Dolly Parton once noted that there were just three real female singers around—Barbra Streisand, Linda Ronstadt, and Connie Smith. “The rest of us,” she said, “are only pretending.”
He shared beautiful gifts from a sad life and a tortured mind.*
Yes, my father used to beat the hell out of us… That is probably why I wrote those happy songs. I try to get as close to paradise as I can. I try to steer clear of heartbreaks.
– New York Times Magazine, 2024
*One might say the same of Sly Stone, may he also rest in peace.
Happy Birthday to this fine fellow.
He was the driving drummer who powered Blondie in the ’70s. Just appreciate his work here:
“Anybody who gets a chance to play with Garth Hudson, they’d be a fool not to. As far as The Band is concerned, he’s the one who rubbed off on the rest of us and made us sound as good as we did.” – Levon Helm
Update: more here.
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Rewatching, and loving, Ken Burns' “Country Music,” Episode 4: “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” It’s gotten a little dusty in here a few times.
Modern Sounds, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Charles.
Here’s a thoughtful and appreciative review of a new(!) album of all-new country songs by Ringo Starr. Some remind me a little of Nick Lowe.
Robert Herrick:
The darling of the world is come,
And, fit it is, we find a room
To welcome Him. The nobler part
Of all the house here, is the heart …
Merry Christmas!
White Purple Christmas
Lovely. As ever. (OK, a couple are overly bouncy. But I’ll gladly put up with them if I can hear “What Sweeter Music.")
Well, I woke up Sunday morning With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad So I had one more for dessert Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes And found my cleanest dirty shirt And I shaved my face and combed my hair And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day I'd smoked my brain the night before On cigarettes and songs that I'd been pickin' But I lit my first and watched a small kid Cussin' at a can that he was kickin' Then I crossed the empty street And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken And it took me back to somethin' That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way On a Sunday morning sidewalk Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned Cause there's something in a Sunday That makes a body feel alone And there's nothin' short of dyin' Half as lonesome as the sound As a sleepin' city sidewalk Sunday mornin' comin' down In the park, I saw a daddy With a laughing little girl who he was swingin' And I stopped beside a Sunday school And listened to the song that they were singin' Then I headed back for home And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin' And it echoed through the canyons Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday On a Sunday morning sidewalk Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned Cause there's something in a Sunday Makes a body feel alone And there's nothin' short of dyin' Half as lonesome as the sound As a sleepin' city sidewalk Sunday mornin' comin' down
Still Beautiful
Listening to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” It’s been approximately 54 years since the first time I heard it in my bedroom in a house that, as of last week, no longer exists.
Walk with the Ol' Possum
- Birdsong
- Tottenham Hotspur Football Club
- Archie
- Tamales
- Black licorice
- Woodsmoke
- Good Table Talk (more often, actually, Bar Talk)
- a Ploughman's Lunch in a pub's garden
- a 5:1 Martini, with a dash of orange bitters and 3 olives
- Wind Chimes
- Telephone calls with my out-of-town kids
- Tacos with my in-town kid (and kid-in-law)
- Resident Taqueria
- Heat
- Daffodils
- Steel-cut oatmeal and a soft-boiled egg
🎶