Happy Turkey Day!
Correction…PARROT day.
Via Ace. This parrot one doesn’t quite beat my all-time fave version of the song (the Ramones, performed live below; it’s originally by the Trashmen, IIRC), but it’s a near-run thing.
Category: Twangin’ and Bangin’
GIVE TIL IT HURTS!
Scary Halloween music
Via my brother-from-another-mother BCE, this one should fit the bill. A preface, from Big Country himself.
Mongolian throat singing with metal and traditional Mongolian musical instruments… and another side note: The two string ‘guitar’ is a morin khuur which is the national instrument of Mongolia and is known as the “horse-headed fiddle”… in a few of their videos, you can plainly see the Swastika imbedded in the neck as it was originally intended to be, but freaks out the left so badly…
These guys are as awesome as you can imagine live as well. Funniest thing: NONE of them speak any English except the lead singer who’s main phrase was “FUCK YEEEEEAH!!!” which was hysterical…
He ain’t lying about all that, friends, as you can see.
More, from the “About” page of this downright frightening musical ensemble’s official website.
In 2019, an NPR story put a spotlight on “a band from Mongolia that blends the screaming guitars of heavy metal and traditional Mongolian guttural singing,” accurately highlighting the cultural importance and unique musical identity of THE HU. Founded in 2016 in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, THE HU, Gala, Jaya, Temka, and Enkush, are a modern rock group rooted in the tradition of their homeland. The band’s two most popular videos, “Yuve Yuve” and “Wolf Totem,” were produced by the band’s producer Dashka. The band’s name translates to the Mongolian root word for human being, and their unique approach blends instruments like the Morin Khuur (horsehead fiddle), Tovshuur (Mongolian guitar), Tumur Khuur (jaw harp) and throat singing withcontemporary sounds, creating a unique sonic profile that they call “Hunnu Rock.”
Their debut album, 2019 ‘s The Gereg, debuted at #1 on the World Album and Top New Artist Charts. With it, the band have accumulated over 250 million combined streams and video views to date and have received critical acclaim from the likes of Billboard, NPR, GQ, The Guardian, The Independent, Revolver, and even Sir Elton John himself.
Proving their global appeal, THE HU have sold out venues across the world in North America, Europe, Asia, and Australia, with scheduled festival appearances at Coachella, Lollapalooza, Download Festival, and more, creating a community of fans from all walks of life. They quickly grabbed the attention of the industry, leading to collaborations with Jacoby Shaddix of Papa Roach and Lzzy Hale of Halestorm. And most recently, the band received praise from fans and critics for their Mongolian rendition of Metallica’s “Sad But True,” which Metallica picked up on and invited them to record ‘Through The Never’ for their Metallica Blacklist album released in 2021 alongside other high-profile guest artists like Miley Cyrus, Chris Stapleton, Phoebe Bridgers, J Balvin, St. Vincent, and so many more. The band has also explored eclectic ways to reach audiences with their sound, most notably writing and recording music for EA Games’ Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order.
The aforementioned Metallica cover is pretty awesome as well, but what really struck me most of all wasn’t so much the music but the gracious, becomingly humble acknowledgement at the end of the YT vid:
Like millions of people around the world, Metallica has been a huge influence and inspiration for us as music fans and musicians. We admire their 40 years of relentless touring and the timeless, unique music they have created. It is a great honor to show them our respect and gratitude by recording a version of “Sad But True” in our language and in the style of the HU.
Well, you can’t say fairer than that. And all’s well as ends better, as my old Gaffer liked to say, bless him.
Update! Dagnabbit, don’t know how, but this gin-yoo-wine CF institution almost got by me this year.
Ahh, the wonderful old chestnut from Jumpin’ Gene Simmons—no, not THAT Gene Simmons, the earlier, funnier one. I’ve run his version of “Haunted House” every Halloween on Ye Aulde Colde Furye Blogge for more years than I care to remember; it mortifies me to think that this year I durn near forgot. Thankfully, though, this tired old brain came through for us ere the end.
MORTIFIES, get me? A-HENH!
Updated update! What the hell, a backgrounder on Temüjin, a/k/a Genghis the Khan seems apropos.
Genghis Khan (born Temüjin; c. 1162 – August 1227), also known as Chinggis Khan, was the founder and first khan of the Mongol Empire. After spending most of his life uniting the Mongol tribes, he launched a series of military campaigns, conquering large parts of China and Central Asia.
Born between 1155 and 1167 and given the name Temüjin, he was the eldest child of Yesugei, a Mongol chieftain of the Borjigin clan, and his wife Hö’elün. When Temüjin was eight, his father died and his family was abandoned by its tribe. Reduced to near-poverty, Temüjin killed his older half-brother to secure his familial position. His charismatic personality helped to attract his first followers and to form alliances with two prominent steppe leaders named Jamukha and Toghrul; they worked together to retrieve Temüjin’s newlywed wife Börte, who had been kidnapped by raiders. As his reputation grew, his relationship with Jamukha deteriorated into open warfare. Temüjin was badly defeated in c. 1187, and may have spent the following years as a subject of the Jin dynasty; upon reemerging in 1196, he swiftly began gaining power. Toghrul came to view Temüjin as a threat and launched a surprise attack on him in 1203. Temüjin retreated, then regrouped and overpowered Toghrul; after defeating the Naiman tribe and executing Jamukha, he was left as the sole ruler on the Mongolian steppe.
As it happens, the vast empire established by the great Genghis Khan remains the largest of all time, by a broad margin. The Brits, the Spaniards, the Dutch? Stop it already, you make me laugh.
The Mongol Empire of the 13th and 14th centuries was the largest contiguous empire in history. Originating in present-day Mongolia in East Asia, the Mongol Empire at its height stretched from the Sea of Japan to parts of Eastern Europe, extending northward into parts of the Arctic; eastward and southward into parts of the Indian subcontinent, mounted invasions of Southeast Asia, and conquered the Iranian Plateau; and reached westward as far as the Levant and the Carpathian Mountains.
The Mongol Empire emerged from the unification of several nomadic tribes in the Mongol heartland under the leadership of Temüjin, known by the more famous title of Genghis Khan (c. 1162 – 1227), whom a council proclaimed as the ruler of all Mongols in 1206. The empire grew rapidly under his rule and that of his descendants, who sent out invading armies in every direction. The vast transcontinental empire connected the East with the West, and the Pacific to the Mediterranean, in an enforced Pax Mongolica, allowing the exchange of trade, technologies, commodities, and ideologies across Eurasia.
The empire began to split due to wars over succession, as the grandchildren of Genghis Khan disputed whether the royal line should follow from his son and initial heir Ögedei or from one of his other sons, such as Tolui, Chagatai, or Jochi. The Toluids prevailed after a bloody purge of Ögedeid and Chagatayid factions, but disputes continued among the descendants of Tolui. The conflict over whether the Mongol Empire would adopt a sedentary, cosmopolitan lifestyle or stick to its nomadic, steppe-based way of life was a major factor in the breakup.
After Möngke Khan died (1259), rival kurultai councils simultaneously elected different successors, the brothers Ariq Böke and Kublai Khan, who fought each other in the Toluid Civil War (1260–1264) and also dealt with challenges from the descendants of other sons of Genghis. Kublai successfully took power, but war ensued as he sought unsuccessfully to regain control of the Chagatayid and Ögedeid families. By the time of Kublai’s death in 1294, the Mongol Empire had fractured into four separate khanates or empires, each pursuing its own interests and objectives: the Golden Horde khanate in the northwest, the Chagatai Khanate in Central Asia, the Ilkhanate in Iran, and the Yuan dynasty in China, based in modern-day Beijing. In 1304, during the reign of Temür, the three western khanates accepted the suzerainty of the Yuan dynasty.
The Kubla Khan mentioned above is the self-same fellow written of by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, if I remember right. No less exalted a literary personage than the incomparable Rudyard Kipling memorialized Coleridge’s short pome thusly: “Remember that in all the millions permitted there are no more than five—five little lines—of which one can say: ‘These are the pure Magic. These are the clear vision. The rest is only poetry’.”
I shan’t argue. I still remember—having been brought up in the long-gone days when the government schools were in fact schools and not indoctrination centers and therefore still bothered to teach their young charges about the foundation-stones of Western arts and letters such as Sam Coleridge and Rudyard Kipling, to name but two—the opening couplet of Coleridge’s opium-fueled flight of fancy:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree…
Meh, that stuff’s old as dirt, older than that musty, dusty, rusty US Constitution thingamabobber, if such a thing is possible. Probably isn’t even an XboX version of it available, I betcher. I mean, seriously, dude: “Xanadu”? “Kubla Whatsit”? “Damsels with dulcimers,” whatever those might be, sitting around drunk off their asses on “the milk of Paradise,” all that other horsepuckey? SNOOZAPALOOZA!!!
1Serendipitous musicallality
Woke up at around 3, 3:30 this morning with a post about Aerosmith already assembling itself in my head when somehow, some way, the incomparable Barrence Whitfield elbowed his way into my creative process. I dragged myself up out of bed, went to the can to take a leak (bipedal males should take a moment to thank their lucky stars for being able to enjoy life’s simple pleasure of standing up to pee), grabbed a cup of java, and off we go…
I first got hipped to the man they call the Round Mound Of Beantown Sound and his fine band back then, the Savages, when I was living in the town of Ocean Drive, SC by a DJ who gigged weekly at the bar I worked at, Fat Harold’s HOTO Tiki Bar location—Harold’s On The Ocean, that would be— beachfront under the grand old Ocean Drive Beach and Golf Resort. HOTO’s is still around, or it was last time I was down thataway a few years ago, at least. Sadly, Fat Harold, the old skimflimp (in Pogo parlance), is long gone himself.
Harold’s other joint (of three, actually), only a cpl-three blocks up the way (a tumbledown little roadhouse with a big outdoor dance-deck yclept the Pad), is of course a bona fide legend in the Shagger/Beach music community. To be honest—even though I’ve been going to OD, Myrtle Beach, and Cherry Grove ever since I was a little kid and even spent a summer living in OD and bartending for Fat Harold back in the early 80s—I’ve never once set foot in the Pad for some odd reason, couldn’t tell you why. Never learned how to dance the Shag either, although years after he died my mom shocked the living hell out of me with the revelation that my dad had actually been a world-class Shag dancer, even had a big box full of trophies he’d won in various Shag competitions stuck up in a corner of the attic someplace. Blew my mind, I tells ya, I did NOT see that coming. Dad never said a word about it, not that I ever heard.
At any rate, modern Beach music sucks the big green weenie if you ask me, although the early stuff—basically just good old-school R&B and rock and roll, mixed with a little smidge of real true blues—is a whole ’nother story. Judged by that definition, this makes Barrence’s stuff the genuine Beach music article, no more nor less, so small wonder a DJ at HOTO’s would be playing him. First up, dig if you will this perfect-for-Halloween selection: “Bloody Mary.”
The rest of the Barrence Whitfield tunes I’ll tuck below the fold. Take my word for it, you’re not gonna want to miss a one of these gems; in my whole entire life, I’ve never heard anybody quite like the guy.
Continue reading “Serendipitous musicallality”
1American music
Wherein the great Aaron Copland demonstrates once again why he tops the very short list* of American composers who truly, truly matter.
*That list consists, in my not at all humble opinion, of three (3) names: Copland, George Gershwin, and Lenny Bernstein. Although I freely admit that a damned good case could be made for including Ray “The Genius” Charles on that list also.
Update! I’ve run this one before, but what the hell, I see no reason to resist an encore: the National Youth Orchestra’s spirited performance of the well-known and ever-popular companion piece to the above “Saturday Night Waltz” from Copland’s Rodeo—HOE-DOWN!
Any questions on why I call him the GREAT Aaron Copland, people?
1
1America Pie in your eye
Don McLean likes these red pills very much, thanks.
Don McLean Claims ‘American Pie’ Predicted ‘Woke Bulls—’ Culture
Don McLean has no time for what he describes as “woke bullshit,” adding that it’s the kind of societal issue he conveyed in his 1971 classic “American Pie.”“The song really does open up a whole historical question about what happened in the ’60s and assassinations and the history that forms the backbone of the song as it moves forward,” the rocker explained during a recent interview with Metro. “This song talks about the fact that things are going somewhat in the wrong direction, and I think that they’re still going in the wrong direction. I think most people looking at America now kind of think that too.”
The rock legend then went on to draw a line between the issues portrayed in “American Pie” and the current climate in the U.S.A.
“I mean, we certainly have a wonderful country, and we do wonderful things, but we also are in the middle of all this woke bullshit,” he declared. “All this other stuff that there is absolutely no point to, as far as I can see, other than to undermine people’s beliefs in the country. That’s very bad.”
It’s a short article, of which you should read the etc. The Tunedamage embed here couldn’t be more obvious, I shouldn’t think. CF greybeards probably think you’ve heard the song enough times and to spare by now, but give it a listen anyway, all eight and a half minutes of it—I betcha you’ll find yourself enjoying it more than you thought you would, tapping your toes and singing along before the second damned verse is finished. You young whippersnappers who wandered in here by mistake and haven’t heard it, on the other hand, need to get your ears on and learn a little something worth the knowing, by Gad.
Seriously wonderful stuff, whatever McLean’s politics might be. Regardless of how many times I’ve heard it (to this day I still have every word of the lyrics memorized, you do the math) it still tightens my throat up in spots.
NOTE: Now crossposted at Bill’s place as well, for reasons which shall become obvious if you click on over there.
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3The end of an era
Aerosmith draws the line.
Aerosmith Retires from Touring After Steven Tyler’s Permanent Vocal Cord Damage
LOS ANGELES (AP) — Aerosmith says Steven Tyler’s voice has been permanently damaged by a vocal cord injury last year and the band will no longer tour.
Last YEAR? My God man, have you ever even heard the band? Tyler’s whole career has been nothing but one long vocal injury.
The iconic band behind hits like “Love in an Elevator” and “Livin’ on the Edge” posted a statement Friday announcing the cancellation of remaining dates on its tour and provided an update on Tyler’s voice.
“He has spent months tirelessly working on getting his voice to where it was before his injury. We’ve seen him struggling despite having the best medical team by his side. Sadly, it is clear, that a full recovery from his vocal injury is not possible,” the statement said. “We have made a heartbreaking and difficult, but necessary, decision — as a band of brothers — to retire from the touring stage.”
Tyler announced he injured his vocal cords in September during a show on its Peace Out: The Farewell Tour. Tyler said in an Instagram statement at the time that the injury caused bleeding but that he hoped the band would be back after postponing a few shows.
Tyler’s soaring vocals have powered Aerosmith’s massive catalog of hits since its formation in 1970, including “Dream On,” “Walk This Way” and “Sweet Emotion.” They were near the start of a 40-date farewell tour when Tyler was injured.
“We’ve always wanted to blow your mind when performing. As you know, Steven’s voice is an instrument like no other,” the band said in Friday’s statement to fans.
“It has been the honor of our lives to have our music become part of yours,” the band said. “In every club, on every massive tour and at moments grand and private you have given us a place in the soundtrack of your lives.”
I was fortunate enough to see Aerosmith back in my misspent youth around ’78-’79 or thereabouts, playing at the Old Coliseum I was gassing interminably on about the other day. In those days, Tyler and Joe Perry were known as the Toxic Twins, a moniker they earned many times over across their drinking, drugging, and womanizing days. As great as the music they churned out was back then, it must be said that some of Aerosmith’s very best work was achieved in the years after the Twins had kicked their multifarious bad habits, culminating in the chart-topper I once heard called by an Aerosmith documentary narrator “Steven Tyler’s masterpiece,” to wit:
And of course, when you read my opening line, you just KNEW what was coming, din’tcha?
Holy crap, is that one of those plastic Dan Armstrong pieces o’ crap Perry is playing in lieu of his habitual Les Paul Black Beauty or BC Rich Mockingbird in that one?
1And my kids they just don’t understand me at all
The subject of today’s guitar lesson for my friend’s son is a rendition of a classic Jagger-Richards tune I still like well enough to feel it’s worth dropping in here.
Update! As I’m fond of saying, one great old KISS song deserves another.
One of the least-appreciated KISS facts I know of is that they were one of the very finest purveyors of catchy, tuneful pure-pop confections like the above since the glorious heyday of Tin Pan Alley. If you’re at all interested, the original studio version of “Let Me Know” closes out with a thrilling moment of barbershop quartet-style harmonizing that, for some odd reason, none of the live versions I’ve come across includes. Passing strange, that omission is, seeing as how flawlessly competent they’ve proved themselves to be re four-part close harmony over lo, these many years.
4The song that wouldn’t die
That would be “The Farewell Song,” author unknown, better known as…well here, see for yourself.
Thanks much to Lakeside Joe for reminding me of this one, in the course of making sport of hapless shitlib George Effing Clooney’s despairing agony over (not so) recent revelations regarding the collapse into senile dementia of his love-object Xombie Jaux “Walks Among Us” Bribem. Sayeth Joe:
According to news sources including the New York Slimes, Clooney made the call for a new candidate in an op-ed published in The New York Times, less than a month after he co-hosted a Biden fundraiser that raised some $30 million.
I guess the song rings true after all…
Heh. It does at that, for all sorts of excellent reasons. Now, it must be acknowledged that Clooney’s lip-sync performance of the great old bluegrass tune in O Brother Where Art Thou? is nothing short of masterful. While we’re on the subject, the song’s backstory is fascinating, if a bit murky in places. For starters, although I put it in the “author unknown” category earlier, it would be more accurate to say that it’s a matter of some dispute.
Behind The Song: The Soggy Bottom Boys, “I Am a Man Of Constant Sorrow”
You’d think after one hundred years, “Man Of Constant Sorrow” would eventually get old. But the American folk standard, which has been covered by everyone from a young Bob Dylan to Norwegian girl-group Katzenjammer, and helped launch the modern Americana movement with its canny placement in the film O Brother, Where Art Thou?, has been on music lovers’ collective minds since at least 1913. Through many different melodies, rewrites, and iterations (“girl,” “soul,” etc.) “Man Of Constant Sorrow” has refused to die.It’s the old-timey gift that keeps on giving; feeling bad never felt so good.
Anybody familiar with the Oscar-nominated O Brother and its multi-platinum-selling soundtrack can sing a verse or two. T Bone Burnett, who produces every third commercially released record these days, curated the music for the Coen Brothers’ celebrated sepia-toned satire, and made the song The Soggy Bottom Boy’s big, show-stealing number. Portrayed by George Clooney, George Nelson and John Turtorro, who may or may not be able to carry a tune, the real-life vocals for The Soggy Bottom Boys were provided by Nashville songwriter Harley Allen, bluegrass musician Pat Enright, and Dan Tyminksi, a guitar and mandolin player on loan from Alison Krauss and Union Station. Tyminski’s big, beautiful bear of a voice, echoed by Enright and Allen’s brown-sugared harmonies, brimmed with enough soul, grit and fire to make a distracted nation stand up and take notice. In a movie that featured strong vocal turns from Ralph Stanley, Gillian Welch and Alison Krauss, Tyminski more than held his own. He also sang the song as if he’d lived it, and with such conviction that it eventually made it to No. 35 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart in 2002. O Brother helped make Tyminski, Krauss, Welch and Burnett the highly respected (and marketable) artists they are today, and spawned a fantastic music tour and the live concert film Down From The Mountain. There was a trickle-down effect as well, which can be seen in the thriving careers of today’s heavily hyped, acoustic-leaning acts like The Avett Brothers and Mumford & Sons.
Neither movies, album sales, or inexplicably popular British folk acts were likely on the mind of the song’s creator, current name and whereabouts unknown. It’s speculated that it spilled from the pen of Dick Burnett (a distant relative of T Bone?), a mostly blind fiddler from Kentucky, but that’s not confirmable. Burnett, who published the tune under the name “Farewell Song” in a 1913 songbook, had a senior moment when he was asked if he had actually written it, stating “I think I got the ballad from somebody…I dunno. It may be my song.” Ralph Stanley didn’t think so. The bluegrass legend told NPR that the song was probably one or two hundred years older than Burnett himself. “The first time I heard it I was a small boy,” recalled Stanley, who named his autobiography after it. “My daddy had some of the words to it, and I heard him sing it, and my brother and me, we put a few more words to it, and brought it back in existence. I guess if it hadn’t been for that, it’d have been gone forever.”
Far be it from me to ever gainsay the legendary Ralph Stanley; if he says he wrote it, whether in part or in full, then by God it MUST be so, period. Anyways.
As The Stanley Brothers, Ralph and his brother Carter gave the song its big coming out party in 1951, when they cut it for Columbia Records. Once it was absorbed into the folk music canon, Bob Dylan took a shine to it, recording it on his 1961 debut covers album, Bob Dylan. Dylan’s version is far more sorrowful than the O Brother version, with a melody that’s quite different from Tyminski’s. And like the rest of the record, it shows off his unique ability to impersonate a weathered, phlegmatic old man (long before he would actually become one.) But Joan Baez, his future duet partner, got there first, spicing it up pronoun-wise (as she was wont to do) by turning it into “Girl Of Constant Sorrow” (perhaps taking her cue from widower Sarah Ogan Gunning’s lyrical rewrite in 1936). Judy Collins followed suit in ‘61; her debut album was dubbed A Maid Of Constant Sorrow, and it sure was melancholy.
If everyone could agree on the effectiveness of the song’s central conceit, no one seems to be able to come up with a consensus on the words. The O Brother version has this choice nugget: You can bury me in some deep valley / For many years where I may lay / Then you may learn to love another/ While I am sleeping in my grave.” Dylan’s version has no such verse, but plays up the young, rebellious boyfriend aspect: “You’re mother says I’m a stranger, my face you’ll never see no more,” he tells his soon to be ex-lover, before promising to sneak around with her in heaven. Dylan’s protagonist wanders “through ice and snow, sleet and rain,” while Stanley’s spends “six long years in trouble,” with no friends to help him now.
Whether the singer is saying goodbye to old Kentucky (Tyminski), Colorado (Dylan), or California (Collins), somebody is getting the big kiss off. “Man Of Constant Sorrow” is essentially one of America’s oldest breakup songs. “If I knew how bad you’d treat me, honey I never would have come.” It’s that sunny outlook that has helped “Man Of Constant Sorrow” remain an essential part of popular music’s long, constantly evolving story.
As any good Southern boy could tell you, it points up the strange paradox inherent in the bluegrass genre: instrumentally, it’s the ultimate feel-good music; no way can you be downhearted whilst listening to that good ol’ mountain music. The sound is bouncy, uplifting, joyous, making the spirit soar and the heart fairly leap up into your mouth with gladness. Seriously, now: banjos, mandolins, fiddles, guitars, Dobros, all played up-tempo with a lilting, infectious beat? I defy ANYBODY to keep from smiling, do-si-do-ing, and hand-clapping along! Pass me that jug of good old mountain dew, willya?
Lyrically, however, we’ve a whole ‘nother kettle o’ fish. Bluegrass lyrics are some of the verymost depressing you’ll ever hear, in any musical style, revolving around death and murder and suicide and loss and loneliness and heartbreak and regret. Even as unrelievedly morose a specimen of opera seria as Mozart’s troubling Don Giovanni isn’t in the same league with bluegrass. “Man Of Constant Sorrow” is a pluperfect manifestation of bluegrass’s bizarre built-in dichotomy. To wit:
[Verse 3]
It’s fare thee well, my old true lover
I never expect to see you again
For I’m bound to ride that Northern Railroad
Perhaps I’ll die upon this train
(Perhaps he’ll die upon this train)[Verse 4]
You can bury me in some deep valley
And you may learn to love another
While I am sleeping in my grave
(While he is sleeping in his grave)[Verse 5]
Maybe your friends think I’m just a stranger
My face you never will see no more
But there is one promise that is given
I’ll meet you on God’s golden shore
(He’ll meet you on God’s golden shore)
That last verse is the closest bluegrass lyrics ever get to sweetness, light, and cheery optimism. You can take my word for it on that, gang; I’ve loved the genre nearly as long as I’ve been alive, therefore know whereof I speak. Grim? Granted. Bleak? Beyond debate. Depressing? Well, I mean, duh. But somehow bluegrass just rocks me right down to my socks nevertheless, always has done. Could be it’s just a Southern thang, I dunno.
In fact, in my first decade or so of digging on the bluegrass I listened to the instrumental stuff exclusively; I didn’t really start paying attention to the with-vocals variety until I gave the vocal stylings of icons like Mac Wiseman, the Stanleys, Red Allen, and Bill Monroe in my late 20s a few reluctant listens rather than fast-forwarding to the next instrumental, the fruits of a remainder-bin compilation cassette I bought at some truck stop or other featuring those and several other fabled vocalists I’d studiously avoided up til then.
In addition to George Clooney’s excellent lip-syncing (and, of course, nonpareil jig-reeling), a big, bodacious tip of the CF chapeau is due to Dan Tyminski, the fellow responsible for the actual singing Clooney rose to the occasion of so adroitly. Note ye well, please, the flawless phrasing and emotive depth and breadth Tyminski brings to the party. Lots of musical-minded folks have insisted for decades that Sinatra’s phrasing has never been equalled, nor even approached, with which I won’t quarrel here. That said, Tyminski doesn’t suffer any from the comparison with Ol’ Blue Eyes, in my expert, well-trained opinion.
All in all, it’s no wonder “Man Of Constant Sorrow” has enjoyed over a century’s worth of staying power. Being one of those small musical miracles that can raise goosebumps on the forearms of even the most jaded, world-weary aficionado, it’s probably good for another century or two at the very least. And how many other pop/folk confections, of any sub-genre, can say that?
Seeing as how I’ve yet to bring up bluegrass around Ye Aulde Hogwallowe, for some unknowable reason, we’ll instate a new category just for that sort of thing.
Another excuse for a good old tune
As if any were needed.
Turning a water tub into a splash-tastic playground 🐘♥️ pic.twitter.com/WN1LwTcwET
— Nature is Amazing ☘️ (@AMAZlNGNATURE)
Cue up the musical accompaniment, please.
Ahhh, here’s to the incredible Henry Mancini. Who’s like him? Damn few, and they’re a’ deid. Got no idea whether the vids are capable of simultaneous playback, but if not they sure oughta be, if only just this once.
11Recharging the batteries
High time, I think, for some good old feel-good music to give us all a relaxing, restorative break from the dumpster fire of a shitshow of a train-wreck we’ve been immured in these last few days. Don’t be bashful, feel free to crank it up as much as you like; I assure you, I’m gonna.
AHHH, that’s the stuff! Go ahead, you just try and tell me you don’t feel a whole lot better now. Liar.
Back to your regularly-scheduled angst, ennui, and inchoate rage in just a bit, folks.
11Drivin’ Wheel
Looking around earlier for something else entirely, I stumbled across a great old tune I’d very nearly forgotten about.
That’s the late Robert Gordon performing T-Bone Burnette’s original composition, with Chris Spedding on guitar; the bassist and drummer are unknown to me, I’m afraid. On the Gordon LP this selection is from, the guitarist is the incomparable Danny Gatton, and of course the above vid is interspersed with scenes capably culled from Robert Mitchum’s classic tale of bootlegger derring-do, Thunder Road. Whoever put this video together did one heck of a fine job, if you ask me.
1Classic REAL rock and roll
Appropros my response to Ase’s comment here, please allow me to present Macy “Skip” Skipper’s RaB classic, “Bop Pills.”
Excellent tune, fun lyrics, solid arrangement, the song would go on to become grist for the classic-cover mill for the Cramps, my old friend Tim Polecat*, and a smattering of other artists of discriminating tastes.
* My relationship with Tim got off to a somewhat rocky start when, after the BP’s set on a RaB-weekender bill on which Tim’s band the Polecats were that night’s headliners, me and my bud Too Tall Paul (both of us obnoxious rowdies just drunk as boiled owls, as per usual) stood off to the side of the stage and heckled Tim mercilessly in exaggerated, poofter English accents. This fusillade of aggressive catcalling had poor old Tim glaring angry daggers at us all thru his entire set, and understandably so. The offense which got us started in on him in the first place was the Polecats’ recent recording of a particularly wimpy David Bowie semi-hit, “John, I’m Only Dancing”—a limp dishrag of a song that bore no relationship to the kind of punchy, hard-edged Neo-rockabilly my band and Paul’s Frantic Flattops were known for. Reintroduced to Tim many years later by a mutual female friend; I spoke at length to him over the phone one night at her place, and as it turned out we got along famously. Imagine my surprise to learn during that unexpected conversation that Tim was in truth an entirely likeable, warm, unpretentious cat after all. Tim avowed repeatedly that he remembered the Playboys fondly and admired us as a thoroughly kick-ass outfit; the heckling incident in New Jersey never came up, to my profound relief. Iconic Polecats guitarist Boz Boorer eventually became a good friend as well, but that’s a whole ‘nother story
1I fall to pieces
Had a phone convo with the ex-wife earlier, wherein I inquired whether she might have any thoughts or feelings on this fantastic song.
Like her former hubby and our amazing daughter (15 in August—FIFTEEN!—Heaven help me, has it really been that long?), Suzie is also a hugely talented multi-instrumentalist, hence my curiosity regarding her opinion of the tune, if any. Never having been much of a CSN fan herself (she’s a lot younger than me, I mean a LOT, so it was well before her time), she couldn’t really remember it, so I sung a few lines over the phone for her, thereby unveiling the powerful emotional effect it’s had on me since the very first time I heard it, back when it was originally released in the late 70s/early 80s.
Y’know, when dinosaurs ruled the Earth. In days of old, when knights were bold, and condoms not invented.
See, whenever I hear “Southern Cross” on the car-raygia, I crank the volume way the hell up and sing along with the low-tenor part of the arrangement, as sung by…who, Steven Stills, maybe? Or Graham Nash? DEFINITELY not scraggly old David Crosby, I know that much. Which works out just fine and is a lot of fun, right up until they/we get to the “I have my ship/And all the flags are a-flying/She is all that I have left/And Music is her name” stanzas.
And that’s when I always just lose it completely: my throat closes, my eyes sting and burn, I feel my heart shatter inside my chest, and I have to struggle mightily not to burst into tears and sob like a itty-bitty baby—sometimes successfully, usually not—every single last time, even after all these years. Don’t ask me why, I’ve never understood it myself. Admittedly, there are a few others that hit me deep inside hard, make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and raise goose-bumps on my forearms, and can even choke me up like that sometimes, particularly certain Classical and Romantic-era pieces. But for whatever reason, “Southern Cross” is by far the worst of the lot, and has done it to me Every. Single. Time.
Such was the case day before yesterday, when I heard it played again for the first time in I don’t know when. I halfway thought that, being older, presumably wiser, and out of the music-biz game altogether for nigh on a decade now (which beggars belief for me, I must say), I might have developed an at least partial immunity to falling completely apart at those lines by now. WRONG-O, boy-o! I tootled along with nary a hitch when, all of a sudden-like, at “She is all that I have left,” the same old feeling of overwhelming sadness and inexpressible grief flew all over me again.
It being a glorious day out—warm but not hot, cloudless sky, low humidity, gentle breeze—I had my windows cranked all the way down, as did the girl sitting next to me at the stoplight. So naturally, the poor dear gawped in affrighted wonderment and concern at the bizarre spectacle of this broken-down, crippled old relic at the wheel of the bashed, smashed, ’n’ trashed Burick Grampamobile© flivver alongside her in the right lane, going all kerblooey for no apparent reason as he attempted a sing-along with some stupid Oldie-but-Mouldy she’d never heard the likes of before in a cracking, wavering, old-man warble—what, something-something about a ship, and flags, and an ocean, and some islands or some other such ancient tripe-o-la. Mighta been a long-gone lover in there with the rest of it too, who knows. Or cares.
I mean, this girl clearly didn’t know whether to shit, go blind, throw rocks and head for the hills, or call for a fucking hearse to come sweep up the remains and cart ‘em off to the morgue where they belong. I laid off singing, smiled and waved cheerily at the startled young ‘un, then took off like a scared rabbit when the light finally went green again. When I was safely back home, I pulled up the vid on YewToob and started putting this post together.
Some things never change, I guess.
4Rockin’ da blues
Today was a guitar-lesson day here at stately Hendrix manor, wherein I started young Zachary out on a Jimmy Reed tune—“Honest I Do,” by name —plus a little theory to back it all up. Now I’m down a blues rabbit hole, inducing me to share witchy’all a righteous cop from everyone’s favorite tall but brilliant, fabulously talented and visually stunning example of a placental mammal.
Yes, yes, it’s Kenny Wayne. Hey, I figger everybody’s already heard the Jimmy Reed stuff by now, right?
Update! For Bear Claw Chris.
21Nopeworthy
The local classical radio station which I listen to pretty much all day every day is, as you would expect, a dyed-in-the-wool, Mark-1 Mod-0 Left/“liberal” outlet, as steeped in the brain-devouring catechism of Wokester/PC as it’s possible to be. So naturally, they have this godawful program they run several times a day called Noteworthy (or, as I refer to it with a snarl, Notworthy©, for the sake of accuracy and truth in advertising), dedicated to seeing to it that “marginalized” Black Lesbian non-binary Lesbian Neegrow Composers Of Color (also ©) get the greater exposure the PC knotheads running the station feel they “deserve.”
Problem being, they don’t, they really don’t. From the Notworthy webpage:
NoteWorthy is a series of audio stories created to broaden our view of classical music by shining a light on the lives and music of artists of color, women, and others from historically underrepresented groups. Each episode provides an introduction to an artist, performing ensemble, musicians, or composer from all eras and genres of classical music. In a couple of minutes, you can learn about the contributions these artists have made and are making to the art form while discovering some great music along the way.
“Underrepresented,” is it? So now we’re required to adjust our musical tastes according not to talent or creativity but to make up the numbers based strictly on a composer’s skin color, ethnicity, gender (if any), and/or preferred sex-kink? Good to know, I guess. Pleasing to the ear, inspiring, imaginative, truly innovative? None for me, thanks, I’m a “liberal.”
With the barest handful of exceptions—practically all of them alive and working no later than about 1945-50—Noteworthy’s lousy, talent-bereft stable of contemporary (mostly) hacks aren’t fit to carry Ludwig Van’s jockstrap. Exhibit A: Etharnopian “composer” Emahoy Tsegue-Maryam Guebrou’s rousing piece for solo piano entitled “In Memory Of Catherine Brady.”
It carries on like that for a long, miserable while, but the first minute and a half to two minutes of it will give you the general flavor. I can’t in good faith recommend you bother with any more of it than that lest you wind up hurling something hard and heavy through your monitor screen in a fit of philistine pique at the kind of twaddle some PC über alles pinheads are willing to laud as “genius” nowadays.
Now, having played a heck of a lot of classical and ragtime piano myself since I was seven (7) years of age up until the curse of DuPuytren’s Contracture ruined all that for me several years ago, I feel myself eminently qualified to point out that what this hot mess sounds like to my trained and experienced ear is the sort of thing a concert pianist might run backstage to limber up the hands, wrists, and fingers as a pre-show warmup. Compare, contrast the above “marginalized” Noteworthy composer’s random, tuneless noodling around brilliant work with, oh, f’rinstinct, the moving, hauntingly beautiful Larghetto movement from Mozart’s Piano Concerto No 26 in Dmaj.
Comparison? Ain’t none, sorry. Mozart’s music has stood the test of time, still beloved and enjoyed 233 years after he prematurely departed this mortal coil in 1791 at the too-tender age of thirty-five. Likewise Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Haydn, and so many truly noteworthy (a-HENH!) others. The music of the masters from the Baroque, Classical, and Romantic periods will live forever. With good and valid reason, too.
Contemporary trash-haulers such as Msxz Guebrou and her fellow dumpster-diving luminaries being pimped all to hell and gone by the Progressivist lackwits behind the Notworthy© program, on the other hand? If their “art” is remembered more than three (3) minutes after the latest NW episode has concluded, the stench dissipated, the resultant pounding headache set in, that’ll be about two and a half minutes longer than it merits.
The underlying conceit here is that these self-indulgent muttonheads are being unjustly denied their due and proper because Racism, Sexism, Homophobia, all the standard hobgoblins of the small “liberal” mind—prolly Republicans, Whypeepuh, ((((Dem JoojoojooJOOOOOZ!!!))), Election Deniers, Fox News, and of course Trump, too. T’ain’t so, McGee. With vanishingly few exceptions, the reason WDAV’s precious Notworthy© noodlers, doodlers, and purveyors of musical meat-beatery are “marginalized” and “underrepresented” is plain as the nose on Jimmy Durante’s face: because they deserve to be. Because they, y’know, suck dead green donkey dicks. Full stop, end of fucking story.
As composers of classical/orchestral/symphonic music they do, at any rate. They might be really nice people, excellent mechanics, great cooks, I couldn’t say. But composers? Yeah, no.
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