I got me a bad case of the Standard and Poor's AA+ downgrade blues.
B. B. King, Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out
Ray Charles, Busted
Eric Clapton, Goin' Down Slow
Woody Guthrie, Hard Travelin'
Bob Dylan, Song to Woody
Bob Dylan, In My Time of Dyin'
Amy Winehouse succumbed to the curse of 27 today. Why is 27 such an auspicious age for a quick exit from life's freeway? My guess is that at 27 one is still too young fully to appreciate the ravages to the body of life in the fast lane but is old enough to have done irreparable damage, so much so that just one more snort, one more shot, one more binge pushes the self-abuser over the edge. So 27 is a sort of crossroads.
Here is Winehouse singing the great Gerry Goffin-Carole King song, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? But there never was and never will be a cover superior to the Shirelle's 1961 version. I've loved this song, in this version, ever since I first heard it in '61. Carole King's version from her 1971 Tapestry album is also outstanding.
How many of these do you remember? If you were too much of the '60s then you probably don't remember anything assuming you still animate the mortal coil; if you were too little of the '60s then you won't remember any of these for a different reason. But among these five are three very beautiful songs from that amazingly creative time.
Fever Tree, The Sun Also Rises
Love, Alone Again Or
Moby Grape, Omaha
H.P. Lovecraft, The White Ship
Quicksilver Messenger Service, Pride of Man
I quoted Jim Morrison on the eve of the 40th anniversary of his death: "The future's uncertain, and the end is always near." This morning I discovered that Rob Grill, lead singer of The Grassroots, has passed on. Their first top ten hit, "Live forToday," made the charts in the fabulous and far-off Summer of Love (1967). The lyrics are laden with the '60s Zeitgeist and express something true and valuable that continues to resonate with many of us who were young in those days.
Here is a delightful clip in which none other than Jimmy Durante introduces the boys — "They don't have a manager, they have a gardener" — singing (or rather lip-syncing) their signature number.
Carpe diem. And while you're at it, carpe noctem.
But before I do, I'll wish my American readers a happy and healthy Fourth of July to the strains of Johnny Horton's The Battle of New Orleans.
Tomorrow it will have been 40 years since Jim Morrison of the Doors broke on through to the other side expiring in a Paris bath tub. A too intense celebration of the Dionysian can lead to a premature exit from life's freeway, as more than one 60's 'icon' discovered. The year before saw the drug- and alcohol-fueled deaths of both Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin.
Riders on the Storm, into this world we're thrown, brings a little Heidegger to the rock masses.
Well, I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer
Well, I woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer
The future's uncertain, and the end is always near.
Beer for breakfast is contraindicated and may hasten the end which is indeed near in any case. Forty years on, the cult continues. Supply your own critique and be careful who you choose as role model.
Here. Was the guy really the phony that Mark David Chapman thought he was? Maybe he wasn't as preternaturally delusional as the lyrics of "Imagine" suggest he was.
A lonely soldier cleans his gun and dreams of Galveston. Marty Robbins messes with the wicked Felina in El Paso and comes to an untimely end. Dean Martin is down and out in Houston. George Hamilton IV pines after Abilene. Johnny Cash spies a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen in The Streets of Laredo. Patsy Cline sings of old San Anton' in San Antonio Rose.
That would be Danny Gatton. Here he uses a nearly full bottle of beer to play overhand slide guitar. That can get messy, so he throws a rag over the fret board and plays over it. The guy has amazing chops. Red Neck Jazz. Funky Mama.
The Champs,Tequila. Arguably unique in that its lyrics consist of exactly one trisyllabic word. The Eagles, Tequila Sunrise. Electric Flag, Wine. Great video of the late Mike Bloomfield and his Gibson Les Paul in their prime. Definitive proof that a Jew can play the blues. Canned Heat, Whisky-Headed Woman. The Doors, Alabama (Whisky Bar). Johnny Cash, Beer Drinking Songs. John Lee Hooker, One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer. Ray Charles, Let's Go Get Stoned.
. . . in the bop sha bop sha bop? Who was that man? I'd like to shake his hand.
Back in '65, I could relate to the message of The Yardbirds, Mister, You're a Better Man Than I. Continuing with the sartorial theme, we have Charlie Rich, Mohair Sam. Now that we've got Charlie Rich cued up, may as well give a listen to his Lonely Weekends. Here is Rich again, followed by April Steven's parody, "No Hair Sam." I'll pass on Marty Robbins' "White Sport Coat" and end with ZZ Top, Sharp Dressed Man.
This one goes out to Dominique Strauss-Kahn and all who allow the fires of lust to become the fires of delusion. It goes well with Mark Steyn's The Unzippered Princeling and the Serving Wench.
Doris Troy, Just One Look
Beatles, I'm Looking Through You
Derek and the Dominoes, I Looked Away
Dusty Springfield, The Look of Love
