about a sentimental journey I took about a week ago back to that Long Island of the mind.

Again, Facebook, if nothing else, was good for something. In this case, a bunch of 40-somethings reconnected and reminisced about the old town, neighborhoods, schools, shared cute and embarrassing old photos, etc. Many of these people lived there through high school, have family still there, or even still live there, or nearby, themselves. But there a few others like me who moved out fairly early and have not been back more than a few times since. It is this latter group of us who you would think tend toward the more mythological memories of the town. Might be true, but not to the degree you might expect.

So a bunch of the Facebookers with time on their hands got to talking trash about which particular elementary school was better. Now, this is a town that tied itself in knots with busing and redistricting in an attempt to correct some of the segregation that resulted over time. The town of Huntington is actually a large township of towns and villages ranging from the uber-wealthy coast on the north shore, through more modest middle-class areas in the center, to lower-middle class and poor areas once one crossed over to the train station for the Long Island Railroad -- literally the other side of the tracks. Moving more inward still, to central long island, there were other towns that were part of Huntington Township in government boundaries only; they were pretty much completely self-defined villages with separate school systems. The Times recently had an article which discussed a study that found Long Island towns (it is actually quite a large place, 188 miles long) the most racially segregated in the nation. This is not completely a surprise, but it is hard to segregate an all-white town like the one I moved to was.

I went to an old neighborhood school until second grade, when I was bused across town to Huntington Elementary in Huntington Station. Kids just a few houses away, on the same suburban street, went to a school in a completely different part of town. All of the elementary school students came together for only one grade, sixth, before being funneled back out to two separate junior highs and then merging again in one high school. I got lost a bit in this system and my parents worried about my scholarship, so they took me out of public school after 8th grade to go to yet another Catholic high a half an hour ride from our house.

So I had not seen some of these faces on the Facebook since junior high. But here they all were, 30 years later, talking trash about which school was the best, which led to which was the best in kickball, the classic American school adaptation of baseball, played with a red ball roughly the size of a soccer ball, but with way more bounce. This in turn led to a proposal to have a kickball tournament to prove who was and/or is now best. And a bunch of people -- people in their mid-40s, with kids, mortgages, jobs -- convened on Huntington High School fields in April when it was time to put up or shut up. It was thrown down. You might think I’m talking about 20 people. I am not; I am talking about hundreds of people.

I was so sorry to miss this spring event, you have no idea. While you can see the fact that I loved this town and these people from my past, you can not quite taste it, I understand. I had missed the 25th Huntington High reunion last summer as I was away on vacation. That tore me up. And I didn’t even attend Huntington High. I went for two years to a lame private high school before moving to Medfield to finish the final two years. But because of that, having no real traction at either high school, and the fact that these were people I grew up with, in some cases since preschool, that was the only reunion that appealed to me.

And then I missed an even better event in the spring kickball tourney. I could see all the photos online, the kickball games, all the bodies and faces which I needed to see tagged to recognize, kicking away with their old buddies and each other’s kids. And then, the pictures from the evening’s celebration at a pub in the downtown village, a pub that used to be a bar where I would stare in the window to see the bands playing when I was 13 and 14. Here were pictures of old friends who used to jam at that young age now jamming again, for the first time in 30 years in some cases.

Well, I was lucky that the event was spearheaded by go-getters who actually put their time and money where their mouths are, Rosie, Danny, Stu, and so many more who organized this thing. I was luck that everyone had so much fun and the event raised a bunch of dough for a scholarship in the name of a schoolmate who passed away at an all-too-young age, leaving behind a young family. Because of the success and the fact that everyone had a blast, and so many of us were not able to attend, it was quickly decided to hole another one in July. I cleared my schedule to make sure I would be there. My wife was all for it. She would stay home with the kids while I took this trip back to my old haunts.

And I was not the only one who had been so long away; Jeff, from Tennessee was jonesing to come up. He had been trying the patience of his lovely southern wife with tales of New York pizza, Long Island beaches, and all the other stuff I bore the shit out of my friends and family with.

And I had also been catching up with a guy I knew as child and teen, known him since kindergarten. Trevor lives up in the south shore suburbs of Boston. That blew my mind when I first heard it. Here was this guy I might have passed on the street and not known it, a guy I grew up with, came of age with, and ultimately lost touch with when I moved. He had been to the April event and said he wanted to go again in the summer. So he and I arranged to drive down together. Well, shit, we have to have lunch first at least!

So we met in Cambridge for a bite and to catch up. It was a trip. The guy looks great, but I remember him as 16 at oldest. Here was this man sitting at the table. But as soon as he spoke, the New York accent still twanging in there a bit, I could see the young Trevor in there -- the mannerisms, the gestures, the speech. It was a revelation.

A few weeks later, we drove down through Connecticut to catch the ferry from Bridgeport to New Haven and caught up on our families, and people we grew up with in Huntington. Where are they now?

When he was around 14, Trevor looked like sort of a cross between a young Mick Jagger and Brian Jones at his most angelic, not most tragic. If not quite on the same trajectory of tragedy of Jones, Trevor was also no angel. We both knew some kids who got in trouble, but Trevor was more acquainted with the night than I was.

Sitting at the bar on the ferry across the Long Island sound, he listed some of the suburban casualties. There was Bryce (names are being changed to avoid issues), whose father made a nice living for a guy who started as a clammer and lobsterman, lived in a big house in an upper-middle-class-reaching neighborhood that my parents also were able to move us into. It wasn't Huntington Bay, but it was knocking on the door.

"Bryce is still alive, I think," he told me. He and Gazz got into it bad in high school. In those days, Newsday (the then-Long Island paper I delivered) unions were famous for no-show jobs. Those guys were hooked up via "friends of the family." Well, anyway, there was tons of coke and that lead to heroin. Gazz died. Bryce's girlfriend died. His mom came across her body while Bryce was out puking in the bushes.

A handful off guys from that small neighborhood died -- OD, car crashes. Dennis was in the Towers on 9-11.

Trevor and I knew each other from pretty much kindergarten through 10th grade, though we really became buds in 5th-8th grades, what I guess you'd call middle school today. Back then it was junior high. His brother was four years older. When we were 14, he was of legal age to buy booze. He got us a keg for our first keg party in the carriage house behind their family's house in Huntington Village, the pretty sizable downtown center section of our town. None of us there will ever forget that day. And our specific memories apparently are remarkably the same, amazing given the years and the fact that we were trashed teenagers. For instance, we all seem to remember a certain girl passed out face down while "Wild Horses" played on the boom box next to her. Maybe it was just such a striking image for kids who had never seen such a thing, that it is imprinted on our collective consciousness, even 30 years later, immune to the sepia mythology that has tended to embellish the good times and diminish or make legendary the bad.

I discovered that my memory was not necessarily so faulty or singularly nostalgic as Trevor and I continued to compare notes as we drove off the ferry down 25A, the route that snakes along the north shore of Long Island. Later, after driving out of the circa-1975 motel in Centerport, we picked up another old friend and went down to Halesite, a little village on Huntington Harbor, for dinner with Danny, my best man and singer in my first adolescent band, who came down from Buffalo. On our way, we picked up another old friend. Katy has been in Manhattan for decades and her sister still lives in Huntington. Katy, Danny, and I have been in close contact for the past 30 years. Finally, after dinner, we stumbled on to an old reliable dive a few doors down.

The whole night was an exercise in power nostalgia. Walking into the parking lot, I was greeted with faces I haven't seen since 1982. Here they are 28 years later, aged, receding, maybe puffier, maybe graying. But I could see the kids I had known immediately in almost each case. Sometimes it took some slight body language in motion to see them. Some of them I had gotten to know from Facebook. But it was overwhelming. There was Jeff, John, Charlie, Shaun, Brendan, and so on. All these guys I had not seen since I was maybe 17 on a visit back. I told Charlie I had just learned he lives in the Boston area.

“Yeah, Newton,” he said.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I teach at Lexington High School.”

This is where my kids will be going to school when they hit that age. I was flabbergasted. He had no idea. Again, a guy who lives in my mind in the image of when we took the bus together or when we played as preschoolers while our moms visited each other.

*****

Anyway, if anyone is still reading this, I commend and thank you, but I won’t bore you with all the details of the weekend. Short version goes like this: we drank and sang songs until five in the morning at out cheap motel rooms; played hungover kickball in 105-degree heat on three or four hours of sleep; caught up with too many old childhood friends to count (for me they were childhood friends. For most of them, they were high school and even college friends -- I missed out on those intervening years); as if I was not spent enough, was dragged across town to a “keg softball” game as part of a bachelor party; took video clips and pics of all my old spots along the way.

I expected to be let down. After not having visited in almost 10 years, and only once before that 10 years prior, I thought it could not possibly stand up to my memory of the place. I was wrong.

More heartening still was to see how everyone turned out. This was certainly a great event for a charity. But beyond that, everyone I talked with, some of whom were only acquaintances and schoolmates or little league teammates, were all warm-hearted. The kids I remembered being hilarious still made me laugh the most. Personalities seem to essentially be formed by about 99% by the time people are 16. Thats my unscientific conclusion.

Passing third base, I would high five a kid who played third base in tee ball when we were five. Out in the outfield, I chatted with the first girl I ever asked out. Over at second base was Jamie, the first drummer I ever played with. He came up with his kids from Georgia.

That night, we all convened at the Nag’s Head pub for a dadrock jam on classic rock and new wave numbers. Jamie sat in for a song on drums for a song, the first time he had played since high school. Jeff even got up to sing “Can’t You See with Us.” Of course, the Stones were represented heavily.

I met Katy when we were 14 and she sang the Merry Clayton part on “Gimme Shelter” at a party that got insanely wild, spanning junior high through college-age kids until it was crashed by a bunch of dudes in the biker gang, the Pagans. That was an interesting party to have our parents pick us up from.

Katy joined us on stage again at the Nag’s Head. She sang “Wild Horses.”

*****

Sunny mp3

Cover of the Week 85

2010-07-14T22:57:00.004-04:00

This song has been part of the repertoire for quite some time. Buffalo T has played it once or twice, but it was a staple at the Toad and Lizard Lounge residencies with Billy, Billy, Matt, and Philly (Crown Victoria II). For those shows, it just felt right, playing it to what had been a packed house but was a sparse bar by closing time.

And it is an autumnal song. It is almost THE autumnal song. Certainly, it was one of the most important songs in my musical upbringing. Why cover it now, just as summer is getting into full swing? Well, it is winter in the southern hemisphere, the World Cup just finished up and so those down under are settling in for a long winter's nap, and, well, I just haven't gotten around to it until now.

Well, that, and I am leaving in the morning for Chicago, a town I will always identify with, among other things and people, Nick Digilio, a talk show host on WGN, long-time BT supporter, a friend, and a collaborator. I worked with Nick on a play of his, providing a musical score. I think it was fall when I was in Chicago for that. What was the name of the play? Why, "Here Comes a Regular." It seems that song struck deep into our generation.

So maybe I will cover it if you come on down to Schuba's Friday night. I will be all sunburned from my first outing to Wrigley, a pilgrimage that I have been unable to make until now.

And I drink a great big whiskey to you anyway, Cubs fans.

Here Comes a Regular mp3

For other Replacements posts, look here and here.

For my score of the play, "Here Comes a Regular," click here.

The Eagerly Awaited Review of the Exile Boondoggle

2010-07-06T13:03:00.011-04:00

I know you've all been waiting with bated breath.

I still love Exile. I love the idea of the reissue. I pre-ordered, blindly, the ginormous superdeluxe extra-special can't-live-without-it box set.

I am disappointed. Mainly from a cost-value perspective. But first, here is what I love about it:

1. The newly mastered vinyl -- I even went out and got a new needle for the turntable I barely use. That sounded great. But then I went into the closet to get the old fashioned stereo speakers, the kind with woofers and tweeters all in one cabinet, to use in place of those rinky-dink little cubes that come with the entry-level surround sound system in my basement man cave (my home stereo systems are lacking. The one in my car is probably the best). Now, I am in vinyl heaven again.

The records, the actual records, sound unbelievably great! I wish I had a high end tube system now so I could sit with a martini and immerse myself further in this masterpiece.

2. "Plundered My Soul." Via bootlegs, I already knew most of the other outtakes (including the must-have "Loving Cup II," from 1969) that are now included on the bonus disc. I had never heard this song. And it is great, really truly great. However, I can see why it was left off; it has an almost identical groove as "Tumbling Dice." They had so many songs that they probably chose to not finish off another similar song. OK, it certainly is not as excellent as "Tumbling Dice" of course. But that song is pretty much the Holy Grail of Stones grooves, and this one has the same feel! That alone should make it stand as a great outtake, on par with some of those Metamorphosis tracks. Very few bands, Stones included, have ever been able to recapture that seminal feel of "Tumbling Dice." It just barely holds together, it is so impossibly loose. The pocket is so deep. Charlie just barely making it in in time, but resting comfortably in the shuffle, confident of the band being able to all hit the same relaxed stride and stay there.

So in my fantasy mind, Jagger hears the backing tracks, some 30-something years later, and realizes now what everyone was going on about for so many years. This is why Exile is great, the almost ineffable feel of the record, the Stonsey-ness. When I first heard "Plundered My Soul," I was riding in my car and it came on the classic rock station. I literally pulled over and sat in my car, trying to re-tag it over and over on Shazam to try to find out what the hell record this song is from. Is it a new Stones song? A Jagger solo song? Some deep track from one of the many post-Tattoo You records that slipped on by me? The iPhone came up dry a few times until it finally dawned on me that this must be an Exile outtake. An Internet search when I got home confirmed it.

Continuing my fantasy sequence, Mick is digging through tapes, or rather, sitting back as an engineer is doing so for him, and all of a sudden he hears this sexy, slinky groove and it hits him. So he scribbles some words -- which, even as tossed off as they likely were, are still better than 90% of rock & roll lyrics:

I hate quittin’ but I’m close to admittin’ I’m a sorry case.
But on quiet reflection, my sad rejection's not a total disgrace.
But I do miss your quick repartee and the smile that lights up your face.
You'll be a hard act to follow. A bitter pill to swallow.
You'll be tough, oh you’re tough to replace.

Mick sings in his 2009-era voice, or a variation thereof; he is trying to mimic his younger self, a little more vowelly than recent performances, but still with a bit of that pinched quality that has marked his latter years. But there is a true passion there, and the lyric mines that same aging-Lothario vibe he has done so well on other songs, like "Evening Gown." It really has that urgent, almost desperate quality found on the other Exile tracks, where the lead vocals are so low in the mix, as if struggling to be heard. When juxtaposed against the easy grooves like this one, the result is soul akin to Otis Redding sides. When the same urgent vocals are paired with raging or simmering rockers like "All Down the Line" and "Ventilator Blues," the result is the kind of wailing blues/rock perfected by Muddy and Wolf and taken in other directions by punk-informed singers like Jeffrey Lee Pierce.

Mick also adds those edgy, low-mixed, high close harmonies that Keith used to sing and which were such an important distinguishing characteristic of peak-era Stones records and live shows -- and this, along with Bill Wyman's bass parts is a crucial missing element from latter-day Stones. So while Mick and some of the backing singers replicate Keith-sorts of parts, Bill Wyman is here (one assumes; credits from the record have always been unreliable and have not been made any less so in the new release) swinging along with Charlie as only he seemed able to do. Also adding to the original Exile quality is the inimitable Nicky Hopkins on piano. No one sprinkles Stones songs with piano goodness like Nicky did. The crispy open-G-tuned guitars skronk through small Fender and Ampeg amps. And the horns of Jim Price and Bobby Keys seems to honk down under the mix as well.

So, the original tracks all emanate from the original early-'70s sessions, with the newly recorded vocals laid on top. But then the prodigal son, the aged angel fallen from grace, Mick Taylor, my one-time guitar idol, is brought back in to the family fold and lays down blistering classic lead guitar lines as if he never missed a beat. For those who have not followed this sad story, you can find this update here, from 2009. To hear him back playing these classic sorts of parts, brings tremendous warmth to the hearts of fans like me.

I thought "Plundered My Soul," as with the other outtakes, would be of mild interest for me. But it has gone from a smile-inducing bonus to my favorite song of the summer. I can't stop listening to it. It has that sort of feel of a summer hit songs from my youth.

So, there are my loves. Here is what I merely like about the re-issue:

1. CD remaster -- sounds fine. The first digital iteration of Exile, as well as Sticky Fingers and other records, was atrocious. But the Virgin digital remasters some years back seemed to correct this, so this seem merely redundant. I might be off on this (sonically and/or from a historical recounting). My ears are constantly ringing with tinnitus nowadays, so don't trust me.

2. The packaging - I already have the Dominique Tarle Exile book, so I have seen most of the pictures included in the book. The credits that are contained in this new book seem to do little to clarify who plays what on which songs. In fact, it just seems to err toward including people, like we are supposed to all of a sudden believe Bill Wyman plays bass on all of the songs. The book itself is sort of cheap looking, with raw, thin cardboard cover. And it feels ill-conceived, with some filler of tour memorabilia. But it is great to have a new, big reprint of the cover, the individual record sleeves, and the re-issued postcards.

3. The rest of the outtakes -- They are mostly of casual interest to me, though I have loved "Loving Cup II" since first hearing it when doing research for my book.

But I am mostly disappointed that this pretty flimsy update costs so much. I naively assumed that the DVD actually contained full clean prints of Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rolling Stones and Cocksucker Blues, in addition to this new documentary about the creation of the album. But all that it contains are very short clips of the older films (which I also have on bootleg versions) and what amounts to a trailer for the doc. Are you kidding me? For the "discounted" rate of $117?! They can't throw in at least one of these in full length?

And the documentary, which of course I shelled out another $10 to download, is also pretty shallow, though I suspected it would be. Sure, there are a few nuggets that were new, including some great commentary from Mick Taylor, Bill Wyman, and Bobby Keys. Most of the information has long been available. And while I knew there could not be much uncovered film footage from the sessions, I was unprepared for the dramatic re-enactments straight out of a bad Discovery Channel 13 show. Otherwise, it is the typical Ken Burns-like panning over still shots with some running commentary underneath.

The other good nuggets from the film include the precious little studio banter captured on what must be reels and reels of tape. By all accounts of Stones' sessions from 1969-onward, they just let copious amounts of tape roll while they jammed, arranged, etc. Why can't we have more of that?

Save for the vinyl, the Pet Sounds box set puts this Exile one to shame. The former has all the stuff that hardcore fans drool over -- alternate takes; outtakes; vocal-only takes; backing track-only takes; separate mono and stereo mixes and masters; a disc of the arranging and conducting banter with Brian at the helm; and so on, all for a fraction of this heavy entry fee they are getting for Exile.

EDIT: Some kind folks in the comments section drew my attention to this great, in-depth interview with Don Was about Exile. He seems to concur with me on many of the specifics I love about the record. And he articulates it all so well.

Cover of the Week 84

2010-06-25T22:53:00.005-04:00

Thanks to all of you for your kind words regarding the Cover of the Week project in the most recent previous post. But its demise might have been exaggerated -- by me. I was tired and pissed off about some recording equipment killing itself. What kind of company provides you a software update that purposefully and literally makes obsolete the hardware it is supposed to run? Digidesign, that is who. They want to make you go buy some new piece. Which is what I did, though I bought it used, so, perhaps that is some small come-comeuppance. It at least took some of the financial sting for me, though I did have to go spend dough I had no intention of spending.

Well, I upgraded begrudgingly so now everything is up and running again. I still do not expect to keep up the weekly pace I was very good about keeping over a year and a half. Finding the energy and time is a challenge lately. So, maybe not the Cover of the Week. But I will still call it CoTW -- Cover of the Whatever.

Breaking in the new (used) piece, I wanted to quickly cobble together a song acknowledging the passing of Pete Quaife, the Kink's bassist during their early heyday. Perhaps one of his most famous bass lines is the descending intro line on one of pop music's most beautiful songs, "Waterloo Sunset." In a lovely appreciation of Pete, Geoff Edgers, auteur of the recent film, Do it Again, about being a Kinks fan, calls it, "the most important bass line of my life." On his Facebook page, Geoff also provides links to other tributes, including one from Dave Davies. Geoff has been known to jump up and sing "Waterloo Sunset" with the Crown Vic/BillyBillyMattAndPhilly residencies at Toad.

Yeah, I know. Who needs yet another cover of "Waterloo Sunset," right? I don't care; it is one of my favorite songs of all time. That descending Em chord will hitcha ev'ry time. So this one is for Pete, for all my old buddies that I used to cruise around Huntington Bay with in little Boston Whaler boats, listening to the Kinks -- the Dannys, Stu, Trevor, Jeff, Dennis, Larry, Chris, Dave et. al.-- and it is for my brothers, with whom I played it that very nice Christmas Jano Brothers show a few years back.

Waterloo Sunset mp3

Graduation, the Zen of Louis Armstrong, and the Future of the CoTW.

2010-06-21T22:21:00.016-04:00

I was all set to come down to my bomb studio and record a couple of tracks for some new covers for the CoTW. As it was, I was feeling slightly guilty about letting it slide the past few weeks, not so much because I missed a couple of weeks, but because I knew it could be the beginning of a pattern. You know, like I would start thinking, "well, come on now, I did do 80-something of them over a year and a half. So just let me sit here on the couch and watch the Sox and play with my iPad." (oh yes, I did get one of those, in my weakness.) I have not received any cease-and-desist orders from publishers, which in this day of diminishing music biz revenue, is mildly remarkable. I mean, this site is not like Pitchfork or anything in terms of traffic, but is it that far under the radar? Maybe the fact that no one is making money on this except for a few suggested charities helped mitigate the whole deal. I have this romantic vision of some intern at EMI or Warners about to send off a lawyer-written form letter threatening to take my house and Pee Wee Herman doll collection if I do not, at this very instance, take down my Gene Clark cover, only to have his cold heart melted by the loving version and sensitive-guy prose attached thereto, pulling his bony finger away from the return button just as he was just... about... to hit......... "send." In reality, no one could be bothered. This should not be construed as a dare, by the way.

So yes, here I was, Sox on an off-night, Celtics 7 and done, day job intensity starting to dissipate, Buffalo Tom record in the muthafuckin' can, and the mini tour of NY/Boston also complete, so I was left with no real excuses. In fact, I fired off an email to our old friend, Evan Dando, who came up and sang "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?"in the early 1990s at the Underworld in London. He was all set to reprise his harmony with me. All I needed to do was get him the goddamned recording.

Well, that ain't gonna happen any time soon. See, I know just enough about technology to get me in trouble. And I am not thorough. I do not like to read instructions, like many non-engineer-type men. An aside -- my father fancies himself more of the instruction-reading-thorough-sort of guy. He sets out all parts and tools methodically. We tried to put together a swing set once about 11 years ago. We were more than halfway through when we realized we had to take the whole thing apart and start over. This, more than any actual genetic/medically explained predisposition, is why I follow in his footsteps to the cocktail shaker.

(For those of you not interested in the actual ins and outs of why my "studio" no longer works, skip forward four paragraphs.)

I had everything computer-wise running pretty smoothly once I switched to a Mac about 6 years ago. Installed Pro Tools software to record on my Macbook. Every once in a while I would upgrade software with no, absolutely no issues.

But I held off. When Snow Leopard, the most recent OS for Mac, was released a year or so ago, I held off. Do I really need it? Everything was working. Why mess with it? Only I did.

But first, I waited a year or more. I went over and read, quickly, the Pro Tools site. Seemed to be in order. Did the Mac OS upgrade and then the subsequent Pro Tools upgrade needed to be compatible with the new OS.

Only, I did not read closely enough. I have an outdated piece of hardware, the interface needed to get the mics into the Pro Tools software. An ancient Mbox that will not work with any of these upgrades. So the only option would be to try an undo everything. Or buy a new $300 piece of hardware.

OK -- You who skipped can pick up again. There is a scale of relationships that people have to digital technology. There are those who are extremists who swear everything off that came after the 13-channel color tube television. And there are less extreme people who just can't be bothered. These are followed by the more average range of users, going from people who know just enough to do your basic web and email passive stuff, to job-specific users, etc. And then on to creative types who see these things as great tools, without necessarily falling in love with the tools themselves. So when the tools fail you, there is no love in store for forgiveness. I want to record some stuff on the system I had rolling along so smoothly. Why, oh, why?! This is when we turn to people further up the range, those who are like us but know more, and then finally to the people who just love digital machines and systems more than they like people.

But maybe this is a sign for the CotW to end for a while. Maybe the project is just "...of the week" in name only henceforth. I could pop in one every once in a while. But it was becoming quite the self-assignment and that was both positive and negative. I never did it when I didn't want to, and lately I have not wanted to as much. I just have not had much energy in reserve. I also understand that readers/listeners were probably overwhelmed by the amount and regularity of them and few have heard them all. But this is what I expected all along, of course.

The writing of the accompanying essays/posts generally take more time, if not physical energy, than the recordings. But oddly, I would like to concentrate just on the writing itself for a while. So keep checking in. I think there are limits,though pretty broad, to my musical energy reserve. But I would like to channel that into the songwriting component for a while. And I am trying to consider what all this writing is meant to lead to, if anything. Some friends and I have been talking about packaging this all up, maybe a CD and book set culling together some of the favorite covers and posts. Maybe a whole other book altogether, taking a start from some of the posts.

Not sure, but I really have to say I have sincerely appreciated everyone listening and reading. If you are so inclined, please keep checking in for more posts and, every once in a while, a cover recording.

Ballad of Tim Wakefield, Redux

2010-06-09T13:21:00.001-04:00

Someone made a "video" of my song from last season:

On Broadway Score

2010-05-31T22:30:00.003-04:00

hey -- I just uploaded the score I did for the film On Broadway, by Dave McLaughlin and Lance Greene, and thought I would share it for those of you who want some mellow acoustic instrumental music to listen to. Featured are Joe McMahon (bass), Phil Aiken (piano/organ), and Tom Polce (drums).

This is the piece that scores the climax scene

This one is the opening credits theme.

This is another wistful little number.

As always, you can right/Apple-click to "save file as."

Cover of the Week 83

2010-05-29T23:07:00.009-04:00

Dennis Hopper had been known to many of us before Blue Velvet. However, I don't think it was until some time after seeing that movie that I drew the line to Apocalypse Now, Easy Rider, and then on back to Rebel Without A Cause. But Blue Velvet was life changing for me. It was just one of those new fresh pieces of art that you soak in when your in your early 20s. I thought (at the time -- still do) David Lynch was a revolutionary. His movies affected my lyric writing and the Buff Tom point of view on many things, including the underbelly of growing up in mid-century suburban America. I count meeting him on Big Red Letter Day (recounted here) as one of the fondest memories of our recording career.

Hopper's character in BV is genius, of course, but his acting and the possession of the part is chilling, I think. One of the scariest characters in film.

I have wanted to tackle one of those big old Roy Orbison songs for CoTW for a while. They are just so much fun -- if challenging -- to sing. So here is my opening. A candy-colored clown they call the Sandman. Rest in peace, Mr. Hopper and Mr. Orbison.

In Dreams mp3

The Ride Home

2010-05-22T23:18:00.000-04:00

Scud Mountain Boys on the soundtrack back up I84.

YouTube Video

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BT photoshoot at the Crackerfarm

2010-05-21T11:26:00.000-04:00

YouTube Video

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Covers of the Week 81 + 82

2010-05-15T23:20:00.004-04:00

Lynyrd Skynyrd were one of the pillars of my musical development, as mentioned in this space before. I still think of us wiry 13 year-olds, self-named 200 Proof, playing Southern Rock numbers in my parents basement.

While Buffalo Tom has fooled around with "Tuesday's Gone" at soundchecks, I don't think we ever played it in a set for real, unless we were well drunk at at the butt-end of a night. Of course, this was a situation in which we often found ourselves. But one of the band's first covers was Badfinger's "No Matter What." I remember going out and getting that single when I was a kid. I love Badfinger. But this other cover this week is one of those really nice songs that sometimes sneaks up on you. The band was mostly known for big, melancholy power pop and guitar-driven ballads. But this is a real folky number. I was actually searching for the Skynyrd song and "Sweet Tuesday Morning" also came up in the search. I thought, well, there is a beautiful little song to do as well.

So you get two covers, as Buff Tom is on the road next week. BTW, come see us in New York. Thursday we play at Le Poisson Rouge on Bleeker on Thursday night as part of this special event. We only play a few songs. The next night we are at the Mercury Lounge for two shows. Last I heard, there were still some tickets available for 10:30 show.

You in Chicago, please come down to Schuba's on July 16, where I will play a solo show. Buy tickets now and sell it out. Maybe I will add another. This is a one-off while I am in town for another event.

And the next week, if you are around Long Island, a bunch of my old childhood/junior high friends are meeting for a reunion kickball tournament (graduates of rival elementary schools head-to-head!) in my old hometown, Huntington, NY, for charity. We should all be at a bar in Huntington Village on July 24, playing the covers of our youth.

Sweet Tuesday Morning mp3

Tuesday's Gone Mp3

Cover of the Week 80

2010-05-07T08:36:00.007-04:00

When I was a kid in the late 1970s, Jackson Browne was already ever-present on the radio. I really loved "Doctor My Eyes." And The Load Out was one of those gargantuan live albums, along with Cheap Trick At Budokan, and Frampton Comes Alive! But I was pretty agnostic on the guy, sorta liking him, just enough to leave the songs on the radio, and remained that way through the 1980s until he took a turn for the worse, as many errant 1970s rock & rollers did in the 1980s. After "Somebody's Baby," I started turning off the radio. It was only later that I went back and discovered older material like "These Days" (via Nico's version), and For Everyman.

Around that same time, 1980 or so, when we were ramping up our first band, the Plastic Peach, our singer, Danny Nolan, who went on to be my best man, was our main asset. The girls used to gush, "he sings like Neil Young and looks like Jackson Browne." Clearly, this proved to be a lethal combo. When teenage girls' hormones were raging and your front "man" has such enormous powers, well, it laid the groundwork for many fun nights on the beach. For Danny, not so much me, the shrimpy, wiry redhead with an oversized Les Paul. What would an analogous combination be nowadays for high school freshman girls? I really have no idea. I think music is already too fragmented for 2010 kids in early high school. Back then, we had top 40 pop stars on the one hand and rock stars on the other. That was pretty much the choice.

Jackson was OK by me, but never felt compelled as a kid to spend my allowance on his records. I was too busy collecting the catalogs of the Stones, Who, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Neil Young, the Dead, Stevie Wonder, and then onto the punk rock years. But I always loved, loved, loved this week's selection for CoTW. When we would be sitting around in dorm rooms in college and someone had the other gigantic record, The Pretender, I would always play this song in my role as dorm-room d.j. I started to realize around this time that one of the common threads in much of the music I loved is the gospel influence, specifically those huge gospel piano chords, where you play and keep the root notes and switch chords over them. As well, the call-and-response vocals. Not that Buff Tom betrays much direct gospel influence (maybe only on "Treehouse"), the indirect call-and-response and root and changing chords are borne out from that strain of music, via the Stones, Stevie, Ray Charles, etc.

I only have learned today that the song was written in the wake of the suicide of Browne's first wife. It was co-written with her mother.

Here Come Those Tears Again mp3

Buff Tom last session

2010-05-01T15:31:00.002-04:00

Finishing up with a couple of more new songs at the old Fort Apache, now known as Camp St Studio, with Paul Kolderie and Adam Taylor.

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Cover of the Week 79

2010-04-30T10:07:00.005-04:00

After I flew back from Florida this week and watched three hours of the Goldman Sachs drubbing on Capitol Hill on the airplane satellite TV, I posted on Facebook/Twittered the snarky but undeniably cute mock equation: "Goldman Sachs = Pete Rose + $ $." Simplistic, yes, but not far from the truth; guys betting with inside knowledge, hedging, and the ability to affect the outcome of the subject of the bet.

However, no matter how much money Rose bet, all he could do as compromise the integrity of the particular games he was betting on. That is a devastating sin to whatever baseball-fan innocents were left out there, the rest of whom have been wiped out in the post-steroid era. But Rose could do no amount of damage that could even amount to a drop in the ocean of damage the guys like these arrogant Wall Street pricks have wrought. As I also mentioned in that same post, "A wise man sang, 'Steal a little and they throw u in jail/Steal a lot and they make u king.'" The lines are from the great Bob Dylan song, "Sweetheart Like You," from the record, Infidels. About 8 or 9 years ago, I wrote about the song at Allmusic.com, see the link. It has been one of my favorite Dylan songs since it's early-'80s release. The album is an underrated gem, commercial success notwithstanding.

Now, Bob may not have come up with those ideas, but his adaptation of them into his own, within the context of a rock song, typifies his brilliance. The first half is an aphorism credited to Samuel Johnson, the latter half ("Steal a little...") is, from the best I can ascertain, a version of some lines from the Eugene O'Neill play, The Emperor Jones. One character says to another:

Ain't r de Emperor? De laws don't go for him. (judicially) You heah what I tells you, Smithers. Dere's little stealin' like you does, and dere's big stealin' like I does. For de little stealin' dey gits you in jail soon or late. For de big stealin' dey makes you Emperor and puts you in de Hall o' Fame when you croaks.

I love how it ends with a Hall Of Fame reference at the end, given Pete Rose's controversial banning from the Baseball Hall of Fame. Of course, Dylan would have no idea about this when he wrote the song. I won't repeat here what I wrote at allmusic. If you're interested in more discussion of this brilliant song, please check that review out and feel free to voice your own interpretations. But Bob's brilliance is in his poetic ability to lay down these simple allegories, peppered with just enough prophetic-sounding lines to spur the listener into digging more. Dylan at his best is provocative, but never didactic.

My interpretation is, again, pretty straightforward. I have always felt agnostic at best about Knopfler, but he has tossed off some of the greatest guitar solos on record. His Hendrix/Mayfield lines on this song are beautiful. So I aim toward that vibe here (and though I am a rudimentary soloist, I nevertheless give myself twice as long to spotlight my solos than Knopfler had on the record). And I can still listen to the playing on "Sultans of Swing" all these years later. In a neat aside and dovetail with the last CoTW, Teenage Fanclub had brought out on the BT/TFC tour the legendary George Borowski as a guitar tech. He was a really excellent guy, gentleman, modest, a fantastic presence on the road.

Sweetheart Like You mp3

Some housekeeping: Please come and see me play solo acoustic out in Chicago if you are there on July 16, at Schubas. I'm coming out to play a private shindig the night before, so this is a one-off. Tix on sale: http://schubas.com/Shows/07-16-2010+Bill+Janovitz+of+Buffalo+Tom

Cover of the Week 78

2010-04-20T21:33:00.004-04:00

Buffalo Tom and Teenage Fanclub in Spain, circa 1995-96

I have always loved Teenage Fanclub, Glasgow's favorite sons. It is one of those bands that every guy in Buff Tom loves. Both bands got started around the same time. I think we predated them by about a year with our first record. I was smitten by the first listen of "Everything Flows," the first number off their debut LP, A Catholic Education. Of course, I later wrote about the song at Allmusic.com. And now I cover it here.The song is an ecstatic guitar-pop orgy. I give it the sparse 2-acoustics treatment. Not sure if it is a worthy tribute or not.

Around 1995-96, we hooked up with TFC for a double headline tour of Scandinavia, Germany, and Spain. This picture is taken in Barcelona or Madrid at the end of that tour. My wife, Laura, had come to join us at the end of the tour for a holiday we would take after the wrap, something we often did before the kid arrived. She probably took this photo.

After the last show, we spent a day in Madrid and then bid adieu to the rest of the Buffalos and took a train back to Barcelona for our vacation. We got in around dinner and after checking into our very nice hotel, went out and enjoyed a great late night Spanish meal, followed by some glasses of port and went back to the hotel to crash. We got there just after the stroke of midnight marked Laura's birthday. The next day was to be sightseeing and the real birthday celebration dinner.

Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, I woke up to hear a crash in the bathroom. I went in and found that she had fainted, something La had done once or twice in the past. It seems that waking up in the middle of the night, plus the jet lag and port (something she had never tried before) had conspired to make her dizzy. But this time, she had fallen and was bleeding slightly from her nose.

I got some ice and we were awake for dawn. She seemed fine, but her nose had swollen. So we decided to get it checked out once we got dressed and had some coffee. We asked the concierge or desk person if they had a doctor to recommend. He directed us down to a "hospital clinic." We figured we would zip in and get out in time for an early lunch.

Instead, we ended up spending the whole day, waiting in lines for tests and bandages. The language barrier was not making it any easier, despite what I thought was my expert high school Spanish. Never mind my poor verb conjugation, I could not even find the correct nouns. It is a wonder they did not amputate her nose or arm.

They never asked us for insurance or payment, I recall, but we had to wait for hours in lines at this particular spot. I have no idea if it was indicative of the medical service in general, but at some point we were waiting in a garage next to parked ambulances, in back of someone in a wheelchair.

But they seemed to care pretty deeply, hence this absurd battery of tests, X-rays, and consultations. They wanted to know why she fainted, and I could not explain beyond "muy cansado y bebe porto. Por favor, podemos ir?" A young doctor wanted to re-set the nose, which La probably only allowed because he was so handsome. And then he told us he wanted to place a cast on it.

"No!" cried Laura.

"Pequeño," he said, making a small sign with his index finger and thumb.

"He's saying it will be a small one," I translated.

He proceeded to place this ridiculous plaster that covered her whole nose. As if that were not bad enough, he fastened it with two strips of white adhesive tape on the top and bottom, above and below her eyes, in some facsimile of a weird tribal mask.

She was crying. Worst birthday ever. Back in the States later, our doctor friend told us there was absolutely no need for a cast. We were beaten down, hungry, and cranky when we finally decided to skip out and escape yet another line waiting for who knows what. It was almost dinner time, way past siesta. When we finally got out of there, I was able to at least tear the tape down to a slightly less glaring length. But the day, the whole trip was sunk. La felt so self-conscious walking around in this stupid mask-like apparatus, she was in a little pain, probably hungover, and really just wanted to go home and hide in bed -- not the hotel, home. But she soldiered on. We have pictures of each other at all the Gaudi sites.

We ended up at a famous restaurant in the Gothic Quarter for dinner. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I tried to sneak away to the baño and whispered to the waiter to see if they had any "postres por cumpleaños." Once he understood what I was trying to lay down, he motioned for me to follow him.

"Uno momento," I asked, but he walked briskly as I followed him down serpentine stairways, through various dining rooms, even through a kitchen, and finally out into the street. At this point I was freaking out that La would be wondering where I was. The waiter pointed to a bakery across the street and then turned and left me there in the street.

I went with it. I ran in, though down some pesos, asked the dude to write "happy birthday Laura" on a small cake, snappy. I ran the thing back in and handed it to the waiter and hurried over to the table. I was panting. I have no idea what bullshit excuse I supplied, something about getting lost, I am sure.

I have never seen anyone look the way La did that night when the singing and guitar-strumming waiters came over with the cake. She was simultaneously pissed, embarrassed to have everyone looking at her, and only sightly appreciative that I had tried to make the lemonade out of the lemons. It was more of a shaking of the head at how hapless and graceless my attempt was at salvaging the day, coupled with her mortification. She just wanted to write off the day and slink out to dinner as under the radar as possible. I only wanted to have a little cake to mark the occasion, but somehow I ended up booking the Gypsy Kings and ended up making this big deal. I still don't know if this ended up helping or making things worse. Actually, I am pretty sure it was worse.

But now we have one of those stories that the kids like to hear.

Everything Flows mp3

Cover of the Week 77

2010-04-08T11:14:00.009-04:00

Sorry for those of you who actually follow this thing regularly. I have been nutsy busy lately and have not been able to keep up as promptly as I like. Speaking of which gig 2 of 3 at the Precinct in Somerville with Bill Janovitz + Crown Victoria, and Jenny Dee and the Deelinquints TONIGHT at 9:30, one set each.

This week I chose an old favorite of mine, performed famously by the Ink Spots, "I'll Get By."

I first learned about the song from the record you see here, which I have framed in my "listening room," i.e. basement. It is on very cool gold vinyl, from 1959 (originally released in 1957), and was my dad's. This is a great record, but probably unsatisfying for purists. By this point, the Ink Spots had been around for almost 20 years. This was probably one fronted by original honey-voiced tenor, Bill Kenny, but with few, if any original members aside from him.

I have since gone and collected many of the older Ink Spots recordings, but this record is just great and warm and recorded so well, that it is one of those "who cares about the purists" records. And it looks cool as well. Plus, it was my dad's.

My wife and I so loved this song that we chose it as our wedding song and had none other than my father sing the song at the reception. He used to sing second tenor in group called the Fabulaires around this same time (1958-62). They were an a capella quartet in New York, highly influenced by the Platters, Ink Spots, and other doo wop precursors like the Orioles. They cut an acetate, which I have somewhere. I am currently trying to find out which brothers of us, if any, have it digitalized somewhere.

I can't believe, actually, that this is the first I am writing about this. My father never took his singing seriously, and he never learned an instrument, nor did my mother. But they were pretty big music fans. Not real rock & rollers, though. They were on the straighter side of the cultural divide depicted so well in Mad Men. They were both the oldest of two children in their families, unusual for Irish and Italians, and their younger siblings were a bit more caught up in the shifts of the 1960s, while my parents were already starting a family by 1966. Elvis and the Beatles was about as edgy as they got. They preferred the smoother stylings of Johnny Mathis, Tony Bennett, jazz guitar, and Bossa Nova.

My wife and I were all about embracing the best of that era when we got married. When I would go down to Cape May, NJ (her hometown) with her to visit her mom and Ed, her mom's beau at the time, we would revel in the seaside kitsch in Wildwood, the next town over, that seemed pleasingly trapped in another era: '50s diners; the crooner Johnny Ray at a cabaret; and all sorts of lounge-y jazz acts everywhere. There was even a real low budget Vegas-style floor show with transvestites at an off-the-beaten-path (literally) joint called the Fun Spot (the neon was out on the "F" and the "T," resulting in the sign reading the "un Spo." The ladies wore extravagant costumes, with huge headdress plumes that would bend over on the venue's low dropped ceiling.

And Ed, "Fast Eddy," as he was known, was a connoisseur of the cocktail, a raconteur who told stories of pitching pennies with Dizzy Gillespie, and of cutting out of Philly Catholic school to go catch burlesque shows at the old Trocadero (where Buff Tom later played), was well connected to the local jazz musicians around the South Jersey shore. So he brought us to see these cats in Cape May called the Capers (also the nickname of the HS teams). They were a pretty versatile trio who were schooled in jazz but were GB (general business) vets as well. They played passable variants of bop and standards. The sax player did the whole "two horns at once" trick. They could sing a bit. In short, they seemed like a good and cheap option to play our wedding.

I didn't want some standard wedding band. But I really should have given it more thought and time. Tom Maginnis got married a year later and had the Holmes Brothers play his wedding, a way cooler option. The Brothers are booked by Chris Colbourn, who now is 1/3 partner of the booking agency he has worked at since college. I should have done something cooler, like that. But I thought the Capers would be semi-cheesy fun. And they were. But...

But (and I think I have told this story before in this space) they asked for a list of songs. I gave them a lot of rope, telling them to play the sort of stuff I had seen them playing in the cocktail lounge. I also sent them a list of songs I would like to hear, as well as specific wedding songs, like "I'll Get By," and songs to dance with the parents, etc.

But more importantly, I gave them a "do not play" list. Chief among these songs was "Old Time Rock & Roll," as well as "the Chicken Dance" and so on. For most of the night, the band lived up to their low expectations and served pretty well as a wedding band. But when it came time for my father to sing, they seemed way too cool for school. They seemed to have to suffer to do this, at least that was my observation, but I might have been overly sensitive. My dad can sing, and I think once they realized this, they perked up a little. But there was nothing but a cursory discussion of key or arrangement, never mind rehearsal. So the arrangement was meandering, with no one taking charge, and the song went on a bit. But my dad was great and it was a sweet moment. We have a picture of us dancing with my dad at the microphone in the background. It was taken by my old buddy, Jay.

The day went on, everyone getting a little loopy, the band playing fine, until I hear, "This one is for Bill, by request." And they launch into "Old Time Rock & Roll."

I hate Bob Seeger. Hate that shit. But this song, of all of his songs, makes my skin crawl. I was pissed. This was my wedding. I was paying these Capers. I tell them to play pretty much whatever they want EXCEPT for this song and they throw it in my face.

Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else? What sort of vibe to I project that requires this level of disrespect?

"Well, Bill, come on, take it easy. Your parents' friends requested it. We told them you wouldn't want it."

"So why did you play it?" I asked.

"They really wanted to hear it. We didn't think you'd mind"

"How much did they pay you?"

I'll never know. But I am still pissed about it to this day. I shoulda kicked their collective Caper ass and sent them to the curb without their fee.

Bob f-in' Seeger. Like a rock, my ass.

I'll Get By mp3

New T-Shirt Link

2010-04-07T21:01:00.001-04:00

New T-Shirt Link (for now)

Tom Gross is the guy handling these. I don't know details about orders, sizes, etc. so please hold your emails.

Thanks -- Bill

Cover of the Week 75 & 76

2010-03-27T17:43:00.007-04:00

Yeah, been remiss, wid da cuvah da week. Buff Tom and real estate (and I believe I still have a family) been keeping me busy. So, I make it up with a two-fer (as they say in the south -- here they say "too-fuh"). And, in the great annals of famous duos -- Simon and Garfunkel, Penn and Teller, Shaver (father and son), Sigfried and Roy -- my son, Will, joins me as "The Wolverine." I hope he does not remind you too much of Rudy Guliani's son, or for that matter, any Yankee's "fans." I just realized he is cut out of the embedded video. Click it to see widescreen

I promise to get back to the "hi fi," studio, non-video versions of the CoTW as soon as BT record done and day job real estate high season passes. Who cares?

Yeah, I love Merle Haggard. That's the first song. I love spring. And I love past youth, I wrote this song about spring in the spring of my youthful spring, when I was young. In spring. So I wrote "Sundress" with Buff Tom. That's second.

Click to see wide screen:

Rudy's kid:

I Loved You, Well Never Mind/I've Been Crying All the Time

2010-03-18T10:02:00.003-04:00

Rest in Peace, Alex Chilton, a true artist and hero.

Thirteen, Bill, Kay, Mike.

A note from Kay.

Cover of the Week 74

2010-03-13T17:52:00.002-05:00

Sam Cooke's amazing "Nothing can Change This Love. Please excuse the hat/glasses. This was recorded in the morning. I don' look pretty in the morning. I'm doing you a favor.

Joanna Newsom

2010-03-09T23:15:00.003-05:00

I have been far too dismissive in my life, ruling out artists, writers, whatever, based on preconceptions or early knee-jerk reactions. As one gets older, these sorts of instincts seem to solidify and self-justify. Going into something you might assume is not your thing will, more often than not, leave yet another bad impression and strengthens your resolve to avoid more of "those sorts of things."

The trouble is, however, that one runs the risk of missing out on things of almost incomprehensible beauty, such as this and other songs by Joanna Newsom.

Though I am as guilty as most in the closing of the mind, I can't say that my initial reaction to Joanna's music was to close myself off from it and recoil. See, for me, one of the good things about living in this era is that it is easier to just get exposed to the actual art, music especially, without reading about it first. In pre-Internet days, I tended not to base my decisions on whether or not to go out and explore new artists based on music press; that is not the most effective way to convey what an artist is like. Nevertheless, I would often find myself reading that this to that band was like this other one. Oh? Well I don't like what I have heard of them, so the other ones who this writer says sounds like them must also not be my thing.

If someone had described Joanna to me before hearing it, I can't say I would have heeded the George Michael dictum, "Listen Without Prejudice." The adjectives most used to describe her are, "elfin," "fairy," "child-like," "freak folk," and so on. She pays the harp. Apparently, she grew up in a neo-hippy, new age, rural ex-mining mountain enclave alongside friends and collaborators like Devendra Banhart. Some would say her voice is often like that of Bjork. Sometimes it can seem like Tori Amos. OK? See why one might run away as fast as possible?

You would do so at the risk of missing out on something deeply rewarding. She's not for everyone, but don't automatically assume she's not for you. Lucky for me, I clicked on something and heard her first, before knowing anything about her, a couple of years ago. I was drawn in pretty quickly. I had sort of put her music on the back burner, but it hs moved back to the front recently. There was a nice piece on her in the Times this past week. Then I clicked on this and watched the whole thing repeatedly. The harp playing is jaw-dropping, the voice is magnetic. But most of all, the poetry leaves me breathless. You simply will not find anyone who sounds just like her. Having listened, I can't imagine her music not existing. It seems necessary. It feels at once magically inspired and stolen from the ether, and crafted artfully. It makes me believe in God and it makes me want to work harder. I think she has tapped the same mystic vein as Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and Ricki Lee Jones.

You can find the lyrics online. I hate all those pop-up-y ad-riddled lyric sites. But I must quote at least one section that hits me on a primal level and makes me wish that I had written it:

And they will recognize
All the lines of your face
In the face of the daughter, of the daughter, of my daughter.

Cover of the Week 73

2010-03-08T12:07:00.010-05:00

I never had a chance to meet Mark Linkous, the musician behind the band Sparklehorse who committed suicide late last week. But I have envied him. I envied his talent and vision in making a sort of music I dream about making. I envied him for having the sort of talent that attracts other heroes of mine like Tom Waits, into a collaboration.

While I used to wish I could seem more enigmatic and mysterious as an artist, as Mark seemed to me from the outside, I have never envied the sort of mental struggle that often accompanies the dark persona of the "true" artist. I know what depression is. I know it because I have had brushes with it. It runs in my family, as I am sure it does in many of yours. There is very little inspirational when one is in such moments.

I had a well-known singer/songwriter and the person's family at our house for dinner last night. This artist and I talked about Mark's death and it triggered the old conversation about the relationship between depression and art. We talked about friends and relatives dealing with similar issues. We fans have lost quite a few important artists this year, like Vic Chesnutt (whose death prompted this CoTW). Too often, suicides like this are met perhaps with shock but maybe not surprise. In such cases, the particular artist's work probably displayed a heightened sense of urgency, as if the making of the art was necessary to the survival of the artist him/herself. It felt like the art was one of the few golden strands left binding the artist to the world. The art needed to be made.

For many fans, this sort of urgency adds a layer of authenticity that distinguishes the work of that artist over that of others. I don't feel that way. There are many seemingly well-balanced artists who are able to produce extremely moving and/or immediate works without any more apparent suffering than the average person. I have never felt that Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Tom Waits, or Lucinda Williams were about to off themselves. In fact, art that is all raw emotion is rarely artful, to me. I have seen plenty of unstable confessional singer/songwriters pouring out their guts on stage and repelled as often as not.

Troubled personalities are attracted to the arts because it is another means of expression. It is difficult to put emotional turmoil into words. Art is one way to do so. There are many depressed or otherwise mentally ill people who do not get the help they need. There are many who do not have the benefit of being able to express themselves artistically. We are not necessarily missing out on great works.

Yet there are many others out there who would not surprise us by making that choice. But a lack of surprise does not mean such an end is inevitable. And it does not mean the anguish is essential to creating. Indeed, it is often crippling, debilitating, and no good comes of it. Anguish may have been essential for particular art, though. For example, I can not imagine Skip Spence's Oar being made by a suburban 40-something real estate broker who was a one-time contender in the world of rock. Had that person not made the choice to pay the bills in a conventional way and instead maintained the track he/she was on against all common sense, then perhaps something akin to Oar could result. Personally, I am no longer ready to try.

Mark's death is truly a tragic loss. He created essential music. Vic was another tragic loss. The same choice by the Mummers' Mark Horwood is another extremely sad 2010 ending to a bright light, as is the loss of all our friends who have made this choice over the years.

*****

Deaths start to pile up as we put on the years. Facebook seems to be as much a rolling obituary as anything else. Violent deaths -- murder, suicide, accidents -- rarely lose the power to shock. For a while, I was thinking of the murder of my uncle in October as something from which I could remove and box away the means of death in order to be able to accept that, yes, a 63 year-old man died. So then I could accept the loss just on its own. And it did not have to be an overwhelming topic of conversation, for everyone deals with the loss of close relatives. Similarly, when friends chose to die, we could at least say that it was their choice. Now to move on and deal with the loss.

But then the conversations about my uncle continued. I am lucky enough to have life-time friends going back to elementary school, high school, and college. I have intensely deep newer friendships. They let me know through their questions and listening that this could never be simply a 63 year-old man passing away. Never mind that this was no ordinary 63 y.o., but one still extremely vital and young for his age. It is that in some senseless act, some numb kid stole our uncle/friend from us all. And now I realize that I might not ever get over that fact. I will eventually deal with loss. I am having more trouble with the means. I feel little or no vengeance. I just feel a deep and helpless sadness about how someone I loved was taken and how he spent his last breaths -- at the hand of someone not worthy of even standing at my uncle's stoop.

We should be shocked at violent deaths. We should be angry and sad and deeply troubled when someone is killed. And we should feel the same way even when it is at their own hands. I am sure Mark had the same impact on many close to him as my uncle did for me, my family, and all of his friends. His gifts were taken from us all.

*****

This song, "Gold Day," the CoTW this week, means a lot in my life. It was one of the first songs my daughter loved and learned the words to. She thought it was by "Sparkly Horse." We played it every day when she was about 2-3 years old, as I drove her to and from preschool or on errands. But even without that connection, I would put this song up in my top five songs about being a parent. And granted, I am not even sure if that's what Mark intended. But that's what it means to me, and I put it up there with "Forever Young," which I identified with on a profound level well before I had kids of my own. When Buffalo Tom were starting out in Amherst, we often played on the same bill as Lobster Boy, which featured Sam Dylan, Bob Dylan's son. We became buddies. I never thought so much that, "wow, it's Bob Dylan's son. I wonder what that must be like." No, I really recall thinking, "what must it be like to be one of the people he wrote 'Forever Young' for." Though we did run into him at the airport in Copenhagen a few years later when we were playing the Roskilde Festival and Bob was playing another festival. Bob had a hoodie on and mirrored shades. The airport was abuzz. We were on the same flight to JFK. Same came over and chatted and it was about that time where I thought, "wow. That must be weird."

Parents and their kids, the continuum. So, why not have Lucy, now age 11, help me sing this one, "Gold Day," once her favorite song, before she moved on to Top 40 and the ongoing discovery of her own music. Another one we used to sing was the Paul Simon song, "Father and Daughter," the refrain of which I still can not sing without choking up.

I'm a damn old softy.

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young.

-- Dylan

May all your days be gold, my child.

-- Linkous, rest in peace.

Gold Day mp3

Cover of the Week 72

2010-02-24T23:15:00.004-05:00

I remember distinctly, in my first year of living in Massachusetts, the autumn of 1982, and going to Newbury Comics on Newbury Street in Boston and buying the New Order "tape," Power, Corruption, and Lies, which I was burning to have ever since I had heard "Age of Consent" and "Blue Monday" on the radio. I had never latched on to much synth-based stuff. But if it was a good meld of guitars and keys, like even the Cars, I could dig it. But this brought "short on the back and sides, long in the front" melancholy to a whole new level. This was a huge record in my life. It reminded me of later-'70s Bowie but stripped of the overt irony and posing found in some of his work of that period. This was more like "Ashes to Ashes." But it was also more dance-y in an odd way. And I never danced. Back then, that is. You should see me on the floor now.

Yes, a tape: a black cassette with gray writing on it. And a cool fold-out J-card. I was getting in the habit, briefly of going straight to cassette for Walkman ease, I guess. But I later bought the beautiful LP, with that stunning and austere artwork that Factory Records was known for, the sort that hammered home the melancholy post-punk-art-rock vibe. And of course, I later delved onto N.O.'s previous incarnation as Joy Division, had the huge-ass Closer poster on my dorm room wall, and had the aforementioned haircut. I even had my ear pierced by my drunken buddy, the late Joe C. Then I came home in the wee small hours of the morning to my parents' house in Medfield only to find it locked. I passed out and woke up on the stoop. It was maybe one of thee times, max, that I have slept outside. I have never camped -- intentionally, anyway.

My parents found me there, newly pierced ear and were not psyched. Neither was I, truth be told. My ears stick out like Obama's. So I didn't put up much of a fight when they kindly suggested I remove it. I was hardly in a state to argue anyway. But man, a pierced ear? That was what I got for being first born. And that's what they got, as well. Two of my brothers look like the Illustrated Man. I'm gonna call them that from now on. They are on notice, the Illustrated Men.

Age Of Consent MP3

I'm afraid I have done a half-dozen D-G songs for the CoTW project, but so be it. You can't go wrong with those chords. I am finding out a common denominator in my taste, as if I did not already know....

New Shows added

2010-02-24T21:29:00.002-05:00

Some shows coming up: Buffalo Tom just added to the 5/20 NY John Wesley Harding Cabinet of Wonders w/eugenemirman, robbie fulks, janeane garofolo, paul muldoon, lenny kaye and Le Poisson Rouge 158 Bleecker Street,NYC. We may also add another show or two in the Tri-State area that same weekend.

BT has a date on hold late spring/early summer in Boston, TBC.

And BillBillyEdandPhilly (Crown Victoria of sorts) will be doing some of those Toad-like sets the first three Thursday nights in April at Precinct, Somerville, alternating sets with the fabulous Jenny Dee & the Delinquents.

More BT in studio

2010-02-15T15:44:00.001-05:00

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Bt in studio and maybe bonus Cover of the Week 71? Sure, why not?

2010-02-15T14:50:00.001-05:00

An old George Jones number, live at the upright in Q Division Studio B

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BT in studio again

2010-02-15T14:46:00.001-05:00

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BT in Studio IV

2010-02-12T12:18:00.001-05:00

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BT in studio III

2010-02-12T12:17:00.001-05:00

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Bt in studio II

2010-02-12T12:07:00.001-05:00

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BT in studio

2010-02-12T12:06:00.001-05:00

Chris preparing for backing vocals.

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(non) Cover of the Week 70

2010-02-11T17:03:00.000-05:00

An older fella like me gets excited about stuff like this: I
recorded, trimmed, an uploaded
this video to my blog all from the iPhone.

Someone requested this one. Make a donation to a charity. Please.

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Norwegian Black Metal

2010-02-07T16:18:00.004-05:00

The closest I have ever gotten to liking anything that might be construed as heavy metal was the hard rock of the 1970s like Led Zeppelin, AC/DC and maybe the first or second outer rings into the 1980s like Motorhead. These were bands still rooted in the blues somewhat. And even Lemmy provides some semblance of melody and swing.

I started to lose interest in most of the stuff that came after around 1980. There was all the hair metal that meant nothing to me. I even include Halen in this category. Am I supposed to differentiate between Def Leopard, Rush, Iron Maiden, and such? I mean, I know Rush is more prog, DL is more pop, Maiden more hard rock. I don't know. But mostly, I just never cared much either way.

And then there was all the thrash of the late '80s/'90s, which sounded like very suburban kids taking the worst aspects of hardcore and metal and putting them together. But like Dylan sang, "don't criticize what you can't understand..." OK. I am just talking here. No critique. Just not for me. I remember being at one show at the Ritz in NY around 1986, with Celtic Frost and the Cro Mags playing together. I liked the energy of the latter and thought the former were unintentionally (apparently) hilarious. But neither was my cup of tea per se.

Later on, when we started playing festivals, we would witness such bands as Sepultura. That was some scary shit. I found it interesting. This Brazilian... I dunno, death metal band? It was all slow and low and guttural, like monsters in my nightmares. It was just so different and fresh sounding to my ears -- and eyes; what a sight! But after a couple of songs, it was time for the beer tent.

But in the past few months, I have seen a few very interesting documentaries about three very different metal bands. Anvil! The Story of Anvil was just a beautiful film about being in a band, struggling to make it, dedication, and personal relationships. The fact that I cared nothing for their music, and still don't, but still loved the film is testament to what a great piece of storytelling it is.

Then Tom Maginnis recommended seeing Iron Maiden Flight 666 Again, I care nothing about the music, though with this film, I really developed an appreciation for the musicianship and talent of the individuals. But again, the music was the least interesting part of the movie for me. Here is a story 180 degrees different than the Anvil movie. Iron Maiden are huuuuuuuge worldwide. This in and of itself was not a revelation. But it was the scope of worldwide adoration and the cult of their fans that was astounding. And the joy of the band members, their good fortune and modesty, their acceptance of each other, and the family aspect of the band makes for compelling stuff. The spine of the story is that they decide to pack everything -- crew, band, equipment -- into one 757 jet and hit all the more remote places that they rarely, if ever, got to play due to financial reasons. And the lead singer pilots the plane.

I've also been hearing a bit of noise about Norwegian Black Metal and today an article about a new documentary appeared in the Boston Sunday Globe. Trailer, here. So I went to Youtube and found this really interesting documentary about one figure of this genre. It makes for an intriguing and compelling film. I watched all five parts in succession and recommend the same for you and would be interested in reading some comments:

Cover of the Week 69

2010-02-06T10:32:00.003-05:00

As I touched on in this post way back when, music is about the closest I get to religion. But when its hits me, it gets me deep and brings me to church.

There might not be a more perfect distillation of this feeling than Van Morrison's "In The Garden," this week's CoTW.

In the Garden mp3

Some Buffalo Stuff

2010-02-03T12:49:00.003-05:00

Mark has posted some songs from the Nick Flynn/Buff Tom set a couple of weeks ago:

Also, we have contributed a live track to this cause:

www.righttracktunes.org Buffalo Tom "Thrown"live from the last Somerville Theater show, download for Target Cancer benefit.

Cover of the Week 68

2010-01-28T22:27:00.003-05:00

No big essay/diatribe/rant this week. I've been mostly in negativeland and do not wish to sew bad vibes. I do enough of that. And anyway, I wrote a bit about the author of this week's cover, Jesse Winchester, back in this post.

Buy the damn record for chrissakes.

I also have a great version he did on a Live From Mountain Stage record.

Here is all I have to say about this song in particular: I think every married guy I know feels like this. I guess I know of no one currently stuck in an unhappy marriage. The first time I felt like this, I was 20. I married her. I didn't mess around trying to find other options.

Seriously -- the best choice I have ever made. Everyone who knows me will surely attest to the veracity. And it was pure luck.

Bless Your Foolish Heart mp3

(non) Covers of the Week 66 & 67

2010-01-24T16:23:00.019-05:00

Man, it's been a bad week. Seeing Scott Brown take over the Senate seat held by Ted Kennedy for over 40 years was tough to watch. But it was also inevitable, I suppose.

Boston is not completely unique in this respect, I suppose, but as an outsider (I have only been here for over 27 years), I have always had a hard time squaring this politically liberal state with the small-minded parochialism on display everywhere from the archaic blue laws keeping stores closed on Sunday (now relegated to the past. But you couldn't buy any alcohol in the state until only recently) and bars closing at 2, to the seemingly walled-off neighborhoods that constituted the city -- Italians here, Irish there, African Americans seemingly nowhere...oh wait, there, they're over there. I find that my friends from New York have this sanctimonious attitude, as if New York did not have similar boundaries. But there is no escaping the fact that the mix in Boston is simply whiter on the face of it, outside of the neighborhoods and in the downtown and Back Bay areas. Watching a game in Fenway Park is almost like going to a game in Salt Lake City, except that many of the white faces are actually dabbed with splotches of red on big boys named Fitzy and Sully.

And it is not like growing up in the suburbs of Long Island was far more progressively illuminating than the suburbs of Boston. But at least in my NY hometown we had lots of black, Jewish and other kids aside from Irish and Italian. Sure, they largely stayed within their own groups. But in the town I moved to in Massachusetts, there was maybe one black kid, a handful of Jewish kids, but mostly Anglo, Irish, and Italians. And the suburb seemed a lot more conservative than the politicians that were leading the state.

Boston-area Democrats are mostly the holdover from the days when northern big cities all elected Democrats to represent them, the urban, the working class. The voters understood they were voting in their best interest. Well, that explains municipal and even state elections. But the voters in Massachusetts have always voted Democrat nationally as well, with few exceptions. They have also been by and large amongst the most educated in country. So we had the highly educated professional class (many folks who come to the elite universities in the area historically end up staying) voting consistently with the working class.

Socially, however, these sides have not been without their clashes. Though slightly cartoonish, Good Will Hunting gets at this dynamic pretty well. The busing debacle of the 1970s is one extreme example, if I may continue my simplistic generalization. More mildly, when we first moved to the densely populated working class city of Somerville (bordering Boston and Cambridge), we were called "Barneys" (pronounced "bah-nees") by locals in corner bars (pronounced "bahs"). The etymology of this particular insult goes something like this: When Cambridge started to get too expensive for college kids and other bohemians, they started moving out to Somerville. The locals took exception and referred to Harvard Yard as "Hahvid Bahnyahd." Barnyard begot "Barneys." So any outsider moving into Somerville was labeled a Barney. In turn, early pioneers affectionately referred to their new stomping ground as "Slum-erville." And now I see things like this cool joint a block up from where I used to live. Man, there was nothing going on there when I was living there. Just some half-decent BBQ at Redbones, the Somerville Theater and some true dive bars like my landlord's Sligo Pub. Now it's Irish pub this, thai food that, martinis and jazz over here, and brunch there. We could never find decent brunch anywhere back then!

The term "Mass-hole" also gained prominence around this time. It was used mostly by outsiders to describe rude, or worse, violent drunken yob locals. These are the guys that yell at you in traffic as they cut you off, "what ah you, retahted, big guy? Let's GO!"

I don't know him personally either, but, yeah, it seems to me that Naked Scotty Brown could be one as well. There is plenty of evidence (and here). Oh, and here. You have to love an "up from the bootstraps" "family values" guy who happened to have been raised by a welfare mother -- who, along with his father, were married three times each. Nothing like the zeal of a convert!

But mostly, as with New York, Chicago, and other big northern cities, the various parties (non-political, that is) coexisted and voted together. Until a charming young socially liberal outsider Harvard aristocrat named Bill Weld ran for governor against a mean old socially conservative bastard named John Silber. I, like many, all of a sudden found myself voting for a fiscally conservative Republican for the first time. I mean, Weld seemed pretty close to Bill Clinton in almost every way to me back then. I had no love lost over Clinton either.

But while this can be limited to "self interest," one also has to consider how the greater good contributes to one's own best interest. This is big picture liberalism 101.
But I am sure I voted against my best interest in the long view. So how can I blame people for voting for someone like Naked Scotty Brown? Weld opened the gates for Cellucci and -- God, help us all -- Mitt Romney.

But for the seat that the Liberal Lion held all those years? I blame Brown's opponent (let's not mention her name since she saw no need to promote herself) and the Democrats in general more than the voters. This whole "in your best interest" thing seems to confirm the image the alienated voters have of holier-than-thou Democrats, as the GOP successfully drives social wedge issues between the average joe and the "liberal elites."

The bottom line, though, is I think voters let themselves be swayed by surface images and vague notions of "sending a message" from a legacy of liberalism that has contributed no small part in Massachusetts being among the top states in education, health, employment, technology, art, literature, and overall quality of life. These are the reasons I list for myself when in the middle of a cold gray January, I ask myself, "why do I live here again?" I could never live anywhere that is historically politically conservative. So that rules out most of the warm states. And yeah, roots -- family and friends and a band, music scene, cultural resources, history, the Red Sox, the Cape, etc., all kept me here. I love it here. I still laugh at all the weirdo Boston quirks. I still don't know if I am a New Yorker or a Bostonian, which must seem odd to people. But of anywhere between 8-10 regulars at my poker game, none of us are from Massachusetts originally. Few people in my neighborhood are. And, anyway, there are assholes everywhere. The proportions seem to seesaw from time to time. That might be one of the bigger lessons I learned from all those years on the road. These are the sentiments that came out in the Buffalo Tom song "Thrown" from Three Easy Pieces.

And then there was the Supreme Court decision, which I won't get into too deeply. I think of myself as being an absolutist on First Amendment issues. But I do not see how being able to spend unlimited funds as a corporation = speech. I need to read the decision closely, but either way, I think the results will be disastrous. Every individual retains the right to free speech. But was the provision faulty enough to bar opinion pages of incorporated newspapers and filmmakers from engaging in legitimate political debate as well as deep-pocketed special interests (on both sides) and the potential threat they pose to the democratic process? Was the baby being thrown out with the bathwater via McCain/Feingold? That is often the case with seeping regulation. But it seems like a conveniently narrow interpretation along poltical lines. Ultimately, the prospect of the results of this bum me out. And it is not made easier when I think I might be hypocritical when wanting to limit the amount of money in politics. I have no problem in regulating arms under the Second Amendment. "Well regulated militia" having the "right to bear arms," and all that. Of course, it does not say "all arms to be developed over the century." And speech can not physically harm someone except in extreme cases in the old "yelling fire in a crowded theater" sawhorse. And of course, that's illegal.

On top of it all, I was mostly home sick, a cough, a sore throat. And it was a cold ugly winter week. I was able to get to a short set Buffalo Tom had this past week, but then took a turn for the worse. This morning was the first time I could speak without coughing or pain shooting to the back of my skull. So when I had the opportunity to play guitar and sing at the kitchen table, I took it. Forgive me if I go astray...

A couple of lesser-requested Buffalo Tom songs, one from Smitten, the other from our first LP. I look as spent as I feel in these. The home concert/bed head series continues. Maybe it's time to take the act out of my own kitchen and into yours. Get out of my dreams and into my car.

Cover of the Week 65

2010-01-14T10:03:00.007-05:00

Author at a younger age at Graceland

I get the feeling that the crowd-pleasers of these covers and non-covers so far have been the songs from the not-so-distant past - alternative rock songs from Buffalo Tom and our most immediate influences or contemporaries. At least, that is what I get from the more vocal feedback. Clearly, though, this is a labor of love for me and I do it more for my own pleasure than anything else.

I would venture to guess that most people don’t have an Elvis Presley cover high on their list of requests. I think for people younger than me, those born after the mid-1960s, Elvis is almost nothing but a cartoon. His influence is too far removed. I am old enough, however, to remember Elvis alive and still sort of relevant, certainly still active. I remember seeing "Aloha Via Satellite" as a kid and wearing out the 8-track resulting soundtrack my mom had. Elvis was probably her favorite performer from the time she was an adolescent. We had numerous 45s from when she was a kid and multiple greatest hits collections.

And the musicians I loved as a kid -- Zeppelin, the Stones, the Who, Beatles, Creedence -- they all named Elvis as perhaps their deepest influence, along with Chuck Berry, Little Richard, etc. Elvis turned a lot of the rock & roller kids onto the blues originals.

I wrote to start of Part II of my Exile on Main St. book:

One of the records I owned when I was a kid was a 45 I inherited from my mother, who was a big Elvis Presley fan. It was “Teddy Bear” backed with “Loving You.” Since I was a kid, “Teddy Bear” obviously received a lot of spins on my portable record player. But it was really “Loving You” with which I became infatuated. Looking back, I realize how odd a song that is for a young child to focus on. Written by Brill Building legends Leiber and Stoller, it is an extremely intimate song in content, sound, and performance. It’s highly charged and romantic, with a traditional Tin Pan Alley ballad structure and melody. But in the hands of Elvis, it’s a slow-burning, ultra-sexy, slow dance number. What captured me early and often, however was the vibe of the record; the heavy, haunting sense of atmosphere. It feels like it was recorded at 3:30 AM. Presley sounds like he is slow dancing with a girl after all the guests have left a party or a club, the lights are low, overturned drinks and empty glasses and full ashtrays cover every surface. The piano is impossibly behind the beat. An upright bass pulses slowly, quietly, but insistently. The Jordanaires coo softly in the background. Elvis seems like he can barely raise his voice above a mumble and when he does, the results are striking and highly charged, spine-chilling... He sounds as if he is tipsy, drunk even, but totally in control. Presley is within the song and more romantic than sexual, but it could comfortably sit next to Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” on a compilation. While I could have had little comprehension of the content of the song at such a young age, I had an instinctive awareness of the power, the undeniable force of the feeling simmering there.

My obsession with the song has been life-long and constant. I also wrote about it for Allmusic.com

Here is a picture of my mom and dad at a party in a basement. I had never seen this specific picture until I was cleaning out my uncle's house. But I had seen others from the same period, like the one below it, which is from my grandmother's basement, from their engagement party. A lot of time was spent in basements in the 1950s/early '60s.

Maybe it was these pictures coupled with listening to the records that got me in this mindset. As a kid, you start putting whatever puzzle pieces together that you can find.

Mark Feeney wrote about the contemporary perception of Elvis and his legacy in the Boston Globe (Elvis at 75: Can We Ever Again See the Performer, Not The Punchline?) about a month ago. I had just been ruminating on this around that time, thinking about covering an Elvis song. I have some friends, the husband is about my age. They named their son Presley. The King would have been 75 this year. I remember my friends and I were hit pretty hard when Elvis died. We were not yet old enough to think of him as a joke. What happened to his life is tragic, the result of the same sort of insular echo-chamber bad advice that allowed Michael Jackson to spiral downward. But for those who think music started with the Clash, know this: Joe Strummer was huge on Elvis. You should definitely start with the Sun recordings, but Elvis’ greatness continued right up through the RCA years and dots many of his movie soundtracks. His Memphis LP and comeback special also display the talent that remained.

John Doe recently covered the country version of “A Fool Such As I.” But like most songs Elvis recorded, it will forever be an Elvis song for me.

So here I try for more of an impressionistic version of the vibe rather than a replication of the song "Loving You."

Loving You Mp3

What Else Do You Need?

2010-01-10T17:49:00.009-05:00

Check out Jesse Winchester on Elvis Costello’s Spectacle. Jesse might not be everyone’s cup of tea. Some my find him too straightforward or sentimental. To those I say: hey, there’s no accounting for the taste of such cold-hearted wretches like you who can’t recognize brilliant songcraft when it is staring you in your sad old bitter face. So go and pull out your Nitzer Ebb records and have a good time.

Look at the faces in the crowd. Look at my girlfriend, Neko Case, tearing up. Look at Elvis’s face. One of the greatest songwriters of our generation is sincerely humbled. As well he should be.

Now, Elvis is one of my favorite all-time songwriters. And I think he should get a Nobel Prize simply on the basis of forming this new television program (which I have only seen clips of, by the way, as my cable company wants to charge me $14 more a month to get this “tier” of programming) where he provides a wide audience for someone like Jesse Winchester. But Elvis has often seemed to let his cleverness, his words, and his concepts get in the way of good pop songs over the years. Don’t get me wrong: I am all for pushing boundaries and ambition, and the wish to write something that moves the head as well as the heart. Costello perfected that delicate balance for many years and still pulls it off more times than not. Waits is a pro at this. Dylan still manages to hit it from time to time, but now his brilliant lyrics are often backed by a 12-bar blues crutch.

It is extremely difficult to write a simple, beautiful song -- lyrically and melodically -- like this Jesse Winchester example. And Jesse has done so repeatedly. I’m only a recent fan. Look for “Little Glass of Wine,” or “Foolish Heart.” I would not be surprised to find out that Nick Lowe turned on Elvis to Jesse, but Elvis has apparently long had an amazing deep record collection, so perhaps not. Lowe has always done a good job with the above-described balance, as has Elvis, delivering the goods since “Alison.” But, like Tom Waits, Nick Lowe has been a guy who seems to get better on his later records. Sure, I loved the early catalogs of both of them, but as with Tom, Nick’s later records -- I’m talking about those from the past 5-10 years even -- leave me breathless.

So, if you don’t like that sort of thing, there is nothing I can do to win you over from the side of evil to the side of good. After all, I was told last night by a bunch of musicians, in the dressing room at Hot Stove Cool Music, things like “you must not like music,” and “everyone likes those first two records at least. How can you not like it? What’s not to like?” This was, of course, in response to my admission that I have never liked any Van Halen. Don’t start listing songs. I do not like them. I don’t hate them; I simply found nothing in any of it to enjoy. My brother Scott agreed with me, as did a few older musicians, who might have been more reluctant than I to alienate themselves at first, but sheepishly came around eventually. Who was on the side of good and who on evil in that situation? I feel like I stood with the Force in that instance Hot Stove Cool Music is a big tent.

*****

As is well known by now, the danger of having a blog, and of the internet in general, is the impulse to comment, write, and/or post something can be fulfilled in a matter of seconds and sent off to view with the push of a button. Like this video, for example. A friend of mine, Brendan Gilmartin, posted it on Facebook (sorry, I forgot who you were that did me the favor) and I react here. Immediately. Everything is instantly publishable. And for an impulsive personality like mine, this poses potential pitfalls that can easily end up as nagging regrets. In the past, I might get ginned up and make an off-color remark at a party, wake up with a throbbing head and queasy stomach at the crack of noon the next day, and slowly work my way into making an apologetic phone call or two. But after some Alka Seltzer, an afternoon on the couch watching some NFL game in which I have nothing personally invested, and a roast chicken dinner, the faux pas or sore feelings from the night before would quickly be receding in the rear view.

I don’t mean to imply that I am about to rail off on anything or anyone; I am certainly not. In fact, I am about to get all mushy. Again. You see, the perils of instantaneous modern mass communication also offerw the potential for one to pour his heart out, straight, no chaser.

I have been involved with Hot Stove Cool Music for nine of it’s ten years. We held the 10th anniversary event last night. In those early, pre-2004 World Series says, I never thought it would be more than a one-off, then two-year thing, and so on. But as a result of those first couple of years, I got drawn in seemingly forever -- by the charity, by the music, by it’s Boston-ness, and, most of all, by the bonhomie of the people involved in making it happen -- musicians, managers, baseball writers, baseball players, club managers, actors, bartenders, fundraisers, guitar techs, wives, husbands, kids...

I brought in my then-relatively-new buddy, Mike O’Malley early in those first few years. He immediately became MC and chief auctioneer. He is so good at what he does, that various Red Sox and the Red Sox Foundation tap him for virtually every event that they have. He flies out from his home at least a dozen times a year just to help on these charitable events. Friends of mine who watch him in this milieu never fail to remark to me how impressed they are at how he handles these things, as well as all the glad-handing and promotion before and after the actual shows. He works extremely hard. Imagine, for example, flying in on the red-eye only to have to sit and listen for two hours to the braintrust who typically make up the “talent” on wacky morning radio shows.

And yet Mike never fails to thank me -- thank me -- year after year, for bringing him into this organization. And that pretty much summarizes HSCM. Jeff Horrigan, Mike Creamer, Kay Hanley, and Peter Gammons constituted the foundation on this thing in year one and remain at its heart. Creamer does most of the heavy lifting -- from the bulk of the booking of music, to arranging the venue, comp tickets, car services, hotels -- everything to who is out of beer in the dressing room. But there are so many other folks who come back year after year to lend a hand. Egos have rubbed over the years, some people have joined, some have left. Often it is merely attrition. Sometimes it is a difference in opinion, philosophy, or vision. Rarely is it a heavy conflict.

The astounding thing about HSCM, though, is how few people have left the fold. It is like the mafia. You can’t get out that easily. It is heartwarming to see how much of a close group of people it is, how much we look forward to seeing and playing music with each other, hanging with each other’s families, etc. And we are fully aware of less charitable views of the event: we’re just a bunch of the same crusty old Boston rockers playing behind a baseball writer/commentator, baseball players and general managers strapping on guitars, the same group of people year after year, etc. Am I more known as a sideman for Peter Gammons than for my Buffalo Tom-acity? I don’t think so, but it is not an absurd question. Who cares? Seth Justman, keyboardist and principal songwriter for the J. Geils band certainly seems not to care about such trivialities. Can I tell you what a thrill it is for a rock & roll lifer, a deeply committed fan, to play and sing “Must of Got Lost” while one of the song’s authors is playing organ? I got to do so in practice and soundcheck and then Mike O. came in and shattered everyone with his lead vocal on the song last night.

The J. Geils Band! Seth Justman! A man who knows a thing or two about writing a classic, simple, beautiful song. A man who knows soul, the blues, roots, and pop songcraft. Though, you would not know it was him, lurking there in the shadows. In fact, when Mike came in to rehearsals to sing the song the first time, he brought it. Knocked it out of the park -- which is a good thing for him because I was having such a great time singing it that if half-assed it (which he never does with anything), it was going to be mine. When we finished, I remarked at how great he sang it and, most impressively, while one the song’s authors stood right next to him playing organ. It soon became apparent Mike had not made the connection. I still don’t think it would have fazed him. Maybe it would have made him more nervous. But no one else would be able to see it. Mike comes in and owns the situation. He sells it.

Seth is not going to intimidate anyone. Until they know who he is, perhaps. But he is one of the sweetest guys you’d ever want to meet. And that’s why he fits right in to a band led by Peter Gammons. Mike Gent, Ed Valauskas, Pete Caldes, Phil Aiken, Paul Ahlstrand...you’re not gonna form a band with more heart than that. Generous of spirit and truly great musicians, I am humbled repeatedly.

We have a great time and , more importantly, have raised and continue to raise a boatload of money -- well over $3 million and counting -- for organizations like the Jimmy Fund for pediatric cancer research; the Home For Little Wanderers; the BELL Foundation’s Red Sox Scholars; and more. Anyone who has a problem with this is probably the same guy slagging off Jesse Winchester.

Straw man? Perhaps. Hopefully. I wish.

And part of our mission is to encourage bringing new blood into the event each year. How many such events have had such disparate acts as Low Anthem (last night -- I love them); For Peace (hip hop); James Taylor; Dropkick Murphys; Juliana Hatfield; John Legend; Pernice Brothers; Nada Surf; Lori McKenna? Last night, the band State Radio was probably responsible for selling at least 75% of the tickets, at $40 a pop. When I took the stage with my aging fellow “Hot Stove All Stars,” I looked over a sea of 20-something faces, all of whom seemed open and eager to hear all of the music being played. That warmed my heart. Maybe the day will be soon where we have grown this brand to such a spot where we can walk away and leave it to the youngsters. Believe me, I would love to have someone else take it over from us, build it, and get the same love we get from it.

But that would mean saying goodbye. None of us want to let go. I do think the House of Blues might have been too big a venue. And we always have post-game chats where we try to think of ways to make improvements. And we are always open to suggestions. Maybe we take it back to the beloved Paradise. Maybe it keeps growing. I know we need to get more ball players committed to showing up like they used to when the thing was lousy with the “idiots” of yesteryear. Maybe some of us old-timers will walk away for good someday. Just not yet. We’re having to great a time.

“Never thought about tomorrow/Seemed like a long time to come.”

(non) Cover of the Week 64

2010-01-09T09:34:00.002-05:00

Some folks requested this one over at Facebook. Had a few minutes, so here you go, a bonus non-CoTW. I was a bit more dolled up than the "Porchlight" clip in below post.

(non)Cover of the Week 63

2010-01-08T10:25:00.005-05:00

My friend Vincent T. -- the close friend of my recently deceased Uncle Vince -- called me this morning and let me know that Vince's cell phone is still on. He was not the first to try it. But he and others who have called it told me the same thing: It was therapeutic to hear his voice again.

I have not brought myself to call it yet. His voice is still clear enough in my head. But I have checked in and, recently, posted something on Vince's Facebook page. I have also posted something at the memorial site set up by the funeral home. And when I was down in Miami, though his computer had been taken in by detectives looking for whatever they could find (story here, and here, for those of you wondering what I am talking about), I started thinking more about the digital footprint we are all leaving. There's a voice, there are emails (I came across some funny fan mail and responses printed out, between Vince and Augusten Burroughs, e.g.), there are home pages, blogs, Amazon reviews, and so on. They are all still floating out there, perhaps forever.

I would like to say I have drawn some sort of conclusion, profound or otherwise, from this. But I think it simply is. And that hits us on some deep level. I mean, the shallowness that we associate with this digital culture, what we feel is fleeting and disposable, ends up to be very much the opposite. We are leaving bits of ourselves all over the place for others to stumble upon or actively seek out after we are gone. Sure, a Facebook page is not the same as leaving, say, the library of William Shakespeare (whoever "he" was) or catalog of John Coltrane behind as a legacy. But it is a lot more than the few crumpled and yellowed letters, photos, and press clippings of those who passed before 1990 or so.

There was a recent gag from the Onion about future "archeologists" discovering the lost civilization of Friendster. This is not so far-fetched.

This all got me thinking of a line I wrote and sang in 1990 or so, on the song "Porchlight," which was written around the time that the burgeoning technology of "voice mail" was becoming more mainstream. This was one of those "written from the road" tunes, as Paul Kolderie and Sean Slade used to joke about bands coming back to record their first records after being on tour for the first time. We had a beeper/voice mail system in place for personal calls and business calls, to be reachable in the days before cell phones, email, etc.

The line is, "Your voice got smaller 'til I realized it was gone."

The voice is only another trace, a ghost that lingers.

*****

So, for this week's cover, I cover Buffalo Tom's "Porchlight." And as a change, I do it live from the breakfast table this morning. You can see I really dolled myself up for this brunch concert. Buffalo Tom has played this live only rarely. Tom Maginnis does not like drumming to it for some reason. We have not quite figured it all out. We played it as a request of Jon Stewart on his final T.V. show in the 1990s, well before he took over and redefined the Daily Show.

Vince and John, Bolinas 1970

My Hero

2010-01-04T11:35:00.001-05:00

I don't care how self-serving this is, I am re-posting this because it makes me happy.

Old BT photos

2010-01-03T11:46:00.002-05:00

For those of you not on Facebook, here are some links to galleries of old photos I recently scanned:

Facebook 1

Facebook 2

Facebook 3

Covers of the Week 61 & 62

2009-12-30T16:44:00.006-05:00

I should have graduated UMass in 1988 but coming down with mono and picking up a couple of minors (and a girlfriend) along the way necessitated an extra semester. And really, why leave the Happy Valley in January? So I stayed around waiting for my girl (later my wife) to finish up her year and then we moved in together in Somerville that spring.

When I hear the song "Mallo Cup" it brings me back instantly to that exact moment -- I can remember walking around Somerville, Cambridge, and Boston in my Chuck Taylors and cut-off flannel shirts, in the beautiful spring weather. I was moving in with the girl of my dreams, living in absolute and hot sin. My band had just released a pretty well-received indie record on SST, the label of my heroes. We were planning out tours, more records, and the rest of our lives. We all lived within a couple of blocks together. We had just hooked up with the fabulous management team of Tom Johnston and Joyce Linehan, who worked with the Lemonheads, Galaxie 500, and more (later the went out on their own and we had Tom as our manager -- he had Bettie Serveert and Come later on). And, especially in hindsight, the Boston club and indie rock scene was entering a peak period. I feel like we must have just had a show at the Channel with the Lemons and maybe Galaxy 500 and/or Bullet LaVolta around this time. I am giddy just remembering it all.

We later went on to become good buddies and do a lot of touring across the U.K. and Europe (and a few shows in Japan as well) with the guys in the Lemonheads. Evan is still one of my all-time favorite singers and a guy with an enormous (Big Gay) heart that shows in his songs.

Also around this time, we were working on our second LP, Birdbrain, again with J Mascis producing. The first record was started with the great Tim O'Heir at the original Fort Apache in Roxbury. J came on about halfway through as another set of ears and suggestions. This second record, we had J from the beginning, along with Sean Slade. And we were recording at the then-new Cambridge outpost of the Fort, on Camp Street, walking distance from my new pad.

J and I shared a love of the great 80's Boston band, the Neats. They had started as a pre-REM (or at least concurrent) moody, neo-psychadelic pop band, with a somewhat dark sound, with a lot of reverbed-out guitar strumming (don't call it "jangle"). If you know the Chills, early REM, perhaps the Feelies, you might be in the right ballpark. Wiretrain? Maybe. But there was something very Boston about the early Neats. It contained this minor key, Cellar's By Starlight trait that is found in the Boston continuum stretching from at least Mission of Burma, Moving Targets, Buffalo Tom, to today's Mean Creek. They put out an EP and an LP or two with this template before morphing into a harder edged blues-rock combo. But when I had first come to Boston in 1982, I remember one of those magical Boston college radio moments, when I first heard "Red and Grey." Of course, it influenced me greatly when I decided to start writing my own songs. You'd be forgiven if you did not hear or remember "Pink on Green." Red and grey is much better color combo anyway.

The Neats were a legendary club draw in those days. I think they were on the cover the first time I saw the local music paper, Boston Rock. I would have been a junior in high school. I went to go see them every time I could when I was up at UMass and around Boston's clubs.

Well, they have reunited and played last night in town. And we have the honor of sharing the stage with them and another heroic combo, the Lyres, tomorrow night at the Orpheum Theater -- home to many fondly remembered mythical concerts of my adolescence -- for Boston's New Year's Eve celebration, First Night.

An early selection for CoTW this week, and a two-fer! Here is my own continuum of Boston rock, a medley of Red and Grey with Mallo Cup. Please forgive my guitar clams; I'm no Bert Jansch and had no time/patience to correct them. By the way, all of the Neats Ace of Heart label records are being (have been?) re-released. Go get 'em.

Red and Grey and Mallo Cup mp3.

Here is last year's New Years Eve CoTW

Cover of the Week 60

2009-12-25T23:18:00.007-05:00

I was saddened to hear of the passing of the great American singer/songwriter, Vic Chesnutt, who passed away last night or early today.

Vic’s records had a huge impact on me. I brought out all of the following CDs while we were touring back in the mid-‘90s:

West of Rome
Little
About to Choke
Drunk

And I picked up some later ones, like Left to His Own Devices. But it was Little and West of Rome which really killed me.

Perhaps it is a cliche by now, but I am at a loss at how else to explain Vic’s gifts other than we know some artists go out to the outer reaches or hidden depths and report back to us. Vic plunged deep and quietly brought back versions of what other artist-seekers have sought. But he told it to his fans in ways that only he could. Like all great poets, his voice was intensely personal and his language specific and profoundly evocative.

We sought out Vic when we reached Athens, GA and were thrilled to play with him at the second iteration of the famous 40 Watt club. We got to play other gigs with him over the years. He was a great person to get to know back then but I had not seen him in many years by the time Tom Maginnis and I bumped into him with Kurt Wagner of Lambchop, in a hotel elevator in Utrecht in 2007 or ’08 when we were playing the same festival. I felt like I was again meeting a legend. He was gentle man but his presence and talents awed me.

Vic's song, "Florida," was specifically influential on my song of the same name. They both approach deaths in that state. But that’s where the similarities end; mine is a raging wail about a relative growing old and dying surrounded by the flimsy trashiness that abounds there, while Vic’s is a plaintive meditation on the suicide of a friend. I wrote about it here on Allmusic.com about 10 years ago.

So, I could not think of a more apt cover this week. Vic took his own life, it appears. And I have just spent three weeks in Miami picking up the pieces of a senseless and obscene tragedy in Miami, written in older posts.

Sorry to be the bearer of such sadness on Christmas night.

Donations for Vic's family can be made via this link, thanks to his friend, Kristin Hersh.

Florida mp3 (recorded December 25, 2009)

Covers of the Week 58 & 59

2009-12-19T23:00:00.005-05:00

When I was just starting out selling real estate, in about 2001, I sent out a couple of letters to owners of no more than a handful of houses around me that I had seen and admired for years. I am not an aggressive sort by nature, and back then I was even less sure than I am today about transitioning into brokering real estate as a day job. By now, I am established and have gotten a bit more used to this persona, though it is still somewhat of a struggle and not something I always wear naturally; am I a singer/songwriter/Buffalo Tom guy, or am I a suburban real estate agent? I don’t think I have yet fully reconciled these two disparate occupations.

Nothing came of those few letters I sent back then. And over the years, I have quite established a referral base which allows me to be slightly less aggressive in self-promotion and marketing. But I got an email this week that read:

Hello,
Although you once expressed in selling our house, we're not interested yet in selling what we have or buying a new house. What we'd like to ask is where we can find your CD, Diving for Gold. Our son is a big fan of Buffalo Tom, and we'd like him to have the CD for Christmas...

Well, I wrote back telling the kind folks how embarrassed I was that I had been so forward in my early attempts to establish myself in town as a broker. This certainly does not square with how an aloof rock & roller is supposed to be. And though such tactics may reek of desperation, it is sort of necessary in a medium-sized town filled with hundreds of agents.

But I also noted that Buffalo Tom had no CD by the title. But it did sound familiar to me, and of course, it is the title of the CD by my friends in the band Session Americana. I told Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy (not everyone up here is named that, I have to note) that I would be glad to ask my buddies to sign the CD.

Nonsense, the Kennedy’s replied, regarding my admission of shame regarding the letter; they were flattered and proud that I admired their house enough to write. And they told me they had mixed up the titles on their son’s wish list and now were requesting Three Easy Pieces.

On my second reply, I noted the email address, from Joe Kennedy “(no relation).” It actually started with an “XJ.” X.J. Kennedy?

Soon after moving to Massachusetts in high school, I had picked up this poetry anthology called The Modern Poets at a used book store in Boston. It basically surveyed poetry from the Modernists up through the ‘70s. Each poet covered in the book had a full-page black-and-white portrait -- generally naturally-lit candids -- across from a short bio and a poem or two. Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and a few others were noted for their Massachusetts roots. Included among these Boston-area poets was X.J. Kennedy, who looked very cool with big mutton chops and horned rimmed glasses, if my memory serves. It was one of those important books in my development as a reader.

I remember being struck by that image, the poems, the Boston ties, and would later take note when I noticed Mr. Kennedy’s name pop up over the intervening years. When Wikipedia started taking root, I noticed that X.J. Kennedy was listed as a resident of my town. And the most recent notice I took was this past month, when Mr. Kennedy and the famous poet and author, Donald Hall, were slated to ready at a gallery here in town on a weeknight. I had mentioned this whole back story to my wife, this arc from high school on; how X.J. was a “famous poet.”

I had fully planned on attending such a rare event in our sleepy little town, when family business popped up and called me down to Florida unexpectedly.

But here I was a few weeks later examining the email address. So I Googled Mr. Kennedy, and sure enough, he and his wife, Dorothy, came up as living here in Lexington. And he had told me in his email that he was 80. That would square with the stuff I found on the internet. So I wrote back:

Dear Mr. Kennedy,

You are not, by chance, X.J. Kennedy, the poet, are you? If so, I am quite honored. (Well, if not, I am still honored, ha ha). I am taking a wild swing from your email address. I had read you as a kid in high school, having picked up an anthology called something like, "The Modern Poets." I was smitten with writing poetry and went on to take a class with James Tate up at UMass in the '80s. I probably would have gone on to try for an M.F.A., but was waylaid by the burgeoning Buff Tom Era.

Well, of course he was the same. And of course, he was humble, saying something like “‘famous poet’ is an oxymoron.’” So I arranged to swing by his house, a two minute walk from my own, with a copy of Three Easy Pieces and the Exile book for good measure. I was welcomed in warmly by Dorothy and Joe (he threw the “X” in their to distinguish himself from the other Joe Kennedys in and around Massachusetts politics). We had a great visit. They are truly gracious folks. We went up to their office over the garage and Joe chose and signed three books for my kids. He and Dorothy have done well with writing and putting together books for children and text books. It turns out that another of their sons was in a Boston area band about 10 years ago called Ollie Ollie. I remember talking to a member or two of that band and getting a demo, which I really dug. So the small-town feel of Boston circled around.

Of course, this has nothing remotely to do with this week’s CoTW. But at this point, if you’ve been following for any length of time, you have come to expect such tangents. It is merely what happened to me this week. The take-away is that you never know who is living around the corner from you. Although, nowadays, it is getting harder not to know; we’re all out there.

*****

One of the other events of my week (aside from recording some new Buff Tom tracks), was a benefit Christmas reunion of the old annual Fuzzy Christmas show at the venerable Plough and Stars pub in Cambridge. Fuzzy were a beloved Boston band that had organized a few such holiday hootenannies at pubs and clubs in Boston. This one was held to benefit Stephen Fredette, of the old, also-beloved Boston outfit, Scruffy the Cat. Stephen, being an American musician, could use some help defraying his medical costs. For those of you outside of America that haven’t already heard, if you are not employed full time by a company offering private medical insurance and get sick, you’re fucked and you have to hold benefits at pubs at $8/a head to help defray astronomically inflated medical fees.

Audrey Ryan started the night with some beautiful solo songs. After her set, while Brian Sullivan, of Dylan in the Movies, played a few songs, she requested that I do “Blue Christmas,” which I used to do at the old Fuzzy Christmas pageants in the 1990s. Well, lo and behold! What does Sully/Gooby pull out? Yes, “Blue Christmas.” Well, I wasn’t going to play it anyway. I was given the honor of playing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” and “Everyday is Christmas” (by Smokey Robinson) with Tanya Donelly and Chris Toppin. On the former, we switched it so that I sang the erstwhile “lady” part (“The neighbors might think/Say, what’s in this drink?”) and Top and Tanya sang the once-male beseeching answer part of the duet (“But baby, you’ll freeze out there/It’s up to your knees out there.”) It was Tanya's idea. And I liked it. It somehow fulfilled all my eighth grade fantasies.

We also had the pleasure of having Arthur Johnson, of the late great band, Come, playing drums, Elizabeth Steen on the piano, and Winston Bramen of Fuzzy on bass. Later, Arthur joined Chris Colbourn and me on stage for a mini-2/3 BT set. Arthur and his wife, Donna, left Boston years ago for Atlanta. So it was a thrill to see them.

It was a fun night all around. A blast from the past. And old fashioned 1991 Christmas. And, though I did not get to play “Blue Christmas” there, I offer it to you here and now. I segue only semi-seamlessly into the sad-assed George Jones tune (how many of his tunes are not sad-assed?), “The Grand Tour,” another cover I used to do in the 1990s. I had been discussing this only just last week at the Q Division Studios Christmas party with Winston and the great Boston young buck, Josh Buckley. So here, it seems to come out of the “Blue Christmas” narration rather easily.

A note about “No Show” Jones: Phil Aiken and I went to go see him about nine years ago in Lowell Auditorium. Now, eastern Massachusetts is notorious as being a place that most country music tours skip. It is probably the worst market for country music in the country. So it is rare to have a George Jones within 40 minutes drive of Boston.

I think I have told this story before.

But anyway, Phil and I get all excited, even if it is tempered by sober (not a word you ordinarily heat often in George Jones stories) expectations of more realistic M.O.R. performance from George. We are surrounded by people we don’t ordinarily see out around Boston music shows. These are the salt of the earth. Say a prayer for them. They constitute the 2000 people that listen to Boston’s only country station.

The opening act is some sort of Grand Ole Opry version of Steve and Edie, but they can sing. And they are backed by Nashville pros. We got a kick out of them and their shtick.

There is a short break while they ready the stage for Mr. Jones et. al. These preparations include getting the Power Point show ready to scroll on the backdrop movie screen behind the stage. We can see someone moving a cursor around on a desktop. This is going to be a real show biz-level production we can see.

Well, soon enough the lights dim and out walks this guy with a mullet and cut-off denim shorts. I swear to you he looks like David Spade in the cinema classic, Joe Dirt. He has a huge American flag (you will note that this was not long after 9/11) in one of those crotch-level flag holders that they use in parades. He takes center stage, under a spot light, standing stock still. We hear the powerful voice of George Jones, singing with clarion clarity, the “Star Spangled Banner,” our national anthem. The crowd is almost heating up to a frenzy level now, with patriotism and fandom, And no one can see George yet. Is he offstage singing?

When the lyric reaches the lines, “Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave,” there is a slight rest in the recording (for that is all it was, a pre-recorded version), the flagman/tourbus driver starts to undulate his pelvis in a figure-eight pattern, making the flag whip in big sweeping waves. Of course, the crowd goes nuts.

And then George comes out, backed by a band in maroon button down shirts and pleated Docker khakis, like they are managers at an Applebee’s, and -- backed by the dazzling Power Point show -- they kill for over an hour of classic George Jones numbers. I don’t think they ever got to my favorite Jones song, “The Grand Tour.” See what I wrote about the song for allmusic.com about 10 years ago here.

But you can bet your foreign-born ass that they ended with Lee Greenwood’s “Proud to Be an American.” Hell yeah!

Happy holidays to y'all.

Blue Christmas/Grand Tour Medley mp3

Speaking of the Reach of the PTMOR Blog....

2009-12-11T13:03:00.002-05:00

As noted in the below post, the PTMOR blog has been getting around -- to the Alps in the Italian-speaking region of Switzerland, e.g. I see, via Google Analytics -- an amazing tool, by the way -- that I have been getting page visits from 44 countries in the past month. We would love to hear greetings from all of the different places -- I see a scattered few visits from Russia, Turkey, India, Argentina, Poland, etc. Please say hello in the comments. All of you in more predictable places like the U.K, Canada, Australia, Benelux, etc., don't be shy either. I appreciate the give/take. Feliz Navidad, and happy holidays to you all.

CoTW on SwissRadio

2009-12-11T09:57:00.003-05:00

Hey all -- I did an interview with Swiss radio about the CoTW project. You can listen in. Details below:

From Andrea Ragazzo:

Sunday, December 13th, at 15:00, and Thursday, December 17th, at 17:00 PM, both Boston time. The channel is: Rete Tre - RSI (Switzerland) (you can listen to it on streaming on this page clicking on ASCOLTA LA RADIO banner on the right).

Cover of the Week 57

2009-12-08T22:03:00.011-05:00

Peter Gammons announced he is leaving ESPN today after two decades at the network. One of the great benefits of playing with Buffalo Tom for just a bit longer than that, is that I have had the privilege to meet guys like Peter, people who are fans of the band. Peter, along with Jeff Horrigan and Michael Creamer founded the annual (now biannual) Hot Stove Cool Music event here in Boston. This year is the tenth anniversary, taking place January 9. I came along the second year and have been at every winter edition of the event since.

One of the jokes about Peter is that he is often claiming this player or that person is “a great human being.” The not-funny part of that is that he finds so much good in so many people. And that is because he is -- and I mean this literally -- one of the nicest guys I have gotten to know in my life.

In his press release today, forwarded on to me by Jeff this morning, Peter states, “My friend Tom Rush – who taught James Taylor and me our first guitar chords – once wrote ‘how strange it seems to walk away alone. With no regrets.’”

Well I, along with all the Hot Stove regulars, got to share the “stage” with James Taylor at a Hot Stove Cool Music show. It was a special one, as it was right after Peter had suffered an aneurysm and as a result, could not make it. None of us had known how he would come out of it. Luckily for us all, he rebounded at 100%. Things were growing so wildly with the HSCM event, what with the Sox winning the World Series in 2004 (and again in 2007), that the organizers got a bit bold, the Red Sox got more involved, and we spun it off into a summer edition, at Fenway Park. The first summer, it was magical. It was unreal playing out on the field of Fenway, near the Sox dugout.

The second summer, however, 2006, was near tragic; aside from almost losing Peter.

We had somehow convinced James to join the event at Fenway. Most people are aware of James’ local ties, a long-time resident of Martha’s Vineyard, Boston, and the Berkshires Mountains in the western part of the state, just past where we went to college at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. James is a Sox fan. So he agreed to play a few numbers at out humble show. But the rain came and stayed. Like a baseball game, there was no contingency plan, no alternate venue. The folks who paid for tickets had no recourse, as the money was going to charity. Oh, maybe the disgruntled ones got refunds, I don’t recall.

But in the true sprit of showbiz, we scrounged together a cheesy little P.A. and set up a makeshift “stage” in the concourse under the grandstand in the bowels (those familiar with Fenway will attest to its intestinal-like interior). The sonics were horrendous as were the sight-lines. But James stayed, much to our amazement. He invited the musicians into his trailer to teach us a few chords from his songs so we could do a few impromptu numbers with him. And then we took him to the stage and ran through “Steamroller Blues.” I’m pretty sure that was all we could get from him. But the lack of ego shown by him to risk his reputation as a high-level professional to get down and literally dirty with us in a venue that sounded worse than your parent’s garage, was downright laudatory.

(Photo of JT at Fenway during the 2007 ALCS, by the legendary Stan Grossfeld, Boston Globe)

This was not my first experience meeting James, nor was it the first evidence I have witnessed of his graciousness. Meeting him as a fellow musician on the stage, though, was one of the great honors I have had.

The first time I met James, I was 16. I had just moved to the Boston area. I had grown up listening to him and increasingly become a record-buying fan of his, despite my inclinations toward the Clash, the Jam, the Buzzcocks, and the Who. No, I had always had a big folky side of me that really dug singer-songwriter dudes. Later, in college, I thought I would have to de-emphasize this portion of my record collection, but many of the freaks at the hardcore, Black Flag, and Huskers shows also flew their JT flag proudly. The guy can play and the guy can sing. And he writes beautiful little songs. Plus, he is a preeminent interpreter of other people’s songs.

So, one of the first guys I met up in Medfield, Massachusetts was a total shark, a scammer and a schemer. He ended up being my buddy that year. We went to go see James in Boston when they had those Concerts on the Common (outdoors in the city's downtown park), before the snooty denizens of Beacon Hill squashed them because the noise was disturbing their privileged peace. It was one of many JT shows I have seen. At the end, my schemer pal wanted to try to get backstage, which was just an area cordoned off by a plywood fence and gate. I wanted no part of this, truth be told. But he was adamant. We waited about 10 feet away from the gate and he started brazenly asking people that were leaving the backstage for their laminated passes. I was mortified. But one guy looked at us grinning, and said, “sure, here you go,” and he and his date handed over two of the laminates. As we thanked him, I realized the guy looked a lot like James himself. As he turned and walked away, I realized it was Livingston Taylor.

We wormed or way over to a trash can filled with bottles of Miller beer on ice. As we fresh-faced sophomores opened up and drank, we looked around nervously. The area just had a few scattered grown-ups milling about. My buddy nudged me. “Hey, there he is,” pointing to JT across the way. We were in awe. But I was freaked that we were gonna get our asses kicked by some security dude and maybe even arrested for crashing the scene and underage drinking.

“Come on, man,” I begged.

“No, just wait a minute. Let’s finish the beer.”

We were finally about to leave when we noticed JT making the rounds and saying good-bye to friends and other nervous-looking fans. We stood frozen in place as he made his way over to us.

“Hey fellas, how’re you doing?” He asked, smiling.

We stammered hellos and complements on the show. He seemed genuinely and sincerely happy, no doubt getting a big kick out of our brazenness, or he was just being polite because he thought we belonged to one of the adults. Either way, he could not have been nicer to us.

So this one is for Peter and James. All of us in Massachusetts know the feeling when James sings, “the first of December was covered with snow/And so was the Turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston/Lord, the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting/With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go.”

Sweet Baby James mp3

Cover of the Week 56

2009-11-27T17:56:00.007-05:00

Have you seen this video? It has been passed around on the web for a while now. Stay with it until you have seen Prince solo to the end of the song.

What you see here until about the 3:30 minute mark is a perfectly serviceable and respectful cover version of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," a tribute to George Harrison. You have the studied aloofness of Tom Petty, sleepwalking through the vocals and acoustic strumming. You have Jeff Lynne doing his part perfectly reasonably, thankfully unable to weigh the song down with goofy backing vocals and other shit he piles on when he is in a studio. You have Stevie Winwood -- arguably the most soulful Englishman next to Jagger, Rod Stewart (and who else?) -- on the B-3 organ. You see the latest incarnation of the Heartbreakers being what they have always been: one of the greatest backing bands of all time, Petty's not-so secret weapon. And you have Dhani Harrison, George's son, strumming along.

And there is the guy in the cap, aping, note-for-note, Eric Clapton's original solos from the legendary White Album recording. It took me a bit of searching to figure out that his name is Marc Mann and, as far as I can gather, he is talented enough to be chosen as a sideman/session guitarist Lynne and George at various junctures. Now, you watch and you might think, "cool, he is nailing the bends, the notes, the whole original solo." And the Clapton part was more than just soloing; it was a wholly integrated arrangement for guitar parts. Yet, when it came time for the actual solo, Mr. Mann -- who I am sure is quite capable of striking out with his own improvised solo -- makes a respectful choice to play the parts Clapton laid down. Totally fine, if forgettable. And unnecessary.

Then you notice the pimp-hatted Prince playing sideman on stage left. But he seems like a loaded gun with a hair trigger. And sure enough, around the 3:25 mark, you see Dhani -- who should never play poker (take it from someone who knows) -- unable to stifle a grin; he has an idea of what is coming.

And sure enough, the soloing, the song, perhaps the whole night is then turned over to Prince, who in the last few years (for me) has made the argument that he is the greatest lead guitar player since Hendrix. He is truly heir to Jimi. As we all know. Hendrix revolutionized lead guitar playing. And he did so without the benefit of some of the technological advances made since his death, stuff like intricately balanced distortion pedals and other devices that are made to harness the sort of feedback and sustain that Jimi, Townshend, et. al. had to rein in by manipulating volume controls and primitive distortion stomp boxes before their signal reached ridiculously loud tube (valve) Marshall and Hiwatt amps.

So Prince has the benefit of a few more devices to exercise a bit more control, but it really does not matter much; what made Hendrix's playing so distinct was his laying it all out there, performing without a net, taking chances that only bop and post-bop jazz guys were taking, and doing so at massive volume, so that he in turn influenced the most forward-thinking of jazz cats like Miles Davis.

And here, in one single performance, Prince comes on like an atom bomb and levels the place, destroys everything in his path, devastates the stage and the players. He performs at a whole different level. He goes out there with no regard for tradition, for the original solos; no, he goes out there and shreds it, putting his own stamp on the song, and in doing so, shines up an otherwise dull rendition. He brings out the best of the song. He takes it to new place, while leaving the rest of the band to keep one foot in the original. As such, he pays the greatest respect to the song, its author, and to Clapton's original sign posts pointing the way to the potential.

While the rest of the band, the old guys, all kind of lay back and play it cool, keeping the song grounded -- to the point of keeping every backing vocal part in place ("look at you all.......still my guitar gently weeeeeeeeps") -- Dhani's face is aglow. He looks around at the other guys with a sort of "can you fucking believe this?!" expression, hoping to make eye contact and get some acknowledgment and musical communion. He seems to get no such feedback from the grizzly old dinosaurs. Dhani is our -- and George's -- stand in and representative. He is there to express what we sitting at home feel: "Holy Mother of God! Is this not one of the greatest virtuoso guitar solos of the past couple of decades?!" Dhani is quoted at this Beatles fan site, "Harrison concludes by stating that he doesn't like music that pulls its punches. 'All the records I like are hardcore. Bob Dylan is the hardest core of the core. Air are chilled out, but they're hardcore musicians. U Srinivas is a hardcore dude from Madras. Leadbelly? He killed a man! Enough said!'"

I've never been a big fan of basketball, but one of the only analogies that springs to mind is that of a perfectly average team of aging pros all of a sudden spiked with a young Michael Jordan or LeBron James; a superstar who opens the game up to spectacle; someone who is so comfortable in his own skin, with Zen-like presence in the moment and absence of extraneous thought and second-guessing. They rise above all the other players, but lift the whole team up to a new level. Sure, there are other players who are jealous and resentful. But then there are players like Dhani, who are playing without ego and who appreciate being in the presence of greatness.

OK, some (likely some of the guys on stage) might just shrink from this and see Prince as showboating. And the way Prince just struts -- struts -- offstage after his seemingly pre-rigged guitar just swoops up and disappears above the stage - surely indicates the same sort of arrogance displayed by Jordan when he would refer to teammates as "my supporting cast." But for Jordan, the ball was just an extension of his hands and he was one with the whole court. For Prince, it is the guitar and the stage. He is not composing the solos before he plays them; it is all one subconscious stream. He has tapped in. These are the great ones.

Others might claim, "sacrilege!" for messing around with Clapton's original solo, as old timers who watched and idolized Bob Cousy might claim that the game should be about passing and set shots. And I would agree that Clapton's solos are perfect for the song: the weeping, the tasteful use of bending strings as displays of sorrow. But that's been done. That recording is over 40 years old and has been played somewhere every day of those subsequent years. Now George is gone, and the world is even more in need of "sweeping." George sang, against hope, "with every mistake we must surely be learning." Prince is the post-modern answer; as Stevie sang, "Telling us how you are changing right from wrong/'Cause if your really want to hear our views/You haven't done nothing."

So Prince takes up where Clapton and Harrison left off, changing the weeping to the outright gnashing of teeth, moaning, yelling and raging. He performs without fear, though, without the net, as he went on to do in the also-legendary performance on SNL a few years later, of the song "Fury."

The rest of the band should have kicked up some dust, as well. But they are just guys in suits playing for other old guys in suits; the worst of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame concept; by its very existence, the HOF fossilizes vital music. Crusty rockers content with their place in the lineage. It is, arguably, a place that had a hard time making space for someone like Prince, who defies categorization. The performance is from 2004, the year that both Prince and George (posthumously, as a solo artist) were inducted into the Hall. It feels like Prince is out to prove he can outrock any straight-up "rock" artist. He is the rightful heir to the Hendrix mantle. I choose him over Stevie Ray. You heard me. Any day of the week.

I think George would approve of the new take on the song. Many, if not most, of his songs had the conscience of eastern thought running through them. LSD and the Maharishi woke him up in the mid-'60s and he kept on teaching: "All things must pass away"; "Isn't it a pity/Now, isn't it a shame/How we/break each other's hearts/And cause each other pain/How we take each other's love/Without thinking anymore/Forgetting to give back"; "The love you are blessed with/This world's waiting for/So let out your heart, please, please/From behind that locked door"; "Beware of sadness/It can hit you/It can hurt you/Make you sore and what is more/That is not what you are here for."

These are all paraphrases of the teachings of the Buddha and other eastern philosophers. They taught that so much of the negativity in the world is borne out of fear. As a result, most of us live defensively most of the time. Buddha says get back to your original self, who you were, your face before you were born. Everything after that is adding to a mask, a shield, buttressing yourself against the pain and suffering in the world. Open yourself back up. Live in the moment. Realize we are here for a limited time. Don't be afraid of making a fool of yourself. I'm not saying go to work at your office in a pimp suit and strut out of a meeting after making a particularly astute and bold point. But live it up a little. Just ask yourself every once in a while, "what would Prince do here?"

Yeah, I know, now it all seems trite, "dance like no one is watching," and all that Chicken Soup kind of shit. But it's because it is all true: "He not busy being born is busy dying," as Bob Dylan sang.

Almost everyone on that stage with Prince is playing defensively. Prince is busy being born.

*****

And so, I continue a Beatles-related chain. Perhaps I am still looking for musical therapy. This week's cover is from my favorite solo record from the individual Beatles, George's masterpiece, All Things Must Pass, which actually might be in my top 4 Beatles-or-Beatles-related records. I would rather listen to all three LPs, including the jam side, more than sitting all the way through Sgt. Pepper's, for example.

And I'm not sure if I don't just go ahead and ignore my own advice, making all the safe choices on this recording. It is a pretty faithful cover. How about that? My only excuse is that I am covering a song a week here, and I don't always have the time to be very inventive -- in, say, a Cat Power-way. Do I take enough chances? Not sure. Probably not. Buffalo Tom used to blister through a hairy version of "Wah Wah," and going way back, "My Sweet Lord." Galaxy 500 used to do a great cover of this number. Seek it out.

Isn't It a Pity? Mp3

Cover of the Week 55

2009-11-22T23:07:00.003-05:00

This song was going through my head every time I opened a box, cabinet, or drawer in my uncle's place (story here and here, for those of you who are interested). But it was certainly most present when I went through the artifacts from his days in the navy, and the items he had saved that were my grandfather's, from his own days in the army during World War II.

It gives me an excuse to cover Tom Waits a third time, taking the lead, I believe, from the Stones. Dylan and Elvis C. are bound to start getting multiples as well.

Thank you, everyone who wrote in with their support.

A Soldier's Things mp3

Richard Wilbur

2009-11-19T22:49:00.004-05:00

The House

Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes

For a last look at that white house she knew

In sleep alone, and held no title to,

And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.

What did she tell me of that house of hers?

White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;

A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore;

Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.

Is she now there, wherever there may be?

Only a foolish man would hope to find

That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.

Night after night, my love, I put to sea.

-- Richard Wilbur

Taken from the New Yorker August 31, 2009

Back to Work

2009-11-17T11:05:00.002-05:00

This page has gotten a bit self-indulgent, I would say; an awful lot of "sharing." Thanks for your patience, especially those mentioned in some of the more personal ramblings. Back to a basic music blog with shorter posts, I promise.