Rolling Stone called it “what has to be considered the most inspired rock lyric ever recorded.” Some may disagree; it is a high bar to hop. But Little Richard was most definitely inspired, and one of a kind, a true trailblazer.
As Jim Dodge noted in “Not Fade Away”:
“Little Richard had returned to the Church, but because he was wearing lipstick and eye shadow the Church wasn’t sure what to do with him.”
That Next World Orchestra just keeps getting bigger and better.
I met John Prine once, at the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s 20th-anniversary show at Denver McNichols Arena in 1986, and don’t I wish I could have a do-over for those few moments.
My guitar and I were butchering a few choice selections from his first, self-titled album and “Sweet Revenge” just this afternoon.
Well, mostly it was me. Wasn’t the guitar’s fault. Sure as shit wasn’t John Prine’s fault. Plenty of people — poets, musicians, authors, and journalists — would call it a career after writing a line as good as “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes.” He wrote whole albums that good and just kept on writing them.
Just a lil’ ol’ band from Texas that’s been around for a half-century.
When I was allegedly attending college at the University of Northern Colorado in Greality we enjoyed a weekly bit of low-key debauchery called the Friday Afternoon Club (or FAC).
A Netflix documentary — “ZZ Top: That Little Ol’ Band from Texas” — brought this weekly skull-flush to mind. And this morning I dashed right on over to the Apple Music store and scored a digital copy of a 1973 album I already own in vinyl, “Tres Hombres.”
There. Global economy rescued by Your Humble Narrator. You’re welcome.
If you’ve shut yourself away and need something to do, why not try tapping your toes? Join the club!
Everyone’s world is getting just a little bit smaller.
Has everyone settled in to The New Normal yet?
Herself had to make a supply run to Herself the Elder’s assisted-living home yesterday, but since she forgot her biohazard gear and breathing apparatus, she had to leave the goodies on the porch. The joint is on lockdown, with the drawbridge up and the moat full of gators, piranha fish, and plugged-in toasters.
She managed to snap a selfie at mom’s bedroom window, though. And of course, when you can’t get actual facetime, there’s FaceTime.
Elsewhere, the noobs are trying to figure out how to work from home. Lucky for me, I have a black belt in social distancing, which I have been practicing since 1991, when after 15 years in the Petri dish of daily journalism it was suddenly just me, my Mac SE, and a Hayes modem, in a spare bedroom.
Also, as a geezer with a broken ankle and the Socialist Insecurity due to start rolling in next month, I don’t have much to do or a pressing need to go somewhere to do it.
So I got that going for me, which is nice.
The hard part, for me and for thee, is the temptation to go all COVID-19, all the time. Don’t do it. Send a daily hate mail to the White House and then call it a day.
Watching this lame reboot of “A Day at the Races” ain’t doing it for me. There are more horses’ asses than horses in this one, and I don’t think the fat fuck playing Dr. Hackenbush is even a vet, much less an MD.
Mad Blog Media 