At some point during the septuagenarian’s marathon three hour concert in Nashville Thursday — two sets, multiple encores — I turned to the Film Babe and offered how glad I am that I never saw Leonard Cohen until this late stage of his career.
There is something more palatable about this satyr’s poetic sexual musings, something kind of quaint, now that he’s a bit hunched at age seventy five. And never doubt that this man is a sybarite to the core. A grand poet, genius actually, he is first and foremost a sensualist. Janis Joplin wasn’t the only one you know. Rebecca DeMornay . . . oh the list goes on and on.
Some of the songs were probably harder to swallow when Cohen was still young and on the prowl. Now presented with an abiding sense of humility for a life well lived all in all, the tunes come across with a sweetness.
But I digress.
Leonard Cohen stands tall among the great poet/lyricists of our time.
More after this little interlude of “Everybody Knows.” (The scenes from ” A Man From U.N.C.L.E.” are kind of strange. I’m not sure what they have to do with the song.)
That is one of those what I call list songs that Cohen does so well, starting or ending most lines with the same phrasing. It really works here.
“And everybody knows that it’s now or never/ Everybody knows that it’s me or you/ And everybody knows that you live forever/ Ah when you’ve done a line or two/ Everybody knows the deal is rotten/ Old Black Joe’s still pickin’ cotton/ For your ribbons and bows/ And everybody knows.”
The concert in Andy Jackson Hall at the oddly designed Tennessee Performing Arts Center was truly a cut above. Backed by implacable musicians playing impeccable arrangements and stunning back up singers, the performer didn’t disappoint on any level. I’m hard pressed to think of a song somebody might want to hear that Cohen didn’t do. His voice a foggy resonance, he was a most gracious performer.
I’d love to post a rendition here of Cohen singing “First We’ll Take Manhattan,” my favorite of his songs, but there isn’t one worth the trouble available on You Tube. Understanding that ofttimes Cohen’s tunes are best presented by others, I found this version by the Joe Cocker. Enjoy.
“They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom/ For trying to change the system from within/ I’m coming now, I’m coming to reward them/ First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.” I love that beginning.
I remember my first Leonard Cohen moment, hearing Judy Collins sing “Suzanne.” Who is this Leonard Cohen guy who wrote these lyrics, I wondered?
“There are heroes in the seaweed/ There are children in the morning/ They are leaning out for love/ And they will lean that way forever/ While Suzanne holds the mirror/ And you want to travel with her/ You want to travel blind/ And you know she’ll find you/ For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.”
The bottom line is this. Cohen’s voice has never been much, but it now soothes like a fine aged wine. He sang every song we wanted to hear. And more. The imagery, subtle, incisive, affective, filled the auditorium.
Leonard Cohen is one of the pop music giants of the last fifty years. How invigorating that he’s on his game now as never before.
“Rednecks, crackers, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, pea-pickers – everybody that’s got to jump when somebody else blows the whistle. They don’t know it yet, but they’re all gonna be ‘Fighters for Fuller’. They’re mine! I own ‘em! They think like I do. Only they’re even more stupid than I am, so I gotta think for ‘em. Marcia, you just wait and see. I’m gonna be the power behind the president – and you’ll be the power behind me!”
The words belong to a character, Lonesome Rhodes, in a film that was way more a harbinger of things to come than we could have ever imagined when it was released in 1957. He was played by Andy Griffith in his film debut, several years before he became a beloved icon as Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry.
He was heralded as the next Brando or James Dean.
Check out the trailer.
The Elia Kazan film features some amazing performances from Patricia O’Neal and Walter Matthau and Anthony Franciosa. It’s the cinematic debut of Lee Remick. She’s the comely teenager that becomes Rhodes lust object.
More important, the film accurately portrays the future of politics and culture. More sound bites. Less substance. Charismatic Pied Pipers leading flocks of followers wherever he or she wishes. The increased use of electronic media to convey political polemics.
It is an eerie look into the future. But abundantly accurate.
Of course, Griffith didn’t morph into Brando or Dean. Thank heavens.
But, in a calmer Eisenhower America, he did a mighty prescient imitation of Glenn Beck more than a half century before that poseur came on the scene.
More exactly, Steve Kragthorpe’s situation and the downward momentum of his career at Louisville: how he replaced Bobby Petrino, how the team was immediately less good, how the fans became disgruntled, how that disenchantment has escalated to cacophony, and how those fans want him gone — yesterday, if not sooner.
But first to Susan Boyle.
You remember her, right? She was all the rage as a singing sensation on one of those British who-is-going-to-be-the-next-superstar shows. One day, nobody had ever heard of the frumpy housefrau with the amazing voice. The next day, millions were viewing a video of her stunning debut on the Web.
How long ago was that? Weeks? Months? Last year?
Then she showed up soon enough with a makeover and a record contract, at which point all those instant fans abandoned their adulation and moved on.
Within a time frame most accurately measured in hours or days, they went veni, vidi, relici. With apologies to Plutarch, they came, they saw, they moved on.
Which is when I coined the term, “Boyle point.” It’s the instant in this accelerated cybergalactic age when our latest fascination becomes what was once called “yesterday’s papers,” the moment when we’ve mouse-clicked to the next diversion, the moment when the rage’s upward arc heads south.
So, as U of L’s football season trudges inexorably to ignominy, the fascination has moved from the field to the three-ring circus that is the discussion of Kragthorpe’s future in Louisville, and who his successor might be.
And in this saga, there have been too many Boyle points to compute.
Continue reading Is Kragthorpe Almost To End Zone?
It may very well be that the phenomenon I’m going to talk about happens only to pubescent boys. But, since that’s a category in which I was once included, it happened to me.
So, I’ll start with this premise.
For people with a serious inclination toward rock music, there will come a time when their first big guitar song blasts though some radio speakers. And, if you’re alone, or even if your mom is driving you to Bar Mitvah class, you crank up the car radio — with impunity. The song hits you in the loins. The bass drum is always a major kerthink. You turn into the bad boy you see all the cute girls ogling. Then you scream “Yeahhhhhhhh!!!” at the top of your lungs.
Making sure you don’t miss the DJ announcing the name of the song and the group.
Which is to say that all music lovers — at least those who once were pubescent boys — have a big guitar song. And it never loses its luster. No matter how sophisticated one’s musical taste might become with the onslaught of maturity. Which is to say you might evolve to Ellington and Strayhorn, but your soul is always gonna save a place for “Mississippi Queen.”
If you know what I mean?
More on Mountain, the group formed by the “fourth member” of Cream, Felix Papilardi, in a moment. First this:
Papilardi, a Bronx native, was quite the rage in the late 60s and early 70s. He produced Cream. Like I said. Not to mention softer groups like Lovin’ Spoonful and the Youngbloods. Plus sweet Joanie Baez. But he obviously loved the thunder, falling for the guitar thrump of Long Islander, Leslie Weinstein (Leslie West to the public) whom he first heard in a group called the Vagrants.
When they broke up, Papilardi and West formed Mountain. The group’s fourth gig: Woodstock. One of the group’s sweeter sings is “For Yasgur’s Farm.”
I could prattle on about the group, how West ended up playing with Jack Bruce, etc, etc. But we’re not about rock & roll trivia here. Just the visceral thunder of the song. For the academicians among you, I share the lyrics. Not that they matter.
Mississippi Queen, If you know what I mean/ Mississippi Queen, She taught me everything/ Way down around Vicksburg /Around Louisiana way/ Lived a cajun lady, Aboard the Mississippi Queen/ You know she was a dancer/ She moved better on wine
While the rest of them dudes were’a gettin’ their kicks/ Boy I beg your pardon, I was getting mine
Mississippi Queen, If you know what I mean/ Mississippi Queen, She taught me everything/ This lady she asked me, If I would be her man/ You know that I told her, I’d do what I can/ To keep her looking pretty/ Buy her dresses that shine
While the rest of them dudes were making their bread/ Boy I beg your pardon, I was losing mine
Of course I have a personal anecdote. The group played Louisville Gardens. A friend was a part time DJ at LRS. We ended up back at the hotel room of Corky Laing, the group’s drummer. I was hoping for West or Papilardi to talk some rock & roll. No dice. So I watched as Laing did a lot of drugs, not offering to share a bit with my pal, myself or this other couple that was there. The girl was cute. Laing kept hustling her while apologizing for not sharing the drugs, and for hustling this guy’s girl in front of him.
I don’t know if Laing was successful with the gal or not. I split.
Actually, rereading that, I realize it’s a pretty lame, not very illuminating tale. But I left it in anyway. Some rock & roll stories never fire. Just like some songs.
Let me start with a personal anecdote (as if that’s something unusual that I haven’t done before . . . too many times.)
I attended the New Orleans JazzFest for the first time in 1976, and made it down there once again before that decade ended. Then I had some personal life changes that made it unwise for a number of years to tempt myself with the treasures of the Crescent City. But, in 1988, I was lured back by the prospect of experiencing the Little Feat reunion. With Bonnie Raitt, sitting in on slide guitar, be still my beating heart. On the marvelous Steamship President no less, always a boffo experience on the Mighty Mississippi.
Having been away from the festival for years, I couldn’t get enough. Even with music playing simultaneously on 10 stages in the Fairground’s infield from noon til dark on three consecutive days. It was as if I needed to hear every group. From Al Green to Hank Ballard & Midnighters to Los Lobos to Earl King to Hackberry Ramblers to Fairfield Four to John Mooney to Salif Keita to Exuma to Henry Butler to Famous Rocks of Harmony to Leo Nocentelli to . . . okay, you get the picture.
As has become tradition, the Neville Brothers closed the festival on the Fess stage Sunday afternoon.
Early in the set, Brother Aaron broke into a song I’d never heard him sing before, “Arianne,” with just Brother Art playing simple keyboard chording in the background.
What came out was this:
The song isn’t especially complicated or unique. The lyrics are more than a bit mundane, even silly. But when Aaron’s voice started swooping and soaring about halfway through, I was stunned beyond comprehension, my spinal cord turned to jelly.
When the song was over, even though the Nevilles hadn’t really kicked in gear yet, even though I had hoped to slip over to a couple of other stages for a taste of Dr. John and Willie Tee, I had had enough. For the first time in my life, I was sated. Totally. I did not need nor did I want at that moment to hear another note.
I walked to the car, and sat in quietude, savoring the glory of what I’d just heard. When my pals arrived an hour or so later, I was still smiling, knowing I’d been transported somewhere beyond anyplace I’d been before.
The existential query is this: How many times in life is a column by Camille Paglia going to remind you of a song you want to hear at all, let alone immediately?
Well, kids, you’re looking at it right now. Correct answer: Once . . . at the very most.
She mentioned “Hypnotized,” the Bob Welch penned and sung tune from Fleetwood Mac’s ‘73 album Mystery To Me in a recent column. Frankly I don’t remember her point. I seem to recall how some of the lyrics refer to Carlos Castaneda.
For those too young to know, he was one of the inescapable gurus of the drug infused 70s. You’d be at a pal’s pad, smoking some weed, and they’d be talking effusively about finding your place in the circle and what it meant and how spiritual it was (Castaneda stuff), and you’d just want them to roll another joint, put Janis on the stereo and shut up.
Actually, as soon as I read Paglia’s reference I stopped reading the column — which I obviously never got back to — and went to the stereo where I cranked up the ol’ turntable and put the album on.
I smiled, realizing again after all these years what a sublime, beguiling song this is.
Of course, there are way too many folks — many of whom should actually know better — who think Fleetwood Mac began (and maybe ended) with the Lindsay Buckingham/ Stevie Nicks lineup. Which of course is not only poppycock, but foolish, given that Mick Fleetwood and John McVie have hooked up with more musicians for a longer period of time than anybody in rock.
(It is at this point when I must mention, as any rock raconteur with the slightest bit of inner Lester Bangs would, that the original lineup included one fabled guitar player named Peter Green. Who, besides being well schooled in the blues as all alumni of the John Mayall school were, wrote “Black Magic Woman.” Yes, that song, the one stolen forever and always by the Santana Band.)
But more on all this in a second. You want to hear the song don’t you?
As I was saying, there have been many, many incarnations of Fleetwood Mac. One history of rock diagrams out 11 different lineups. And that’s only through . . . 1987.
Continue reading Songs I Love, Part XII: “Hypnotized” Fleetwood Mac
Larry Eustachy is now the hoops coach at Southern Mississippi.
A little over a half decade ago, when he was at Iowa State, he was legitimately in the conversation about the next great hoops coach. He was already a member of the Party Boy Hall of Fame. He was hangin’ with Betty Coed. And all her sorority sisters. Always with a drink in hand.
Larry Eustachy lost his job. And found a life.
To salvage his career, Eustachy entered treatment for the deadly disease which with he is afflicted. Alcoholism. Six years later, Eustachy remains sober, and, reading between the lines of his interview with Parrish, is an active daily participant in a 12 Step recovery process.
The purpose of Gary Parrish’s interview was to provide perspective on the Billy Clyde Gillispie situation. Gillispie, recently arrested in rural Kentucky for DUI, has entered John Lucas’s rehab facility in Houston. Eustachy publicly expressed his support and willingness to share his experiences, hoping to give strength and resolve to Gillispie to stay the course.
In the interview, Eustachy correctly parallels the diseases of alcoholism and cancer. He knew it would bring out the scoffers. Which it did. Parrish wrote a follow up column about the comments he received. It’s linked in the first story, or you can get to it here.
I’ve often said reiterated that I don’t comment at this venue on the personal lives of the sports personalities I cover, the men and women who are important to folks here in Kentuckiana. And I certainly gave Gillispie way more than my allotment of shit over his behavior while he was UK coach.
But this is no time for silence.
Of all the diseases from which people suffer, alcoholism and drug addiction might be the most misunderstood. Comments online and on the street about Gillispie’s situation indicate that.
So it is. And so it shall probably remain.
Such a pity.
I now pray for Billy Gillispie as well as for alcoholics and drug addicts who still suffer and patients battling cancer as I have during the course of my recoveries from those equally debilitating diseases.
I don’t in any way mean to condone some of Gillispie’s well chronicled life mistakes while at UK, and elsewhere for that matter. But I do understand that he has the opportunity, if he gets and stays sober, to avoid such gaffes in the future.
I hope he makes it.
And I hope Larry Eustachy’s Southern Miss Golden Eagles make it to the dance. But know that, at least for today, he’ll be okay if they don’t.
Of another Slim Harpo song, no less an authority than Mick Jagger had this to say: “What’s the point in listening to us doing “I’m a King Bee” when you can hear Slim Harpo do it?”
True.
As it is for “Shake Your Hips,” which most rock & rollers know from Exile On Main Street. It’s time to set you right, kiddies.
Slim Harpo is one of the lesser known mid 20th century bluesmen, and one of the more interesting. Because, well, his life wasn’t that interesting. No selling his soul to the devil at the crossroads. No prison terms. No famous liquor infused incidents. He did grow up Negro in the Huey Long south, but, well, other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.
Let’s hear his original rendition of “Shake Your Hips,” then we’ll talk more. (Alas, I’ve never seen any footage of Slim Harpo live. If you know of some, do tell.)
He always showed up for his gigs. He never appeared to have any drinking related episodes. He was pretty fair businessman, managing himself for the most part. He worked construction and as a longshoreman, mostly near his home in Baton Rouge, where he was born in January, 1924. (Unless it was up the road in Lobdell in February, 1924) He lived in New Orleans for awhile.
He met his wife in 1949 while helping to build a church. They stayed married until his sudden death of a heart attack in 1970. She traveled with him on the road.
Harpo — born James Moore — didn’t become a professional musician until the 50s. At first, he called himself Harmonica Slim before switching to the more resonant and appropriate Slim Harpo. He had a few hits during the Top 40 era: most notably “Rainin’ In My Heart” and “Baby Scratch My Back.”
His voice was unique, slithery but smooth and diffuse. His tunes are laid back in the way that many from Louisisana are. It’s the nature of the beast, the combination of heat, humidity and home cookin’.
Anyway, now you’ll have an answer if somebody asks, “Whattaya know/ About Slim Harpo?”
Call me old fashioned. Call me a diehard red, white and blue patriot. Call me out of touch. Whatever.
But I know it’s gotta be a good thing when the duly elected President of the United States wants to talk to the nation’s kids about staying in school, and studying and achieving and setting goals and reaching them.
But . . . Nooooooooooooooooooooo!
Seems as if some zealots whose political persuasions are different from his don’t want the President of the United States to talk to their kids or your kids in school. He might, you know, pollute their minds or something. Try to convince them about some issue of the day. You know, brainwash them into thinking universal health care for everybody is a good thing, or some such foolishness.
No matter that Bush the Elder did it when he was President of the United States. No matter than Ronnie Reagan did it when he was President of the United States. No matter that Bush the Younger appealed to the nation’s children to support his war when he was President of the United States.
We don’t want that current guy to do it. You know, the President of the United States of America.
It is the latest sign yet that America is deeply divided politically. And that there’s a lot of misinformation being disseminated and digested in this Age of Overinformation.
And, one guy’s opinion, it is yet another sign that racism is cunning, sly and continues to insinuate itself in the subtlest of ways.
You think there would be such an outcry over the President’s upcoming address to the country’s school kids, if he weren’t, you know, uh . . . different? One wag’s opinion — mine — is that this uproar wouldn’t have happened even for Bill Clinton, who was really loathed by a lot of folks. Because, you know, Bill might be a scumbag and philanderer, but, gosh, he’s . . . one of us.
The school administrators who are bowing to the outrageous demands that some people’s kids shouldn’t be forced to listen to the President of the United States ought to be fired immediately for incompetence.
What in the world have we done to ourselves? We aren’t even willing anymore to listen and hear a diversity of ideas. We aren’t willing to let the duly elected President of the United States give a fatherly pep talk to our kids in school.
Cardinal fans frolicked out of Papa John’s Cardinal Stadium in a state of such ecstasy, many smiled tolerantly at the brewski-overloaded nabobs pissing in the bushes.
Maybe Howard Schnellenberger’s bluster was indeed more than boast. U of L had just sent the third-ranked West Virginia Mountaineers hightailing it back to Morgantown with wet powder and a jammed musket.
As pigskin planet’s population watched on prime-time Thursday, the Cards’ future route appeared in the headlights’ beams. That collision course with a national title jumped in front of Louisville like a deer on River Road.
Louisville 44, West Virginia 34.
A week later U of L’s hopes were roadkill. The Cards blew a 25-7 lead and lost to Rutgers. Instead of vying for a national title, they landed in the Orange Bowl, registering a tepid win over Wake Forest. Supercoach Bobby Petrino jumped to the pros.
Louisville hasn’t been a blip on the national radar since.
Continue reading Louisville Preps For Hail Mary Season
Okay I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that his new album is very good and very eclectic. Reggae. Calypso. Folkie.
And of course, the immediate thought is how does some guy who comes from Italy morph all these different sounds? Then you find out he’s not from Italy, though his father’s family came from there . . . four generations ago. So you ask how come some guy who was born and raised in Scotland can morph all these different sounds? Which I guess you could ask about Tom Jones who is from Wales, or Van Morrison, etc, etc.
Which is not to mention that the kid’s only 22, but sounds like he grew up in my era, and on this song, hangin’ around the Stax Studios in Memphis. Nutini is an old soul.
Speaking of soul and this song, there’s something so old school, so passionate, so deliciously retro about it that I had to share it with you.
Ellie Greenwich, one of the true queens of the Brill Building rock & roll era, passed away yesterday. Not only did she help pen my featured song, but also such classics as “Leader of the Pack,” “Chapel of Love,” “Da Doo Ron Ron,” “Hanky Panky,” “Baby I Love You” and “River Deep Mountain High.” She also helped arrange and produce some early Neil Diamond tunes.
Of course, she worked with Jeff Barry on most of the songs. They later married and divorced. And on “Be My Baby” worked with Phil Spector, a musical genius despite his personal failings.
The Ronettes were centered around the incredible voice (and exotic looks) of Veronica Bennett, later known to all in the music world as Ronnie Spector. She ended up marrying her producer, from whom she eventually escaped — literally — as he kept her locked and guarded at his mansion on the hill.
The Supremes and Shirelles notwithstanding, one guy’s opinion is that the Ronettes were the greatest of the girl groups. I heard Ronnie Spector do a show as part of the Ponderosa Stomp during New Orleans JazzFest week last year, and it was ‘63 all over. That gorgeous, effective, brittle voice of hers — the greatest in all rock & roll — still works its wonder. I saw the group one other time, when they opened for the Beatles at Chicago’s International Amphitheater on the first stop of their last American tour.
Enough drab gab. Enjoy this deliciously evocative of “Be My Baby” when they appeared on Shindig. It’s actually a live version. Unlike the Dick Clark TV shows, where all the performers lip synced their songs.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
On the Radio
The Culture Maven reviews film weekly on WFPK 91.9. The reviews (and entertaining attendant shtick) are archived here. Hear them live Tuesdays at 8:05 a.m.
At some point during the septuagenarian’s marathon three hour concert in Nashville Thursday — two sets, multiple encores — I turned to the Film Babe and offered how glad I am that I never saw Leonard Cohen until this late stage of his career.
The following is not a quote from Rush Limbaugh.
The purpose here is to discuss Steve Kragthorpe.
It may very well be that the phenomenon I’m going to talk about happens only to pubescent boys. But, since that’s a category in which I was once included, it happened to me.
Let me start with a personal anecdote (as if that’s something unusual that I haven’t done before . . . too many times.)
The existential query is this: How many times in life is a column by Camille Paglia going to remind you of a song you want to hear at all, let alone immediately?
Larry Eustachy is now the hoops coach at Southern Mississippi.
Of another Slim Harpo song, no less an authority than Mick Jagger had this to say: “What’s the point in listening to us doing “I’m a King Bee” when you can hear Slim Harpo do it?”
The President of the United States, that’s who.
Oh what a night it was: Nov. 2, 2006.
Okay I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that his new album is very good and very eclectic. Reggae. Calypso. Folkie.
This one’s for you, Ellie, may you rest in peace.
