Embedophenia

The last man standing

Posted on August 19, 2026August 19, 2026 by Mike Leave a comment

In this case, is Billy Gibbons.

Frank Beard, Veteran Drummer for ZZ Top, Dead at 77
Frank Beard, the veteran drummer for the rock band ZZ Top, has died at the age of 77.

Beard died on Monday at his Texas ranch following a stay in hospice, the Fort Bend County Medical Examiner said. His exact cause of death has not been disclosed at this time. Billy F. Gibbons, founder of ZZ Top, mourned the drummer’s passing in a statement shared to TMZ.

“Today, Elwood and I lost a great friend and collaborator, and the world lost one of the most naturally innovative drummers and a great and true son of Texas. His signature backbeat was key to keeping ZZ on top. The band of which he was part for six decades is going to keep on keeping on as he had wished,” said Gibbons. The drummer’s health has been a source of contention for several weeks, with the band having to cancel its August 5 concert at the Hollywood Bowl due to his ailment.

“With the passing of Frank, ZZ Top is canceling their show tonight in Salt Lake City and tomorrow Colorado Springs … they’ll resume this weekend with two dates at Austin City Limits — at one of Frank’s favorite venues,” TMZ reported.

“Frontman Billy Gibbons said at the time the band was dealing with “insurmountable obstacles” and asked fans to bear with them during the interruption,” it added. “Frank had also been absent from the band’s recent performances … with drummer Michael Monahan filling in behind the kit. ZZ Top performed without Frank in Saratoga, California just days before TMZ learned of his death.”

He will surely be sorely, sorely missed.

Update! Good Lord, man, how could I ever even have dreamed of leaving this classic out?

The dirtiest song ever recorded

Posted on August 15, 2026August 16, 2026 by Mike Leave a comment

Is not “Think Twice Version X” by Jackie Wilson and LaVerne Baker, nor is it “Rotten Cocksuckers’ Ball” by the Clovers, nor is it “Shave ‘Em Dry” by Lucille Bogan—serious contenders all, certainly, but for my money the all-time prize for dirty tuneage goes to, of all artists/groups/whatever…erm…the Andrews Sisters?!?

The title is “Rum And Coca Cola,” which got the thing de facto banned upon its (attempted) 1945 release for the mention of alcohol in both title and chorus. What makes this ditty the all-time champ of dirty is the lyrics’ contention that, basically, every female in Trinidad was a prostitute, running down to the docks to peddle ass to US sailors anytime a Navy ship sailed into port. As the lyrics flatly put it, “Both mother and daughter/Working for the Yankee dollar.”

Nope, nothing coy or subtle about that, I must say.

The melody was published as the work of Venezuelan calypso composer Lionel Belasco on a song titled “L’Année Passée”. The lyrics to “Rum and Coca-Cola” were written by Rupert Grant, another calypso musician from Trinidad who used the stage name Lord Invader.

The song became a local hit and was at the peak of its popularity when US entertainer Morey Amsterdam visited the island in September 1943 as part of a U.S.O. tour. The song was then published in the United States with Amsterdam listed as lyricist and Jeri Sullivan and Paul Baron as composers. Although he claimed never to have heard the song during the month he spent on the island, the lyrics to his version are clearly based on the Lord Invader version, with the music and chorus being virtually identical. However, Amsterdam’s version strips the song of its social commentary. The Lord Invader version laments that U.S. soldiers are debauching local women who “saw that the Yankees treat them nice/and they give them a better price.” Its final stanza describes a newlywed couple whose marriage is ruined when “the bride run away with a soldier lad/and the stupid husband went staring mad.” The Amsterdam version also hints that women are prostituting themselves, preserved in the Lord Invader chorus which says, “Both mother and daughter/Working for the Yankee dollar.”

Since the Yankee come to Trinidad
They got the young girls all goin’ mad
Young girls say they treat ’em nice
Make Trinidad like paradise

The song was recorded in 1944 by The Andrews Sisters, crediting the composition to Amsterdam, Sullivan and Baron. The sisters seem to have given little thought to the meaning of the lyrics. According to Patty Andrews, “We had a recording date, and the song was brought to us the night before the recording date. We hardly really knew it, and when we went in we had some extra time and we just threw it in, and that was the miracle of it. It was actually a faked arrangement. There was no written background, so we just kind of faked it.” In under ten minutes they made a record that sold seven million units and sat at number one on the Billboard magazine chart for seven weeks. Maxine Andrews recalled, “The rhythm was what attracted the Andrews Sisters to ‘Rum and Coca-Cola’. We never thought of the lyric. The lyric was there, it was cute, but we didn’t think of what it meant; but at that time, nobody else would think of it either, because we weren’t as morally open as we are today and so, a lot of stuff—really, no excuses—just went over our heads.” Some stations refused to play the song because it mentioned rum, and alcohol could not be advertised on the air, or because it mentioned the brand name Coca-Cola, which was perceived as advertising for the soft drink.

Fret not, people; y’all know I wouldn’t leave ya hanging as to what the song sounds like.

OH, you naughty, naughty girls!

Peculiar

Posted on February 21, 2026 by Mike

Last week’s Smokey Robinson re-post calls for another wonderful tune penned by Robinson, this one sung by the incomparable Marvin Gaye.

And that in turn calls for another of my all-time Marvin Gaye favorites.

They just ain’t writing songs like these anymore, people, and that is just a doggone shame.

Miraculous

Posted on February 15, 2026 by Mike

Pretty sure I’ve posted this here before, but I don’t care, i’ts just too damned good to go without for very long.

Music by Stevie Wonder, lyrics by the incomparable Smokey Robinson, if I was forced to pick just one this would have to be just about my favorite song of them all.

Op’m de do’, Richit!

Posted on June 25, 2025June 25, 2025 by Mike

Had an old favorite of mine pop into mind just a short while ago, an immediate hit which, upon its release, speedily ascended all the way up to number one with a bullet on the Billboard charts for Count Basie & his Orchestra back in 1947. It’s a novelty number (remember those? Don’t hear too many of those nowadays) I haven’t heard in way too many years, and had damned near forgotten about completely. So without further ado, here t’is.

I do declare, you just can’t help but dig those rib-tickling vocal stylings of R&B legend “Sweets” Edison, which I hasten to assure one and all I surely do. More from the notes included by the fella who put this one-of-a-kind chart-topper on Yew Toob.

Open The Door, Richard! (McVea-Clarke) by Count Basie & his Orchestra, vocal by Harry “Sweets” Edison, Bill Johnson, and the band

All five posted versions of this short-lived novelty sensation made it into the top-10 on both the pop and R&B Billboard weekly record charts: Count Basie (#1 pop), Dusty Fletcher, Jack McVea, Louis Jordan and The Three Flames.

Huh. Much as I’ve always admired the incomparable hit factory Louis Jordan’s amazing work, I don’t believe I ever heard his version of “Open the door, Richard” before. Gonna have to get cracking right away on filling that yawning chasm in my musical education straightaway.

America Pie in your eye

Posted on August 22, 2024August 22, 2024 by Mike

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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And my kids they just don’t understand me at all

Posted on July 31, 2024July 31, 2024 by Mike

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.

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Another excuse for a good old tune

Posted on July 5, 2024July 5, 2024 by Mike

As if any were needed.

Turning a water tub into a splash-tastic playground 🐘♥️ pic.twitter.com/WN1LwTcwET

— Nature is Amazing ☘️ (@AMAZlNGNATURE)

June 21, 2024

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.

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Drivin’ Wheel

Posted on June 24, 2024June 24, 2024 by Mike

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.

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Classic REAL rock and roll

Posted on June 9, 2024June 9, 2024 by Mike

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

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I fall to pieces

Posted on June 1, 2024June 2, 2024 by Mike

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.

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LACHRYMOSE: the mot juste for sure and certain

Posted on April 9, 2024April 9, 2024 by Mike

lachrymose adjective

lach·ry·mose ˈla-krə-ˌmōs

1: given to tears or weeping: TEARFUL
tended to become lachrymose when he was drunk

2: tending to cause tears: MOURNFUL
a lachrymose drama

Another sleepless night, owing to the agony of relentless phantom pains lancing through a foot and ankle that burned (along with one of my very favorite tattoos, on the side of my lower-left calf) in a hospital medical-waste incinerator well over two years ago, has produced its silver lining: I was awake at three AM to hear the local classical station play this brilliant, spare arrangement for clarinet and piano of the Lacrimosa section of Mozart’s (and his pupil and friend Sussmayr’s) exquisite Requiem mass.

Simple, elegant, tuneful—just altogether lovely, no?

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Moar Irishness!

Posted on March 17, 2024March 17, 2024 by Mike

Since JC gave him a mention in comments the other day/week/whatevs, have y’selves a little sumpin’-sumpin’ from the man they call the greatest guitarist you never heard of: Irish white-boy-blues legend Rory Gallagher.

Never have been a huge fan myself, but I would nonetheless never dream of denying that the boy could really, truly shred.

My own new git-fiddle acquistion is supposed to arrive tomorrow by 7PM, so if I decide to just blow off posting altogether you’ll know the reason why. The new axe is sure to need a set-up done (every new guitar does, especially after traveling across the country), a procedure I learned the basics of years ago but have never been any damned good at; like playing itself, set-ups are as much art as they are science, requiring an innate talent I just do not seem to possess, alas.

Spoke last week to my old friend Stacy Leazer of NC Guitar Works and arranged to bring the pseudo-Mosright in next week to get the job done right, but I can tweak and fiddle about with it enough to do until I can get it into the hands of the bona fide professionals.

(Via Joe Jackson)

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Git-fiddlin’

Posted on February 3, 2024February 5, 2024 by Mike

A fascinating list of the most expensive guitars EVAR, including this one.

5. Reach Out to Asia Fender Stratocaster

Sold: Qatar, 2005
Price: $2,700,000

Unique here in that it was never owned by a superstar, the Reach Out to Asia Strat was auctioned for victims of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami.

It was a humble Mexican Standard Stratocaster bearing the signatures of Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, Brian May, Jimmy Page, David Gilmour, Jeff Beck, Pete Townsend, Mark Knopfler, Ray Davies, Liam Gallagher, Ronnie Wood, Tony Iommi, Angus and Malcolm Young, Paul McCartney, Sting, Ritchie Blackmore, Def Leppard and Bryan Adams.

New made-in-Mexico Strats sold for around $350 in 2005, making this objectively the most overpriced axe of all time.

If 2 million seven sounds a tad extravagant to ya, believe me, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

One of the very best Strats I ever did own was a Mexi-Strat, a Wayne’s World model, incredible as it may seem. Hard as I tried to be one, as desperately as I wanted to be one my whole life, I just never could master the Stratocaster. Me, I’m way more of a Gibson guy, myself. That said, enjoy this vidya of little ol’ moi bashing away on the best guitar I ever did own: a heavily-customized and -tweaked Sam Ash house-brand copy of the grand old Gibson ES5 box, playing a song I’d completely forgotten I wrote until I ran across this h’yar vid just recently.

Good times, good times.

Update! One of the aforementioned tweaks was the replacement of the “master tone” knob, which is pure-tee uselessness defined, with a master volume, which is anything but. The guitar came stock with a volume control for each pickup, which was also extremely useful, but no pickup selector switch, which elevated the master-volume from being merely useful, to damned critical: you needed a way to cut the danged thing off between songs onstage, lest you get either that annoying 40-cycle hum single coil pickups are infamous for, or outright squalling feedback should you be bold enough to remove your damping-hand from the strings for a micro-millisecond, and a quick swipe of that master-volume accomplished that nicely.

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Happy birthday!

Posted on January 31, 2024January 31, 2024 by Mike

To the incomparable Franz Schubert, born on this day in 1797, of whom Beethoven said on his deathbed, “Truly, the spark of divine genius resides in this Schubert!” For his own part, Schubert practically worshipped Beethoven, leading to this lovely story.

Five days before Schubert’s death, his friend the violinist Karl Holz and his string quartet visited to play for him. The last musical work he had wished to hear was Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 14 in C-sharp minor, Op. 131; Holz commented: “The King of Harmony has sent the King of Song a friendly bidding to the crossing”.

Nice, no? Schubert served as a torch-bearer at Beethoven’s funeral, and was buried near Beethoven’s grave at his own request. The latter-day charge that Schubert was a homosexual and actually died of syphilis is arrant bullshit.

Schubert died in Vienna, aged 31, on 19 November 1828, at the apartment of his brother Ferdinand. The cause of his death was officially diagnosed as typhoid fever, though other theories have been proposed, including the tertiary stage of syphilis. Although there are accounts by his friends that indirectly imply that he had contracted syphilis earlier, the symptoms of his final illness do not correspond with tertiary syphilis. Six weeks before his death, he walked 42 miles in three days, ruling out musculoskeletal syphilis. In the month of his death, he composed his last work, “Der Hirt auf dem Felsen”, making neurosyphilis unlikely. And meningo-vascular syphilis is unlikely because it presents a progressive stroke-like picture, and Schubert had no neurological manifestation until his final delirium, which started only two days before his death. Lastly, his final illness was characterized by gastrointestinal symptoms (namely vomiting). These issues all led Robert L. Rold to argue that (although he believed Schubert had syphilis), the fatal final illness was a gastrointestinal one such as salmonella or indeed typhoid fever. Rold also pointed out that when Schubert was in his final illness, his close friend Schober avoided visiting him “out of fear of contagion”. Yet Schober had known of his earlier possible syphilis and had never avoided Schubert in the past. Eva M. Cybulska goes further and says that Schubert’s syphilis is a conjecture. His multi-system signs and symptoms, she says, could point at a number of different illness such as leukaemia, anaemia, or Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, and that many tell-tale signs of syphilis — chancre, mucous plaques, rash on the thorax, pupil abnormality, dysgraphia — were absent. She argues that the syphilis diagnosis originated with Schubert’s biographer Otto Deutsch in 1907, based on the aforementioned indirect references by his friends, and uncritically repeated ever since.

In any event, as I said the other day of Mozart, it’s a real pity Schubert left this world so soon, thereby robbing us of even more wonderful music. If I had to pick the Schubert composition I like best of all, it would have to be his overture for the play Rosamunde.

Happy birthday to Franz Schubert, with heartfelt thanks for all the wonderful music.

Update! Okay, okay, it just doesn’t sit well with me to leave this excellent piece out.

I went looking on YewToob for this one a few months back, misremembering that it was by Mozart for some unknown reason, and couldn’t find it anywhere until the “it’s SCHUBERT, you dope!” lightbulb finally switched on in my head.

Dear old Franz wrote so many good ‘uns—The Trout; his Symphony No 8 (a/k/a the Unfinished); the 4 Impromptus for piano (check out the third in particular, which starts at 20:05; SO achingly beautiful!)—that it’s damned difficult to choose a single favorite from among ‘em. But the above two would definitely top my personal Best Of list.

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