Music, theater, gardening, travel, current affairs, and my personal life, not always in that order. I try to keep it interesting, I rarely hold back, because one thing I truly believe in is the shared experience of this reality we call life. We're all in this together, people. More than we even know.
How artists can put their own twists and bends. How they can put their own personal mark on a song.
It's a big topic in theater. Playwrights hand over their work, and Lord knows what could happen to it.
The Timmins family, and Gillian and David are some of the most talented musicians today. So, what do you do when your work falls into the hands of "artists" (ahem) less talented?
Honestly? I think I actually like the Junkies version of Powderfinger much better. It's more controlled. Crazy Horse does it like a ride down the Colorado River rapids. Which is their style. But Margo Timmins? She reminds me of something I once heard about James Taylor. She could sing the phone book and make it sound good.
(If you don't know what a phone book is, I can't help you. I guess you could Google it.)
Tomorrow and Friday Oprah will air her interview with Lance Armstrong when he will supposedly admit, to a greater or lesser degree, that he participated in doping for his entire career.
Do I care? I'm mildly interested since I'm a fan of cycling.
Am I hurt, disappointed, or mad at a person I've never met? No, I am not.
This is just one more act in the circus called the American media.
But I guess I can say that because I figured out long ago never to bet on a horse if I'm not riding it. I learned not to get emotionally tangled up with sports teams and players, because what logic is there in wanting to slash my wrists after, say the Red Sox blow a ten-game lead in the standing in a matter of weeks? There's nothing I can do about it, and when it comes out that grown men who are making tens of millions of dollars are acting like children, or worse, like drunken sailors on shore leave, why should I care?
It's just one more lesson in human behavior that the Greeks understood 2,500 years ago and we still haven't learned yet. Their gods and heroes were flawed, and why are we always outraged when a human being plummets from the heights of Olympus is beyond me.
We all know sports organizations and athletes are not the squeaky-clean enterprises and gods and goddesses we make them out to be. It's just part of their branding in order to sell overpriced tickets and logo clothing and eight dollar cups of crap beer at their venues. It's marketing, folks, and frankly most of the marketing goes to stem the tide that most sports are going the way of professional wrestling. It's all phoney and geared to make the most money possible.
I was, though, a huge Lance Armstrong fan and have been a fan of the Tour de France since I was a kid and rode a Schwinn Varsity, my first bike, and American Greg LeMond was wearing the yellow jersey. I was following le Tour when people here in the United States were calling it the Tore day France (rhymes with pants) if they were even talking about it at all. What am I saying?--there are still people who pronounce it that way.
During the heyday of the U.S. Postal Services' team's dominance of the Tour, when Lance (see, I call him by his first name, as if I really know him) won seven Tours in a row, for 21 days in July I'd be incommunicado. I still had a television set then, and I'd get up in the morning around 6:00 and watch the race on the Outdoor Network Channel. Then in the afternoon I'd watch the highlights and that night I'd watch the entire race all over again. Wonderful races, very dramatic, and of course in the back of my head I'd wonder if he was doping. What do you think I am?--an idiot?
The same way I imagine any baseball fan with half a dose of common sense had to be wondering about the likes of Mark Maguire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, and Roger Clemens when they had their runs as sports giants.
Yeah, Clemens (notice I don't refer to him by his first name) was called before Congress, but they let him off. I still don't understand why Congress cared what Clemens shot in his big butt, but, like most people, I don't understand much of anything that Congress does.
I just got finished reading Neil Young's autobiography, Waging Heavy Peace, (don't read it unless you're a crazy Neil Young or music fan; it's terribly written) where he admits he wrote all--and he does mean all--his songs while high. When he was writing his book he had quit all drugs including alcohol, and wrote that he had writer's block and hadn't written a single song since going clean. Is anyone saying, hey, Harvest or After the Gold Rush suck now since you wrote them under the influence? No. But then again, everyone knows that drugs play a role in music--as we should just admit in sports.
But I'm digressing. Lance is a little different from the other boys.
After Lance's time on the hero's podium, he's going to have to serve his time getting raked over the coals of the American judicial system, better known as popular opinion run by the media. He didn't just bamboozle us in the hero department, he jeopardized the income of a lot of big names: LiveStrong. Oakley. Nike. Trek. Giro helmets. 24-hour Fitness. Anheuser-Busch. Radio Shack. The Discovery Channel.
What do they say about Bernie Madoff? Why was he the only person from Wall Street who went to jail? Because he ripped off the 1%. The U.S. Postal Service ponied up about $30 million to sponsor the team. South Australia is considering suing him for appearance money paid to him. The Sunday Times is suing him for $1.5 million for a libel settlement. Money, money, money, money. Everybody was making huge sums of money of each other. Now there's hell to pay.
And Lance jeopardized his own income and this poor boy from Texas who rose to those dizzy heights of wealth and popularity isn't going down without a fight. I'm not so enamored with Lance that I don't realize he's probably behind all this noise. He--or rather, his brand, that third-person entity that is composed of not flesh and blood, but rather public opinion--is at stake here.
If I can say one thing about Lance, he did a lot of good. He took his fame and used it to fight cancer. Maybe his story was hokum--a superhuman defeat of the Big C--but it still got people to fight cancer. That's a lot more than a lot of rich celebs ever attempt to do. Seriously, what does Mick Jagger do with all his millions and fame? Of course, Mick Jagger doesn't try to come across like Glinda the Good Witch either. He is who he is, and Lance is who he is, too.
I still think it's our society that's at fault here, as much as Lance. Our society seems rife with people who will do anything for success. And we let them and even encourage them, and then get mad at them when they let us down.
Up until only maybe two years ago, if you had asked me how old I was I would have paused and run a number line through my head, matching the line against reality. There would have been a click somewhere around 17, but then I'd fast-forward to my real age. Somewhere in my psyche I honestly believed that I was still 17. Or that life stopped at 17, or that I stopped growing then...or something.
Now, I feel my age. Not old. Just my age. My real age. And there's something very satisfying and something right and real about all that. I'm at a place in my life and it's here and it's today.
And I love this song, and it's feeling trying to go back, of trying to live somewhere where you're not.
Oh to live on, Sugar Mountain. The nostalgia, the sweet feeling, for sure, but also the sadness and the melancholy.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain With the barkers and the colored balloons, You cant be twenty on sugar mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon, You're leaving there too soon.
Its so noisy at the fair But all your friends are there And the candy floss you had And your mother and your dad.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain With the barkers and the colored balloons, You cant be twenty on sugar mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon, You're leaving there too soon.
There's a girl just down the aisle, Oh, to turn and see her smile. You can hear the words she wrote As you read the hidden note.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain With the barkers and the colored balloons, You cant be twenty on sugar mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon, You're leaving there too soon.
Now you're underneath the stairs And you're givin' back some glares To the people who you met And its your first cigarette.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain With the barkers and the colored balloons, You cant be twenty on sugar mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon, You're leaving there too soon.
Now you say you're leavin' home cause you want to be alone. Ain't it funny how you feel When you're findin' out its real?
Oh, to live on sugar mountain With the barkers and the colored balloons, You cant be twenty on sugar mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon, You're leaving there too soon.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain With the barkers and the colored balloons, You cant be twenty on sugar mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon, You're leaving there too soon.
Don't you just hate it when your favorite musician sells out? Like when you see a favorite song shilling a car? Or the cost of a decent concert seat, not one in the nose-bleed section but somewhere where you really don't need the Jumbotron, costs more than what you pay for a month's rent?
The first volume of Neil Young's archives is out, and the reduced price on Amazon.com is $199.99, reduced from (I'm guessing) the artist's suggested retail price of $249.00. Now, this just isn't any set. It's 10 DVDs. There are concerts and pictures and lyrics and I guess it's a whole digital experience, but man, I don't even know what I'd play it all on?--my laptop I guess. (There is an 8 CD set for $70, but even that price kind of rocks me in the current free world.) I mean, I guess it's pristine quality. But, right now as I type this, I'm wearing an old pair of patched jeans a la Neil Young and After the Goldrush, and I'm just wondering if Neil has left his roots behind.
Is this all worth it?--and this is only the first volume. (Neil, you do know there's a depression going on, don't you?) You start to wonder just how much money anyone needs in the world, and when people like Young and name you're famous, rich musician who used to sing about life and the poor and the workers and all that, and now something like this comes along and he seems a little out of touch with the common man, kind of like Steinbeck sounded in Travels with Charley.
To get an idea of what you'll be getting, you can check out a vid here. It's all cool, all real Neil and the reason we love him so much, but it's way out this fan's price range. I don't know Neil, maybe it's time to just say, Hey, Hey, bye, bye.
"Neil Young, meanwhile, was happy to be out of Los Angeles. Even Topanga hadn't been remote enough for him. "You never knew what was gonna be happening when you went home," he told Jimmy McDonough. Broken Arrow, his secluded ranch, made Young happier: "I like the country better," he said. "Somebody's comin' at ya, you can see 'em." --from the book, Hotel California
Dang, I knew it and here's one more reason I liked Neil Young the best, out of CSNY, out of all that California/hippie stuff. I used to give that reason for wanting a boat: that when you're out in the middle of the ocean you can see them comin'. That's how I feel about the desert now. All that wide-open spaces gives you a good warning.
Hotel California is a lot of gossip. Think hippie/music People Magazine on cocaine. But it's a fun read, and if even half of this shit is true you can see why we are where we are today. The music industry has always been about money and greed, forget about peace and love. The artists were exploited to the max, but they all buried their collective snouts into each others' coke and crouches and in essence got what they deserved. David Bowie, Lou Reed, and the rise of punk makes so much sense after reading about these bunch of pampered navel gazers. Okay, still, there were some really good songs. I didn't say they weren't talented. But it was a money-making machine, no different from Nashville or the New York music scene was. That's why I say good music is never made where there's money. Right now it's not NY or LA or Nashville or even Austin. A couple of friends are sitting on their front porch somewhere, maybe in Montana or North Carolina or Canada or somewhere, just having fun.
The joke goes like this about just about everything; you can just exchange the subject for whatever you feel like it, but: Music is like sex--first you do it by yourself, then with your friends, then for money.
I'm reading Hotel California right now, the history of all that that went down in Laurel Canyon back in the late sixties and early seventies...kind of a rambling read...
But as I read it, I have more and more respect for Neil Young...there was so much talent there, but so much meanness and just hurtful behavior...he had the good sense to get the hell out and hole up in Topanga, which is also a fantastic name for a guitar.
And also, you can see how the music industry got to be what it is today, and why people are rebelling against it and doing their own thing.
Anyway, here's Neil doing one of the greatest songs of that time period, and one of my all-time favorites.
Thank you, boys (said in my best, Lawrence Welk, Svedish voice)...
Travel to a destination that offers insight, development, and entertainment. The people you hang out with and the groups you get involved with will inspire you to take on new challenges. Don't let laziness be your downfall when you have so much potential.
You know, a destination doesn't necessarily have to be a physical spot on the planet.
Once again, the lyrics to Neil Young's song, Thrasher, come to mind. I feel like I'm making hard, tough decisions in my life, leaving behind people, dropping people, cutting off people who just aren't good for me, who aren't good to me, who I've outgrown...
Woh-woh-woh, you keep hangin' round me and I'm not so glad you found me You're still doing things that I gave up years ago --Lou Reed, Hanging 'Round
...and I'm searching...because that's what I do...it seems that's what I was meant to do in this life. It was then I knew I'd had enough, Burned my credit card for fuel Headed out to where the pavement turns to sand With a one-way ticket to the land of truth And my suitcase in my hand How I lost my friends I still don't understand.
They had the best selection, They were poisoned with protection There was nothing that they needed, Nothing left to find They were lost in rock formations Or became park bench mutations On the sidewalks and in the stations They were waiting, waiting.
So I got bored and left them there, They were just deadweight to me Better down the road without that load Brings back the time when I was eight or nine I was watchin' my mama's T.V., It was that great Grand Canyon rescue episode.
Where the vulture glides descending On an asphalt highway bending Thru libraries and museums, galaxies and stars Down the windy halls of friendship To the rose clipped by the bullwhip The motel of lost companions Waits with heated pool and bar.
But me I'm not stopping there, Got my own row left to hoe Just another line in the field of time When the thrashers comes, I'll be stuck in the sun Like the dinosaurs in shrines But I'll know the time has come To give what's mine.
When the dream came I held my breath with my eyes closed I went insane, Like a smoke ring day When the wind blows Now I won't be back till later on If I do come back at all
Shelter me from the powder and the finger Cover me with the thought that pulled the trigger Think of me as one you'd never figured Would fade away so young With so much left undone Remember me to my love, I know I'll miss her.
It was then I knew I'd had enough, Burned my credit card for fuel Headed out to where the pavement turns to sand With a one-way ticket to the land of truth And my suitcase in my hand How I lost my friends I still don't understand.
They had the best selection, They were poisoned with protection There was nothing that they needed, Nothing left to find They were lost in rock formations Or became park bench mutations On the sidewalks and in the stations They were waiting, waiting.
I also can't listen to Neil Young without thinking of another friend, this one is alive, and coincidentally it was just yesterday that I learned she was going to live. Dodging breast cancer is not for panty waists.
Was it last summer I got a phone call from San Francisco where she lived at the time and was at a Neil Young concert for the Bridge School?
Got up this morning and even before I got to the kitchen for that wake-up cup I stopped at the DVD player and popped in Neil Young’s Live at Massey Hall 1971. I’ve been a life-long fan of Young, and I never tire of his songs. Like a good novel where each time you read it you get something new out of it, Neil Young’s songs from the sixties and seventies keep giving to me.
That’s taken from a sticker I have plastered on the side of my amp.
Listening to Neil Young and Crazy Horse from a 1970 concert at the Filmore East at wolfgangsvault.com. From the liner notes:
“Two words for Crosby, Stills and Nash - Crazy Horse. This is rock 'n' roll as it was meant to be played: barely in tune and teetering on the brink of oblivion. No wonder Neil Young preferred rockin’ in the free world with these guys over CSN’s cuddle-folk round-up (Joni Mitchell covers?!... Pleeze!). You can hear the blood and sweat in every stuttering guitar jab, Danny Whitten’s raspy tenor the perfect counterpoint to Neil’s wavering holler.”
The thing is, there is great music being written today. Despite what that sticker says, I don’t want to be one of those guys sitting on a bar stool bemoaning the good old days and complaining about “these kids today.” Eff that. Living in the past. That’s death, or just sitting around waiting for death. No difference. What’s cool is this great long stream of music that extends so far back and how musicians built on other artists. I’m talking all the way back, Gregorian chants and all that, so far you have to be tight with Mr. Peabody and his way-back machine.
