Category: Music that doesn’t suck
Bug music
Blogging is like riding a bike. You don’t forget how to do it, even after an extended break, but the longer you give it a miss, the less inclined you are to get back after it.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Anyway, there’s been plenty of bad noise out there lately, and I’ve had to direct a fair amount of my own in other directions, so the bloggery has suffered. Appy polly loggies, droogies.
We watched Ron Howard’s 2016 Beatles documentary on Hulu the past two evenings (made a miniseries of it, we did) and while no new ground was broken, it was a fresh reminder of how quickly the lads got tired of being The Beatles.
I can dig it, as I occasionally get tired of being me, and without nearly the amount of pressure The Beatles endured. There’s a lot less screaming when I get down to work, is what I’m saying. Unless you count the racket coming from Your ‘Umble Narrator, that is.
Anyway, today I have declared a Beatlethon. We kicked off with “Abbey Road,” followed by “Revolver,” and at the moment “Rubber Soul” is blasting out of the stereo. On deck: “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” followed by “The Beatles,” a.k.a. The White Album.
We may or may not get to “Let It Be.” I may just let it be.
Letting off steam
The photo above is my arteeeeestical interpretation of Democratic heads exploding from coast to coast over the party’s failure to elect Jon Ossoff in Georgia.
C’mon. It’s fuckin’ Georgia. Chill out, yo. Think of things sweet and clear, like moonlight through the pines.
R.I.P., Gregg Allman
Jesus. You step away from the Mac for a minute and some fresh horror rears its ugly head.
I first heard the Allman Brothers Band in 1971, in Alamosa, and their music has been part of my mental soundtrack ever since.
The album “A Decade of Hits 1969-1979” may be the best stationary-trainer disc ever, though I expect Gregg wasn’t much for the sweaty solo spin to nowhere special. Come to think of it, neither am I. It just ain’t my cross to bear.
“Eat a Peach,” “Live At Fillmore East,” “Idlewild South” — man, that’s a lot of music. Ain’t but one way out, man. And it leads to the whipping post.
R.I.P., J. Geils
I don’t want the blog to turn into an obit column, but I felt compelled to note the passing of John Warren Geils Jr., the guitarist behind the J. Geils Band.
You may recall the band’s Eighties hits — “Centerfold,” “Love Stinks,” and “Freeze-Frame” — but I stumbled across them in the Seventies, my initiation likely being the live album “Full House,” which I still have on vinyl.
There were a bunch of keepers on that one, my favorites being “First I Look At the Purse,” “Pack Fair and Square,” and “Whammer Jammer.” Magic Dick could do magic for real — dude could make a harp sound like a sax.
Charles P. Pierce, who has his own recollection of the band, found another keeper online, “Floyd Hotel,” from 1973. As usual Peter Wolf and Magic Dick play starring roles, but Geils contributes a few worthy licks on slide. And keyboard player-songwriter Seth Justman tinkles them ivories right nice too.
“Take out your false teeth, mama, I want to suck on your gums.” With lines like that you can almost excuse the stagewear and hairdos. Hey, it was the Seventies, what can I tell you?
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