End game? Ain’t none

Too much: never enough.

There simply is no stopping point or ideological boundary line for the left.  There’s no point where the general liberal consensus says, “OK, we’ve arrived at our destination.  Hallelujah, we’re here!  We’re now liberal enough!”  Just when you think they’ve finally reached the point of maximum possible craziness, they march on.

For this reason, I foresee that many more liberal icons will be destroyed in the future, simply because at some point in their lives, they made the mistake of thinking, “The here-and-now is pretty much where we’ll stay.  The here-and-now is the end point of our liberal ideology.  The actions or comments that are appropriate and safe today will always be appropriate and safe.”  Nope.  The leftward drift will continue ad infinitum, such that acts that seem OK and reasonable today will soon be viewed as evidence of some unpardonable sin that is treasonous to the cause.

Bernie Sanders is not the left’s political end point, either.  He may seem extreme today, but in the not too distant future, we’ll look back at Bernie with nostalgia for how quaintly midstream he was.

What, you mean the way opposition to gay “marriage” went from being a perfectly reasonable, near-unanimous sentiment to unalloyed Nazi genocide in about, ohhh, twenty minutes or so?

Quoth moi, from one my very own song lyrics: A hundred miles an hour/Ain’t no brakes. To wit:




I didn’t know I was writing about “liberalism” when I came up with that one, I promise I didn’t. And yet it works just the same, in this case anyway.

But see (just to meander a bit further afield here), that’s the magic of songwriting: one’s audience can individually glean many different meanings, including contradictory ones, from the self-same set of words. And they will, to. Shoot, if I had a nickel for every time some female walked up to me after a show or some other place to sassily proclaim “You wrote that one about ME, didn’t you? I KNOW you did!!” I’d be…well, I’d be something other than a failed musician, at the very least.

Never mattered a bit whether I actually knew the dame or not, seemed like. She would always know, of a rock-solid certainty, that SHE was the one I’d had in mind throughout the wearing struggle of the creative process—humbly begging the favor of The Muse via downing shots of whiskey and staring endlessly at a blank sheet of paper—when all I had really been doing was just trying to cobble something together that at least rhymed half-decently and wasn’t too embarrassingly trite, nonsensical, or just plain goddamned stupid to be performed onstage night after night and/or distributed internationally on thousands of CDs.

But hey, what the hell do I know, right?

Buddy Mercury sings!

I dunno, could be I’m wrong here, but in my opinion he’s the greatest Vegas lounge crooner since Sammy Davis Jr.




Might there be an album available on iTunes, you ask? Why, yes. Yes, there is: Buddy Mercury Sings the Blues! The cover alone is worth the price of admission. If your interest is piqued and you’re just dying for a bigger dose of Buddy’s distinctive stylistic artistry—which I know it is, and you are—Ace has several more video recordings of Buddy wailin’ away over at his joint.

Imagine this

For a real change of pace, this one is perfectly easy to spot as a Bee satire.

John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ Rereleased With More Realistic Description Of Communism
UK—Have you ever tried to imagine living in a perfect world ruled by communism, but previously only received the information from catchy folk songs which praise the system? Well, lucky for you, it is now easier than ever to understand what a full-blown communist utopia actually looks like.

That’s because John Lennon’s commie classic “Imagine” has been rereleased with more realistic lyrics to reflect the harsh realities of communism. Lennon, long dead—though not by way of communism, since he was blessed to live in a capitalist country—would be proud of the change, due to its artistic value in realism.

While the classic folk song does do a fantastic job of laying out the basics of communism—no religion, no possessions, no food—it never invites the listener to imagine all the people in their true form, which is dead—usually by firing squad, but often by way of starvation as well.

The folks at the Bee are good enough to provide us with the new lyrics, which include a “re-Imagined” turnaround:

You may say I’m a commie
But I’m not the only one
And someday you will join us
Or we’ll shoot you in the face

Somehow, I just can’t quite see this more candid and factual version being sung at the next big candlelit ‘n’ teary-eyed circle jerk in the wake of yet another Islamic mass slaughter that has nothing whatever to do with Islam. Way too real for the “reality”-based creampuffs to choke down, maybe.

Sweet soul music

This one’s for our pal Aesop, who kindly regaled us with a slice of solid-gold soul from the great Hugh Masekela yesterday. One good turn deserves another, I always say. So dig this if you will, brothers and sisters.




Important kinda-sorta caveat: you MUST listen to this one twice (at least) to get just how hard this piece really swings. First time around, just let the sound take you away. The Adderley Quintet works that almighty groove to damned near exhaustion; they play so far behind the beat they almost drop one entirely every other bar. The dynamics are pure perfection, crescendoing from soft and sweet to a thunderous climax again and again. There might possibly some way to improve on the arrangement, maybe, but as a songwriter of some minor repute myself I surely can’t see how you’d do it.

Second listen is for paying close attention to the audience. The above recording is from the halcyon soul days of 1966. I don’t know where it was done, but I always envisioned one of those small jazz joints that flourished in lower Manhattan in those days, a smokey room packed with finger-snapping beatnik hipster originals who were neither shy nor quiet about expressing their appreciation for a performance as nonpareil as this one. Listen especially for the dude who keeps yelling “Work out! Work out!” during the Fender Rhodes Wurlitzer (see below) solo in the middle, and the nice round of applause keyboard whiz Joe Zawinul receives for his stellar work.

When the audience erupts into raucous, sustained applause at the end, there’s no doubt that these folks were keenly aware that they’d just witnessed something truly special. And they had. Nat’s spoken intro is great, even.

Alas, those days are but a memory now, as are almost all of the musicians, bless them. Nowadays, the only correct and proper way to enjoy this one is with a tumbler of fine whiskey at your elbow and a cigarette in your hand, as God His Own Self intended. Anything less can only come up short. Not that I’m trying to incite delinquency on anybody’s part here, mind.

Both the Masekela classic and Cannoball’s slow-burn scorcher, among loads of other soul satisfiers, are still available on this excellent Rhino compilation from years back, along with another old favorite of mine which I’ll graciously toss your way as a bonus track. No need to thank me, y’all.



Oh, and my wistful idea about the Adderley Quintet playing in some lower-Manhattan jazz dive for this recording? Ummm, think again.

Though the original liner notes state that it was recorded at the Club DeLisa in Chicago, it was actually recorded at Capitol’s Hollywood studio with an invited audience and an open bar.[3] The reason for this discrepancy, according to the liner notes in the CD reissue, is that Adderley and the new manager of Club DeLisa (which had been renamed “The Club”, after operating for years in Chicago under its old name) were friends, and Adderley offered to give the club a bit of free publicity.

The title track became a surprise hit, reaching #11 on the Billboard Hot 100. On this album, Joe Zawinul played a Wurlitzer electric piano; however, subsequent live performances saw him taking up the new and mellower-sounding Fender Rhodes instrument.

Ah well, my being wrong about a couple-three details diminishes the music itself not a whit. Enjoy, folks.

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