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RIP, the Great Clem Burke He was the driving drummer who powered Blondie in the ’70s. Just appreciate his work here:
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RIP, Garth Hudson “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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I Can’t Stop Loving You 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.
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Ringo at Eighty-four 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.
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A Christmas Carol, Sung to the King in the Presence at White-Hall 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!
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WhitePurple Christmas
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Rutter 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.")
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Foibles are Features As impersonal systems play increasing roles in information-gathering and decision-making, the personal element can be summed up as “human error.” … [T]hen of course the fields concerned with human nature—specifically, all the ways it is not predictable—are unseated, too…
[I]t is simply better to be a human when a personal God is at the heart of the universe. Human lives are easier to defend. Human joys have cosmic significance. Human foibles are “a feature, not a bug.” Human creativity is more arresting. Human language can be savored. Human stories must be told.
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RIP, Kris Kristofferson 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
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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.
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Walk with the Ol' Possum
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RIP, Dickey Betts
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the moon and stars ... just talkin'
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Jingle All the Way - Béla Fleck and the Flecktones
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