Loves me some words.
Been putting them together, in one form or another, for as long as I can remember.
And I can remember pretty far back.
Near as I can remember.
And, every now and then, I find myself inspired to add a word or two to the mix.
Just such an inspiration occurred today.
Courtesy of Lana Del Rey.
Here's a quick "whatsheallabout" from Yahoo Music.
How dumb do you have to be to announce to the world that you're a "gangsta Nancy Sinatra"? But Del Rey appears to be dumb like a fox, in that way. And, also, a fox, if we must say so ourselves. Not everyone is crazy about her plumped-lip look in the video for "Video Games," but 12 million video views (and counting) later, she's doing something right. That shrewdness isn't just in her knack for self-marketing, but also the real craft heard in that knockout single, a funereal ballad which makes her lover's fondness for World of Warcraft sound like the stuff of very high tragedy. We'll have to wait till her full-length album comes out in January to find out if her boots were really made for walkin'.
I gave Diva D-R another look/listen while digesting that little description and, somewhere around the two minute mark of her melodrama, the new word popped.
Debut momentarily.
Though she's ostensibly the latest, the lady Lana is not the lone purveyor of this particular song style.
Not by a long shot.
But, it was that Yahoo's description of said style that put me on the path to generating a new genre'.
A genre' that counts, among its subscribers, such talents as Christina Perri, Adele, even, if you stretch the point a parcek or two, Taylor Swift and, of course, now, Lana Del Rey.
Young ladies whose primary presentation is pretty much equal parts love and lament, melodic and melancholic, romantic and regretful.
In other words, a whole lotta angst goin' on.
Which is just fine and dandy, thank you, because, let's face it, there's only so much Michael Buble' one can absorb before the blood sugar cries out for dark chocolate.
The core audience these young ladies has recruited will faithfully sway and swoon, if only internally, to the pretty pathos and the relatable ruminations, never burdened by the perspective of older listeners who will struggle, from time to time, with the continued conflict of hearing dark and dramatic "reflections on a life of heartbreaks" from someone who was in elementary school less than five years earlier.
But, hey, Bob Dylan was only, like, twelve when he was doling out the admonitions of changing times to people five times his age.
So, I say, you go, girls.
Atta way to articulate.
Oh, and as for the new word that came to life in my lobe?
I agreed, and chuckled, at the Yahoo writer's opening opine about the Lana D R's self image as a "gangsta Nancy Sinatra".
Which, frankly, is like calling yourself a "macho Adam Lambert."
But, I understand the spirit of what she's going for.
And I think she actually came pretty close to pegging it.
She was just off a tad.
Mses. Del Rey, Perri, Adele and assorted other prolific poetesses yet to ponder and present, may I suggest that "gangsta" is close, but no cigar.
Allow me.
Angsta.
Happy to help.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, John, Paul, George and Ringo!.."
Amidst the bargain jargon and super sale slang flying around like snow in a New England sky this time of year, there is a word, instantly evocative of the season, that tends to get lost in the shuffle.
At least, until the last lock on the last door of the last open store is finally clicked somewhere along the way Christmas Eve.
Joy.
As in "...to the world..."
I was reminded of that today in a place doing something you don't often associate with epiphanous holiday moments.
Walking the treadmill.
Listening to The Beatles.
One song, amidst a variety of songs by a variety of singers on the IPod, put there for their groove, feel, mood, etc, ostensibly to keep me feeling upbeat as I work out, tone up and slim down but which, in fact, simply, and thankfully, do me the service of distracting me long enough to exercise for thirty minutes without wanting to load the treadmill into the trunk and drop it off in some unwatched dumpster on my way to the nearest DQ.
Go for the burn, my ass.
Winter is all about blizzards, baby.
The kind that come with chunks of Oreo.
And, this time of year, candy canes.
So, as I kept up a nice 3.2 MPH pace to the dancing and dining sounds of Michael Jackson, Nickelback, The Kinks, Shawn Colvin, Adam Lambert and Tammy Wynette, among others (hey, I wasn't born buff, but nobody can say I wasn't born eclectic), along came John, Paul, George and Ringo.
And a song that invariably, even after almost fifty years, evokes a smile and a little lightening of the load.
In the strangest way, as well, it also triggered that little previously mentioned holiday epiphany.
Because it caused me to be reminded of something that's missing, in large measure, from both the holiday season...and the current popular music culture.
Joy.
Sure, many folks find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins showing up at Christmas time, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore?
And I'll spare you the diatribe about Black Friday madness and Christmas crazies and mall mental cases and let you reflect, yourself, on how buried or not, in all that sugar coated sludge, real laugh out loud joy there is in your holiday season.
Meanwhile, I realized, somewhere along the 26th minute of the 3.2 MPH as the Fab Four sang, that the same thing could be asked about pop music.
Sure, many people find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins in pop music, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore amidst the thump and the beat and the groove and the lyrics that either send a wave of angst washing over us like that big ass ocean wave that turned George Clooney and the gang upside down a few years back or so often imply, or simply offer upfront, the concept that we should "fuck like rabbits...and then maybe get to know each other"?
And just so the youngers don't leap to the tired old argument that my line of thinking is simply tired and old, understand this.
I'm not talking about morality.
Or hip quotient.
Or even cultural relatability.
I'm just talkin' about joy.
A feeling of delight and/or exuberance that comes without the baggage of angst or sexuality or social relevance or cultural connection?
And just makes you feel good...before, during and after.
With no buyer's remorse coated in a thin varnish of fear that you're going straight to Hell for drinking it, shaking it, making it and/or faking it.
And, truth be told, even The Beatles evolved fairly soon after into that next, more angst filled, phase.
But, while it lasted, this particular phase of artistic creation radiated pure joy.
And was a joy to hear.
The song has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.
But given the spirit that it evokes, I'm ready to make a pretty good case that it belongs right there on the Muzak with Rudolph, Frosty and the Holly Jolly of your own choosing.
Joy to the world...
...and I feel fine.
At least, until the last lock on the last door of the last open store is finally clicked somewhere along the way Christmas Eve.
Joy.
As in "...to the world..."
I was reminded of that today in a place doing something you don't often associate with epiphanous holiday moments.
Walking the treadmill.
Listening to The Beatles.
One song, amidst a variety of songs by a variety of singers on the IPod, put there for their groove, feel, mood, etc, ostensibly to keep me feeling upbeat as I work out, tone up and slim down but which, in fact, simply, and thankfully, do me the service of distracting me long enough to exercise for thirty minutes without wanting to load the treadmill into the trunk and drop it off in some unwatched dumpster on my way to the nearest DQ.
Go for the burn, my ass.
Winter is all about blizzards, baby.
The kind that come with chunks of Oreo.
And, this time of year, candy canes.
So, as I kept up a nice 3.2 MPH pace to the dancing and dining sounds of Michael Jackson, Nickelback, The Kinks, Shawn Colvin, Adam Lambert and Tammy Wynette, among others (hey, I wasn't born buff, but nobody can say I wasn't born eclectic), along came John, Paul, George and Ringo.
And a song that invariably, even after almost fifty years, evokes a smile and a little lightening of the load.
In the strangest way, as well, it also triggered that little previously mentioned holiday epiphany.
Because it caused me to be reminded of something that's missing, in large measure, from both the holiday season...and the current popular music culture.
Joy.
Sure, many folks find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins showing up at Christmas time, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore?
And I'll spare you the diatribe about Black Friday madness and Christmas crazies and mall mental cases and let you reflect, yourself, on how buried or not, in all that sugar coated sludge, real laugh out loud joy there is in your holiday season.
Meanwhile, I realized, somewhere along the 26th minute of the 3.2 MPH as the Fab Four sang, that the same thing could be asked about pop music.
Sure, many people find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins in pop music, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore amidst the thump and the beat and the groove and the lyrics that either send a wave of angst washing over us like that big ass ocean wave that turned George Clooney and the gang upside down a few years back or so often imply, or simply offer upfront, the concept that we should "fuck like rabbits...and then maybe get to know each other"?
And just so the youngers don't leap to the tired old argument that my line of thinking is simply tired and old, understand this.
I'm not talking about morality.
Or hip quotient.
Or even cultural relatability.
I'm just talkin' about joy.
A feeling of delight and/or exuberance that comes without the baggage of angst or sexuality or social relevance or cultural connection?
And just makes you feel good...before, during and after.
With no buyer's remorse coated in a thin varnish of fear that you're going straight to Hell for drinking it, shaking it, making it and/or faking it.
And, truth be told, even The Beatles evolved fairly soon after into that next, more angst filled, phase.
But, while it lasted, this particular phase of artistic creation radiated pure joy.
And was a joy to hear.
The song has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.
But given the spirit that it evokes, I'm ready to make a pretty good case that it belongs right there on the Muzak with Rudolph, Frosty and the Holly Jolly of your own choosing.
Joy to the world...
...and I feel fine.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
"...You Just Gotta Know That Somewhere Tonight, He's Wrapped Up In Some Lovin Arms..."
You're liable to hear a lot of "Drift Away" for the next day or two.
Dobie Gray has passed away.
When a celebrity dies, it's customary that whatever most identifies that celebrity for the public becomes, at least at first, that celebrity's media epitaph.
In Dobie's case, that would be "Drift Away."
Not too shabby, as epitaphs go.
But narrowing the focus on an amazing and diverse career that spanned five decades down to a single song might do the man proud but it hardly does him justice.
And while cliche' is always anathema to this word guy, it's only fair, and totally on target, to say that Dobie Gray truly was a one of a kind vocal talent.
In a culture that seems, sometimes, to pride itself on being the newest version of the current next big thing, Dobie was a singer who could not be mistaken for any other singer.
Even if you tried.
And while Dobie's career rebirth performance of Mentor Williams' amazing "Drift Away" deservedly belongs in the list of iconic pop songs, you're cheating yourself out of some wonderful discovery if you don't seek out his larger body of work including, but certainly not limited to, his seminal performance of Tom Jan's stunning "Lovin Arms".
Not to mention a little ditty from the hip and happening sixties that was, to Dobie, "I Was A Teenage Werewolf" was to a young Michael Landon, that which brought fame but, along with it, a latter day cringe factor of ten plus.
"The In Crowd".
As for this baby boomer, I was doubly blessed by Dobie Gray's time on the mortal coil.
First as a young fan of both that cheesy sixties stuff and the seventies rebirth that produced "Drift Away", et al.
Then in the early eighties as a friend and peer who was honored to be asked to sing backup with him on stage at the 1982 Volunteer Jam in Nashville.
That was quite a night on a couple of counts.
First, I had just, about two hours earlier, married the lady who was standing next to me in that backup group on stage, a wedding that Dobie was gracious enough to announce to the thousands in the hearty partying crowd jammed into the Municipal Auditorium.
Second, don't let anybody kid ya. Singing the high harmony part live on "Drift Away" ten feet from the star and in front of thousands of hearty party-ers and actually hitting the notes is no small feat.
You can't buy memories like that, I'm here to tell you.
And not to tarnish the tribute, but the irony isn't lost on me that today another Nashville name has been in the news.
John Rich was thrown off a Southwest jet because he was too drunk to act like a civilized human being, not the first time Rich has made headlines with one low rent incident or another.
The contrast is both pitiful and poignant.
Because Dobie Gray was not only a one of a kind vocal talent.
He was a class act.
Classy enough, in fact, to share only with friends and enthralled, honored, newly married back up singers that he couldn't stand doing "The In Crowd" while always graciously thanking those fans who said they loved it.
Including enthralled, honored, newly married back up singers.
So you're liable to hear a lot of "Drift Away" for the next day or two.
I suspect Dobie is just fine with that.
Dobie Gray has passed away.
When a celebrity dies, it's customary that whatever most identifies that celebrity for the public becomes, at least at first, that celebrity's media epitaph.
In Dobie's case, that would be "Drift Away."
Not too shabby, as epitaphs go.
But narrowing the focus on an amazing and diverse career that spanned five decades down to a single song might do the man proud but it hardly does him justice.
And while cliche' is always anathema to this word guy, it's only fair, and totally on target, to say that Dobie Gray truly was a one of a kind vocal talent.
In a culture that seems, sometimes, to pride itself on being the newest version of the current next big thing, Dobie was a singer who could not be mistaken for any other singer.
Even if you tried.
And while Dobie's career rebirth performance of Mentor Williams' amazing "Drift Away" deservedly belongs in the list of iconic pop songs, you're cheating yourself out of some wonderful discovery if you don't seek out his larger body of work including, but certainly not limited to, his seminal performance of Tom Jan's stunning "Lovin Arms".
Not to mention a little ditty from the hip and happening sixties that was, to Dobie, "I Was A Teenage Werewolf" was to a young Michael Landon, that which brought fame but, along with it, a latter day cringe factor of ten plus.
"The In Crowd".
As for this baby boomer, I was doubly blessed by Dobie Gray's time on the mortal coil.
First as a young fan of both that cheesy sixties stuff and the seventies rebirth that produced "Drift Away", et al.
Then in the early eighties as a friend and peer who was honored to be asked to sing backup with him on stage at the 1982 Volunteer Jam in Nashville.
That was quite a night on a couple of counts.
First, I had just, about two hours earlier, married the lady who was standing next to me in that backup group on stage, a wedding that Dobie was gracious enough to announce to the thousands in the hearty partying crowd jammed into the Municipal Auditorium.
Second, don't let anybody kid ya. Singing the high harmony part live on "Drift Away" ten feet from the star and in front of thousands of hearty party-ers and actually hitting the notes is no small feat.
You can't buy memories like that, I'm here to tell you.
And not to tarnish the tribute, but the irony isn't lost on me that today another Nashville name has been in the news.
John Rich was thrown off a Southwest jet because he was too drunk to act like a civilized human being, not the first time Rich has made headlines with one low rent incident or another.
The contrast is both pitiful and poignant.
Because Dobie Gray was not only a one of a kind vocal talent.
He was a class act.
Classy enough, in fact, to share only with friends and enthralled, honored, newly married back up singers that he couldn't stand doing "The In Crowd" while always graciously thanking those fans who said they loved it.
Including enthralled, honored, newly married back up singers.
So you're liable to hear a lot of "Drift Away" for the next day or two.
I suspect Dobie is just fine with that.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
"...It Came Upon A Midnight Clear Grasp Of The Obvious..."
Fair warning.I'm about to flip the switch on the machine marked "Shit Stir".
I believe in God.
I'm a work in progress, Jesus wise.
I think the whole "you can't say Christmas, you have to say holiday" crap is just that.
Crap.
The little neck hairs still stand when I hear the right voice at the right moment sing the amazing crescendo of the musical version of The Lord's Prayer.
And I still hold back tears when Sam Wainwright's telegram arrives and George Bailey and the Bailey Boys get bailed out on Christmas Eve.
That's right.
CHRISTMAS Eve.
Not Holiday Eve.
That said...
I don't appreciate being told that "Jesus is the reason for the season."
And not because I'm trying to proselytize in favor of any other viewpoint or belief.
The expression does not offend me spiritually, morally or theologically.
Necessarily.
Simply put, it insults my intelligence.
I've given it some thought, as you might, at this point have gathered, and I can't come up with a single phrase that more perfectly represents another tried and true expression.
Holier than thou.
My predisposition for inherant sardonicism notwithstanding, I passionately respect everyone's right to believe what they believe and their right to express that belief in a considerate fashion.
The key word in that sentence is "considerate".
For example...someone walks up to me and says...
"Merry Christmas...may God bless you and each of your loved ones in this season of celebrating the birth of His son, Jesus Christ."
What this tells me about them...
They agree with the whole "say Merry Christmas" thing.
They believe in God.
They are caring and loving people who wish good things for me and my family and friends.
They believe both in Jesus Christ and that He is the son of God.
And they do all of that without mussing a single hair on the head of my personal beliefs, whatever they may be.
Now...someone walks up to me and says...
"...remember....Jesus is the reason for the season..!"
What this tells me about them...
They couldn't care less what I think or believe and feel the need to talk to me as if I'm a five year old in need of being reminded to brush my teeth before I go to bed.
Not to mention they are fair weather friends.
Where the hell are they the rest of the year?
..on Valentine's Day...."it's cause of Cupid, stupid..."
..on President's Day..."get down with Abe, babe..."
..at Easter..."it ain't about the bunny, honey..."
..on July 4..."we ditched the Brits, twit.."
...at Thanksgiving..."the bird, bird, bird, the bird's the word..."
I'm a pretty smart little camper and I learned a long time ago that religion and politics were the two things in life that seem to have been designed to seperate rather than bring us together.
And by this point, you're likely either entertained, amused...
Or offended.
Whatever.
I would never presume to tell you how you should feel about what I believe.
Nor would I presume to tell you what you should believe.
Nor would I risk offending you at a joyous and loving time of year by giving you the impression that I think you're stupid or, God forbid, need me to preach at you that..
...you should do unto others as you would have others do unto you...
...you shouldn't take the name of the Lord thy God in vain....
oh...and that...
Jesus is the reason for the season.
Merry Christmas...
...for Christ's sake...
Saturday, December 3, 2011
"...When It Comes To Love, Was A Time When Only The Insights Were Penetrating..."
Oversimplification is a slippery slope.
And not being much of a climber in the first place, I'm disinclined to attempt any ascent.
That said, I found what John Blake had to say in an article written for CNN.com to be both simplistic and spot on.
The premise, that contemporary black music has replaced romance with rawness, innuendo with intercourse, is, by any reasonable measure, a valid one.
And while one generation's romance is often perceived by preceding generations as rawness, I don't think there's any getting around some starkly sociological observations that Blake makes.
Some excerpts...
"...Listening to black music today is depressing. Songs on today's urban radio playlists are drained of romance, tenderness and seduction. And it's not just about the rise of hardcore hip-hop or rappers who denigrate women.
Black people gave the world Motown, Barry White and "Let's Get It On." But we don't make love songs anymore.
Why?..."
"...Earth Wind & Fire keyboardist and founding member Larry Dunn says a new generation of black artists is more cynical because more come from broken homes and broken communities..."
"...Crack cocaine decimated black communities in the 1980s. The blue-collar jobs that gave many black families a foothold in the middle class began to disappear. Desegregation split the black community. Those with money and education moved to the suburbs. The ones left behind became more isolated.
Today, we have a black first family, but our own families are collapsing. A 2009 study from the Institute for American Values and the National Center on African American Marriages and Parenting at Hampton University in Virginia highlights the erosion.
The study found that while 70.3% of all black adults were married in 1970, that rate dropped to 39.6% by 2008. The study also showed that while 37.6% of black births were to unmarried parents in 1970, that figure soared to 71.6% by 2008.
Our music became as grim as those statistics. Singing about love now seems outdated...."
"...Something else also happened: Black people became more narcissistic, and so did our love songs.
There's been a lot written about the narcissism of young Americans. They don't want to pay their dues. They are self-absorbed -- tweeting, texting, posting asides on Facebook -- and they are constantly immersed in their private worlds.
This self-absorption has seeped into contemporary black love songs.
One of R&B's most popular current hits is "Quickie" by Miguel, who declares, "I don't wanna be loved. I want a quickie."
There's nothing wrong with singing about sex. Few songs are as sexually charged as Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On." And few singers can evoke bedroom heat like Al Green. But black men don't even bother to romance women in love songs anymore, says Kimberly Hines, editor-in-chief of SoulBounce, an online progressive urban music site.
Consider a recent Valentine's Day song by popular artist Chris Brown called "No Bull S**t," in which he sings about inviting a woman over to his place at 3 in the morning because "you know I'm horny."
Then he sings to her to take off her clothes because "you already know what time it is" and orders her to "reach up in that dresser where them condoms is...."
"...A recent study of Billboard hits confirms the notion that wooing a woman is disappearing from modern R&B.
Psychology professor Gordon Gallup Jr. and student Dawn Hobbs studied the subject matter of the 174 songs that made the Billboard Top 10 in 2009. They analyzed three musical genres among the top-selling songs: R&B, country and pop.
The researchers at the University at Albany in New York found that R&B contained the most references to sex per song (an average of 16 sex-related phrases per song). The top three sexual themes in R&B songs were the singer's sex appeal, the singer's wealth as it relates to finding a partner, and descriptions of sex acts. A total of 19 song themes were examined.
The least-popular theme in R&B music was "courtship," while country music offered more songs about courtship than any other genre, the study said.
Music critic Ollison says men and women have objectified each other in modern R&B and whine "about not getting what they felt they deserved."
"It's a shame, because our desires don't change and we still want to be loved and open to someone, but the music we're sharing doesn't evoke it," Ollison says. "It's not about sharing. It's very narcissistic, sort of look at me...."
"...That narcissism hasn't just seeped into the songwriting. It's infected the process of recording R&B love songs, as well.
During the classic soul era of the '60s, '70s and '80s, making records was a communal experience. It was a time of great bands. Think of the album covers from that era -- they were crowded with musicians.
The ability to play well -- and with others -- was expected. But how many contemporary R&B artists can actually sing, write or play instruments?
Dunn, of Earth Wind & Fire, says he was playing professional engagements every day of the week by the time he was 15. There was only one prerequisite for being in a band.
"You had to play your butt off," he says.
"I got into music for one reason, and all the guys I knew did for the same reason. We wanted to be the best we could be. We didn't know you got paid. We were too young to be tripping on women. We didn't know what the bling-bling was."
What made the classic R&B love songs great wasn't just the singing or the lyrics. It was the music. The wicked groove the drummer and bassist unleash on Barry White's "Never Gonna' Give You Up," Dunn's jazzy keyboard riffs on "Reasons," the bittersweet saxophone accompaniment on Billy Paul's "Me and Mrs. Jones" -- it all still sounds good.
That musical depth is missing from contemporary R&B love songs. Funding for music programs has been cut from many schools, so kids often don't grow up learning how to play instruments.
Any wannabe singer with a mediocre voice can now sit home in his or her underwear and eat Doritos while cutting a song on a computer and post it on the Internet the next day.
"A lot of producers just do everything by computer and knock that song out. Musicians have gotten checked out of the equation...."
"...Toby Walker, creator of the soul music site Soulwalking, says many contemporary R&B artists can produce great love songs by changing the way they make music.
"These performers would hugely benefit by leaving the stilettos, makeup, mobile phones and management behind them, putting on a T-shirt and jeans, and retiring for a couple of months someplace with some real musicians, real instruments, and a recording studio," Walker says.
Some people may say it's not important if we stop singing about love, but I'm not so sure.
Black music isn't just for black folks; it's America's music. It's been that way for years. Black musicians who played the blues inspired rockers like Elvis Presley and the Rolling Stones; contemporary hip-hop artists have as many white fans as black listeners.
What happens when millions of young listeners -- regardless of color -- learn about intimacy from songs that reduce love to reaching "up in that dresser where them condoms is"?
And what happens to black people if we can't sing about love?
Whenever I see a black couple doting on their children in public, I want to throw a ticker-tape parade. I know so few blacks who are married. How do we build families and raise children if we can't even stay together?
Music was never just about entertainment in the black community. It was about hope. From the spirituals that slaves sang to survive brutal racism to civil rights anthems like "We Shall Overcome," love of God, self and one another was the message in much of our music.
I wonder where a new generation will go to hear those songs that talk about striving and love.
I wonder if they will even know enough about their past to ask.
Where is the love?..."
Some months ago, I wrote a piece regarding the Enrique Iglesias club hit, "Tonight, I'm Lovin' You", a song which came in two versions, the second, less air played but, inevitably more club played, of the two being "Tonight, I'm F***in' You".
That piece can be found here...http://scottedwardphelps.blogspot.com/2011/03/this-just-ina-long-thought-lost.html
My two cents, at the time, was that, regardless of any accusations of old fart fogey-ism, the blase' acceptance, not to mention enthusiastic endorsement, of the vaginal version was, at best, a sad commentary on the willingness, even desire, of young women in the culture to let themselves be reduced to little more than receptacles for the nearest erection.
And while I stand by my own original assertion, that oversimplifying something is risky business when coming to legitimate terms with that something, there remains a fine, yet visible, line between oversimplification and simple truth.
If popular music continues to be a reflection of the times in which it is created then any lawyer worth their salt could easily convince twelve reasonable people of a simple truth.
The heart of black music has been relocated to its crotch.
And, regardless of how hip, happening and/or hot it might be, that's more than just a little sad.
It's just that simple.
And not being much of a climber in the first place, I'm disinclined to attempt any ascent.
That said, I found what John Blake had to say in an article written for CNN.com to be both simplistic and spot on.
The premise, that contemporary black music has replaced romance with rawness, innuendo with intercourse, is, by any reasonable measure, a valid one.
And while one generation's romance is often perceived by preceding generations as rawness, I don't think there's any getting around some starkly sociological observations that Blake makes.
Some excerpts...
"...Listening to black music today is depressing. Songs on today's urban radio playlists are drained of romance, tenderness and seduction. And it's not just about the rise of hardcore hip-hop or rappers who denigrate women.
Black people gave the world Motown, Barry White and "Let's Get It On." But we don't make love songs anymore.
Why?..."
"...Earth Wind & Fire keyboardist and founding member Larry Dunn says a new generation of black artists is more cynical because more come from broken homes and broken communities..."
"...Crack cocaine decimated black communities in the 1980s. The blue-collar jobs that gave many black families a foothold in the middle class began to disappear. Desegregation split the black community. Those with money and education moved to the suburbs. The ones left behind became more isolated.
Today, we have a black first family, but our own families are collapsing. A 2009 study from the Institute for American Values and the National Center on African American Marriages and Parenting at Hampton University in Virginia highlights the erosion.
The study found that while 70.3% of all black adults were married in 1970, that rate dropped to 39.6% by 2008. The study also showed that while 37.6% of black births were to unmarried parents in 1970, that figure soared to 71.6% by 2008.
Our music became as grim as those statistics. Singing about love now seems outdated...."
"...Something else also happened: Black people became more narcissistic, and so did our love songs.
There's been a lot written about the narcissism of young Americans. They don't want to pay their dues. They are self-absorbed -- tweeting, texting, posting asides on Facebook -- and they are constantly immersed in their private worlds.
This self-absorption has seeped into contemporary black love songs.
One of R&B's most popular current hits is "Quickie" by Miguel, who declares, "I don't wanna be loved. I want a quickie."
There's nothing wrong with singing about sex. Few songs are as sexually charged as Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On." And few singers can evoke bedroom heat like Al Green. But black men don't even bother to romance women in love songs anymore, says Kimberly Hines, editor-in-chief of SoulBounce, an online progressive urban music site.
Consider a recent Valentine's Day song by popular artist Chris Brown called "No Bull S**t," in which he sings about inviting a woman over to his place at 3 in the morning because "you know I'm horny."
Then he sings to her to take off her clothes because "you already know what time it is" and orders her to "reach up in that dresser where them condoms is...."
"...A recent study of Billboard hits confirms the notion that wooing a woman is disappearing from modern R&B.
Psychology professor Gordon Gallup Jr. and student Dawn Hobbs studied the subject matter of the 174 songs that made the Billboard Top 10 in 2009. They analyzed three musical genres among the top-selling songs: R&B, country and pop.
The researchers at the University at Albany in New York found that R&B contained the most references to sex per song (an average of 16 sex-related phrases per song). The top three sexual themes in R&B songs were the singer's sex appeal, the singer's wealth as it relates to finding a partner, and descriptions of sex acts. A total of 19 song themes were examined.
The least-popular theme in R&B music was "courtship," while country music offered more songs about courtship than any other genre, the study said.
Music critic Ollison says men and women have objectified each other in modern R&B and whine "about not getting what they felt they deserved."
"It's a shame, because our desires don't change and we still want to be loved and open to someone, but the music we're sharing doesn't evoke it," Ollison says. "It's not about sharing. It's very narcissistic, sort of look at me...."
"...That narcissism hasn't just seeped into the songwriting. It's infected the process of recording R&B love songs, as well.
During the classic soul era of the '60s, '70s and '80s, making records was a communal experience. It was a time of great bands. Think of the album covers from that era -- they were crowded with musicians.
The ability to play well -- and with others -- was expected. But how many contemporary R&B artists can actually sing, write or play instruments?
Dunn, of Earth Wind & Fire, says he was playing professional engagements every day of the week by the time he was 15. There was only one prerequisite for being in a band.
"You had to play your butt off," he says.
"I got into music for one reason, and all the guys I knew did for the same reason. We wanted to be the best we could be. We didn't know you got paid. We were too young to be tripping on women. We didn't know what the bling-bling was."
What made the classic R&B love songs great wasn't just the singing or the lyrics. It was the music. The wicked groove the drummer and bassist unleash on Barry White's "Never Gonna' Give You Up," Dunn's jazzy keyboard riffs on "Reasons," the bittersweet saxophone accompaniment on Billy Paul's "Me and Mrs. Jones" -- it all still sounds good.
That musical depth is missing from contemporary R&B love songs. Funding for music programs has been cut from many schools, so kids often don't grow up learning how to play instruments.
Any wannabe singer with a mediocre voice can now sit home in his or her underwear and eat Doritos while cutting a song on a computer and post it on the Internet the next day.
"A lot of producers just do everything by computer and knock that song out. Musicians have gotten checked out of the equation...."
"...Toby Walker, creator of the soul music site Soulwalking, says many contemporary R&B artists can produce great love songs by changing the way they make music.
"These performers would hugely benefit by leaving the stilettos, makeup, mobile phones and management behind them, putting on a T-shirt and jeans, and retiring for a couple of months someplace with some real musicians, real instruments, and a recording studio," Walker says.
Some people may say it's not important if we stop singing about love, but I'm not so sure.
Black music isn't just for black folks; it's America's music. It's been that way for years. Black musicians who played the blues inspired rockers like Elvis Presley and the Rolling Stones; contemporary hip-hop artists have as many white fans as black listeners.
What happens when millions of young listeners -- regardless of color -- learn about intimacy from songs that reduce love to reaching "up in that dresser where them condoms is"?
And what happens to black people if we can't sing about love?
Whenever I see a black couple doting on their children in public, I want to throw a ticker-tape parade. I know so few blacks who are married. How do we build families and raise children if we can't even stay together?
Music was never just about entertainment in the black community. It was about hope. From the spirituals that slaves sang to survive brutal racism to civil rights anthems like "We Shall Overcome," love of God, self and one another was the message in much of our music.
I wonder where a new generation will go to hear those songs that talk about striving and love.
I wonder if they will even know enough about their past to ask.
Where is the love?..."
Some months ago, I wrote a piece regarding the Enrique Iglesias club hit, "Tonight, I'm Lovin' You", a song which came in two versions, the second, less air played but, inevitably more club played, of the two being "Tonight, I'm F***in' You".
That piece can be found here...http://scottedwardphelps.blogspot.com/2011/03/this-just-ina-long-thought-lost.html
My two cents, at the time, was that, regardless of any accusations of old fart fogey-ism, the blase' acceptance, not to mention enthusiastic endorsement, of the vaginal version was, at best, a sad commentary on the willingness, even desire, of young women in the culture to let themselves be reduced to little more than receptacles for the nearest erection.
And while I stand by my own original assertion, that oversimplifying something is risky business when coming to legitimate terms with that something, there remains a fine, yet visible, line between oversimplification and simple truth.
If popular music continues to be a reflection of the times in which it is created then any lawyer worth their salt could easily convince twelve reasonable people of a simple truth.
The heart of black music has been relocated to its crotch.
And, regardless of how hip, happening and/or hot it might be, that's more than just a little sad.
It's just that simple.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
"...It's HAnson...As In HA HA HA..."
Don't let anybody kid you.
Singers and songwriters can be funny mofos.
Case in point.
The pop singing, songwriting brothers Hanson.
Check it out, from Rolling Stone.com.
Hanson are prepping the launch of MMMHop, their own brand of beer. The squeaky-clean pop trio hope to make the brew, an India Pale Ale, available to fans sometime in early 2012.
"We of course make records, they are fundamental to what we do, but we wanted to create a brand so that our fans have a greater experience," Zac Hanson told reporters at Oxford University Union in Oxford, England on Monday, justifying the new project. "What is vital is that Hanson merchandise is quality and not made solely with the purpose of profit."
"We have a board game and even a record player to play our last record on, but we will never make dolls, lunch boxes or toothbrushes that play our songs, for example. It's vital our fans have trust in everything Hanson do," says Hanson. "In fact, we are soon going to be selling our own beer, I'm not even joking. MMMHop IPA, anyone?"
I'm the last person in the world to begrudge anyone the right to avail themselves of the opportunities offered by the glorious system known as free enterprise.
And if Hanson wants to bottle and peddle brewsky, I think we can all agree it's their prerogative.
What makes this funny isn't the prerogative.
It's the posturing.
..."What is vital is that Hanson merchandise is quality and not made solely with the purpose of profit."
"We have a board game and even a record player to play our last record on, but we will never make dolls, lunch boxes or toothbrushes that play our songs, for example. It's vital our fans have trust in everything Hanson do,"...
On behalf of a grateful nation, boys, may I be the first to thank you for your courageous and unwavering dedication to principle.
Because in a world filled with dolls, lunch boxes and toothbrushes bearing the likeness of celebrities of all ilk, nothing says integrity like board games, record players...
...and beer.
In fact, I suspect that somewhere, reading his copy of the current Rolling Stone, noted entrepreneurial mastermind, Sir Paul McCartney is kicking himself in the ass for not having thought that one up decades ago.
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Lager", anyone?
Singers and songwriters can be funny mofos.
Case in point.
The pop singing, songwriting brothers Hanson.
Check it out, from Rolling Stone.com.
Hanson are prepping the launch of MMMHop, their own brand of beer. The squeaky-clean pop trio hope to make the brew, an India Pale Ale, available to fans sometime in early 2012.
"We of course make records, they are fundamental to what we do, but we wanted to create a brand so that our fans have a greater experience," Zac Hanson told reporters at Oxford University Union in Oxford, England on Monday, justifying the new project. "What is vital is that Hanson merchandise is quality and not made solely with the purpose of profit."
"We have a board game and even a record player to play our last record on, but we will never make dolls, lunch boxes or toothbrushes that play our songs, for example. It's vital our fans have trust in everything Hanson do," says Hanson. "In fact, we are soon going to be selling our own beer, I'm not even joking. MMMHop IPA, anyone?"
I'm the last person in the world to begrudge anyone the right to avail themselves of the opportunities offered by the glorious system known as free enterprise.
And if Hanson wants to bottle and peddle brewsky, I think we can all agree it's their prerogative.
What makes this funny isn't the prerogative.
It's the posturing.
..."What is vital is that Hanson merchandise is quality and not made solely with the purpose of profit."
"We have a board game and even a record player to play our last record on, but we will never make dolls, lunch boxes or toothbrushes that play our songs, for example. It's vital our fans have trust in everything Hanson do,"...
On behalf of a grateful nation, boys, may I be the first to thank you for your courageous and unwavering dedication to principle.
Because in a world filled with dolls, lunch boxes and toothbrushes bearing the likeness of celebrities of all ilk, nothing says integrity like board games, record players...
...and beer.
In fact, I suspect that somewhere, reading his copy of the current Rolling Stone, noted entrepreneurial mastermind, Sir Paul McCartney is kicking himself in the ass for not having thought that one up decades ago.
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Lager", anyone?
Monday, November 7, 2011
"...Treasure In The Key Of M.D...."
Never been much for shopping.
It has to do, I think, with my primary hard wiring.
Or, more accurately, my male DNA.
Because I've said for years, on air, and off, that guys aren't predisposed to what seems like wasted hours of wandering around looking for things that we may or may not buy.
Put simply, women shop.
Men go get.
That said, I do have an understanding of one facet of the shopping dynamic.
Those moments when you unexpectedly discover, amongst the various and sundry same old same old stacked, spread or strewn throughout the display table, a genuine find.
As with pretty much everything else, I don't, owing to my gender, shop for music, either.
I usually know what I want and just go get it.
But, missing mall wandering genes notwithstanding, I know a find when I see one.
Or hear one.
Suzie Brown is a find.
It has to do, I think, with my primary hard wiring.
Or, more accurately, my male DNA.
Because I've said for years, on air, and off, that guys aren't predisposed to what seems like wasted hours of wandering around looking for things that we may or may not buy.
Put simply, women shop.
Men go get.
That said, I do have an understanding of one facet of the shopping dynamic.
Those moments when you unexpectedly discover, amongst the various and sundry same old same old stacked, spread or strewn throughout the display table, a genuine find.
As with pretty much everything else, I don't, owing to my gender, shop for music, either.
I usually know what I want and just go get it.
But, missing mall wandering genes notwithstanding, I know a find when I see one.
Or hear one.
Suzie Brown is a find.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
"...There Is Nothing Like A..."
Tough week for lovers of the written word.
Totally cool week for lovers of the written word who have already shuffled off the mortal coil.
First, Andy Rooney.
Now, Patsi Bale Cox.
National news being what it is, you have no doubt come across Andy's name and the news of his passing at least a couple of times in the past day or so.
News of Patsi's passing, not so much.
And it's no dig intended at Mr. Rooney and his remarkable life to say that, if there any justice, Patsi's name would be popping up on CNN in equal measure just about now.
Because, like Rooney but with a style all her own, Patsi Bale Cox was a class act.
In a culture, and world, that can use all the class acts it can find.
This particular class act, though, was more a regional and local hero, as opposed to a national one.
So, lengthy obits, like lengthy bios, will be in short supply in Patsi's case.
Here's, at least, a link to her profile on Blogger to give you just a look at the tip of the iceberg that was this feisty fraulein.
http://www.blogger.com/profile/14953553987881154972
Ironically, though I lived and worked in Nashville for twenty plus years, I didn't "meet" Patsi until we connected as Facebook friends a year or two ago. And while it would be stretching the term to call us pen pals, we did, on more than one occasion, trade winks and uh-huhs.
And, having gotten to know her and more of her work, it was always a source of pride when I posted this yada or that yada on the FB page and, at some point shortly thereafter, returned to find a "Patsi Bale Cox likes this".
Because when it comes to having someone assess your own work, it's one thing to be appreciated by people in general, another thing to be appreciated by people you know and like...
...and an entirely different thing to be appreciated by people who's own work you admire, respect and, yes, every now and then, even envy.
I feel pretty sure that a mainstream media that thinks anything named Kardashian still qualifies as "breaking news" isn't going to do much in the way of uploading news of Patsi Bale Cox's remarkable life.
So, as mentioned earlier, obits will be short supply.
And while it would be, admittedly, presumptuous to attempt to fill that gap, I feel like Patsi might appreciate it if she knew that, upon hearing of her passing today, I suddenly thought of Delores Landingham.
The fictional executive secretary of the fictional President Jed Bartlet in the long running "The West Wing".
At the end of season two, Mrs. Landingham, as she was always both affectionately and respectfully addressed died suddenly.
And at the end of a moving service in a beautiful cathedral filled with friends, family and admirers, Leo McGarry, White House chief of staff, walked quietly to the front of the church, where Bartlet stood, alone in his thoughts of a caring, compassionate, crusty soul who had been a behind the scenes essential part of so many lives for such a long time.
Gently, but assuredly, with a smile only the knowing possess, McGarry looked at his own life long friend and said it all.
"...she was a real dame, old friend...a real broad..."
Presumptuous or not, I hope "Patsi Bale Cox likes this"....
Totally cool week for lovers of the written word who have already shuffled off the mortal coil.
First, Andy Rooney.
Now, Patsi Bale Cox.
National news being what it is, you have no doubt come across Andy's name and the news of his passing at least a couple of times in the past day or so.
News of Patsi's passing, not so much.
And it's no dig intended at Mr. Rooney and his remarkable life to say that, if there any justice, Patsi's name would be popping up on CNN in equal measure just about now.
Because, like Rooney but with a style all her own, Patsi Bale Cox was a class act.
In a culture, and world, that can use all the class acts it can find.
This particular class act, though, was more a regional and local hero, as opposed to a national one.
So, lengthy obits, like lengthy bios, will be in short supply in Patsi's case.
Here's, at least, a link to her profile on Blogger to give you just a look at the tip of the iceberg that was this feisty fraulein.
http://www.blogger.com/profile/14953553987881154972
Ironically, though I lived and worked in Nashville for twenty plus years, I didn't "meet" Patsi until we connected as Facebook friends a year or two ago. And while it would be stretching the term to call us pen pals, we did, on more than one occasion, trade winks and uh-huhs.
And, having gotten to know her and more of her work, it was always a source of pride when I posted this yada or that yada on the FB page and, at some point shortly thereafter, returned to find a "Patsi Bale Cox likes this".
Because when it comes to having someone assess your own work, it's one thing to be appreciated by people in general, another thing to be appreciated by people you know and like...
...and an entirely different thing to be appreciated by people who's own work you admire, respect and, yes, every now and then, even envy.
I feel pretty sure that a mainstream media that thinks anything named Kardashian still qualifies as "breaking news" isn't going to do much in the way of uploading news of Patsi Bale Cox's remarkable life.
So, as mentioned earlier, obits will be short supply.
And while it would be, admittedly, presumptuous to attempt to fill that gap, I feel like Patsi might appreciate it if she knew that, upon hearing of her passing today, I suddenly thought of Delores Landingham.
The fictional executive secretary of the fictional President Jed Bartlet in the long running "The West Wing".
At the end of season two, Mrs. Landingham, as she was always both affectionately and respectfully addressed died suddenly.
And at the end of a moving service in a beautiful cathedral filled with friends, family and admirers, Leo McGarry, White House chief of staff, walked quietly to the front of the church, where Bartlet stood, alone in his thoughts of a caring, compassionate, crusty soul who had been a behind the scenes essential part of so many lives for such a long time.
Gently, but assuredly, with a smile only the knowing possess, McGarry looked at his own life long friend and said it all.
"...she was a real dame, old friend...a real broad..."
Presumptuous or not, I hope "Patsi Bale Cox likes this"....
Saturday, November 5, 2011
"...This Just In...Country and Pop Find Common Ground...And...Grant Is Buried In Grant's Tomb..."
For more than twenty years, Nashville was home.
But it wasn't necessary for me to have had a 615 area code on my resume to know what I know.
And what I know, you'll know in a minute or two.
(CNN) -- There's a standing joke that if you play a country song backward, the singer gets re-hired, wins back his girl, finds whatever he's lost, quits crying and leaves the bar.
Employed, happily married and sober? Doesn't sound much like America these days.
Authenticity is what defines country music, says Karla Lawson, a morning host for Nashville's WSIX country radio station.
"It's so real and accessible and down-to-earth and relatable," she says. "It's really the most honest music out there."
The Country Music Association's 45th annual awards show airs live on Wednesday, November 9, at 8 p.m. on ABC. The show consistently ranks in the top four among the most-watched awards shows on television, alongside the Oscars, Grammys and Golden Globes, says CMA media relations director Scott Stem.
Joining favorites like Rascal Flatts and Kenny Chesney on stage this year will be rock singer Grace Potter, pop artist Natasha Bedingfield and Motown mogul Lionel Richie, who has an upcoming country duets album called "Tuskegee."
"Country as a genre has changed ... and the audience has reflected that," Lawson says.
To be fair, country music's popularity has been on a steady incline for more than 20 years, Billboard country chart manager Wade Jessen says.
Singers like Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood broke down the barrier between plaid and pleather in the early 1990s. Even if you weren't stompin' your boots just yet, you were probably secretly humming Shania Twain's "I Feel Like a Woman," Billy Ray Cryus' "Achy Breaky Heart," or Faith Hill's "This Kiss."
The list of artists who have gone country since then is lengthy: Kid Rock, Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi, Uncle Kracker, Hootie & the Blowfish's Darius Rucker, Jewel -- even Jessica Simpson. But if the last year has shown us anything, it's that America's gone a little bit country and a little less rock 'n' roll. As Brantley Gilbert sings, "Country must be country-wide."
Things really heated up in late 2010, when viewers tuned in to watch actress Gwyneth Paltrow make her live singing debut with "Country Strong" at the CMAs. Then Justin Bieber sent a million tweens into a frenzy when he announced that he'd be teaming up with country group Rascal Flatts to record a duet in 2011.
In February, Lady Antebellum swept the Grammys, winning record of the year and song of the year. In March, Lady Gaga put out a country version of her single "Born This Way" (although I have to say, Little Big Town did it better).
Even "Footloose," originally pure '80s pop, got in on the action. The movie was country-fied in its 2011 remake. Blake Shelton sang the movie's theme song and was joined on the soundtrack by country artists Zac Brown, Big & Rich, Jana Kramer, Ella Mae Bowen and more. Shelton has invited Kenny Loggins -- the original "Footloose" singer -- to perform with him at the CMAs.
But wait, the roundup is not done yet. The first three national anthem singers at the World Series were country artists: "American Idol" winner Scotty McCreery, Trace Adkins and Ronnie Dunn (of the former Brooks and Dunn). Bieber added a song featuring The Band Perry to his new Christmas album. Jason Aldean and Lady Gaga were the first artists announced for the Grammy nominations concert.
Oh yeah, and Adele wants in on the country action as well.
The 23-year-old reportedly plans to go country for her next album, saying discovering American country musicians was "like (being) a 4-year-old in a candy shop who's discovering sweets again."
CMA's Stem isn't surprised. "I always claim that everyone likes country music -- they just don't want to admit it," he says with a laugh.
Artists like Taylor Swift have certainly added a "hip" factor to the country music industry. But it's the stories and the soul that keeps fans coming back, Stem says.
"We are a very real-life music, based on real-life experiences. Who among us hasn't had our hearts broken? Who hasn't lost a loved one, found love or not gotten the job we wanted? It covers (everything from) the sad to the happy to the silly."
Now that sounds more like America.
Now, as promised, here's what I know.
The rise in popularity of country music, at least the country music defined these days as country music, is, in large part, less about the music than the missing.
And what's missing is pop music.
Today, there really is no such thing.
The top forty chart, traditionally the home of pop songs and singers, today largely consists of hip-hop, dance and/or other "groove" and/or ethnic work. Musically tending to focus on singular beats and/or often monotonous melodies, lyrically tending to limit itself to primal intentions and/or odes to the joys of club life.
And while there are a few, occasional glints of more "traditional" pop sounds, those glints tend to be limited to singer/songwriters who specialize in the always young crowd pleasing angst approach (Christina Perri, Adele, et al).
Put simply, if regrettably old fart fogey-ishly, there ain't a Beatle or Byrd or even an Elvis anywhere in sight in present day pop music.
Country music, meanwhile, has welcomed the homeless with open arms.
And turned country music, for good or ill depending on your age and/or regional affiliation, into the freshly painted home of pop.
Not convinced?
Consider this.
Country music, for generations, was a subset of popular music, featuring rural values, hillbilly musicianship and singers who were as at home on a stage fashioned from a flatbed truck as they were pushing a shopping cart up and down the aisles of the local Piggly Wiggly.
For those same generations, country music's biggest stars had names like Hank...and Patsy...and Kitty...and Buck...and Loretta...and Merle.
Even in more recent years, the core of country was made up of plain spoken, fried chicken preferring, God fearing folks like Alan...and George...and Tammy...and Reba.
Not an Elton or Mariah or Whitney or even Madonna in sight.
Eventually, pop found a hole in the fence and wandered over more than just a little east of California and a little west of Philly, Detroit and all the other ancestral homes of top forty sounds and singers.
Not so much because of wanderlust as much finding themselves with nowhere else to go.
Their traditional stomping ground had been become a haven for hip hopsters, a den of dancers and a cacophony of club dwellers.
In the cultural sense, at least, there went the neighborhood.
And Nashville, having, for years, already had a discreet welcome mat out for rock and roll (Elvis cut many of his hits there, various Beatles, Stones, Monkees, etc also availed themselves of the world class studios and musicians)simply came out of the musical closet and replaced the discreet welcome mat with a big ol' billboard.
Welcome to Nashville. Music City, USA.
Nothing in that slogan restricting the welcome to country music.
And because pop and country managed to share space in the same spirit peanut butter found with chocolate, the evolution revolution was on.
So much so that, often, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
Because for every Blake, Trace, Miranda and Dierks, there's a Carrie, Keith, Taylor and Lady A.
All of whom are about as down home, corn pone country as I am.
The premise of the CNN article, that the "country" has suddenly "discovered" country music is, essentially, silly.
Mainstream media has simply discovered that the two have been sleeping together for a while now.
But it wasn't necessary for me to have had a 615 area code on my resume to know what I know.
And what I know, you'll know in a minute or two.
(CNN) -- There's a standing joke that if you play a country song backward, the singer gets re-hired, wins back his girl, finds whatever he's lost, quits crying and leaves the bar.
Employed, happily married and sober? Doesn't sound much like America these days.
Authenticity is what defines country music, says Karla Lawson, a morning host for Nashville's WSIX country radio station.
"It's so real and accessible and down-to-earth and relatable," she says. "It's really the most honest music out there."
The Country Music Association's 45th annual awards show airs live on Wednesday, November 9, at 8 p.m. on ABC. The show consistently ranks in the top four among the most-watched awards shows on television, alongside the Oscars, Grammys and Golden Globes, says CMA media relations director Scott Stem.
Joining favorites like Rascal Flatts and Kenny Chesney on stage this year will be rock singer Grace Potter, pop artist Natasha Bedingfield and Motown mogul Lionel Richie, who has an upcoming country duets album called "Tuskegee."
"Country as a genre has changed ... and the audience has reflected that," Lawson says.
To be fair, country music's popularity has been on a steady incline for more than 20 years, Billboard country chart manager Wade Jessen says.
Singers like Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood broke down the barrier between plaid and pleather in the early 1990s. Even if you weren't stompin' your boots just yet, you were probably secretly humming Shania Twain's "I Feel Like a Woman," Billy Ray Cryus' "Achy Breaky Heart," or Faith Hill's "This Kiss."
The list of artists who have gone country since then is lengthy: Kid Rock, Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi, Uncle Kracker, Hootie & the Blowfish's Darius Rucker, Jewel -- even Jessica Simpson. But if the last year has shown us anything, it's that America's gone a little bit country and a little less rock 'n' roll. As Brantley Gilbert sings, "Country must be country-wide."
Things really heated up in late 2010, when viewers tuned in to watch actress Gwyneth Paltrow make her live singing debut with "Country Strong" at the CMAs. Then Justin Bieber sent a million tweens into a frenzy when he announced that he'd be teaming up with country group Rascal Flatts to record a duet in 2011.
In February, Lady Antebellum swept the Grammys, winning record of the year and song of the year. In March, Lady Gaga put out a country version of her single "Born This Way" (although I have to say, Little Big Town did it better).
Even "Footloose," originally pure '80s pop, got in on the action. The movie was country-fied in its 2011 remake. Blake Shelton sang the movie's theme song and was joined on the soundtrack by country artists Zac Brown, Big & Rich, Jana Kramer, Ella Mae Bowen and more. Shelton has invited Kenny Loggins -- the original "Footloose" singer -- to perform with him at the CMAs.
But wait, the roundup is not done yet. The first three national anthem singers at the World Series were country artists: "American Idol" winner Scotty McCreery, Trace Adkins and Ronnie Dunn (of the former Brooks and Dunn). Bieber added a song featuring The Band Perry to his new Christmas album. Jason Aldean and Lady Gaga were the first artists announced for the Grammy nominations concert.
Oh yeah, and Adele wants in on the country action as well.
The 23-year-old reportedly plans to go country for her next album, saying discovering American country musicians was "like (being) a 4-year-old in a candy shop who's discovering sweets again."
CMA's Stem isn't surprised. "I always claim that everyone likes country music -- they just don't want to admit it," he says with a laugh.
Artists like Taylor Swift have certainly added a "hip" factor to the country music industry. But it's the stories and the soul that keeps fans coming back, Stem says.
"We are a very real-life music, based on real-life experiences. Who among us hasn't had our hearts broken? Who hasn't lost a loved one, found love or not gotten the job we wanted? It covers (everything from) the sad to the happy to the silly."
Now that sounds more like America.
Now, as promised, here's what I know.
The rise in popularity of country music, at least the country music defined these days as country music, is, in large part, less about the music than the missing.
And what's missing is pop music.
Today, there really is no such thing.
The top forty chart, traditionally the home of pop songs and singers, today largely consists of hip-hop, dance and/or other "groove" and/or ethnic work. Musically tending to focus on singular beats and/or often monotonous melodies, lyrically tending to limit itself to primal intentions and/or odes to the joys of club life.
And while there are a few, occasional glints of more "traditional" pop sounds, those glints tend to be limited to singer/songwriters who specialize in the always young crowd pleasing angst approach (Christina Perri, Adele, et al).
Put simply, if regrettably old fart fogey-ishly, there ain't a Beatle or Byrd or even an Elvis anywhere in sight in present day pop music.
Country music, meanwhile, has welcomed the homeless with open arms.
And turned country music, for good or ill depending on your age and/or regional affiliation, into the freshly painted home of pop.
Not convinced?
Consider this.
Country music, for generations, was a subset of popular music, featuring rural values, hillbilly musicianship and singers who were as at home on a stage fashioned from a flatbed truck as they were pushing a shopping cart up and down the aisles of the local Piggly Wiggly.
For those same generations, country music's biggest stars had names like Hank...and Patsy...and Kitty...and Buck...and Loretta...and Merle.
Even in more recent years, the core of country was made up of plain spoken, fried chicken preferring, God fearing folks like Alan...and George...and Tammy...and Reba.
Not an Elton or Mariah or Whitney or even Madonna in sight.
Eventually, pop found a hole in the fence and wandered over more than just a little east of California and a little west of Philly, Detroit and all the other ancestral homes of top forty sounds and singers.
Not so much because of wanderlust as much finding themselves with nowhere else to go.
Their traditional stomping ground had been become a haven for hip hopsters, a den of dancers and a cacophony of club dwellers.
In the cultural sense, at least, there went the neighborhood.
And Nashville, having, for years, already had a discreet welcome mat out for rock and roll (Elvis cut many of his hits there, various Beatles, Stones, Monkees, etc also availed themselves of the world class studios and musicians)simply came out of the musical closet and replaced the discreet welcome mat with a big ol' billboard.
Welcome to Nashville. Music City, USA.
Nothing in that slogan restricting the welcome to country music.
And because pop and country managed to share space in the same spirit peanut butter found with chocolate, the evolution revolution was on.
So much so that, often, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
Because for every Blake, Trace, Miranda and Dierks, there's a Carrie, Keith, Taylor and Lady A.
All of whom are about as down home, corn pone country as I am.
The premise of the CNN article, that the "country" has suddenly "discovered" country music is, essentially, silly.
Mainstream media has simply discovered that the two have been sleeping together for a while now.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
"...Stubbornly Gripping The Past Is The Same Thing As Grasping At Straws..."
First, the lay of the land.
Then a little behind the lay observation.
(EW.com) Terrestrial radio is often taken for granted as a free thing that is always around and always will be, and even though most of it is invariably not very good, it’s a comforting curiosity to see how it varies from city to city any time you find yourself driving late at night in a rental car far from home.
There are always left-of-the-dial curiosities to be found and strange, static-filled discoveries to be made, even amidst the standardized pop, hip-hop, and classic-rock playlists. And for artists, there was the ever-present chance that a DJ could fall in love with a song and help it break out on a national level.
Though those playlists are carefully controlled and closely adhered to, there was typically enough room for variation to allow for some surprises in between spins of the latest Rihanna single or the umpteenth play of “Moves Like Jagger.”
Those days may be gone for good, though, with the recent moves made by Clear Channel, the country’s largest radio company and controller of roughly 850 radio stations. The company laid off hundreds of local DJs late last week, further cutting into one of the few things their 600-ish small market stations had going for them: Their inherent connection to the cities and towns they spring from.
ClearChannel’s plan is to eventually move away from local programming altogether and consolidate stations with the aid of syndicated national shows that will operate off a centrally-devised playlist that is market-tested to death (and, let’s face it, far more susceptible to payola or other shady radio dealings that still go on even though nobody ever talks about them), free of much (if any) deviation and completely devoid of local flavor.
You could fill hundreds of terrible stand-up comedy routines with the complaints about local radio DJs — especially the borderline-psychotic morning show zoo crews — but the charm of those personalities was often rooted in the fact that they belonged to the area they were broadcasting to.
They hung out at the same bars, reacted to the same news, drove on the same roads in the traffic reports, listened to the same bands who came around to play the station’s festival at the local raceway. It wasn’t always charming, but it was distinct, and those shows were often a comforting entry point in the entertainment world of any given city.
The music will suffer, too. Playlists are already hammered out in boardrooms and have become much more limited and streamlined for the sake of advertising dollars, and with centralized programming having to serve a handful of distinct markets, there will be even less wiggle room than there is now. Local acts won’t be able to get on the air at all, all but the most heavily-marketed indie groups will be turned away, and even second-tier major label artists will have a tough time breaking in.
Sure, there’s satellite radio and the entirety of the Internet, so music discovery will still be available via other avenues, but there are still a lot of people with limited time and resources who depend on their local terrestrial station to let them know what’s happening in the music world.
Here in New York, local radio stations aren’t as big a deal (there’s not really a car culture, which plays heavily into radio listenership). But growing up in suburban Connecticut, my local radio stations were my entry point into the greater music world. Even though the modern rock station that emanated from Hartford had a pretty sturdy regular playlist, there was always room for more underground stuff (in fact, sometimes entire programming blocks devoted to under-heard and local music).
I distinctly remember first hearing songs on the radio that became instant obsessions and went on to become huge hits. Obviously, people stopped relying on other people to curate their music for them about 10 years ago, but there was something to be said for having some educated guidance (which is likely part of the reason you come to websites like this in the first place).
ClearChannel is clearly in trouble, as the New York Times reports that they are carrying nearly $20 billion in debt. They are also reporting that most all of the syndicated programming that has replaced local shows has done better ratings, so if people want to hear the centralized shows, it’s hard to stand in the way of the numbers.
The fact that terrestrial radio is changing this dramatically, while distressing to some listeners and most radio industry folks, should really, in the clear light of day or dial, come as no surprise.
Put simply, if not compassionately, time marches on.
And just as eight track tape players gave way to cassette players that gave way to CD's that gave way to MP3's, so, too, has conventional radio reached a nadir of sorts.
And, again, put simply, if not compassionately, while terrestrial radio may continue to be, in some measure, useful, it is no longer essential.
Sentiment and affection for anachronisms notwithstanding, the plain, unvarnished truth is that, with the advance of communicative technology, radio offers nothing that cannot be acquired, and in many cases easily acquired, elsewhere.
Time? Temperature?
Look up, or down, from wherever you are reading these words and there's a 99% chance there is a computer screen or smartphone or, even, a wall or desk clock in your line of sight that offers both current, hours, minutes and degrees, Fahrenheit, Celsius, et al.
Current weather conditions and/or weather forecasts, alerts, etc?
Read the preceding paragraph that starts "look up, or down....".
Current events, national, regional or even local?
Again, Google, via your desktop, laptop or smart phone at your immediate beck and call without that pesky wait for either a break between songs or the end of the endless blather by an on air personality or personalities in love with the sound of his, her or their own voices.
And speaking of songs...?
Hundreds of places to find them. Thousands of songs in each and every one of those places.
While Clear Channel's mass elimination of hundreds of radio jobs in one fell swoop certainly makes for high drama and it's always regrettable when people lose their livelihoods, the act itself is no more insidious than was the once upon a time laying off of hundreds of workers in the eight track tape player factory.
That annoying time marching on thing again.
And, bet the transmitter, that this is only the tip of the FCC regulated iceberg.
If these observations seem uncaring or even glib, please be assured that's not the intention.
I have a lot of highly respected peers, associates and friends who were working in radio last week and are looking for a job this one.
But, I, like many of those peers, associates and friends, have been talking, for a goodly while now, about where the industry was and, more importantly, where it was headed.
And, it's not like desktops, laptops and smartphones were just invented yesterday and threw the broadcast world a sucker punch from out of nowhere.
It is an unwritten, but undeniable, axiom in business, pretty much all business, that you're either "growin' or you're goin'".
And not to metaphor the issue to death, but the end result of building a broadcast career in the year 2011 out of straw as opposed to brick was, and is, inevitable...and upon us.
For talented broadcasters, staff and management and owners who have a clear grasp of the obvious and a willingness to relinquish their grasp on the good old days, the future is filled with remarkable opportunities.
Syndicated programming. Internet programming. Podcasting.
Just the tip of a new, and potentially lucrative, iceberg.
And, for now anyway, still relatively free of a lot of those cumbersome and costly FCC regulations.
Meanwhile, those who either won't, or can't, find a way to accept that it simply is no longer 1974 and "ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN MINUTES OF BACK TO BACK TO BACK HITS ALONG WITH ALL THE LATEST WEATHER CONDITIONS,ALERTS, TIME, TEMPERATURE AND ENDLESS YAMMERING BY THESE FORTY YEAR RADIO PEOPLE WHO ARE IN LOVE WITH THE SOUND OF THEIR OWN VOICES ONLY ON YOUR STATION FOR THE MOST MUSIC, NEWS, WEATHER, SPORTS, CURRENT EVENTS AND ENDLESS YAMMERING, ROCK ONE OH SEVEN!!" doesn't matter anymore, the harsh light of day...and dial...will reveal the obvious...and inevitable.
That it will, as the prevailing winds are telling us, fall on deaf ears.
Then a little behind the lay observation.
(EW.com) Terrestrial radio is often taken for granted as a free thing that is always around and always will be, and even though most of it is invariably not very good, it’s a comforting curiosity to see how it varies from city to city any time you find yourself driving late at night in a rental car far from home.
There are always left-of-the-dial curiosities to be found and strange, static-filled discoveries to be made, even amidst the standardized pop, hip-hop, and classic-rock playlists. And for artists, there was the ever-present chance that a DJ could fall in love with a song and help it break out on a national level.
Though those playlists are carefully controlled and closely adhered to, there was typically enough room for variation to allow for some surprises in between spins of the latest Rihanna single or the umpteenth play of “Moves Like Jagger.”
Those days may be gone for good, though, with the recent moves made by Clear Channel, the country’s largest radio company and controller of roughly 850 radio stations. The company laid off hundreds of local DJs late last week, further cutting into one of the few things their 600-ish small market stations had going for them: Their inherent connection to the cities and towns they spring from.
ClearChannel’s plan is to eventually move away from local programming altogether and consolidate stations with the aid of syndicated national shows that will operate off a centrally-devised playlist that is market-tested to death (and, let’s face it, far more susceptible to payola or other shady radio dealings that still go on even though nobody ever talks about them), free of much (if any) deviation and completely devoid of local flavor.
You could fill hundreds of terrible stand-up comedy routines with the complaints about local radio DJs — especially the borderline-psychotic morning show zoo crews — but the charm of those personalities was often rooted in the fact that they belonged to the area they were broadcasting to.
They hung out at the same bars, reacted to the same news, drove on the same roads in the traffic reports, listened to the same bands who came around to play the station’s festival at the local raceway. It wasn’t always charming, but it was distinct, and those shows were often a comforting entry point in the entertainment world of any given city.
The music will suffer, too. Playlists are already hammered out in boardrooms and have become much more limited and streamlined for the sake of advertising dollars, and with centralized programming having to serve a handful of distinct markets, there will be even less wiggle room than there is now. Local acts won’t be able to get on the air at all, all but the most heavily-marketed indie groups will be turned away, and even second-tier major label artists will have a tough time breaking in.
Sure, there’s satellite radio and the entirety of the Internet, so music discovery will still be available via other avenues, but there are still a lot of people with limited time and resources who depend on their local terrestrial station to let them know what’s happening in the music world.
Here in New York, local radio stations aren’t as big a deal (there’s not really a car culture, which plays heavily into radio listenership). But growing up in suburban Connecticut, my local radio stations were my entry point into the greater music world. Even though the modern rock station that emanated from Hartford had a pretty sturdy regular playlist, there was always room for more underground stuff (in fact, sometimes entire programming blocks devoted to under-heard and local music).
I distinctly remember first hearing songs on the radio that became instant obsessions and went on to become huge hits. Obviously, people stopped relying on other people to curate their music for them about 10 years ago, but there was something to be said for having some educated guidance (which is likely part of the reason you come to websites like this in the first place).
ClearChannel is clearly in trouble, as the New York Times reports that they are carrying nearly $20 billion in debt. They are also reporting that most all of the syndicated programming that has replaced local shows has done better ratings, so if people want to hear the centralized shows, it’s hard to stand in the way of the numbers.
The fact that terrestrial radio is changing this dramatically, while distressing to some listeners and most radio industry folks, should really, in the clear light of day or dial, come as no surprise.
Put simply, if not compassionately, time marches on.
And just as eight track tape players gave way to cassette players that gave way to CD's that gave way to MP3's, so, too, has conventional radio reached a nadir of sorts.
And, again, put simply, if not compassionately, while terrestrial radio may continue to be, in some measure, useful, it is no longer essential.
Sentiment and affection for anachronisms notwithstanding, the plain, unvarnished truth is that, with the advance of communicative technology, radio offers nothing that cannot be acquired, and in many cases easily acquired, elsewhere.
Time? Temperature?
Look up, or down, from wherever you are reading these words and there's a 99% chance there is a computer screen or smartphone or, even, a wall or desk clock in your line of sight that offers both current, hours, minutes and degrees, Fahrenheit, Celsius, et al.
Current weather conditions and/or weather forecasts, alerts, etc?
Read the preceding paragraph that starts "look up, or down....".
Current events, national, regional or even local?
Again, Google, via your desktop, laptop or smart phone at your immediate beck and call without that pesky wait for either a break between songs or the end of the endless blather by an on air personality or personalities in love with the sound of his, her or their own voices.
And speaking of songs...?
Hundreds of places to find them. Thousands of songs in each and every one of those places.
While Clear Channel's mass elimination of hundreds of radio jobs in one fell swoop certainly makes for high drama and it's always regrettable when people lose their livelihoods, the act itself is no more insidious than was the once upon a time laying off of hundreds of workers in the eight track tape player factory.
That annoying time marching on thing again.
And, bet the transmitter, that this is only the tip of the FCC regulated iceberg.
If these observations seem uncaring or even glib, please be assured that's not the intention.
I have a lot of highly respected peers, associates and friends who were working in radio last week and are looking for a job this one.
But, I, like many of those peers, associates and friends, have been talking, for a goodly while now, about where the industry was and, more importantly, where it was headed.
And, it's not like desktops, laptops and smartphones were just invented yesterday and threw the broadcast world a sucker punch from out of nowhere.
It is an unwritten, but undeniable, axiom in business, pretty much all business, that you're either "growin' or you're goin'".
And not to metaphor the issue to death, but the end result of building a broadcast career in the year 2011 out of straw as opposed to brick was, and is, inevitable...and upon us.
For talented broadcasters, staff and management and owners who have a clear grasp of the obvious and a willingness to relinquish their grasp on the good old days, the future is filled with remarkable opportunities.
Syndicated programming. Internet programming. Podcasting.
Just the tip of a new, and potentially lucrative, iceberg.
And, for now anyway, still relatively free of a lot of those cumbersome and costly FCC regulations.
Meanwhile, those who either won't, or can't, find a way to accept that it simply is no longer 1974 and "ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN MINUTES OF BACK TO BACK TO BACK HITS ALONG WITH ALL THE LATEST WEATHER CONDITIONS,ALERTS, TIME, TEMPERATURE AND ENDLESS YAMMERING BY THESE FORTY YEAR RADIO PEOPLE WHO ARE IN LOVE WITH THE SOUND OF THEIR OWN VOICES ONLY ON YOUR STATION FOR THE MOST MUSIC, NEWS, WEATHER, SPORTS, CURRENT EVENTS AND ENDLESS YAMMERING, ROCK ONE OH SEVEN!!" doesn't matter anymore, the harsh light of day...and dial...will reveal the obvious...and inevitable.
That it will, as the prevailing winds are telling us, fall on deaf ears.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
"...In This Case, They Doth Protest Just Enough..."
Only two things sure, it is said.
Death and taxes.
I'd suggest there's, at least, a third.
There really is no such thing as new.
Semantic distinctions and splitting of hairs notwithstanding, pretty much everything that is, or even has yet to be, is, if researched to the core, merely an evolution of, or variation on, a theme long ago discovered and/or created.
That observation is, of course, fair game for discussion and debate.
But let's save that for another, more existential moment.
Nickelback has, what I think is, a very cool song out now.
Give it a spin, cats and kitties....
Now, regardless of your philosophical predilections, there can be no denying that this piece is as catchy as all giddyup.
But, when you listen past the groove, the beat ripe for tapping of toes and/or fingers and the hey-ay-ay-ay-yeah daring you not sing along and zero in on the lyric, you discover that nestled amongst the aforementioned groove, beat and sing along, like an overlooked Cadbury egg in a gnarl of green plastic grass, is a lyric that can without much convincing be described as "protest".
As in "protesting the shortcomings of society and the cultural implications of said shortcomings, ad nauseum, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all".
So to speak.
And although this song is moving up the airplay charts only at a pace that a fairly alert snail could best, I've been featuring it on my radio show because, like I said, it's catchy as all giddyup.
Protest is profound.
But catchy is cool.
And, in that light, this song qualifies as being both profound and cool.
But not new.
Nigh on fifty years ago, 1962 to be exact, an industry respected, but little known publicly, folk singer named Malvina Reynolds wrote a song lamenting the, then new, nasty habit of atmospheric nuclear testing.
And, in a beautifully poetic fashion, highlighted the potential damage possible to the air we breathe and the rain we danced in from the fallout created by the nuking.
Two years later, in the midst of the British Invasion, The Searchers (of "Love Potion Number Nine" fame) recorded a version of Malvina's song in 1964 Mersey beat/orchestrated style.
It was never a "hit" hit, making it to the top twenty in the UK and the top twenty in the USA.
But it was then, and remains now, a remarkable version of a remarkable piece of work.
Profound.
And catchy as all giddyup.
Death and taxes.
I'd suggest there's, at least, a third.
There really is no such thing as new.
Semantic distinctions and splitting of hairs notwithstanding, pretty much everything that is, or even has yet to be, is, if researched to the core, merely an evolution of, or variation on, a theme long ago discovered and/or created.
That observation is, of course, fair game for discussion and debate.
But let's save that for another, more existential moment.
Nickelback has, what I think is, a very cool song out now.
Give it a spin, cats and kitties....
Now, regardless of your philosophical predilections, there can be no denying that this piece is as catchy as all giddyup.
But, when you listen past the groove, the beat ripe for tapping of toes and/or fingers and the hey-ay-ay-ay-yeah daring you not sing along and zero in on the lyric, you discover that nestled amongst the aforementioned groove, beat and sing along, like an overlooked Cadbury egg in a gnarl of green plastic grass, is a lyric that can without much convincing be described as "protest".
As in "protesting the shortcomings of society and the cultural implications of said shortcomings, ad nauseum, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all".
So to speak.
And although this song is moving up the airplay charts only at a pace that a fairly alert snail could best, I've been featuring it on my radio show because, like I said, it's catchy as all giddyup.
Protest is profound.
But catchy is cool.
And, in that light, this song qualifies as being both profound and cool.
But not new.
Nigh on fifty years ago, 1962 to be exact, an industry respected, but little known publicly, folk singer named Malvina Reynolds wrote a song lamenting the, then new, nasty habit of atmospheric nuclear testing.
And, in a beautifully poetic fashion, highlighted the potential damage possible to the air we breathe and the rain we danced in from the fallout created by the nuking.
Two years later, in the midst of the British Invasion, The Searchers (of "Love Potion Number Nine" fame) recorded a version of Malvina's song in 1964 Mersey beat/orchestrated style.
It was never a "hit" hit, making it to the top twenty in the UK and the top twenty in the USA.
But it was then, and remains now, a remarkable version of a remarkable piece of work.
Profound.
And catchy as all giddyup.
"...Somebody Heard Them Sing and Said...'Man, That Was Righteous, Brother'...Voila! A Duo Was Born..."
A picture is reputed to be worth a thousand words.
A song, on the other hand, can conjure up a thousand pictures.
Do the math.
This song, along with the thousand plus images conjured, has not only a timeless sound but more than just a few facts coming along for the ride.
It was co-written and produced by Phil Spector whose 50's and 60's pop genius was later overshadowed by his unfortunate habit of playing with loaded guns.
Although the song was recorded by The Righteous Brothers, the focus, and bulk, of the presentation is the baritone work of Brother Bill Medley (later to find further fame and fortune musically helping keep Baby out of the corner, with the assistance of Jennifer Warnes, on "(I've Had) The Time Of My Life" from "Dirty Dancing".)
One of the backup singers on "Lovin Feelin" was a young protege', and later singing partner and wife, of Phil Spector's then A&R guy, Salvatore Bono.
Cher.
And because, in the day, it was believed that a ballad that ran almost four minutes (actual time, 3:45) would never make it past the program director's desk to the station turntables, Spector solved the issue by simply having the label printed 3:05, instead.
And if all of that don't make you wanna close your eyes anymore when he/she kisses your lips, try this on...
As of 1999, the original 1964 Righteous Brothers version of this song has been documented by BMI (Broadcast Music, Inc) as the song that has been played more on radio and/or television than any other song in the 20th Century.
It is, quite simply, a love, a love, a love, a love you don't find every day.
And it was meant to be heard, now and forever, on a turntable at 45RPM.
Like this...
A song, on the other hand, can conjure up a thousand pictures.
Do the math.
This song, along with the thousand plus images conjured, has not only a timeless sound but more than just a few facts coming along for the ride.
It was co-written and produced by Phil Spector whose 50's and 60's pop genius was later overshadowed by his unfortunate habit of playing with loaded guns.
Although the song was recorded by The Righteous Brothers, the focus, and bulk, of the presentation is the baritone work of Brother Bill Medley (later to find further fame and fortune musically helping keep Baby out of the corner, with the assistance of Jennifer Warnes, on "(I've Had) The Time Of My Life" from "Dirty Dancing".)
One of the backup singers on "Lovin Feelin" was a young protege', and later singing partner and wife, of Phil Spector's then A&R guy, Salvatore Bono.
Cher.
And because, in the day, it was believed that a ballad that ran almost four minutes (actual time, 3:45) would never make it past the program director's desk to the station turntables, Spector solved the issue by simply having the label printed 3:05, instead.
And if all of that don't make you wanna close your eyes anymore when he/she kisses your lips, try this on...
As of 1999, the original 1964 Righteous Brothers version of this song has been documented by BMI (Broadcast Music, Inc) as the song that has been played more on radio and/or television than any other song in the 20th Century.
It is, quite simply, a love, a love, a love, a love you don't find every day.
And it was meant to be heard, now and forever, on a turntable at 45RPM.
Like this...
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
"...Let's Go To The Judges...Now, There's The Real Amateur Hour...."
Being on radio every morning requires certain knowledge.
What's happening and who it's happening to, for example.
For that reason, I am aware of what's been going on this season on Dancing With The Stars.
And even though I've done more than my share of lampooning the celebrity value of the "stars" this last couple of seasons, I've also been pretty vocal about how, in the end, it takes a lot of guts to get up in front of millions of people each week and do that.
All of that said, as I've often said, I don't watch the show.
And while I really do admire (and probably live vicariously though) those folks with the aforementioned guts, I've never made watching the actual show a habit.
For a long time, I just assumed, when I gave it any thought, my lack of watching was the result of having something else to do or watch at the time.
This week I realized why I don't watch the show.
The judges.
Not the judging.
The judges.
Back in a minute.
(CBS) After Chaz Bono's difficult tango to the "Phantom of the Opera" on Monday night, his mom got upset. Very upset. Perhaps she will be relieved that her boy - whose astoundingly equitable personality had been a fine feature of the competition - was finally voted off Tuesday by the grouchy grannies at home.
Monday night, Cher had tweeted in reference to judge Bruno Tonioli's criticisms of her son: "I COULD TEACH HIS LITTLE ARM WAVING ASS SOME MANNERS! Critique CHAZ'S DANCE STYLE, MOVEMENTS ETC,.BUT DON'T MAKE FUN OF MY CHILD ON NAT.TV."
No mom wants to hear her boy referred to with the words: "It was like watching a cute little penguin trying to be a big menacing bird of prey." This had, indeed, been the description Tonioli had offered.
In truth, Bono has clearly been in physical pain, as well as some emotional anguish, as the judges continued to offer him love tougher than any seen in "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre."
This show is clearly cruelty for beauty's sake. These poor people are like beagles who are being held captive in order to test mascara or lipstick. Well, except that the beagles don't get paid.
It was left to Martina McBride to offer a little balance by standing quietly on stage and singing a song about how tough it is when you get cancer. Then, we focused on Bono's pain.
"If you're an overweight woman in this competition losing weight they love you," moaned Cher's boy. "But if you're a overweight guy trying to do this competition and getting in shape, they penalize you for it and call you a penguin."
Some might feel he had a point. No one can joke about overweight women, other than the women themselves. The roly-polyness of men seems to be fair game.
Bono wasn't finished. He felt that Tonioli made him feel like "a fat troll who dances with this beautiful woman every week."
Social networking has created a fascinating world.
A world in which I find myself totally in agreement with, of all people, Cher.
If this program intends to be an authentic competition, with the accompanying good sportsmanship that any reasonable person (read: grownup who doesn't feel the need to be the class clown every week), producers would be well advised to take one of two courses of action.
Either tell the judges to offer their expert, professionally and respectfully offered, critique of the dance techniques and presentations of the competitors and stop trying to "make cute/clever" with what almost ends up being condescension and ridicules disguised as "wit".
Or show these three sitting down wanna be stand-ups the door and find three judges who can keep the low blow bullshit to themselves.
Every single contestant who gives their time, and vulnerability, to this program deserves the respect of being treated with respect.
Yes, even Nancy Grace.
And, yes, if she ever did the show, Kim Kardashian, too.
Chaz Bono, as of last night, simply didn't dance well enough to earn the points necessary to remain in the contest.
But having to endure the patronizing, gratuitous and insulting comments made by the three "experts" who judge that contest in their candy ass attempts to be "funny" demeans not only the contestants, but the spirit of sportsmanship.
Come to think of it, forget the first of the two options.
Show Tonioli the door.
If I want sincerely and unhurtfully ethnic funny, I've got years of Ricky Ricardo available on DVD.
What's happening and who it's happening to, for example.
For that reason, I am aware of what's been going on this season on Dancing With The Stars.
And even though I've done more than my share of lampooning the celebrity value of the "stars" this last couple of seasons, I've also been pretty vocal about how, in the end, it takes a lot of guts to get up in front of millions of people each week and do that.
All of that said, as I've often said, I don't watch the show.
And while I really do admire (and probably live vicariously though) those folks with the aforementioned guts, I've never made watching the actual show a habit.
For a long time, I just assumed, when I gave it any thought, my lack of watching was the result of having something else to do or watch at the time.
This week I realized why I don't watch the show.
The judges.
Not the judging.
The judges.
Back in a minute.
(CBS) After Chaz Bono's difficult tango to the "Phantom of the Opera" on Monday night, his mom got upset. Very upset. Perhaps she will be relieved that her boy - whose astoundingly equitable personality had been a fine feature of the competition - was finally voted off Tuesday by the grouchy grannies at home.
Monday night, Cher had tweeted in reference to judge Bruno Tonioli's criticisms of her son: "I COULD TEACH HIS LITTLE ARM WAVING ASS SOME MANNERS! Critique CHAZ'S DANCE STYLE, MOVEMENTS ETC,.BUT DON'T MAKE FUN OF MY CHILD ON NAT.TV."
No mom wants to hear her boy referred to with the words: "It was like watching a cute little penguin trying to be a big menacing bird of prey." This had, indeed, been the description Tonioli had offered.
In truth, Bono has clearly been in physical pain, as well as some emotional anguish, as the judges continued to offer him love tougher than any seen in "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre."
This show is clearly cruelty for beauty's sake. These poor people are like beagles who are being held captive in order to test mascara or lipstick. Well, except that the beagles don't get paid.
It was left to Martina McBride to offer a little balance by standing quietly on stage and singing a song about how tough it is when you get cancer. Then, we focused on Bono's pain.
"If you're an overweight woman in this competition losing weight they love you," moaned Cher's boy. "But if you're a overweight guy trying to do this competition and getting in shape, they penalize you for it and call you a penguin."
Some might feel he had a point. No one can joke about overweight women, other than the women themselves. The roly-polyness of men seems to be fair game.
Bono wasn't finished. He felt that Tonioli made him feel like "a fat troll who dances with this beautiful woman every week."
Social networking has created a fascinating world.
A world in which I find myself totally in agreement with, of all people, Cher.
If this program intends to be an authentic competition, with the accompanying good sportsmanship that any reasonable person (read: grownup who doesn't feel the need to be the class clown every week), producers would be well advised to take one of two courses of action.
Either tell the judges to offer their expert, professionally and respectfully offered, critique of the dance techniques and presentations of the competitors and stop trying to "make cute/clever" with what almost ends up being condescension and ridicules disguised as "wit".
Or show these three sitting down wanna be stand-ups the door and find three judges who can keep the low blow bullshit to themselves.
Every single contestant who gives their time, and vulnerability, to this program deserves the respect of being treated with respect.
Yes, even Nancy Grace.
And, yes, if she ever did the show, Kim Kardashian, too.
Chaz Bono, as of last night, simply didn't dance well enough to earn the points necessary to remain in the contest.
But having to endure the patronizing, gratuitous and insulting comments made by the three "experts" who judge that contest in their candy ass attempts to be "funny" demeans not only the contestants, but the spirit of sportsmanship.
Come to think of it, forget the first of the two options.
Show Tonioli the door.
If I want sincerely and unhurtfully ethnic funny, I've got years of Ricky Ricardo available on DVD.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
"....Chances Are, This Is What We Get For Constantly Telling Our Kids to 'Grow Up'..."
Listen.
Here that?
It's the sound of envelopes being pushed.
Take a look/listen.
I'll be right here when you get back.
http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/--223419387
Music being the subjective little scamp it is, I'll take a pass on climbing the slippery slope of offering up any critique here.
You either like this or you don't.
Are offended by it or not.
Will ban your kids from it or not.
Good luck on that, by the way.
I'll offer you simply this.
In another place, in another time, in a completely different context, I think Nicolas Cage called it.
"...well...it ain't Ozzie and Harriet..."
Here that?
It's the sound of envelopes being pushed.
Take a look/listen.
I'll be right here when you get back.
http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/--223419387
Music being the subjective little scamp it is, I'll take a pass on climbing the slippery slope of offering up any critique here.
You either like this or you don't.
Are offended by it or not.
Will ban your kids from it or not.
Good luck on that, by the way.
I'll offer you simply this.
In another place, in another time, in a completely different context, I think Nicolas Cage called it.
"...well...it ain't Ozzie and Harriet..."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
"...Another By The Numbers Country CD?....Hey, It's Independence Day, Pal..."
One sure sign that country music has become part of the mainstream consciousness.
The big budget, nationally syndicated puff piece.
To wit...
(CNN) -- For a good part of her career, Martina McBride's success has largely been due to relying on Nashville songwriters and approaching arrangements in a pop-country fashion.
While hits like "Wild Angels," "A Broken Wing" and "Wrong Again" solidified her position as country radio royalty, McBride's shaking things up these days. She's ditched both of those early crutches and now is exploring writing on her own and injecting a more roots-oriented sound into her instrumentation.
Such is the case with "Eleven," McBride's 11th studio album, which drops today. These days, she's working with new management, has a new label in Republic Nashville and wrote six of the 11 songs that appear on her latest project
As the 45-year-old singer soldiers on, what about this moment inspired change, and how's her own songwriting coming along? CNN spoke with McBride recently as she was prepping for a concert in Minot, North Dakota.
CNN: "Eleven" comes with a lot of professional changes. Why is this?
Martina McBride: You know, sometimes it's just time to shake things up a little bit. When you've been at a certain place and management for 18 years, I just felt like I really need someone around me with some fresh ideas, some new passion and energy.
CNN: As female country musicians age these days, are there pressures to stay youthful? How does one age gracefully in Nashville?
McBride: Oh, I think the same way you age gracefully anywhere else. Females have always had more of a focus on the way they look. No matter what business your in, if you're in the public eye -- whether you're an actor or a rock musician or even head of a corporation, it's always been that way. You just try ... I don't know, I try not to focus on it. I'm still the same voice I had before, and I still have a lot to say.
CNN: "Eleven" was largely written by you -- something you've taken on recently. What's your writing process like?
McBride: It's different every time. Sometimes I'll have an idea or a title. ... I'm still growing as a writer.
One thing I think I bring to the table is having a certain type of lyric, in that I want the song to feel honest and real. I don't do it 365 days a year, so I'm fresh. I also don't know a lot of the rules, which is probably a good thing. For me, it's still about discovery. I'm still in the stage of writing that I'm discovering, getting confidence as a writer and that I do have some talent for it. It's a good discovery at this stage of the game.
CNN: And sometimes songwriters who start out at 20, by 30 they feel like they're all tapped out.
McBride: I grew up admiring Linda Ronstadt, Pat Benatar, Reba (McEntire). I didn't really grow up enamored only with singer-songwriters.
When I moved to Nashville, it wasn't a big deal for me just to find songs by great writers and make them my own. But what I really found with this record was that it's so nice to not have to wait for someone to write something. Obviously, I love every record I've made, but I feel like this record is more authentic to me. I don't know. It's different than just singing a song after it's already been written. I'm excited about that.
CNN: On "Eleven" the first single's called "Teenage Daughters," which is about the trouble they can cause. Did you give your parents any heart attacks growing up?
McBride: Oh, oh, yeah. So far, my daughter is much better than me. I grew up on a farm in really rural Kansas, where there was nothing to do. Out of boredom, the activities we found to do, weren't exactly the best for my parents to go through. But I think the song's about -- the teenage experience and wanting that independence and rebelling against the rule is so common, no matter where you are in the world.
CNN: It seems harder these days to be a teenager.
McBride: It's different. They have a lot of peer pressure. We all did, but they have a cavalier attitude about things. They don't have the same caution about certain things and are more like "whatever, it's not that big a deal."
CNN: You were associated with the pop-country movement of the '90s, but listening to "Eleven" and looking at your recent output, it doesn't seem like you're interested in that anymore.
McBride: It's interesting that you say that. I don't know if I ever stood out to make a particular type of record. Before, I was so dependent on the songs I found and the songs that came in. I was drawn to certain types of songs but I didn't have the luxury of waiting around for years and years. I had a vision of "Eleven" being more organic, more retro, like a '70s rock record. It is less pop.
CNN: On the Grammys, you performed a tribute to Aretha Franklin with Christina Aguilera, Florence Welch, Jennifer Hudson and Yolanda Adams. Are there aspects of pop and rock these days you find intriguing?
McBride: I love Train's new record. And I love One Republic's record. My daughter's really into the Avett Brothers and Mumford & Sons, so I've been listening to them recently. That's a whole new type of thing; I don't know what you'd call that.
Now, let's understand each other here.
Martina McBride is a very nice lady.
And the work that she has done since her graduation from Garth T Shirt kiosk manager to fledgling country pop singer nigh on twenty years ago is deserving of any and all accolades to date and to come.
But, and not that it matters in the grand scheme of things, the premise of these whole "artist finding themselves" articles is disingenuous.
Primarily because it overlooks, or avoids, something inherent in the resume of any popular performer who has reached the place in their careers where they are setting out on that "finding themselves" path.
That, in the beginning of their career, they would have recorded, released and promoted the hell out of the phone book if they thought it would get them notice, airplay and/or any of the attentions that are critical if that career is going to live to a ripe old age.
Jump on the Google and look up, for example, Martina's first album, "The Time Has Come".
You'll find some very nicely performed, right off the Music City assembly line, cookie cutter country pop songs.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
And while we all deserve a little slack cutting for what we were, as opposed to what we become (who among us doesn't do the cringe face when looking at old hair-dos and/or fashions in pictures, home movies, etc?), that slack translates a little differently when it comes to performers.
Because, in most cases, the "evolution" of the "artist as artist" is in direct, and exact, proportion to the evolution of the "singer as success story".
"...While hits like "Wild Angels," "A Broken Wing" and "Wrong Again" solidified her position as country radio royalty, McBride's shaking things up these days. She's ditched both of those early crutches and now is exploring writing on her own and injecting a more roots-oriented sound into her instrumentation..."
Translation...the success she enjoyed by hobbling around on those "early crutches" has given her the financial freedom to ditch said crutches and "explore, inject and roots orient" her little hoofies to the quick.
And I say, yea, thee, little Martina Mariea Schiff McBride from Sharon, Kansas.
Who would probably be the first person to step up and say she's proud of all the time she spent on those "crutches".
Not to mention doing a little cringe face herself at the notion implied in aforementioned puff piece that she has been struggling all these years to rise above wild angels, fly with two good, and not one broken, wings.
The writer of the piece seems to think that portraying the dues paying portion of the commercial success story as some poetic battle for truth, justice and the "true realization of artistic vision" is as real as it is romantic.
Wrong again.
And every time I read one of these things, I think it's a shame nobody ever pipes up and calls it the crap that it is.
The time has come.
The big budget, nationally syndicated puff piece.
To wit...
(CNN) -- For a good part of her career, Martina McBride's success has largely been due to relying on Nashville songwriters and approaching arrangements in a pop-country fashion.
While hits like "Wild Angels," "A Broken Wing" and "Wrong Again" solidified her position as country radio royalty, McBride's shaking things up these days. She's ditched both of those early crutches and now is exploring writing on her own and injecting a more roots-oriented sound into her instrumentation.
Such is the case with "Eleven," McBride's 11th studio album, which drops today. These days, she's working with new management, has a new label in Republic Nashville and wrote six of the 11 songs that appear on her latest project
As the 45-year-old singer soldiers on, what about this moment inspired change, and how's her own songwriting coming along? CNN spoke with McBride recently as she was prepping for a concert in Minot, North Dakota.
CNN: "Eleven" comes with a lot of professional changes. Why is this?
Martina McBride: You know, sometimes it's just time to shake things up a little bit. When you've been at a certain place and management for 18 years, I just felt like I really need someone around me with some fresh ideas, some new passion and energy.
CNN: As female country musicians age these days, are there pressures to stay youthful? How does one age gracefully in Nashville?
McBride: Oh, I think the same way you age gracefully anywhere else. Females have always had more of a focus on the way they look. No matter what business your in, if you're in the public eye -- whether you're an actor or a rock musician or even head of a corporation, it's always been that way. You just try ... I don't know, I try not to focus on it. I'm still the same voice I had before, and I still have a lot to say.
CNN: "Eleven" was largely written by you -- something you've taken on recently. What's your writing process like?
McBride: It's different every time. Sometimes I'll have an idea or a title. ... I'm still growing as a writer.
One thing I think I bring to the table is having a certain type of lyric, in that I want the song to feel honest and real. I don't do it 365 days a year, so I'm fresh. I also don't know a lot of the rules, which is probably a good thing. For me, it's still about discovery. I'm still in the stage of writing that I'm discovering, getting confidence as a writer and that I do have some talent for it. It's a good discovery at this stage of the game.
CNN: And sometimes songwriters who start out at 20, by 30 they feel like they're all tapped out.
McBride: I grew up admiring Linda Ronstadt, Pat Benatar, Reba (McEntire). I didn't really grow up enamored only with singer-songwriters.
When I moved to Nashville, it wasn't a big deal for me just to find songs by great writers and make them my own. But what I really found with this record was that it's so nice to not have to wait for someone to write something. Obviously, I love every record I've made, but I feel like this record is more authentic to me. I don't know. It's different than just singing a song after it's already been written. I'm excited about that.
CNN: On "Eleven" the first single's called "Teenage Daughters," which is about the trouble they can cause. Did you give your parents any heart attacks growing up?
McBride: Oh, oh, yeah. So far, my daughter is much better than me. I grew up on a farm in really rural Kansas, where there was nothing to do. Out of boredom, the activities we found to do, weren't exactly the best for my parents to go through. But I think the song's about -- the teenage experience and wanting that independence and rebelling against the rule is so common, no matter where you are in the world.
CNN: It seems harder these days to be a teenager.
McBride: It's different. They have a lot of peer pressure. We all did, but they have a cavalier attitude about things. They don't have the same caution about certain things and are more like "whatever, it's not that big a deal."
CNN: You were associated with the pop-country movement of the '90s, but listening to "Eleven" and looking at your recent output, it doesn't seem like you're interested in that anymore.
McBride: It's interesting that you say that. I don't know if I ever stood out to make a particular type of record. Before, I was so dependent on the songs I found and the songs that came in. I was drawn to certain types of songs but I didn't have the luxury of waiting around for years and years. I had a vision of "Eleven" being more organic, more retro, like a '70s rock record. It is less pop.
CNN: On the Grammys, you performed a tribute to Aretha Franklin with Christina Aguilera, Florence Welch, Jennifer Hudson and Yolanda Adams. Are there aspects of pop and rock these days you find intriguing?
McBride: I love Train's new record. And I love One Republic's record. My daughter's really into the Avett Brothers and Mumford & Sons, so I've been listening to them recently. That's a whole new type of thing; I don't know what you'd call that.
Now, let's understand each other here.
Martina McBride is a very nice lady.
And the work that she has done since her graduation from Garth T Shirt kiosk manager to fledgling country pop singer nigh on twenty years ago is deserving of any and all accolades to date and to come.
But, and not that it matters in the grand scheme of things, the premise of these whole "artist finding themselves" articles is disingenuous.
Primarily because it overlooks, or avoids, something inherent in the resume of any popular performer who has reached the place in their careers where they are setting out on that "finding themselves" path.
That, in the beginning of their career, they would have recorded, released and promoted the hell out of the phone book if they thought it would get them notice, airplay and/or any of the attentions that are critical if that career is going to live to a ripe old age.
Jump on the Google and look up, for example, Martina's first album, "The Time Has Come".
You'll find some very nicely performed, right off the Music City assembly line, cookie cutter country pop songs.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
And while we all deserve a little slack cutting for what we were, as opposed to what we become (who among us doesn't do the cringe face when looking at old hair-dos and/or fashions in pictures, home movies, etc?), that slack translates a little differently when it comes to performers.
Because, in most cases, the "evolution" of the "artist as artist" is in direct, and exact, proportion to the evolution of the "singer as success story".
"...While hits like "Wild Angels," "A Broken Wing" and "Wrong Again" solidified her position as country radio royalty, McBride's shaking things up these days. She's ditched both of those early crutches and now is exploring writing on her own and injecting a more roots-oriented sound into her instrumentation..."
Translation...the success she enjoyed by hobbling around on those "early crutches" has given her the financial freedom to ditch said crutches and "explore, inject and roots orient" her little hoofies to the quick.
And I say, yea, thee, little Martina Mariea Schiff McBride from Sharon, Kansas.
Who would probably be the first person to step up and say she's proud of all the time she spent on those "crutches".
Not to mention doing a little cringe face herself at the notion implied in aforementioned puff piece that she has been struggling all these years to rise above wild angels, fly with two good, and not one broken, wings.
The writer of the piece seems to think that portraying the dues paying portion of the commercial success story as some poetic battle for truth, justice and the "true realization of artistic vision" is as real as it is romantic.
Wrong again.
And every time I read one of these things, I think it's a shame nobody ever pipes up and calls it the crap that it is.
The time has come.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
"...Shameless Self Promotion, Volume 2..."
We all, secretly if not overtly, want to be our own bosses.
I wrote this song with a nod to that desire.
This one's for you...and us.
I wrote this song with a nod to that desire.
This one's for you...and us.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
"...Shameless Self Promotion, Volume 1..."
From time to time, listeners ask me about the Nashville songwriter days...
Here's a page from that chapter....
And a pretty fun song, too, if it's me doing the saying so myself.........
Here's a page from that chapter....
And a pretty fun song, too, if it's me doing the saying so myself.........
Saturday, September 24, 2011
"...Another Way To Tell Is Any Time They Rhyme Roots With Boots..."
Let's get one thing out of the way at the outset.
Nashville is now, and has always been, a factory town.
They manufacture country music.
And that's not meant as a shot, slam or any other salaciousness.
It is what it is.
And they do what they do.
For a number of years, I did a little of it myself.
And while I can offer up plenty of demos of tunes that could rightly be described as "outside the box", I do hereby fess that I did my share of cranking out the kind of product that I hoped would find its way to the mastering sessions of any number of A, B, C, even D, list country music singers.
I hit a lick every now and then.
Nothing major, composition or chart activity wise, of course.
Or I'd be writing this piece from my home office/studio overlooking the Pacific Ocean instead of my home office/studio overlooking my Coastal Georgia duplex driveway.
Que sera and all that.
My own fair to middlin fortune aside, I do, to this day, possess what I think is a pretty good sense of what constitutes ordinary top forty fodder and what can deservedly be called extraordinary.
In the former category, we have any, and every, thing that finds its way on to your country radio station with a lyric including, or alluding to, trucks, back porches, fried chicken, Sundays after church, tractors, honky tonks (with or without accompanying badonkadonks) or what I've always referred to as "punny business".
As in, of late, Chris Cagle's latest single "Got My Country On".
Or, even more insidious, the "if at first you succeed, re-write the title as many times as humanly possible".
As in Danny Gokey's latest, "Second Hand Heart" and Sara Evans' latest, "My Heart Can't Tell You No."
For the love of Hank, even I wrote songs called Second Hand Heart and My Heart Can't Tell You No.
And the ideas sucked then.
In 1987.
My penchant for holier than ya'll notwithstanding, I do recognize refreshing arrivals in the latter category.
Lately, I discovered twelve, as a matter of fact.
On one CD.
"Own The Night" by Lady Antebellum.
Songs are, of course, purely subjective, third only to politics and religion when it comes to what's good, bad, right, wrong, lame, lovely, ad nauseum.
In other words, to each his, or her, own.
All I can offer you is after forty five years of listening to popular music and thirty plus years of writing it, good, bad, right, wrong, lame, lovely, etc, I have developed a pretty reliable method of determining the difference between songs that that are just alright and songs that get it right.
I call it the cringe test.
Cagle, Gokey, Evans, et al evoked a little cringe.
Charles, Dave and Hillary didn't give me a ripple.
Just a lot of quiet smiles and smug nodding.
Thanks, kids...
Nashville is now, and has always been, a factory town.
They manufacture country music.
And that's not meant as a shot, slam or any other salaciousness.
It is what it is.
And they do what they do.
For a number of years, I did a little of it myself.
And while I can offer up plenty of demos of tunes that could rightly be described as "outside the box", I do hereby fess that I did my share of cranking out the kind of product that I hoped would find its way to the mastering sessions of any number of A, B, C, even D, list country music singers.
I hit a lick every now and then.
Nothing major, composition or chart activity wise, of course.
Or I'd be writing this piece from my home office/studio overlooking the Pacific Ocean instead of my home office/studio overlooking my Coastal Georgia duplex driveway.
Que sera and all that.
My own fair to middlin fortune aside, I do, to this day, possess what I think is a pretty good sense of what constitutes ordinary top forty fodder and what can deservedly be called extraordinary.
In the former category, we have any, and every, thing that finds its way on to your country radio station with a lyric including, or alluding to, trucks, back porches, fried chicken, Sundays after church, tractors, honky tonks (with or without accompanying badonkadonks) or what I've always referred to as "punny business".
As in, of late, Chris Cagle's latest single "Got My Country On".
Or, even more insidious, the "if at first you succeed, re-write the title as many times as humanly possible".
As in Danny Gokey's latest, "Second Hand Heart" and Sara Evans' latest, "My Heart Can't Tell You No."
For the love of Hank, even I wrote songs called Second Hand Heart and My Heart Can't Tell You No.
And the ideas sucked then.
In 1987.
My penchant for holier than ya'll notwithstanding, I do recognize refreshing arrivals in the latter category.
Lately, I discovered twelve, as a matter of fact.
On one CD.
"Own The Night" by Lady Antebellum.
Songs are, of course, purely subjective, third only to politics and religion when it comes to what's good, bad, right, wrong, lame, lovely, ad nauseum.
In other words, to each his, or her, own.
All I can offer you is after forty five years of listening to popular music and thirty plus years of writing it, good, bad, right, wrong, lame, lovely, etc, I have developed a pretty reliable method of determining the difference between songs that that are just alright and songs that get it right.
I call it the cringe test.
Cagle, Gokey, Evans, et al evoked a little cringe.
Charles, Dave and Hillary didn't give me a ripple.
Just a lot of quiet smiles and smug nodding.
Thanks, kids...
Monday, September 12, 2011
"...Song As Whisper..."
Tens of thousands of people yesterday.
Hundreds of thousands of words spoken.
If one picture is worth a thousand of those words....
...four minutes of music is worth a thousand pictures.
Especially four minutes of music that struck exactly the right notes.
Hundreds of thousands of words spoken.
If one picture is worth a thousand of those words....
...four minutes of music is worth a thousand pictures.
Especially four minutes of music that struck exactly the right notes.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
"It's Kind of The Same Principle As Putting Lemon In Your Sweet Tea..."
Paul Simon once shared a theory about the relative value of music versus lyrics in successful pop songs.
His premise was, basically, that "downer" lyrics accompanied by "downer" music are usually too much of a downer to generate much mass popularity.
"Peppy upper" lyrics, on the other hand, accompanied by "peppy upper" music are usually too, wait for it....peppy and upper to generate much mass popularity.
Cross match, though, and you could very easily be on to something.
The latest testament to Simon's hypothesis comes from a trio of Los Angeles lads who found their way to the top three on the pop charts with their "peppy upper" sounding "downer" story of a boy and his plans for revenge on those who under-appreciated him.
Foster The People.
"Pumped Up Kicks".
It's one of those songs that everybody taps toes to and/or sings along to, very often without realizing they are singing along to the story of a kid and his weapon of mass destruction.
Moral perspective aside, you gotta give Foster The People credit for a hit song.
And you gotta give Paul Simon his due.
What a downer this song is.
And catchy as all giddyup.
His premise was, basically, that "downer" lyrics accompanied by "downer" music are usually too much of a downer to generate much mass popularity.
"Peppy upper" lyrics, on the other hand, accompanied by "peppy upper" music are usually too, wait for it....peppy and upper to generate much mass popularity.
Cross match, though, and you could very easily be on to something.
The latest testament to Simon's hypothesis comes from a trio of Los Angeles lads who found their way to the top three on the pop charts with their "peppy upper" sounding "downer" story of a boy and his plans for revenge on those who under-appreciated him.
Foster The People.
"Pumped Up Kicks".
It's one of those songs that everybody taps toes to and/or sings along to, very often without realizing they are singing along to the story of a kid and his weapon of mass destruction.
Moral perspective aside, you gotta give Foster The People credit for a hit song.
And you gotta give Paul Simon his due.
What a downer this song is.
And catchy as all giddyup.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
"First, The Cry....Then, The Whisper..."
Sometimes, less is more.
It was once said of George Harrison that his real genius as a guitarist, both as a Beatle and as a solo artist, was not so much that he knew when to play.
As when not to.
I've always subscribed to that theory myself.
And it doesn't apply only to Beatles.
Sunday will be the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11.
And you're going to hear a lot about it.
There's going to be a lot of looking back and remembering and reminiscing and reliving.
On national TV, local TV, nationally syndicated radio and, yes, even local radio.
You'll hear it from us, too.
But not a lot.
Just a little.
And here's the reason why.
There will never come a time when the heartache of that day goes completely away, never come a time when we don't pay tribute, in our own ways, to the sacrifice of those who rushed to the aid of those in distress that day, never come a time when we forget the painful, and yet poignant, feelings that live in our hearts and minds and memories, feelings of loss and love and admiration and gratitude for lives both well lived and so courageously sacrificed.
We will mourn the death of our friends and families until the day of our own.
But, just as we eventually walk away from the grave site, lovingly hang the black suit or dress back in the closet, open the blinds to let a little sunlight back into the house and get back to loving each other and watching our families grow, while holding those we loved and lost gently and discreetly in our hearts, finally finding a way to remember...without reliving, so, too, do we eventually begin to remember the horror and heartache of that day...without reliving it.
Weeping gives way to quiet, private tears.
Wailing gives way to soft, private sharing.
Trauma gives way to tender thoughts of those we love and lost.
Life, as it is meant to, goes on.
Sunday will see the arrival of another September 11th.
And you will hear our respectful and gentle acknowledgement that we, like you, will never forget.
But there will be no weeping.
Or wailing.
Because we like to think that perhaps the most fitting way to honor the lives that others lost that horrific day is to say a kind word, a quick, silent prayer...and then get on about the business of living the lives they lovingly left behind.
Sometimes, less is more.
So much more.
It was once said of George Harrison that his real genius as a guitarist, both as a Beatle and as a solo artist, was not so much that he knew when to play.
As when not to.
I've always subscribed to that theory myself.
And it doesn't apply only to Beatles.
Sunday will be the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11.
And you're going to hear a lot about it.
There's going to be a lot of looking back and remembering and reminiscing and reliving.
On national TV, local TV, nationally syndicated radio and, yes, even local radio.
You'll hear it from us, too.
But not a lot.
Just a little.
And here's the reason why.
There will never come a time when the heartache of that day goes completely away, never come a time when we don't pay tribute, in our own ways, to the sacrifice of those who rushed to the aid of those in distress that day, never come a time when we forget the painful, and yet poignant, feelings that live in our hearts and minds and memories, feelings of loss and love and admiration and gratitude for lives both well lived and so courageously sacrificed.
We will mourn the death of our friends and families until the day of our own.
But, just as we eventually walk away from the grave site, lovingly hang the black suit or dress back in the closet, open the blinds to let a little sunlight back into the house and get back to loving each other and watching our families grow, while holding those we loved and lost gently and discreetly in our hearts, finally finding a way to remember...without reliving, so, too, do we eventually begin to remember the horror and heartache of that day...without reliving it.
Weeping gives way to quiet, private tears.
Wailing gives way to soft, private sharing.
Trauma gives way to tender thoughts of those we love and lost.
Life, as it is meant to, goes on.
Sunday will see the arrival of another September 11th.
And you will hear our respectful and gentle acknowledgement that we, like you, will never forget.
But there will be no weeping.
Or wailing.
Because we like to think that perhaps the most fitting way to honor the lives that others lost that horrific day is to say a kind word, a quick, silent prayer...and then get on about the business of living the lives they lovingly left behind.
Sometimes, less is more.
So much more.
Monday, September 5, 2011
"...Waylon and Willie and The Boys...Say Hello to Jeff..."
Truth, the old adage offers, is often stranger than fiction.
How about when the truth is fiction?
Or, more to the point, when fiction offers up more truth than truth offers?
Got that ice cream headache in the middle of your forehead yet?
Twisted fortune cookie wisdom notwithstanding, it occurs to me that there is, among other things, a delightful irony in the fact that the product being offered by a fictional country singer seems more real than the lion's share of the merchandise rolling off the 16th Avenue assembly line these days.
After all, when someone says "essential, seminal, no frills, roots edged country music artist", I'll bet my Rorschach against your Rorschach that the first name that pops to mind is not Jeff Bridges.
And what fun to find that it pert near oughta be one of the first names that pops.
My good old days in Nashville taught me a lot of things, among them that Hollywood, historically, doesn't have a clue about Nashville.
From the early 60's when George Hamilton lip synced to Hank Jr's vocals as he "portrayed" Hank Senior (yes, kids, that George Hamilton) to such modern day Tinseltown missteps as "The Thing Called Love" and even George Strait's close, but no cigar turn as "Dusty Rhodes" in "Pure Country" (Strait was young and impressionable in those days, but I bet he doesn't have the same agent now as then...if only for allowing his client to portray a country singer named "Dusty Rhodes"...why not just name him "Music Rowe"?...), Hollywood has a near perfect record of cranking out crap, labeling it country and conspiring to cash in on the popularity of the format at any time the masses are paying attention.
In fairness, they are consistent about one thing.
They almost unfailingly portray Nashville, and country music, in terms of the way they think Nashville and country music should look and sound, as opposed to the way it actually looks and sounds.
Even the most recent high gloss "Country Strong" could just as easily have been made as "very special movie of the week" on Lifetime.
Or CMT.
Or both.
For my movie spending money, the Hollywood hoedown wanna be's have only gotten it close to right twice.
"Tender Mercies".
"Crazy Heart".
Robert Duvall got an Oscar for the former.
Jeff Bridges for the latter.
And, in both cases, the lead actor was the lead singer, performing material that met the criteria too often missing from the garden variety sour mash melodramas.
Authenticity.
Meanwhile, back to the irony, go in search of both the soundtrack to "Crazy Heart" and Jeff Bridges most recent, eponymous CD.
I think you'll be, as I was, surprised and delighted to find that the most throwaway stuff in either case are the inevitable "slickies" on the movie soundtrack.
The coolest, meanwhile, is the remainder of the soundtrack and the whole of the solo album.
In other words, production by T Bone Burnett and vocals by Jeff Bridges.
Amazing work.
And an oasis in a desert of paint by the numbers "country music".
Five stars from this seat in the peanut gallery.
And my fail safe litmus test as to the pristine quality of the product?
Bet your life savings that American Idol will never do a "Jeff Bridges Night".
How about when the truth is fiction?
Or, more to the point, when fiction offers up more truth than truth offers?
Got that ice cream headache in the middle of your forehead yet?
Twisted fortune cookie wisdom notwithstanding, it occurs to me that there is, among other things, a delightful irony in the fact that the product being offered by a fictional country singer seems more real than the lion's share of the merchandise rolling off the 16th Avenue assembly line these days.
After all, when someone says "essential, seminal, no frills, roots edged country music artist", I'll bet my Rorschach against your Rorschach that the first name that pops to mind is not Jeff Bridges.
And what fun to find that it pert near oughta be one of the first names that pops.
My good old days in Nashville taught me a lot of things, among them that Hollywood, historically, doesn't have a clue about Nashville.
From the early 60's when George Hamilton lip synced to Hank Jr's vocals as he "portrayed" Hank Senior (yes, kids, that George Hamilton) to such modern day Tinseltown missteps as "The Thing Called Love" and even George Strait's close, but no cigar turn as "Dusty Rhodes" in "Pure Country" (Strait was young and impressionable in those days, but I bet he doesn't have the same agent now as then...if only for allowing his client to portray a country singer named "Dusty Rhodes"...why not just name him "Music Rowe"?...), Hollywood has a near perfect record of cranking out crap, labeling it country and conspiring to cash in on the popularity of the format at any time the masses are paying attention.
In fairness, they are consistent about one thing.
They almost unfailingly portray Nashville, and country music, in terms of the way they think Nashville and country music should look and sound, as opposed to the way it actually looks and sounds.
Even the most recent high gloss "Country Strong" could just as easily have been made as "very special movie of the week" on Lifetime.
Or CMT.
Or both.
For my movie spending money, the Hollywood hoedown wanna be's have only gotten it close to right twice.
"Tender Mercies".
"Crazy Heart".
Robert Duvall got an Oscar for the former.
Jeff Bridges for the latter.
And, in both cases, the lead actor was the lead singer, performing material that met the criteria too often missing from the garden variety sour mash melodramas.
Authenticity.
Meanwhile, back to the irony, go in search of both the soundtrack to "Crazy Heart" and Jeff Bridges most recent, eponymous CD.
I think you'll be, as I was, surprised and delighted to find that the most throwaway stuff in either case are the inevitable "slickies" on the movie soundtrack.
The coolest, meanwhile, is the remainder of the soundtrack and the whole of the solo album.
In other words, production by T Bone Burnett and vocals by Jeff Bridges.
Amazing work.
And an oasis in a desert of paint by the numbers "country music".
Five stars from this seat in the peanut gallery.
And my fail safe litmus test as to the pristine quality of the product?
Bet your life savings that American Idol will never do a "Jeff Bridges Night".
Saturday, July 2, 2011
"Now, If Its Pronounced 'Ar-TEEST', That Might Be A Different Story..."
Here's a bone I'm fond of picking.
The use of the term "recording artist".
Admittedly, on that subject, any can of debate worms opened on the subject is immediately subject to a possible fair point being made that "artist" is a subjective term.
Subject to argument, as it were.
That said, I suspect I would have a grand time preparing, and presenting, the case that there are, lurking amidst the mist, haze, smoke and/or mirrors that cloak any garden variety singer in the glow of "artistry", some pretty obvious criteria required to entitle one of those said singers to be referred to as an "artist".
One of those, if the court please, being in possession of a depth and/or breadth of not only talent, but an ability to offer diversity in the expression of that talent.
Dumbed down for the mass culture translation:
Britney Spears, for example, is a gifted singer, but one twenty minute session of back to back to back hearings of any five of her last fifty or so songs and the term "one trick pony" inevitably crowds its way to the front of any average frontal lobe.
Put another way.
Anyone can pick up a brush and smear some paint around on a canvas.
It don't automatically make you Picasso.
Now, on this day that celebrates our independence and freedom, I'm ready to concede that anyone has the freedom to call themselves anything they want anytime they want.
Not to mention sticking a feather in a cap and calling it macaroni if that floats your Bill of Rights boat.
As for my own freedom of speech, let me just offer this.
"Artist" should be a term only bestowed upon someone meeting the same level of criteria that we expect when calling someone a "hero"....or a "leader"...or a "pioneer".
A criteria of the aforementioned depth and/or breadth of talent combined with an ability to offer diversity in the expression of that talent.
For example...
Almost fifty years ago, this song, and the lady singing it, spent a very healthy number of weeks in the number one slot on the pop music top ten of the day.
Some forty years later, this same lady applied her breadth and/depth of talent to a project far removed from the pop song recording process.
Now, I'm not a devotee' of Petula Clark, per se.
But I'd offer that these two performances, nearly half a century apart, could be offered as proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Ms. Clark deserves to be called an "artist".
At this writing, Katy Perry? Gaga? Justin Bieber?
Not so much, no.
That said, fair is fair.
The day that Steven Tyler bags the Tony Award for his standing room only performance as The Phantom of the Opera is the day I shut the hell up.
The use of the term "recording artist".
Admittedly, on that subject, any can of debate worms opened on the subject is immediately subject to a possible fair point being made that "artist" is a subjective term.
Subject to argument, as it were.
That said, I suspect I would have a grand time preparing, and presenting, the case that there are, lurking amidst the mist, haze, smoke and/or mirrors that cloak any garden variety singer in the glow of "artistry", some pretty obvious criteria required to entitle one of those said singers to be referred to as an "artist".
One of those, if the court please, being in possession of a depth and/or breadth of not only talent, but an ability to offer diversity in the expression of that talent.
Dumbed down for the mass culture translation:
Britney Spears, for example, is a gifted singer, but one twenty minute session of back to back to back hearings of any five of her last fifty or so songs and the term "one trick pony" inevitably crowds its way to the front of any average frontal lobe.
Put another way.
Anyone can pick up a brush and smear some paint around on a canvas.
It don't automatically make you Picasso.
Now, on this day that celebrates our independence and freedom, I'm ready to concede that anyone has the freedom to call themselves anything they want anytime they want.
Not to mention sticking a feather in a cap and calling it macaroni if that floats your Bill of Rights boat.
As for my own freedom of speech, let me just offer this.
"Artist" should be a term only bestowed upon someone meeting the same level of criteria that we expect when calling someone a "hero"....or a "leader"...or a "pioneer".
A criteria of the aforementioned depth and/or breadth of talent combined with an ability to offer diversity in the expression of that talent.
For example...
Almost fifty years ago, this song, and the lady singing it, spent a very healthy number of weeks in the number one slot on the pop music top ten of the day.
Some forty years later, this same lady applied her breadth and/depth of talent to a project far removed from the pop song recording process.
Now, I'm not a devotee' of Petula Clark, per se.
But I'd offer that these two performances, nearly half a century apart, could be offered as proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Ms. Clark deserves to be called an "artist".
At this writing, Katy Perry? Gaga? Justin Bieber?
Not so much, no.
That said, fair is fair.
The day that Steven Tyler bags the Tony Award for his standing room only performance as The Phantom of the Opera is the day I shut the hell up.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
"...Everyone Else Will Say Thank You For Being A Friend, Andrew...I'll Just Say, Thanks...."
Onomatopoeia.The use of words that imitate the sounds associated with the objects or actions they refer to.
Beep.
Bark.
Crunch.
Purr.
Shuffle.
Trickle.
Zap.
Zoom.
And here's one you don't automatically think to add to the list.
Obituary.
I'll tell you how it deserves a place on the list in a minute.
First, though, sad news this weekend of a life well lived and ended too soon.
Andrew Gold died yesterday.
59. Heart attack.
Ouch.
Onomatopoetically speaking.
As with the passing of James Arness this weekend, Andrew Gold is going to get next to nothing in terms of name recognition from anyone under the age of forty five, save for the ardent audiophile, pop music trivia type or TV theme song buff.
His sudden passing will likely generate hardly a splish, let alone a splash.
Twin onomatopoeia. Double word score.
Any mention of his name you might happen upon this weekend will almost certainly be prefaced with the term "singer/songwriter".
As in "singer/songwriter Andrew Gold dies at 59", etc.
Because while much of his considerable portfolio of career accomplishment arguably qualifies as "household words", his name itself will require the aforementioned preface to make his inclusion in any news reporting valid.
As opposed, say, to if Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian were to suddenly and unexpectedly pass, when everyone would instantly know who we were talking about, making it completely unnecessary to include the identifying preface "talentless, self absorbed celebrity/reality show star..".
Zing.
So to onomatopoetically speak.
I won't wham, wallop or splatter you with the minutiae of Andrew Gold's life and career here.
That's why God created Google.
A website name, by the way, I think deserves a place on the list as well.
What I'm willing to bet, though, no matter your age, is that you have been exposed, at one time or another, to the work of "singer/songwriter Andrew Gold".
I'm also willing to bet that any news you read about him this weekend is going to include, likely early on, that he was the composer of the theme song to the TV show, "The Golden Girls", "Thank You For Being A Friend'.
And any testimonial to him that appears at all is likely to have that song and/or title plunked and plopped in our direction.
I'll spare you the squawk, snarl and snort about how predictable that is.
And simply offer up, as tribute to a talent too soon gone zip, zap, zoom, a song written and performed by a close friend, collaborator and fellow performer of Andrew Gold's.
Singer/songwriter Karla Bonoff.
Oh...and as for reason I think "obituary" deserves a place on the list of onomatopoetic words?
Trying to distill a full, rich and amazing life into just a few, attention span challenged sentences is a bitch.
Yikes.
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