Songs I Love, Part VIII: “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” Allman Brothers Band

There are probably no words to describe this.

Nor any need to try to seek them out.

One only needs to listen:

Albums I Love, Part III: Marah “Kids In Philly”

Few American cities have as resonant a sense of itself as Philadelphia. Call it Philly, thank you very much.

The baseball team’s nickname — Phillies — is simply a redux of the city’s name. That’s keeping it homie.

It’s a town that was a major player in the country’s genesis. Liberty Bell, right? Ben Franklin. Even some major conventions early on. Then there’s the David Lynch connection. “Eraserhead” anyone? Not to mention the original “American Bandstand.” and the home of Legionnaire’s Disease. How’s that for some yin and yang?

It’s got the meanest fans in all of sports. Southsiders, hell, allsiders, are inveterate lovers of the town’s teams, but they’re diehards who will turn on their heroes in a nanosecond. A tough town? You betcha. Ask Donavon McNabb. Their favorite hockey teams was nicknamed the Broad Street Bullies. Oh yeah.

You gotta be Chuck Bednarik/ Rocky tough to make it in the City of Brotherly Love. One second you’re a hero, the next, the guys in the bleachers are ready to haul you off to the abattoir.

Philly is famous for cheesesteaks, but the town’s signature dish is a combination of pork scraps and cornmeal and flour and other remnants turned into a mush then fried. It’s name — scrapple — says it all. Scrapple . . . indeed.

Philly’s that kind of town. Marah is the Philly band that’s all Philly all the time.

And “Kids In Philly” is the band’s pledge of love for all they adore in their town, its follies, foibles and faux pas. You can hear and feel the city’s grime and heat, the rhythm of its streets, the personalities of its characters, the nature of its soul.

If what is often lost in rock & roll is a sense of place, Marah found it for this rockin’ statement.

The Bielanko brothers — David and Serge — are Marah, with a fluid continuum of sidemen/women. The songs on the album feature Mummers’ banjos, classic Philly deejays and enough references to the town to serve as a funky travel guide.

The album starts with a siren and banjo strum, then travels the city’s littered boulevards. “The Catfisherman” tells the tale of guys who fish in the tough parts of town. You can feel the heat. “It’s 83 degrees/ And I’m pissin’ in the river.” It features an incredibly evocative instrumental interlude.

But the pièce de résistance is “Round Eye Blues,” one of the most compelling songs in all of rock & roll.

(At this point I advise I wanted to inset a link to the album version of the song. It is stunning and anthemic. My web guru/ legal advisor warned against it. Copyright problems you know. Instead here’s a link to a page with two versions, one a live acoustic video version with some amplifier squawk, and an audio of another live version that’s pretty good. Find it here.)

Here’s a video of a more raucous version of the tune. (Marah is nothing if not a classic bar band. With a little more discipline and little less brewski, they coulda been contendas. Instead, they continue to toil the tavern circuit with various lineups when they oughta be the Stones. They traded fame and fortune for groupies and another helluva night in Steubenville. Which is why, on given nights, they’re as good a rock & roll band as plugs in. On others, they are, simply, sloppy.)

My hope is that tasting menu will spur you to get the album and hear the recorded studio version.

Because the tune’s lyrics ring so hard, pay such endearing homage to rock & roll itself, are as true to the Vietnam experience as you can get on vinyl,  and cut to the quick like few others, I’m going to share them in their entirety: Read the rest of this entry »

Songs I Love, Part VII: “The One Who Loves You The Most” Brett Dennen

I’ve noticed a bit of a pattern to this list of Songs I Love I’m compiling here. Most, but not all, happen to be ones that I heard out of the blue. Most were a chance hearing, with no prior knowledge of even the artist.

The same is true for this Brett Dennen tune. It knocked me flat upon first listen. The same thing happened just now as I was listening and printing out the lyrics.

I came upon Dennen year before last at the New Orleans JazzFest. Frankly, he’s the kind of mainstream pop act that never used to play that festival, which is dedicated in theory to the indigenous music of Louisiana. But the incredible growth of festival — and, truth be told, the passing of many of New Orleans’ stalwarts from yesteryear — have caused the promoters to expand the lineup to include fare from beyond the region. There are more mainstream acts these days, though the locals, thankfully, still overwhelm the rest.

Anyhow, I’d never heard of Dennen and was moseying from one stage to another when I came upon the venue as he with his group were just easing into this tune.

The plaintive demeanor of his voice grabbed me. I’m always a sucker for melancholy.

Here, take a listen, then we’ll talk more.

I believe the tune’s story told, and moral to be learned, will grab anyone whose ever had a friend or loved one plagued with self doubt. Or fought that battle them-self. I’ve been in both places.

Then there is the early Dylanesque quality of the song. How the tune, a love song but not one necessarily of romance, is structured. The out of the ordinary imagery. Think “Girl From The North Country.” “Spanish Boots of Spanish Leather.” That’s the ilk I’m takin’ about.

When the masquerade and burlesque balls/ Become too ordinary to boast

When the women with their stolen graces/ Don’t invite you to play host

When your suitors sneering swank beside you/ And leave you hollow like a ghost

Okay, I’m not going to print out all the lyrics but that should give you a taste.

Anyhow, this red-headed Brett Dennen has a big fan here. “The One Who Loves You The Most” never fails to chew me up and spit me out.

Songs I Love, Part VI: “Whiter Shade of Pale” Procol Harum

Revised 7/23 4:30 pm

At my piano lesson yesterday, once again I got to fitfully bumble my way through Toussaint McCall’s “Nothing Takes the Place of You,” on a Hammond B-3,  shivering at the tremolo and power of that oscillating Leslie.

After which, my teacher Chris Bizianes asked what I want to learn next?

We picked a Sam Cooke tune within my abilities — “Wonderful World.”

Then, with that organ turned off but still resonating within us, he suggested, “Hey, how about ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’?”

The sheet music now sits on my Young Chang upright, waiting for the student to dive in. The student also looks forward to learning this sucker and sitting down again at you know what to play it. (An FYI for you finicky sorts: The organ on the original of this song is a Hammond M-104. Or so sayeth the Wiki Wackies.)

This is another of those tunes — like my last post in this series: Love’s “7 & 7 Is”  — where my first listen is indelibly etched within the smoke rings of my mind. (There aren’t but five or six such songs actually, plus an album or two.) I was first thunderstruck by the glorious classical rock pomposity of Procol Harum’s signature song while waiting to pick somebody up at Standiford Field. It was ’67, so I’m sure it was either of the local AM stations — WAKY or WKLO, most likely the former.

Enough verbalizing for the moment, let’s take a listen:

This is back at the time when rock & roll had to some degree morphed to the more expansive genre of rock.

Gotta flute, Ian Anderson, but wanna rock, boom you’re Jethro Tull. Sitting on a park bench, eying little girls with bad intent. Gotta violin, David LaFlamme, but wanna rock, abracadabra, you’re It’s A Beautiful Day, and have an album out with one of the great rock LP covers. I’m so tired I don’t know if I can make it/ So wasted I don’t know if I can take it. Read the rest of this entry »

Time Tops Tom Watson

Damn you, Tom Watson.

There you stood, nine feet away from eliminating every ache and pain in my rapidly aging body. You knock that putt in and I’d be able to put on my Brooks Beasts and run pain free, my pulled hammy miraculously healed. I could jump on my Trek and tackle those hills in Cherokee Park without having to click to the lowest gear. At Hogan’s Fountain, I’d still have breath. I’d arise in the morning and not have to stretch first thing before being able to trundle to take care of business in the bathroom.

You wrinkled ol’ linkster, if you had sunk that baby and won the British Open, it would be a whole new ballgame for every one of us old farts losing the smackdown with our dotage. We’d be able to get out of our recliners without having to push up with our arms.

I’d have sat down this morning at my Young Chang upright and both hands would have worked together like their supposed to, chords with the left, melody with the right in harmonious, seamless symmetry. 12/8 time would ring like 12/8 time. “Blueberry Hill” would actually sound like Fats Domino, not “What’s that song he’s playing?”

But no, Tom, bless your heart, you acted your age, our age. You were attacked by the yips and short stroked a chance at immortality.

So it’s Monday Blue Monday just like last week and next and life, as it inexorably does, is once again inching forward to its inevitable conclusion.

If nothing else, Tom Watson, your flirtation with the unthinkable underscored one of the absolutes. Don’t wager with time. Time always wins. The under always prevails.

Ask Lance Armstrong, as defiant an SOB as ever laced ‘em up for competition. On the same day, Tom Watson failed in his attempt to send the Father Time packing, the greatest cyclist ever fell prey to the same delusion on the climb to Verbier, a challenge he would have swallowed whole and spit out with disdain a half decade ago.

You know those lyrics to that song, the one the Stones stole from Irma Thomas?

Time is on my side, Yes it is.

Great song. But wrong.

There is an arc to our physicality. We can cheat it by staying in shape, eating right, finding the balance with the cosmos. But we shall succumb. There is no winning argument against it.

Which isn’t to say we don’t hold our heads up high when we try. Tom Watson did. Lance Armstrong kinda did. (He’s a cranky ol’ boy, that one.)

So can we. I attacked those inclines in the park today. Breathed hard at the top of Golf Course Hill, but breathed nonetheless. Made it all the way in a higher gear too.

I thank Tom Watson for the elixir, the impetus to rejuvenate.

Now I’m going to practice piano.

Albums I Love, Part II: Allen Toussaint “The Bright Mississippi”

In his liner notes, the album’s producer Joe Henry makes reference to a Toussaint rendition of Professor Longhair’s “Tipitina.” That version, titled “Tipitina and Me” can be found on the album, Our New Orleans.

Henry called that Toussaint creation, recorded for that benefit album, “a history lesson in American musical alchemy.”

He became obsessed with it. Moi aussi.

Except my focus is less broad, less knowing than that of Henry, one of the preeminent producers/ musicians/ songwriters extant. What I hear when listening to “Tipitina and Me” is the history of New Orleans music.

I hear Longhair, of course. But also Louis Moreau Gottschalk, a “classical” composer who lived in and was mightily influenced by the sounds of the Crescent City. And James Booker. And Fats Waller. Henry Butler. Dr. John. Marsha Ball. Amasa Miller. The nameless guys and gals that sat at the uprights in Storyville’s whore houses. Etc, etc.

But Toussaint’s rendition transcends rollicking barrelhouse. Beyond stride and honky tonk and the blues, it is stunning in its eloquence. The word that comes to mind is elegant.

Which is how I shall describe The Bright Mississippi.

Joe Henry cajoled Allen Toussaint into this album, which is as monumental a career statement as one could conjure. It is also a perfect reflection of the history of music in the world’s premier music town. Call it a primer, if you will.

Plus you get eminent renditions of tunes by Thelonious Monk, Billy Strayhorn, Leonard Feather, Duke Ellington and Django Reinhart. Read the rest of this entry »

Cordish & Mayor Jer: The Affair Sizzles

I saw Louisville’s First Lady this morning at the coffee shop. Surprisingly she didn’t look a bit beleaguered. Good for her. Strong woman, she.

My java mates and I conjectured she might want to be worried. Because it seems to us that something must going on with Hizzoner No Longer For Life and those bad boyz, the Cordishes. Got to be. Things are just way too cozy. Somebody’s got photos of somebody in flagrante delicto. Gotta be.

Let me see if my facts are correct?

The 16th Largest Metro Area in the nation, that would be the City of Greater Louisville Metro, or whatever unwieldy name we’ve actually got now, offered/ gave The Cordish Cos. a $1.8 million loan to lure some hot shot restaurant to the first floor of the Starks Building. One supposes in the space where Rodes resided for decades.

But Cordish didn’t do the deal. Nor, it appears, did they pay rent. They were evicted. Cute.

So they asked if they could then use this taxpayer $$$ — that’s right, kids, it’s our dollars they’re playing Monopoly with — to rehab the space that used to be Lucky Strike. May it RIP.

Jerry said “Sure.” Without, it appears, running it by the Metro Council, or whatever the Board of Alderman is called these daze.

Then, when word got out that maybe some of the moolah didn’t go to refurbish the Sports & Social Club, that maybe some of it landed in the expensive handbag of Paris Hilton, people started asking questions. Including other local retailers run out of business by the city-underwritten Cordish project. And — yes, it’s twu, it’s twu — our once great newspaper, the Courier-Journal.

So the city, attempting to prove it has a backbone despite all evidence to the contrary, mustered the courage to do the right thing. Yeah, it’s under some extreme heat here, but let’s not be cynical. They sent a letter to Cordish, asking for an accounting of the $950 large.

To which request, Cordish politely said, “No. That info is propiretary.”

Let me translate that response into simple English for you: “Fuck you. We ain’t tellin’ nothin’, capeche?”

(At this point, I must advise that I’m not reciting the plot to either “The Sopranos” or “The Wire.” The above scenario is public info, reported to be true.)

Can’t tell ya, say the Cordish folks. Ladies and gents, those folks got some cohones.

Yet, yet, yet — stay tuned for more — that’s not even the punchline.

Which is that Hizzoner No Longer For Life, Jerry Abramson — a fellow apparently shorn of his cohones — duly elected leader of our city, said yesterday (Friday) that he is satisfied with the Cordish response, that he is convinced the money was spent appropriately.

Really, Mr. Mayor, how you be knowin’ that?

And, here’s the final guffaw: There is apparently nary a provision in the loan agreement, which allows the city to demand a legal accounting of the funds.

It’s time for some fresh air in city government. And simply opening up the windows ain’t enough to clear out this stink.

We need a full and complete defenestration.

Songs I Love, Part V: “7 and 7 is” Love

Before we start on this song, a note on process.

My friend Ronni Lundy recently regaled me with a tale from when she was pop music critic for the Courier-Journal. They were doing a piece on favorite singles of all-time. The readership was admonished that “Free Bird” was never released as single, only on an album, and therefore was ineligible, so please don’t vote for it.

It got the most votes anyway.

Well, when I talk about singles in this continuing series, I do include songs that were never released by themselves on 45s, as Mp3s, or for radio play. But they are songs that stand alone in my mind, having resonated for me somewhere along the way. It’s my shtick. I make the rules. Which, frankly, are subject to change at my whim.

Now, back to regular programming.

For those of us who have been around awhile, it’s easy to forget that in 1966 in Louisville, Kentucky, the counter culture and its musical ramifications were still far away. There was AM radio, and, well, that was it, AM radio.

We’re talking about a era with hit songs by Sgt. Barry Sadler, Frankie “I Loathe Rock & Roll” Sinatra and The New Vaudeville Band. “Winchester Cathedral,” that’s what I’m tryin’ to say. “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’,” which may have some kitschy nostalgic value in retrospect, but was a metaphor for endemic times back then. “Cherish.” “Lightnin Strikes.” Got the picture?

Sure there were such as “Paint It Black” and “Wild Thing” that forewarned us folks still fallow in the Heartland that something was going on but we didn’t know what it was. Buuuuut, not yet.

So that’s the scene.

I’m driving down Jefferson Street and all of a sudden this song blasts from the dashboard of my car like an Ali shot to the solar plexus. Breathless? You could say so. I remember the exact spot near 3d Street where I had to pull my car over to take the whole deal in. I sat blinded by the light.

Oop yip yip oop yip yip yeah!!!!!!!!!

This live version is pretty powerful, but, to my ears, not as much as the original from the album De Capo. But I couldn’t find one to embed, so this will have to do. You can hear that original by clicking here. Read the rest of this entry »

Songs I Love, Part IV: “It Will Stand” Showmen

The numbing news and reality that Tim Krekel has passed away brings back memories.

For a year or so in the early 70s, I made a foray, such as it was, into the world of band management. (During a period that was my first but not last retirement from practicing law.) For a short time, I booked gigs for Tim and his band at the time, Dusty. I also managed the Blues Kings featuring Barry Stevens on guitar, lovely and lanky Murphy O’Dell on vocals and the inimitable Legend of Time & Place, Texas Red Hart.

In ’72, the bands played a double bill at the Double Calfe on Main Street. Each played a set, then they joined forces as the Ronnie & the Rockets Review, playing a dozen or so old faves. During rehearsals prior to the show, band members tossed about songs they might do.

I specifically recall “It Will Stand,” a true anthem, being mentioned. Tim immediately said, “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to do that song.” Krekel was nothing if not a spirit force of rock & roll. Wilson Pickett, after all, is really buried in his backyard. I’ve seen the crypt. (Ronnie & the Rockets did perform the tune, which unfortunately does not survive on the scratchy, murky but now valuable tape of the show.)

Here’s why Tim, and the others for that matter, wanted to do this amazing, unique song so badly:

Norman General Johnson’s voice is deliciously raspy and evocative. The timing and syntax of the ’61 song are out of the ordinary. Unlike many songs of the time, the ones praising rock & roll, this statement went further. It underscored not only the longevity of the genre (“forever and ever”) but also that it was more than a passing fancy, that there was meaning and substance. Plus it met the baseline standard: It had a beat and you could dance to it. Read the rest of this entry »