The third American in outer space, and the first to orbit the earth, John Glenn passed away the other day at 95. So I raise my glass this Saturday night in salute of a great American hero.
1960's psychedelia explored inner space, but there were a few songs from the '60s about outer space themes. Telstar, an instrumental by the British band, The Tornados, 1962, was presumably in celebration of Telstar, the first communications satellite which got high in '62. (Telstar the song made it high on Earth to the #1 slot on both the U. S. and British charts.)
Speaking of getting high, the Byrd's Eight Miles High, 1966, tells of a trip into the outer or perhaps into the 'inner' or both. I never paid much attention to the obscure lyrics. The Coltranish riffs executed on a 12-string Rickenbacker were what got my attention. Damn if it doesn't sound as raw and fresh as it did back in '66.
Also by the Byrds, 1966, is the playful Mr. Spaceman. And we can't omit Elton John, Rocket Man from 1972.
Eagles, Take it Easy. A great road song. This one goes out to Kathy H. who objected to these lines:
Well, I'm a standing on a corner In Winslow, Arizona Such a fine sight to see It's a girl, my lord, in a flat bed Ford Slowin' down to take a look at me.
John F. Kennedy was assassinated 53 years ago today. Here is The Byrds' tribute to the slain leader. They took a traditional song and redid the lyrics. Here Willie Nelson does a great job with the traditional song. You Dylan aficionados will want to give a listen to young Bob's rendition of the old song.
I was in the eighth grade when Kennedy was gunned down. We were assembled in an auditorium for some reason when the principal came in and announced that the president had been shot. The date was November 22, 1963. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was seated behind my quondam inamorata, Christine W. My love for her was from afar, like that of Don Quixote for the fair Dulcinea, but at the moment I was in close physical proximity to her, studying the back of her blouse through which I could make out the strap of her training bra . . . .
Since those far-off and fabulous days of 'Camelot,' we have learned a lot about Kennedy's dark side. But every man has his 'wobble,' and who among us would want to be exposed to the full light of day? He was a boyhood hero of mine, "the intrepid skipper of the PT 109," as I described him in a school essay. My assessment of him has been dialed downward over the years, but there were traces of greatness about him. He was a resolute commie fighter and a lifetime member of the NRA and Second Amendment defender. In those days, a decent, patriotic American could be a Democrat.
And if it weren't for his inspiration we wouldn't have beaten the Evil Empire in the space race.
It was a tale of two nonentities, Lee Harvey Oswald and Jack Ruby. Both were little men who wanted to be big men. Oswald, acting alone, shot Kennedy. Ruby, acting alone, shot Oswald. That is the long and the short of it. For details, I refer you to Bugliosi.
And let's not forget that it was a commie who murdered Kennedy.
We 'deplorables' have much to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. My hat is off to every one of you who did his bit to defeat Hillary and "fundamentally transform' her into a political nonentity, thereby delivering a stinging rebuke to the destructive Obama and all he stands for. We conservatives now have to keep up the attack on the Left and hold Trump's feet to the fire so that he accomplishes at least some of what he has promised.
Since 1992, the most beat-to-crap broom on my premises was always given the name, 'Hillary's Broom.' "Wifey, hand me Hillary's Broom. I got me a dirty job to do."
Joan Baez, A Hard Rain's a Gonna Fall. I've been listening to this version of the Dylan classic for 50 years and I still love it. Brings tears to my eyes every time.
The Seeds, Pushin' Too Hard. A cheesy tune by a '60s garage band. Video intro by the late Casey Kasem. His reference to the Southland is to the So. Cal. area.
Johnny Winter, Life is Hard. "Life is hard, and then you die." "The devil wears a blue dress and she is bound to get you in the end."
Being hung up on the '60s, there is and will be only one clown for me, Bozo the Clown. After Bozo I had no truck with clowns. I'm a serious man. But I can relate to this segment from the Seinfeld episode, "The Fire." It is one of the funniest in the whole series. But I suppose you had to be there. In the '60s I mean. With Bozo. The Clown. Now some songs featuring clowns.
Roy Orbison, In Dreams. "A candy-colored clown they call the sandman . . . ."
James Darren, Goodbye Cruel World. "I'm off to join the circus, gonna be a broken-hearted clown."
Burl Ives, A Little Bitty Tear. A little bitty tear let me down, spoiled my act as a clown/ I had it made up not make a frown, but a little bitty tear let me down.
Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) died 47 years ago yesterday, at the age of 47, his years dead now equaling his years alive. Here are some songs that refer to him and his work.
Jack Kerouac, Tristessa (written 1955-56, first published in 1960), p. 59:
Since beginningless time and into the never-ending future, men have loved women without telling them, and the Lord has loved them without telling, and the void is not the void because there's nothing to be empty of.
April Stevens' and Nino Tempo's version of Deep Purple became a number one hit in 1963. I liked it when it first came out, and I've enjoyed it ever since. A while back I happened to hear it via Sirius satellite radio and was drawn into it like never before. But its lyrics, penned by Mitchell Parish, are pure sweet kitsch:
When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls And the stars begin to twinkle in the night Through the mist of a memory you wander back to me Breathing my name with a sigh.
In the still of the night once again I hold you tight Though you're gone, your love lives on when moonlight beams And as long as my heart will beat, sweet lover we'll always meet Here in my deep purple dreams.
Kitsch is bad art, but what is the essence of kitsch, and why is it bad? Presumably it is sentimentality that makes kitsch kitsch, and it is this sentimentality that makes kitsch aesthetically and perhaps even morally dubious. One self-indulgently 'wallows' in a song like this, giving into its 'cheap' emotions. The emotions are 'false' and 'faked.' The melody and lyrics are formulaic and predictable, 'catchy.' The listener allows himself to be manipulated by the songwriter who is out to 'push the listener's buttons.' The aesthetic experience is not authentic but vicarious. And so on. Adorno would not approve.
There is great art and there is kitsch. I partake of both, enjoy both, and know the difference. What is wrong with a little kitsch in moderation? No, I don't collect Hummel figurines and my stoa is not carpeted with astroturf. What is sentimentality and what is wrong with it? There is a literature on this, but I've read almost none of it. Who has time?
This brings me to Bob Dylan who was recently awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature. Now I've been a Dylan fan from the early '60s. In the '60s I was more than a fan; I was a fanatic who would brook no criticism of his hero. And I still maintain that in the annals of American popular music no one surpasses him as a songwriter.
But the Nobel Prize for Literature? That's a bit much, and an ominous foreshadowing of the death of the book and of quiet reading in this hyperkinetic age of tweets and soundbites. A large theme. Get to it conservative bloggers. Why do I have to do all the work?
Brewer and Shipley, One Toke Over the Line. What you'll be when the shit comes in. Matters feculent bring Brian Leiter to mind. Speculation is running high according to a New York Timespiece that he mailed feces to four philosophers.
Gordon Lightfoot, Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Powerful song, great lyrics. "Does anyone know where the love of God goes/When the waves turn the minutes to hours?"
October 1st is International Coffee Day. Herewith, some tunes in celebration. Not that I'm drinking coffee now: it's a morning and afternoon drink. I am presently partaking of a potent libation consisting of equal parts of Tequila and Campari with a Fat Tire Fat Funk Ale as chaser.
Commander Cody, Truck Drivin' Man. This one goes out to Sally and Jean and Mary in memory of our California road trip two years ago. "Pour me another cup of coffee/For it is the best in the land/I'll put a nickel in the jukebox/And play that 'Truck Drivin' Man.'"
What is wrong with people who don't drink or enjoy coffee? They must not value consciousness and intensity of experience. Poor devils! Perhaps they're zombies (in the philosophers' sense).
Patrick Kurp recommends Rick Danko and Paul Butterfield, Java Blues, one hard-driving, adrenalin-enabling number which, in synergy with a serious cup of java will soon have you banging hard on all synaptic 'cylinders.'
Chicory is a cheat. It cuts it but doesn't cut it.
"The taste of java is like a volcanic rush/No one is going to stop me from drinking too much . . . ."
George Harrison and friends, Absolutely Sweet Marie. By the way, this self-certified Dylanologist can attest that in the first line it is 'railroad GAUGE,' not 'railroad gate.' 'Gauge' is a measure of the width of the track; that's what our boy can't jump. This one goes out to Marie Benson, from the summer of '65. Where are you tonight, sweet Marie?
Remember Fred Neil? One of the luminaries of the '60s folk scene, he didn't do much musically thereafter. Neil is probably best remembered for having penned 'Everybody's Talkin' which was made famous by Harry Nilsson as the theme of Midnight Cowboy. Here is Neil's version. Nilsson's rendition.
Another of my Fred Neil favorites is "Other Side of This Life." Here is Peter, Paul, and Mary's version.
Van Morrison, Brown Eyed Girl. This one goes out to Kathy H.
Ramblin' Jack Elliot, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain. Thinking of you, Anne-Marie C. and the fabulous and far-off fall of '73.
In the twilight glow I see her Blue eyes crying in the rain When we kissed goodbye and parted I knew we'd never meet again.
Love is like a dying ember Only memories remain Through the ages I'll remember Blue eyes crying in the rain.
Now my hair has turned to silver All my life I've loved in vain But I can see her star in heaven Blue eyes crying in the rain.
Someday when we meet up yonder We'll stroll hand in hand again In a land that knows no parting Blue eyes crying in the rain.
Jackson Browne, Doctor My Eyes. Dedicated to Darci M. and our summer of '78.
Doctor, my eyes have seen the years And the slow parade of fears without crying Now I want to understand
I have done all that I could To see the evil and the good without hiding You must help me if you can
Doctor, my eyes Tell me what is wrong Was I unwise to leave them open for so long
'Cause I have wandered through this world And as each moment has unfurled I've been waiting to awaken from these dreams People go just where they will I never noticed them until I got this feeling That it's later than it seems
Doctor, my eyes Tell me what you see I hear their cries Just say if it's too late for me
Doctor, my eyes Cannot see the sky Is this the PRICE for having learned how not to cry?
I just discovered this group via YouTube. Funny, I see only one cutie. Here are three unusual, haunting versions of three great old tunes. "Without music, life would be a mistake." (Nietzsche)
