Rocked: DJ David Hall’s Untimely Death Shocks Nashville

The voice of Nashville Rock Radio for 32 years has suddenly fallen silent. David Hall (left), WRLT Lightning 100’s Program Director and afternoon drive-time DJ passed away over the weekend, leaving fans of Music City’s best radio station (including me), in utter disbelief. Yesterday (Sunday, Feb.5th) would have been Hall’s 58th birthday. Above, he is shown spending time in the WRLT studios with three members from the consortium of ten local artists known as Ten out Of Tenn (second left to right, Butterfly Boucher, Matthew Perryman Jones, and Tyler James). As was his mission in 18 years with the station, Hall was a tireless supporter of local Nashville artists.

An Unexpected Death in the Family
If you’re a fan of arguably Nashville’s best radio station, 100.1 FM, WRLT Lightning 100, you’ve probably already heard the news and if you’re like me, you’re likely still in shock.

As I write this, I’m listening to Lightning 100, as I so often do and have done since 1992; immersing myself in what I truly consider to be the best part of my experience living in Nashville as a west coast transplant. However, today I’m having a really tough time keeping the lump in my throat down. Seems I keep hearing a familiar voice during the commercial breaks, some of the song intros and station IDs; and each time I do it takes a second or two before I realize that the wonderfully personable man behind that voice it is no longer there; that he now lives only via Memorex and in our memories.

And I swallow hard, again.

WRLT was the first Nashville radio station I heard back in the summer of 1991, when Michelle and I visited here to scope out Music City as a possible relocation site, to provide an environment in which to better raise our two elementary school-aged children as well as a place where I could continue my then-six-year-long career as a graphic designer and art director in the music industry. Nashville was the perfect choice on a number of fronts, but when I heard this radio station I was blown away from the get-go.

At the time in question, we were in a real estate office in Franklin, TN, waiting to be helped. They had Lightning 100 piped in, playing in the background. That blend of fresh, alternative rock was so much different than what I was used to hearing in Los Angeles that I audibly said, “Whoa! What station is THAT?”

“WRLT,” the receptionist replied. If for no other reason, I knew I’d found a home right then and there. But little did I realize at the time just how unique and special Lightning 100 was in comparison to Music City’s otherwise relatively bland and staid radio landscape, dominated by Country, Top 40 Pop, and same ol-same ol’ Classic Rock. By the same token, I would discover after moving here several months later just how wonderfully diverse the Nashville music scene is, featuring numerous musical genres via live venues on any given night. Nevertheless, you’d have been hard-pressed to surmise that reality by sampling the local radio fare, were it not for Lightning 100.

WRLT has proved to be a radio stalwart; a true champion of the musical Darwinism that typically chews up radio stations and spits them out like the ‘chaw tabaccie’ refuse my Kentucky-bred Papaw used to deposit into an empty coffee can sitting on the floor beside his easy chair.

Unfortunately for all lovers of the extensive musical pedigree this great city boasts, Nashville was a little less cool on this appropriately overcast Monday morning. All of us who have loved and have been loyal to RLT throughout the years awoke to the realization that we have lost a great friend.

Lightning 100’s David Hall has left us – way before his time.

New Rock For Y’AAAL
One of those chiefly responsible for WRLT’s continued success over the past 21 years, Hall, the station’s program manager and afternoon drive time voice, passed away over the weekend, presumably sometime Friday evening or Saturday; the details of his demise having yet to be announced as of this writing. WRLT’s website posted a brief notice of Hall’s death at 12:45pm yesterday, Sunday, February 5th, the day on which he would have celebrated his 58th birthday.

The famous air-slogan, “David Hall RRROCKS y’all,” is as familiar as that of any Nashville radio personality in history, and actually predates Hall’s 18 years behind the mic at Lightning 100. Nearly half of his 32 years in Music City were spent as a mainstream/classic rock jock for FM stations, WKDF and WGFX in the 1980s and early 90s, both of which have shuffled their formats as well as their nicknames more than a of couple times since.

Meanwhile, Lightning 100’s progressive, ‘AAA’ (Album Adult Alternative) format has remained unchanged since ‘Radio Lightning’ made its debut on March 5, 1990, giving WRLT the singular distinction of such format consistency versus any of its Music City contemporaries over that time period.

There are a few big reasons for the station’s longstanding commitment to its new-but-not-too-trendy style of supporting both recent and classic rock, folk, roots, and modern alternative music. One is the fact that WRLT remains Nashville’s longest-running independently-owned radio station. It has been broadcasting the same eclectic format to local Music City listeners for more than 21 years (and to a world-wide audience via the Web for nearly as long). It is one of only 50 remaining ‘Triple-A’ stations across the country and has always ranked near the top in that category. Years ago, owner Lester Turner, Jr. vowed never to sell out to the ever-expanding corporate radio machine that has since engulfed nearly every other major American market. Lightning 100 remains a shining jewel of independence in a sea of lackluster, cookie-cutter sameness.

I believe another big reason that Lightning 100 is still Lightning 100, has been the continual work and influence of David Hall. Already a staple of the Nashville airwaves, after a five-year stint with Album-Oriented/Classic Rocker, WGFX, The Fox, Hall brought his affable, music-loving personality, silky-smooth baritone voice, and extensive radio experience to bear on WRLT’s still-forming progressive chops in 1993. In addition to his role as PM drive-time host, Hall was hired to serve as RLT’s Music Director. He jumped into the role with both feet.

The Compass Points SXSW
Hall was one of, if not the first Nashville Radio executive to religiously attend and bring back on-air product from a fledgling music industry showcase held in Austin, Texas called, South-By-Southwest — well before it grew into the multi/social media behemoth that it is today.

Hall made the trip to Austin an annual pilgrimage every March; mining and returning to Nashville with musical gems from such little-known artists as Spoon, the brotherly vocal trio, Hanson, and a group called, Uncle Tupelo, which would later split up to form the bands, Wilco and Son Volt, both of which would become staples of Lightning 100 on-air playlists in the 90s (…and Wilco still is today).

Other notables who would find their way into our ears via the WRLT airwaves (…and most of whom have remained there over the years), at least in part due to their SXSW exposure include The Old 97’s, The Flaming Lips, The White Stripes, Norah Jones, Leslie Feist, and Amy Winehouse.

Nevertheless, Hall didn’t restrict his search to out-of-state showcases to find the best new and progressive tunes; he was also instrumental in supporting the up-and-coming careers of then-resident Nashville singer-songwriters, Cheryl Crow, Patty Griffin, and former Sixpence None The Richer lead vocalist, Leigh Nash.

Hall had an ear for great music, and particularly so for female singer-songwriters. In addition to the aforementioned Crow and Griffin, Lightning 100 has held a consistent spot in its musical lineup for female folk-rock duo, The Indigo Girls and fem-rocker, Melissa Etheridge (one of David’s personal favorites), as well as for a pair of onetime aspiring Canadian songsmiths; Alanis Morissette would go on to dominate the 1996 Grammy Awards, and a little more than a decade later, the aforementioned Feist would strike gold when her song 1-2-3-4 was featured in an Apple iPod Nano commercial.

We can say that we knew them when; relishing the opportunity to have witnessed their live performances in intimate Music City venues, and to boast that we were hip to their talents well before the most of the world; all thanks to the work of our ambassador to new music, David Hall.

Recollections & Lamentations of a Radio Groupie
I’ve mentioned it before, but I sorta have the tendency to teeter on the brink of obsession with the things that really float my boat, and music definitely falls into that category. I don’t think I’m alone in that tendency, however; I think a lot of people love music because of the way it speaks to them; it becomes a part of their lives in a way the artist who created it at best could only imagine.

However, my children’s generation, the Millennials, and to a lesser degree, the GenXers before them, have thoroughly embraced the new medium through which today’s music is delivered and consumed, e.g.: social media, digital download, iTunes, etc. Radio has become optional to a large number of young music consumers. My son, for example, hasn't listened to the radio at all since he was in high school (he turns 30 this year). He buys 100% of his music on iTunes; he doesn’t own a home CD player; the only one he has is in his truck and he rarely uses it; he listens to everything through his iPhone. Yet he goes to more concerts on average than I ever thought about attending — even in my heyday — and is as fanatical and devoted to his bands as I have ever been to mine. This is all without a disc jockey acting as the middle-man in his musical discovery experience. His bond is with the artist directly; not with a radio station or DJ through whom the music is delivered.

It’s largely a generational thing; that’s kind of obvious. I am a product of my longstanding radio-indoctrination just as my son is a product of his age group’s digital download paradigm. Nevertheless, a larger percentage than ever of today’s young consumers are obtaining their music digitally; they’re learning about cool new bands by word of mouth and through social media. As a result, fewer are discovering and/or reinforcing their musical tastes via radio, all but eliminating the parallel emotional bond that comes with the shared experience — the human element of discovering new artists and their music through the agency of that familiar on-air voice; music delivered by a friend.

Rambling preambles notwithstanding, I’m not attempting to indicate that the younger generations have completely foresaken broadcast music today, nor have they lost the ability to love a radio station and its on-air personalities as much as I have grown to love Lightning 100. Mostly, I suppose, it’s to excuse myself for being such a weirdo-radio-enthusiast back in the day that folks might well have assumed that I owned stock in Tuned In Broadcasting. I make no bones about the fact that I adore WRLT and have always considered the Lightning 100 family to be a part of my family; all of which makes David Hall’s death so much harder for me to take.

Back in the 90s, I guess I was sort of a Lightning 100 ‘superfan.’ I took part in every contest and/or station promotion that I could. I showed up at all the live remote broadcasts; I was an early adopter of wrlt.com, Nashville’s very first radio station website, where I engaged the staff and other Lightning listeners on the site’s message board, implemented by then-Noontime-to-3pm DJ, Mary Brace, who also doubled as RLT’s original webmistress.

I was that ‘seventh caller’ lots of times; I won lots of stuff, and due to that involvement in those early years, I was asked to participate in a ton of onsite focus groups to help assess whether or not the artists and music the station was putting out there was what the listeners wanted to hear.

Through it all, I had the wonderful opportunity to get to know (or at least, be known by), a number of the Lightning 100 staff. And while I don’t for a minute assume that he ever considered me anything more than a dedicated listener, David Hall always had time to say hello whenever we crossed paths; he always seemed to make the effort to make me feel welcome.

In recent years I would most often saw him at 3rd & Lindsley, working the crowd before or after the Nashville Sunday Night broadcasts that Hall emceed from the 2003 on, following the weekly concert series’ original host, former RLT overnight DJ, John Larson’s departure for the enchantment of New Mexico.

Even after not having seen me for a year or more at a time, Hall never forgot my face or my name. But as special as that always made me feel, remembering names and making folks feel comfortable in his presence wasn’t a particularly remarkable feat for him; he treated everyone that way. That’s the kind of man he was. As warm and engaging as he came across on the radio, that’s exactly how he was in person. David Hall was a big man with a big voice and an even bigger persona.

Perhaps my favorite among all the memories of my encounters with Nashville’s premiere rock radio personality came when my daughter Amy and I attended a 2008 NSN performance of one of our many mutual favorites — the recently reunited Sixpence None The Richer, featuring Leigh Nash.

Amy’s musical tastes have always run in a vein very similar to my own. While attending college at UT Chattanooga, she had access to a really good progressive campus radio station and subsequently turned me on to a number of cool artists, most of whom I would soon thereafter hear on Lightning 100. Amy was quite familiar with MY radio station, and what a shameless RLT fan I’d always been, so I kinda assumed that she would take what happened next in stride.

The two of us were seated at my favorite spot in the room, there at the elbow of the bar, just opposite the stage. As showtime approached, the crowd quickly thickened around our location. As such, when I looked up and saw David approaching, carefully making his way through the crowd and following along the narrow pathway that lay between the bar stools on which we sat and the tables just 2-3 feet in front of us. As he reached our position, our eyes met and he extended his hand in greeting, pausing momentarily to say hello. I didn’t realize that Amy had no idea who he was as I introduced her to him, but not the other way around — I really didn’t think that I needed to. We went on to make brief small-talk before Hall continued, scooting on past us to whatever location it was that he was originally headed.

Then Amy gives me the, “um…and who was that again?” look. I’m not sure if I was more surprised that she’d have to ask than I was embarrassed that I hadn’t conducted a more proper introduction.

“So...did you not know that was David Hall?” I asked.

My daughter’s eyes grew about the size of the beer coasters on the bar we’d been leaning against all night.

“David Hall rocks y’all???” she squealed, at a decibel level more than high enough to be heard rather easily above the din of the still-gathering crowd. “That was him? Do you know him?” she demanded.

“Not really...but kinda, I guess,” I said with a sheepish grin. “He’s just a really nice guy.”

And indeed he was; as well as being an astute musical mind and a fervent supporter of local Nashville talent.

Hall was a figure the Nashville music community will never forget and will miss deeply; that most definitely goes double for me.

So rest in peace, David. Mission accomplished; you most certainly rocked us all.


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Unfinished Business: June 20, 2011

This bit of Unfinished Business entails a bit of explanation; more so than I hope future installments will require. I will attempt to be succinct.

A Good Will Gesture.
As you likely know, we lost the great Clarence Clemons (left, top), the former saxophonist for Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band last June. I was surprised at how hard I took it. I was even more surprised at how difficult it was for me to verbalize my feelings as to why. I really shouldn’t have been so shocked, though; I’ve had difficulty in plumbing the depths of my affinity for Springsteen’s music for longer than I’ve been writing this blog.

As I’m sure he is to a lot of his fans, Springsteen has always been a borderline spiritual figure to me, not that I think the dude is god or anything, but for the extraordinary quality of his music; for what he stands for, both as a musician and as a human being; the honesty that flows from his lyrics; the raw passion that exudes from every musical pore of his being. It’s hard to summon up the words to describe the feeling that his work conveys to me — and for the longest time I tried, but couldn’t. I just couldn’t seem to do my own emotions the justice they deserved. That fact alone has hindered me from really saying much at all about him in this space; a place I originally intended to be my personal forum on the music and artists I love.

I’ve collected a lot of fond and funny memories over the years, relating to my Springsteen fandom that I’d always thought might make excellent blog fodder. However, before now I’d never managed to find the inspiration to break through that wall; to find the words that adequately described the feeling his music delivers to me. In another aborted post that I started nearly a year ago, I tried, but it simply wouldn’t come together as I’d hoped.

Then last June, Clarence died on the day before Father’s Day. I was devastated. Springsteen’s longtime friend, confidante, and musical partner in crime was a huge part of my affinity for Bruce’s music overall; his wasn’t simply an instrumental contribution that could be replaced by another sax player. To me, he was a major part of Springsteen’s musical appeal. Again, I wanted to render some kind of significant tribute; something significant to me if to no one else. A straightforward bio/career acknowledgement just wouldn’t do. It had to be more. I stumbled, struggled, and came up with nothing over two days.

Then I received a passively 'Willful’ assist from a guy I had the pleasure of meeting at a wedding I attended in 2008, who has since become one of my favorite personal bloggers. Will Stegemann (@betheboy on Twitter) offered a fun, yet poignant tribute to Clemons the day after his June 18, 2011 passing. His post shed the perfect amount of light on the dim confusion of my self-agitated bundle of emotion regarding Springsteen and the loss of Clemons.

Without spoiling the plot, the story delivers a tribute to Clemons as seen through the eyes of a sub-adolescent, as Will was at the time of his introduction to The Boss’s music. Will’s account of his own childlike sensibilities regarding his Dad’s favorite rock ‘n roll band helped to connect the dots of my over-complicated internal analysis of the place Springsteen’s work occupies in my own life. It allowed me stop thrashing about, mentally, and to look at things simply; identifying my relationship to the artist on the most basic of levels. Had I not read Will’s blog that day, there’s little doubt I’d still be wrestling with the concept even now.

Epiphanies aside, I still got hung up in parsing it all out, so the story sat unfinished for months until this week, when I finally decided to wrap it all up.

Melodramatic much? Oh, absolutely! But I embrace my inner drama queen; it’s a big part of what makes me who I am and I have no intentions to change.

I would hope, however, that after all this, you still have the intention to read this back-dated post, started on June 20, 2011, but finished just today:

Here’s to You, Big Man

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Reincarnation Song (Part 1 of 2)

Mercy Lounge = House of Toad. Their reincarnation is complete. Saturday August 13, 2011, the continuously popular 90s Alternative/Modern Rock band, Toad The Wet Sprocket made their triumphal return to Music City; performing together in Nashville for the first time since 1997 and rocking a packed Mercy Lounge. From left, bassist Dean Dinning, drummer Randy Guss, lead vocalist/guitarist Glen Phillips, and lead guitarist/vocalist Todd Nichols did not disappoint; delighting the sold-out, standing room crowd. (Photo: Nancy Neil/www.toadthewetsprocket.com)

I Will Not Take These Things for Granted
As Toad the Wet Sprocket took the stage a week ago Saturday night at Nashville’s Mercy Lounge, lead singer Glen Phillips strode to the microphone with a grin on his face as wide as the Pacific Ocean. The group’s primary singer/songwriter was drinking in the sold-out, standing room crowd’s rabid applause as if it was a tall glass of lemonade on a hot summer’s day. The band was playing their 70th out of 74 appearances on the first leg of of a blistering initial tour to mark their full-fledged return to the contemporary music scene.

“I am SO happy to be an artist, playing Nashville, Tennessee WITHOUT a current song on the charts,” he announced, to further hoops and applause from the adoring masses. Phillips knew this group of fans was there for the right reasons. He and the band have nothing new to sell yet, really — and certainly nothing to prove. Each and every member of the audience knew why they were there; they were already completely sold.

Over the next three glorious hours, what ensued was much less a concert than it was choir practice, as the vast majority of diehard fans in attendance sang every word to every song with such fervor, that even from my position within the mass of humanity pulsing just a few feet from the stage, the sound of Phillips’ voice was nearly indistinguishable from that of the crowd’s.

If you remember the last time I reviewed a Glen Phillips show, you’ll know why I captured this song: Stupid, from Toad’s 1994 release, Dulcinea.

The band hails from Santa Barbara, California, a place far enough removed from L.A. to hardly be considered Southern California proper, but close enough to engender all of what we consider magical about life on the left coast. The surf community has always been a big part of the city’s mystique, and for me, as with most people I’d imagine, the beach is an integral part of anything that’s SB-related.

For my wife, Michelle and me, Santa Barbara is one of our favorite spots on earth. She attended college at University of California, Santa Barbara, and that time in her life is a part of her youth that can never be replaced. It’s also where we spent on our wedding night — in a little motel right on the beach, of course — en route to a two-week honeymoon trip up and down the west coast; thereby instilling in it for me a sense of romantic nostalgia that’s equally irreplaceable.

However, I take this little detour not to proclaim my affinity for Toad as merely based on where four former San Marcos High buddies grew up, forming a band in their teens that would become one of, if not the most endearing and successful of the Alternative Folk/Modern Rock era.

No, my appreciation for their music goes much deeper than that; the Santa Barbara connection is just an added bonus.

The reason I mention the beach and Toad in the same breath is in part because that’s where their music takes me, emotionally. The freedom; the soul-piercing clarity of thought; the sense that you can be one among a crowd of people, yet feel that the sole intended recipient of each song’s message is you and you alone.

Oh…and there IS one other reason… Glen Phillips came in looking as if he’d actually just come from the beach.

Crowing Although standing three feet from the stage definitely has its advantages, I’m beginning to realize that some of those advantages are better applied to a man considerably younger age than myself. This was the first ‘stand-up’ show I had been to in at least two years and as I indicated a month ago, sadly, I can no longer ignore the effects of Father Time on this ol’ bod ‘o mine.

Dude, I was sore!
Nonetheless I had a great time, and being so close as to get a shot of Glen’s set list (left) — and knowing that being situated in the second row of people standing in front of the stage, that there was no way in hell that the couple directly in front of me wouldn’t nab it first — was the next best thing to receiving it as a souvenir myself.

The 23-song set included all eleven tunes from their newly re-recorded greatest hits album, All You Want, released this past April, on the band's original, self-financed label, Abe’s Records, through which they also originally produced their initial project, Bread & Circus, before being picked up by Columbia Records that same year. The set also included a number of additional early Toad hits (from B&C, Pale, and their breakthrough release, Fear), which Glen openly dedicated to those diehard fans who had indeed been with them from the beginning.

The re-recorded greatest hits album (available for just $12/Digital or $15/CD at ToadTheWetSprocket.com — (get it NOW!). It is the band’s rightful effort to re-acquire the licensing rights to the songs from their Columbia Records catalog still held by their former record company.

Setlist Amplification
And just in case you can’t figure out the Toad Code of song title shorthand and chord/key designations, or perhaps you counted the songs in the photo and suddenly realized that ol’ AJ’s math isn’t quite right, here’s the set list in its entirety, including the album on which the tunes first appeared (and yes, there is indeed an extra tune the boys slipped in that wasn’t on the set list):

1. Something’s Always Wrong (Fear – 1991)
2. Whatever I Fear (Coil – 1997)
3. Crowing (Dulcinea – 1994)
4. Fly From Heaven (Dulcinea – 1994)
5. Good Intentions (In Light Syrup – 1995)
6. Stupid (Dulcinea – 1994)
7. Inside (Dulcinea – 1994)
8. Windmills (Dulcinea – 1994)
9. Is It For Me? (Fear – 1991)
10. The Moment (NEW! Yet Unnamed Album – 2012)
11. Friendly Fire (NEW! Yet Unnamed Album – 2012)
12. Way Away (Bread & Circus – 1989)
13. I Will Not Take These Things for Granted (Fear – 1991)
14. Come Back Down (Pale – 1990)
15. Nightingale Song (Fear – 1991)
16. All I Want (Fear – 1991)
17. Crazy Life (Coil – 1997)
18. Finally Fading (Glen Phillips solo release: Winter Pays for Summer – 2005)
19. Brother (In Light Syrup – 1995)
20. Fall Down (Dulcinea – 1994)
Encores
21. Come Down (Coil – 1997)
22. Ziggy Stardust (David Bowie: The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust & Spiders From Mars – 1972)
23. Walk on the Ocean (Fear – 1991)

Bootleg Medley
Still don’t believe me? As I touted this piece in my previous blog entry, this post is a truly multimedia effort, And given the fact the Toad has always encouraged fans to record live shows if they’re so inclined (Glen has referred to the band as having a very “taper-friendly” policy), I decided to bring my hand-held digital voice recorder to the show. I was originally only going to use it to record snippets of each song so that I’d be sure to have an accurate account of the setlist. However, once I realized that I could actually get a photo of said list, i decided to do a mini bootleg of the entire show.
However, be forewarned, this audio ain’t exactly archival quality. Remember that thing I said earlier about this affair being akin to one really huge choir practice? Well, as you can imagine, when everyone in the house is belting out every Toad lyric in as high a volume as they can muster, in whatever divers pitch their little vocal muscles can squeeze into a sound, abetted by liberal amounts of feel-no-pain-inducing liquid refreshment, and I'm sure you get the picture.

But to be honest, after listening to and formatting this recording, I was surprised at how little major interference there is in the thing. You can certainly hear the guy standing directly behind me who unfortunately couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow (yes I know the expression is ‘carry a tune in a bucket,’ but that’s how bad this dude was — trust me) but I'm here to tell ya, you won’t hear him nearly as well as I did (yikes).

Also, in addition to some decent-sized chunks of songs, I was fortunate to capture several choice bits of Phillips’ interaction with the crowd that I think you’ll enjoy. My favorite comes at the very beginning of Crowing (track #3), in which Glen offers a very entertaining lesson in physics, much to the chagrin of one very LOUD member of the audience. :)

The audio is mashed-up in medley format and condenses more than two hours of the concert down to 50 minutes, 9 seconds. However, I did decide to record in their entirety the two new Toad songs that will appear on their upcoming album due out next year. Thankfully, they're pretty much the only ones that the crowd shut up for, so they actually sound pretty good.

Note however, that the inline audio player below is flash-based, so you won't easily be able to directly download the MP3 file for offline listening. However, if you’d like a copy of my ‘mini-bootleg’ for yourself, feel free to leave me a Contact message (located in the navigation bar in the AYBABTU header) with your email address and I’ll be happy to send you the direct download link. It’s a fairly large file (58.7 MB), but shouldn't be too much difficulty for anyone with a good Internet connection to download . Enjoy.

And...PLAY STONEHENGE!

Toad the Wet Sprocket  |  Sat. 08-13-11  |  Mercy Lounge  |  Nashville, TN

ShowPics
And of course, it would’t be multimedia without still photos, so from the Flickr Photostream below you can click through to my Flickr account and view the set of images I’ve uploaded from the show.

More to come
With all the added stuff, this post is getting long. You’ve probably got enough to keep you occupied for awhile with the audio, video and pics from this great Toad experience, so I’ll just let you play around with that for now. I’ve got lots more to say about Glen and the boys but I think I’m gonna save it for a followup entry a little later. Type atcha then.


Next: Stories I Tell

Oh, Have I Got A Lot to Tell YOU...

Seriously Ready to Burst
Gotta do it. Wanna do it. Prolly shouldn't do it, but The Boy Who Cried ‘BLOG’ is back, making promises again — well, maybe not promise promises, but promises of intent, leave us say. I’m planning to crank up the ‘ol personal blog jalopy again real soon and against my better judgment I once again feel compelled to tell you about it instead of just doing it and keeping my big yap shut. It’s just that I’m so freaking excited about getting back to my first love that I simply can’t not talk a little bit about it with you first.

I have been all kinds ‘a busy this summer. Between my new(ish) job (which I began in January) and my daughter Amy's impending nuptials in just less than two weeks (August 29th) — and all the commensurate madness that accompanies such an event — needless to say, I haven’t had much time to think, let alone keep up two blogs.

And yeah, I’ll confess, I have been writing fairly consistently on my hockey blog, what with the continuous activity of the Nashville Predators’ deepest run in the Stanley Cup Playoffs in their history this past spring, followed by the surprisingly contentious re-signing of star defenseman, Shea Weber, there’s been a lot of compelling goings-on in that part of my life, and I’ve had to choose one blog over the other. Wish it didn’t have to be that way; perhaps it won’t always be; however I’m not making any promises about that right now.

On the other hand, I AM promising to myself and to you, that my backlog of AYBABTU posts will be seen to here in the next few weeks, and I am SO looking forward to it, I cannot express how much.

First on the docket will be a return to the original subject matter of this blog, a concert/lifestyle review on my recent experience seeing one of my all-time fave bands, the recently re-united, Toad The Wet Sprocket. Glen Phillips and the boys played before a sold-out Mercy Lounge crowd here in Nashville last Saturday night and it was magical! This will be my first (full-fledged) multimedia review, as I have both audio and video content to share. That should be coming sometime later this week.

Next, and possibly before, depending on how long the Toad story takes, will be the first in about a half-dozen partially written-but-never-finished posts from earlier this year and during my full-time work hiatus of 2010. Most of these stories are very close to completion but I really don’t know exactly how long they’ll each take to finish; so let’s just tease them as ‘coming soon.’

The story topics will range from:

• My time spent in a very exclusive entertainment industry focus group that you probably hear references to on a weekly basis
  
• Thoughts on the extremely disturbing way the radio industry works today, and how it’s changed in recent years
  
• How blogging saved my life
  
• Why the ‘Evil Empire’ is alive and well right here in the state of Tennessee
  
• My thoughts on the end of a TeeVee institution

And there are a few others I’m still toying with that may or may not see the light of day. Some may be even too nerdy for me to stomach seeing in print. We’ll see.

Nonetheless, I wanted to commit myself here online to getting these stories finished and out, at least in part before Amy’s big day, ‘cuz I KNOW I’ll be writing about THAT!

So anyway, keep your eyes peeled for the next few days. I’m hopeful this will be the jump-start I need to get back on an at least one-post-per-week schedule. Wish me (and my schedule) luck.

Type at’cha soon.


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Here’s to you, Big Man

Former Bruce Springsteen And The E Street Band member, Rock Sax legend, Clarence Clemons, seen here performing last November, died June 18, 2011 from stroke complications (AP/Rhona Wise).

A WILLful Assist
This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been inspired by something that Will Stegemann wrote. You may know him as @BeTheBoy on Twitter, who, coupled with his equally brilliant and lovely spouse, TeeVee industry writer Nina Bargiel (@slackmistress), comprise a one-two punch of avant garde creative goodness that’s sometimes hard to describe, but always a party for the imagination.

And while I really dig both Nina’s edgy hipness and faster-than-your-own-neurons-can-fire wit, Will’s stories just have a way of ‘getting to me,’ particularly when he writes about his late father, who passed away in 2009.

Will seems to use his blog as a vehicle similar in style and purpose to my own; he doesn’t appear to seek engagement with an audience so much as with himself, particularly on subjects of family and his childhood memories. And whether or not that’s actually the case, it is how his posts speak to me.

Yesterday was of course, Father’s Day, and I was hit with a double-dose of BethePoignancy. Will posted a wonderfully-woven tribute to both his late father and the renowned Rock Saxman, Clarence Clemons, who died Saturday from complications of a stroke suffered last week. Clemons’ was a that loss I felt deeply but initially struggled to find a way to accurately express when I first heard the news late Saturday morning. He was 69 years old, a fact that alone was staggering to me. It didn’t seem possible that he could have even been in his sixties, let alone pushing seventy — which in and of itself is a testimony to the passion with which he lived and played music.

All in the Family
A number of aspects to Will’s story touched me profoundly, not the least of which was his experience of first encountering Springsteen’s music as a child in the 1980s, when he internalized his Pop’s everyday-affinity for the Boss’s sound to the extent of play-imagining the E Street Band as stand-ins for his own flesh and blood.

I was particularly tickled by Will’s reference to a live version of Springsteen’s Rosalita that was a particular favorite on his Dad’s car stereo cassette deck. It just so happens that the song was recorded at a club show in 1978 that I myself had desperately tried to attend, but was unable to get my hands on what few actual publicly-accessible tickets were available. I ended up having to settle for listening to the show being broadcast live on the radio, on now-defunct Los Angeles FM Rock station, KMET (I’ll relate the sad story of my own ‘Sunset Boulevard Freeze-Out’ at another time).

However, I mostly wanted to give a tip of the cap to Mister Stegemann for so accurately highlighting the concept of Springsteen’s band as a family, and as such, a pseudo-extended family that of all of the Boss’s fans can relate to — even through the eyes of a kid. It’s a most fitting metaphor and something that has escaped my ability to properly process over the years, as I’ve sought to find a meaningful framework on which to hang the feelings I’ve always had for Springsteen and Clemons in particular. To me, the two have always been a family; a nearly inseparable entity. And while Bruce’s solo work has always been great, I’ve never felt it matched the impact of that achieved together with he and his musical siblings: Clemons and the E Street Band.

Will’s post caused me to ponder just how much that connective vibe of Bruce Springsteen’s persona and early music resonated with me as a 19 year-old in the mid-70s, a point in time when Will’s life was just beginning.

I became cognizant of Springsteen’s music, late one August evening in 1975, hearing Born To Run on the radio for the first time, and as such, being immediately introduced to the soprano sax of Clemons (a.k.a., The Big Man), busting through the airwaves as a part of the E Street Band’s signature sound. For me it was a wonderful new discovery. However, compared to Will’s father, I was merely an AJ-come-lately.

Having grown up on Long Island, NY, Will’s dad (who was just two years older than me) had the unique perspective of being in the same geographic area as the Asbury Park, NJ phenomenon, perhaps knowing of him or actually being a fan before Springsteen hit the big time. Stegmann’s Pop had been a well-seasoned fan for years and went on to raise his kids with an appreciation for The Boss as well. Will’s blog post, Riding With The Big Man is required reading, whether you were an avid fan of Clemons or were only marginally acquainted with his contribution to the sound of the artist who quite frankly was The Beatles of his generation.

As part of my previously mentioned aborted blog post on Springsteen several months ago, I began to write about my initial encounter with The Boss’s music, of which Clarence Clemons’ dynamic presence played a huge part. I’d like to relate that anecdote right now, in The Big Man’s honor.

My World: Rocked
Like so many others, I was blown away by the sound of Born To Run, Springsteen’s third album — but the one that truly made him a household name when it hit the airwaves in the summer of ’75. For me it was one of the truly seminal musical moments of my lifetime; the kind of deal that makes it impossible to forget the first time you experienced something so different, so powerful, that you simply had to stop and say, “Wow! WHO. WAS. THAT?!”

And that’s quite literally what happened, late one night in August 1975, within a few days of when the album was first released. At the time I was three months into my first experience of living away from my parents’ house; sharing a two-bedroom apartment with a pair of roommates in a highly-questionable neighborhood in North Long Beach, California.

On the night in question, I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, but the chronic insomnia that was my constant companion during my teen and early-adult years wouldn’t allow me to. As usual, my clock radio was tuned to 95.5 KLOS in Los Angeles, and as also was my habit, I was listening to music while waiting for the Sandman to show up. Since it usually took more than an hour for me to fall asleep each night, I always figured that I might as well spend the time enjoying one of my favorite pastimes: listening to music. It never occurred to me that perhaps my indulging that fave pastime also had plenty to do with why I’d always had trouble falling asleep in the first place…but I digress.

Anyway, I remember just lying there, like so many other nights; staring at the ceiling. I had to get up at 3:00am to go to work at the grocery store the next morning; I remember feeling particularly anxious that I might sleep through my alarm if I didn’t grab some shuteye soon.

Then it happened. My little clock radio nearly jumped off the nightstand — or so it seemed.

The introductory signature blast of Max Weinberg’s booming drum beat, along with The Big Man’s foundational sax note, and Springsteen’s guttural, biting lead guitar riff sent a chill down my spine. Born To Run was rocking my world.

“Who IS that?” I thought.

Initially, I turned my head and stared at the radio, reaching in to turn the volume up and continuing to lean closer and closer until, by Clemons’ bruising mid-song staccato sax bridge, I was completely perpendicular, with my feet on the floor, seated at the side of my bed, fully engaged in a sound like none I’d ever before heard.

There was NO way I was getting to sleep now.

I’m not sure if the DeeJay ever gave the artist’s name after the song was finished, because I remember having made it a point to listen extra hard to the radio the next day, in hopes that I might hear it again and learn the identity of that awesome new band that played it.

I also remember that the part I liked best of all was the sax.

It was without a doubt, the most memorable moment from the five months I spent in that dingy old apartment on 56th and Orange, in an area bordering North Long Beach and South Central Los Angeles. We were located just a couple of blocks north of the gang-infested Carmelitos Projects and a few blocks south of the Compton city limits. It wasn’t a real fun place to be, but it served its purpose for the brief time that I was there. I roomed with a buddy I’d known since junior high school and another acquaintance from my church group, but at that point I probably would have shacked up with Freddy Krueger for the chance to get away from the Nightmare on Lave Avenue that was my existence at the time living at home with step mom Maxine.

I am most happy to say that my love affair with Springsteen and Clemons has lasted considerably longer.

A Window into the Soul
It’s abundantly easy to canonize the departed, especially artists, the output of whose professional lives have touched you in a manner such as that of something as accessible as popular music. It’s like falling in love with a painter, based entirely upon his body of work; never mind that in real life he was a pretentious jerk, who kicked his dog, beat his wife, and ignored his children in private — or even in public. All we know is how awesome his works of art made us feel.

By all accounts, Clemons was a genuinely good guy, and while I could be wrong, I rather doubt we’ll see any ‘Daddy Dearest’-type tell-all accounts from either his four sons or five ex-wives. Does that mean his closets were completely skeleton-free? No, but then, whose is?


One thing is certain; the bond between Clemons and Springsteen defined their music; which in turn defined my love for it from the moment I heard that first note. Even without having heard a note, you could see it in the cover photograph from Born To Run (above).

In a Huffington Post article, posted soon after Clemons’ death, entitled, Why Clarence Clemons Matters to Race Relations, Ben Mankiewicz offers a poignant rendering of the classic image, featuring Clemons & Springsteen:

“Iconic is a wildly overused word, but the cover photo of Born to Run — Bruce Springsteen grinning and leaning on Clarence Clemons' broad shoulder — is a powerful and memorable picture, one that meets the standard for iconic rock n’ roll images. And its status is rooted in the beautiful story that picture tells.

You’ve got this enormously talented, giant black man -- literally “The Big Man” -- saxophone between pursed lips, essentially supporting Springsteen. The look on Bruce’s face is honest and authentic, a genuine moment captured in a photo shoot. There's a giddiness in Bruce's smile: “I'm working with my friend,” he seems to be saying, “and our music has never been better.”

The photo made an instant impact on me, long before their music did.”

Actually, for me the events were reversed. It wasn’t until weeks after I first heard BTR that I actually saw the album cover, but I too was mesmerized by the volumes that photographer Eric Meola’s image spoke in just a glance.

The combination of how the music and the imagery made me feel was nearly indescribable; the feelings of joy, inclusion, friendship; a shared passion for life; an unbridled excitement about the future’s unlimited potential.

Thirty-six years later, my feeling of loss is nearly as indescribable, as no doubt is Springsteen’s. In eulogizing his friend via a statement posted to his website yesterday, Springsteen confirmed with insightful eloquence what I already knew, yet couldn’t express:

“He carried within him a love of people that made them want to love him.

“He created a wondrous and extended family.”

Here’s to you, Big Man, our big brother. Thank you, so very, very much. Rest well.


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Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 3 of 6)

It's Saturday, May 21, 2011, Day Three of my six-day pre-blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU with some reposts of some of my somewhat more obscure favorite stories over the seven-year life of this space.

Today's entry is one of my favorite music-related posts, a concert review from November 4, 2004, of one of my all-time favorite rock guitarists, Joe Satriani.

Surfin’ with the Aliens

Rock ‘N Roll’s Mister Clean
Joe Satriani. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, it could be for a number of reasons:
a.) You're a not a man.
b.) You don't play electric guitar.
c.) You’ve never played air guitar.
d.) You were born after 1987.
e.) All of the above.

If those five items don't describe you and you're still at a loss, perhaps the title of his breakthrough 1987 release, Surfing With the Alien will roust your memory. Perhaps now I've got your attention, if for no other reason than because you're wondering, "What the hell could a song with a title like that be about?" And of course, the answer to that is, "It doesn't matter," because the song has no lyrics, like nearly all of Satriani's body of work, covering 18 albums and spanning 18 years.

Without getting into an unnecessarily involved history of the term, “heavy metal” as a definition of big-sounding genre of guitar music was first coined in 1969 by John Kay and Steppenwolf with the phrase, “heavy metal thunder” in their classic hit, Born to be Wild. Since then artists from Alice Cooper to Lamb of God have etched their mark on a genre that has ambiguously flowed in and out of the pop mainstream.

Despite hitting its pop stride in a big way during the mid-to-late 1980s and early 90s, Heavy Metal has typically existed on the outskirts of the establishment; a rebel without a cause; rife with testosterone-driven power and élan. Metal can be liberating, but can also be dark and tedious. A stalwart of rebellion from the 1960s on in one form or another, it’s the kind of music that teenage boys feed upon; and that which typically drives their parents up the wall.

Metal can be gritty; raunchy; nasty even — and that’s not always a bad thing. It’s
also not always a good thing either.

Joe Satriani’s sound, on the other hand is “clean” Metal — in nearly every respect — from his shaved head to the seemingly endless procession of gleaming guitars he pulls out to play onstage. He is, quite rightfully known as "the guitarist's guitarist." He actually used to teach guitar in San Francisco, attracting the likes of Metallica's Kirk Hammett, Larry LaLonde of Primus and the acclaimed Steve Vai as students. He is in my opinion the preeminent Rock ‘N Roll guitarist of his generation, bar none. Eddie Van Halen? Puh-LEEZE. Joe has both the improvisational and melodic chops to carry his music without vocalist in his act. His guitar does the singing. His albums are 99.5% instrumental. And they rock!

Joe Satriani is different. Some Metal digs ditches. Joe’s Metal soars above the clouds.

Rock ‘N Roll Heaven in the Mother Church
Last week I saw Joe Satriani in concert for the first time after loving his music for 17 years. It was a decidedly different crowd than I was used to seeing at the Ryman Auditorium on a Thursday night. The gender ratio was about 20-1, male-to-female. There was a decided tinge of male essence in the air; and for the first time in the ten years that I’ve been attending concerts at The Ryman, the lines into the men’s restrooms far exceeded those of the women’s.

It was an older and largely blue-collar crowd. I’ve probably not seen that many work shirts all in one auditorium since the union strike vote meetings I attended back in the 1970s as a member of the AFL-CIO. It was almost comical to see all these pudgy, graying, middle-aged guys standing and pumping their fists after nearly every song. You could just about guess that it was all they could do to resist the urge to break out their air guitars and play along with ‘Satch.’

And just as the crowd had a blue-collar makeup, so did Joe Satriani’s work ethic onstage. He played from 7:30pm sharp until 11:00pm with only a 15-minute break in-between. This dude is no glam-rocker. His look was understated and cool, with his signature wraparound shades, a plain black t-shirt, blue jeans and black boots. His backup band featured drums, bass, and rhythm electric & acoustic guitars, but they were clearly in the background.

Not really knowing what to expect, I was sort of expecting a little more in the histrionics department from Satriani, but to his credit, he’s not a very ‘showy’ performer. He does however really step into his music; the deep emotion and joy of his instrumental intercourse is readily apparent in his body language and the incessant smile on his face. The only thing that’s ‘bigtime’ about Joe is the quality of the sound emanating from his axe. Whenever he graciously addressed the crowd, he almost seemed embarrassed by the cheers, which on this night were more than raucous.

I couldn’t have asked for a more enjoyable experience, unless it were possible for me to be close enough to catch the dozen or more guitar picks he showered the first few rows with throughout the night. Nevertheless, my vantage point was more than adequate to see the man and capture the experience.

As I had hoped, Satriani borrowed most heavily from his still most commercially successful album, Surfing With the Alien, performing five of the album’s ten songs and finishing the show’s final encore with the classic title track .

A week later that concert is still ringing in my ears. I had always wondered whether or not Satriani would be able to match the output of the recording studio in a live setting, and I wasn’t disappointed.

Much has been made of the fact that a number of Satriani’s former students have now gone on to greater fame than he has. For all of his acclaim in guitar player circles, due to the lack of marketability of all-instrumental rock albums, Joe, while often nominated, has never won that elusive Grammy Award. He has long since been given the playful title of the ‘Susan Lucci of Rock Music.’

Yet the oversight hasn’t bothered him enough to consider combining his efforts with a vocalist (à la Carlos Santana), to produce an effort that the general public would more readily embrace. I really respect him for that. He has said that doing so would detract too much from the music in the way he conceptualizes it. He really does write his music with the idea that his guitar has a voice.

And I’ll always love to hear it sing.


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For the 11,680th Time, Marry Me?

Mixed Messages
I know I haven't officially announced it here yet, but something wonderful is in the offing. This past February 14th, my daughter, Amy, became engaged to a young man that Michelle and I both approve of and like very much. No official wedding date has been set as of yet, but if the stars align properly, it’ll be sometime late this fall.

Naturally, for about a month now, the wheels have been spinning in earnest amongst my two favorite females. It’s an extremely exciting time for Michelle and me. We, like most parents, I would assume, will be experiencing a rite of parental passage unlike anything else in seeing our daughter make that all-important next step in her life; in many ways becoming the complete person she’s always dreamed of being.

But believe it or not, that’s really not what this post is about.

There’s another blessed event to be celebrated, today, as a matter of fact. It’s an annual event that is at the same time exhilarating and frustrating for yours truly: Michelle and my wedding Anniversary.

Exhilarating, because it still gives me the same goosebumps and lump in my throat that it did on St. Paddy’s Day, 32 years ago today, when I stood before a brightly sunlit window, gazing into the morning sky and pronouncing, vocally, “I’m getting married today, and my life will never be the same.” And 11,680 days later, indeed it has not been.

However, it’s frustrating as well, as this year, like many of the years before, the most we can afford to do to celebrate our anniversary is go out to dinner and exchange heartfelt sentiments via the poignant-as-we-can-find anniversary cards from the local card store.

But this year (knock on wood) the reason is a good one; I started a new job after more than a year of unemployment, after being laid off by The Company I had worked for eleven years previous. I’m still in my 90-day probationary period, so I don’t have any available vacay days until the first of next month.

So we’ll perhaps postpone any plans of a real celebration for later on in the year, when I do have plans and will take Michelle on a genuine vacation. We just can’t do it now.

However, to be honest, it’s not like we never do anything special on our anniversary. We’ve managed to celebrate the ‘big ones’ like the 10th, 20th, and 30th in style. The most recent of course being the weekend we were able to enjoy at the Opryland Hotel two years ago. Now THAT was fun, and something I really want to do again. I guess once you get the taste for something like that, it makes subsequent occasions when you don't do it seem that much less satisfying. But no doubt I’m being harder on myself than I probably need to be.

Michelle is no diva. She’s not high-maintenance. She is as unassuming and undemanding as a man could want in a life partner. Each and every day she makes me realize what an incredibly lucky guy I am to be the man she chose to love for the rest of her life.

And thus is revealed the twain of my daughter’s impending nuptials and the anniversary that marks 59% of Michelle’s and my current lifespan, spent together.

Wait. Did I say twain? I meant Train.

Early Adoption
I could (and likely will, someday) devote an entire post to my longstanding admiration for a band from San Francisco that was more or less discovered in Nashville.

Some of my fondest musical experiences in this town occurred in the late 90s, during a series of music festivals designed to highlight local and regional, unsigned talent: the late, great NEA Extravaganza. It was a week-long celebration of nightly, multiple-venue showcases that was wildly popular in Music City before petering out near the decade’s end. Music industry officials mixed with fans in packed clubs and concert halls throughout downtown Nashville, hoping to see ‘the next big thing’. For music hounds like moi, it was beyond great.

At NEA’s 1998 festival, Train headlined the Aware Records Show at 328 Performance Hall. Within a few months of that appearance, the band was signed, and hits like Meet Virginia were all over the radio, nationally.

Without hijacking the story any further at this point, let me just say, I came, I saw, and I was smitten, particularly when soon thereafter, Train also performed a free, Who’s on 3rd show, at 3rd & Lindsley Bar and Grill. That evening nearly everyone in attendance got the chance to meet the band, and came away really feeling as though they’d gotten in on the ground floor of something special.

From the subsequent release of their 1998 self-titled debut album to their current, 2010 smash release, Save Me San Francisco, Train has subsequently established itself as one of the great American pop bands of their era.

Lead singer, Patrick Monahan’s soulful, yet wildly resourceful voice is unlike any other I’ve ever heard, and particularly on their current effort, runs a gamut I previously didn't believe possible.

However, it was the lyrics to one of his new new songs, one bearing his trademark improvisational style, that really wowed me.

Guilty Pleasure
I’ll have to admit it, my wife has won me over on a few TeeVee shows I once swore to myself I’d never watch. One is ABC’s, The Bachelor. I started watching it with her three years ago while, in the midst of moving into our new house, we had to spend six months in an apartment, with but one decent TeeVee to watch.

This season’s finale was last Monday night, and as part of the final video montage of bliss, depicting glimpses of the reality series’ final contestants’ love connection, a tender ballad played in the background.

It was soft enough (and my hearing is bad enough) that I couldn't quite make out who the artist was. However, what was clear was the predominant phrase in the song’s chorus: Marry Me.

It was totally appropriate as The Bachelor season’s swan song, as Brad, the young man looking for love, made no bones about the fact that he was looking for permanent love; he was looking for a wife.

When we heard the song, Michelle and I immediately looked at each other and said, nearly in unison, “What a cool song!” We didn’t have to state the obvious; we were thinking bout Amy’s wedding.

Michelle immediately commissioned me to find out who sang that song and where we could get it. I agreed and began searching online. I was both delighted and embarrassed that top Google search result for “Marry Me” was a YouTube link to the video below:



I was obviously delighted because it was so easy to find. There were several links to Train’s official website in reference to the song. A little further down the page was yet another link to a The Bachelor-related blog that confirmed the song’s appearance in season finale episode, suggesting that “...we’ll always associate this song with The Bachelor.”

Weeel, maybe, maybe not.

By now you might be wondering, if I claim to be such a dedicated Train fan, why I didn’t immediately identify the artist when my wife asked; surely I already owned Save Me San Francisco, right? How come I didn’t know the song?

Well, that’s the embarrassing part. Fact is, I knew that Train had come out with a new album last fall. However, buying music wasn’t quite at the top of my disposable income budget during the previous year and a half, when I was out of work for 14 months.

Sorry, My bad.

However the song is definitely on my radar now; in fact I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for the last three days.

After watching the awesome video and investigating the lyrics, I have decided that whether Amy wants Marry Me to be played at her wedding doesn’t matter; I now associate this song with my marriage instead.

You see it’s not about one special day. It’s not even about a single marriage proposal. It’s about the daily commitment; the daily renewal of the ever-elastic bond of marriage; it’s about is the way I feel toward my wife.

Thanks to Train for putting into words what was for me, a previously indescribable feeling; for one of the greatest Anniversary gifts I could ever receive, or give.

And today, for the 11,680th time, I give it to you, Michelle.

Happy 32nd Anniversary, Sweetheart.


Forever can never be long enough for me
To feel like I've had long enough with you

Forget the world now we won't let them see
But there's one thing left to do

Now that the weight has lifted
Love has surely shifted my way

Marry Me
Today and every day

Marry Me
If I ever get the nerve to say
Hello in this cafe

Say you will...Say you will

Together can never be close enough for me
To feel like I am close enough to you

You wear white and I'll wear out the words I love
And you're beautiful

Now that the wait is over
And love and has finally shown her my way

Marry me
Today and every day

Marry me
If I ever get the nerve to say hello in this cafe

Say you will...Say you will

Promise me
You'll always be
Happy by my side

I promise to
Sing to you
When all the music dies

And marry me
Today and everyday

Marry me
If I ever get the nerve to say hello in this cafe

Say you will...Say you will

Marry me

_{Words & Music © 2010 Partick Monahan and Train}


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Discover a Musical Treasure: 3rd & Lindsley Bar And Grill

 Long Time Coming
It's been an interesting year for me, blog-wise. I began a hockey blog last September and began engaging not only a whole new group of readers, but have met an entirely new group of friends and contacts. It has it been a lot of fun, writing about the Nashville Predators, but in an opportunity that came up this week, I've gotten a chance to do something I had been wanting to do here on AYBABTU for years.

The Tennessean's OnNashville.com blog is celebrating Nashville in April and asked bloggers to submit their reasons why April is great. Below is the story I submitted, but as usual, I went a little too wordy and they asked me to kindly cut it down to size. You can view the abridged version here.

The subject is my favorite music venue, evAR, the one place that convinced me that Nashville was the place I truly wanted to be.

* * * * *

Off the Beaten Path
There aren’t too many things I enjoy doing as much as taking in a Nashville Predators hockey game, but one of them is sampling the vast assortment of live music from venues all over this great city.

If you’re visiting Nashville for the first time, or the fiftieth — or worse yet, if you live here — and are still under the mistaken notion that Music City is only about Country Music, you’re missing out on something truly special.

The Ryman Auditorium, you know about. Oh, and you’ve probably heard of the Bluebird Café and perhaps The Exit-In.

But if you’re looking for live music that certainly doesn’t exclude Country, but by the same token, doesn’t require boots and a cowboy hat to get you in the door, I’ve got just the place.

My family and I relocated to Nashville from Southern California in 1992, and admittedly, Country Music wasn’t the dominant genre in my CD collection. As far as live music went, the honky-tonks on lower Broad were fun, but didn’t satisfy my jones for the more eclectic mix of styles I’d grown up with in Los Angeles; that is, until I discovered one of Nashville’s not-so-best kept secrets among music venues, 3rd & Lindsley Bar And Grill.

It’s an unpretentious, unassuming place, tucked away in a strip mall, about a half-mile off the beaten path of the most typical Music City visitor, but like many hidden treasures, the value is in the discovery.

The intimate, 275-seat bar and restaurant features a ground-level stage at the apex of it’s L-shaped listening room layout, providing a wonderful up-close vantage point for the vast majority of it’s occupants. This physical connection with the artist onstage instantly bonds listener with performer, making for an unforgettable musical experience.

The Progressive Approach
Owner Ron Brice opened 3rd & Lindsley back in February of 1991, to start afresh with a new and a different approach than that of his previous musical venture.

Brice formerly owned another local Country Music club called The Stagecoach Lounge on Murfreesboro Road. But in the midst of the sweeping ‘Country-as-Pop’ explosion of the late 1980s, he sensed a shift in the wind.

By 1990, Brice began to notice the passing genre fad depart from the innovative sound of artists like Garth Brooks and Lyle Lovett, growing more homogenized and much less progressive than just a few years prior. He decided to shift gears.

That wonderful confluence of musical styles that was the early 1990s offered a veritable cornucopia of sound from which Brice began to showcase; attracting acts for his new club based on the progressive, blended genres of Blues, Adult Alternative, and Americana.

Not coincidentally, he discovered an important partner in another recently-minted Nashville institution, radio station WRLT, Lightning 100.

A Match Made in Progressive Musical Heaven
One year earlier, in March of 1990, Lightning 100 had begun its current 20-year run as Music City’s longest-running radio station without a format change. It’s progressive, independent philosophy hailed from the golden age of album-oriented rock radio of the late 60s and early 70s, featuring an eclectic mix of classic rock, adult alternative, reggae, blues, and Americana that was a true reflection of the musical diversity of Nashville’s songwriting and recording industry, which is often masked and somewhat overwhelmed by the preponderance of the Country Music media machine.

It was a perfect marriage, and WRLT Senior Account Executive, Lesli (‘Dollar’) Bills, was the matchmaker. Working with Lesli, Brice began to offer ‘battle of the Bands’ contests, attracting exposure for local bands whose music was also supported by Lightning 100.

Soon, a number of strong regional and national acts began to frequent the 3rd & Lindsley stage with regularity; names like Ashley Cleveland, Jonell Mosser, and Bob & Etta Britt, were joined by the likes of John Prine and John McLaughlin as regular performers.

Brice said of his relationship with Bills and Lightning 100, “I just gave them my whole advertising budget and said, ‘there…now, make me or break me!’” Needless to say, 3rd & Lindsley ain’t broke yet.

On the synergy of common musical interests between he and his radio partner, Brice added, “Their cool, progressive approach has never gotten stale or diluted; it has stayed the same since we started out…(the relationship is) just a win-win-win.”

Nashville Sunday Night
3rd & Lindsley’s reputation for featuring Nashville’s best top-notch local, regional, and National acts indeed remains; fueled in part by yet another collaborative effort with Lightning 100.

Since 1996 the weekly radio and World Wide Web broadcast, Nashville Sunday Night has showcased a variety of top talent from all ends of the contemporary music spectrum.

It’s particularly interesting to note the numerous emerging artists who have performed on NSN and have gone on to national prominence soon thereafter. Names like Train, David Gray, Ray LaMontagne , The Fray, and KT Tunstall, all performed there and almost immediately thereafter went nuclear on the national scene.

This is just a partial listing of the many outstanding contemporary artists who have been a part of the
Nashville Sunday Night broadcast, live from 3rd & Lindsley since 1996.

Tin Pan South
Among the other special musical events 3rd & Lindsley participates in is the annual Nashville Songwriters Association International showcase, Tin Pan South, which wraps up tonight with a terrific lineup featuring, Butterfly Boucher, Katie Herzig, Trent Dabbs, and Matthew Perryman Jones.

Nashville Sunday Night takes this week off in recognition of the Easter holiday, but returns next week with yet another hugely notable performer who calls Nashville home, the immortal Leon Russell.

If you’re in town for any of these shows, or whenever you’re in Nashville, be sure to take advantage of this tremendous venue, where the food is as good as the music!

3rd & Lindsley is located at 818 3rd Avenue South; one half mile south of Broadway in Nashville. Visit their website for more details.

Tickets are typically available at the door, but for select shows, be sure to visit 3rd & Lindsley’s calendar page for advance sale tickets. Take it from a longtime fan of this venue, in light of the limited seating capacity, when they offer advance tickets for an artist you want to see, pick ‘em up; you don’t want to get shut out at the door. And you definitely don’t want to miss out on this treasure among Nashville’s musical landmarks!


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Oh and by the way, which one’s ‘Pink?’ — A Miniseries (2 of 2)

Us…and Them
As with many — if not most of the members of my generation, my chief musical influence growing up was The Beatles — having been completely immersed in their music from my early childhood on.

However by the time I reached high school, the Fab Four had already disbanded, although the individual band members’ solo careers were in full swing. And while the music was still important, ‘The Beatles Movement’ was beginning to lose steam as a vehicle of generational discourse as the decade of the 70s pushed onward.

While still retaining quite a bit of its ‘edge,’ socially, by the early mid-70s, Beatles’ music no longer pushed the envelope as it had done a few years earlier. it was by that time, pretty much engrained into the culture and universally embraced by all. Hell, even Sinatra was making the pop charts covering Beatles songs.

Those days of ‘Beatle Bonfires’ — the public burning of Beatles albums — had long since passed. The band that John Lennon touted to be “more popular than Jesus” were no longer a threat to proper society.

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, The Fab Four’s music was now part of the furniture. It was a substantial component of popular society, and rock ‘n roll was here to stay.

But while the Beatles music was no longer the short, sharp shock to the system of John Q. Public it once had been, there was, however, a growing rock ‘n roll sub-genre that still struck a chord of fear in the hearts of god-fearing America; the now-burgeoning brand of raw, hard-edged Rock that conjured up visions of anti-war protests, free love, and all-things-hippyfied.

Acid Rock, baby.

As for me, generationally speaking, I happened to fall just beyond the outskirts of the hardcore Hippy movement. I never quite got into the ‘tune in, turn on, and drop out’ vibe that many of those just a few years older than I had. There were several reasons for that — beyond merely my age. In large part I believe a lot had to do with the family and religious environment in which I was reared.

‘Hard’ Rock sort of scared me when I was a kid. I was more-or-less taught that The Beatles were as ‘hard’ as any music I had business listening to. And I gladly bought into that concept. So there was no real draw to embrace anything that was too-seriously ‘counter-culture’ (a widely-used descriptor back in the day).

Likewise, as I became older, I didn’t seem to have any real reason to go there, but like any other normal teenager I still yearned for something a bit more dangerous; something a little beyond the boundaries of my conservative upbringing.

Nonetheless I stood fast in my reticence to embrace anything beyond the homogenized realm of the Top 40, though deep down I really wanted to check out the Dark Side.

It took the simultaneous challenge of two guys whose lifestyles were pretty much the opposite of my own for me to see what a hypocrite I was for holding to such a position, and I’ll always be grateful to them both for it.

One was a person I knew only in passing. The other was someone I’d known all my life.

Come inside dear boy; have a cigar…
My Hard rock indoctrinators were a couple of guys at opposite ends of my interpersonal spectrum.

The first was my brother, Kenny (a.k.a. ‘TK’ in previous stories). We were only two grades apart in school but light-years divergent in personality and our respective personal belief systems.

Growing up, we fought like cats and dogs, with the elder Kenny always coming out on top. But following the physical skirmishes of our early youth, there would be battles of a different kind later on.

In 1969 Kenny had accompanied our Dad, Alex and I in the move to California, following our Mom’s death. But the abuse that I was willing to endure from Step-Mom Maxine, Kenny refused to submit to.

Those first nine months in our new home were like World War III. After just one school year (his sophomore year in high school), my elder brother convinced the folks that it would be best for him to spend the summer back in Indiana, staying with son #2, our brother David. Maxine wasn’t wild about the idea at first, but didn’t put up much resistance. She was as much in need of a little vacay from ‘TK’ was my brother from her.

Although he insisted it was just for the summer, I knew he wasn’t coming back. Kenny returned to Indiana to live with our elder brother David and finish out his last two years of high school. It was then that his life changed forever. My brother found religion — but not the religion you might be thinking of.

Kenny returned to SoCal to find a career and soon thereafter became a Buddhist — and an evangelical one at that. He subsequently attempted to convert the entire family, a devout Christian group, but didn’t find any takers; especially not in me.

Anytime Kenny came around, we knew that cat & dog act so well, we didn’t even have to rehearse.

The topic or occasion, it didn’t matter — we argued so often back then, it could have been over anything. It wasn’t just religion; Kenny and I were so such diametrically opposed personality-wise, I’m pretty sure that we must have argued about the time of day at least once or twice.

My brother really tormented me growing up, and for years I kept that grudge around with me like a pet. So anytime we got together, it didn’t take much for sparks to fly.

Another thing about my brother, he’s a ‘Type A’ personality, and could talk circles around anyone. He was a born salesman. Dood could sell sand to an Arab. He would later fashion that go-getter persona into a tremendously successful entrepreneurial career; but back then, in my eyes, he was just my blowhard bro who managed to get my goat in every argument, every single fucking time, and oh, how that burned me up.

Kenny’s the type who is such a great arguer that you simply cannot win — or at least I couldn’t. The best I could ever do was to get him to ‘agree to disagree,’ and try my best to walk away with at least a sliver of my dignity intact, although those times seemed few and far between.

No, what I remember happening instead on most occasions was me storming off, purple-faced, from yet another shout-fest that didn’t accomplish anything except perhaps granting him the satisfaction that he’d done it to me again — at least that’s how it felt, anyway.

But lest you think that my brother is some kind of malevolent being, please, put the rope away. While our personalities are as far apart as east is from west, our bond as brothers has always been indestructible. Kenny and I have long since mended the fences we spent our first couple decades of life together tearing down. We agree — respectively so — to disagree about our differences on all issues. I love my brother unconditionally and I know that love goes both ways.

And while I know that I could never be ‘like’ him, I do very much appreciate the fact that despite of my resistance, it was he who was the most instrumental in shaping a lot of my opinions later in adulthood, including a decision to broaden my musical horizons that would prove to be a truly life-changing paradigm shift for your truly.

Brain Damage
On the occasion of yet another patented rock music debate in which I insisted that I could live without experiencing the head-banging joys of Led Zeppelin, Mountain or Black Sabbath, he told me simply, “You can listen to what you want to, but I think you’re doing yourself a huge disservice to not even give it a try.”

Funny what just a little bit of conciliation will do when you’re conditioned for nothing but all-out assault…

The context of the discussion was hard rock, or Acid Rock as it was popularly colloquialized in those days. As far as I was concerned, ‘that music’ was strictly t was the product of the drug-influenced late 60s/early 70s. And even though my Beatles were one of the bands chiefly responsible for the genre’s early beginnings, I still bristled at the notion that music celebrating anything ‘radical’ could possibly be worth listening to.

And that was the problem: I was confusing the music with the culture. Not all hard rock lyrics openly celebrated drug use, or promoted counter-culture themes; I just assume that they did.

What I didn’t realize was that despite the outer appearance or even the actual life-practices of the musicians themselves, music stands or falls based on its own merits. Listening to it wouldn’t give me Brain Damage; but it might just expand my way of thinking.

At the same time that Kenny was challenging me to think outside my self-imposed music box, a second influential figure in my journey to the Dark Side would weigh in — my desk-neighbor in my high school Advertising Art class: a soft-spoken, avowed surfer/hippie counter-culturist-type named Van.

Van was a guy I had known only casually throughout high school, and I don’t believe we had ever been paired up in a class before. But on a seemingly daily basis we talked about music. And again there I’d be, holding the party line against all things Acid, while Van would defend the viability of his hard rock faves.

However sometime, during our Senior year, between late ’73 and early ‘74, Van set out on a mission to complete the work that my brother had started. He began going out of his way — very diplomatically, mind you — extolling to me the virtues of the British band Pink Floyd, whose then-recent landmark album, Dark Side of the Moon was making a huge splash just about everywhere — even on the Pop charts.

I remember his passion for the album. Van insisted there was no possible way I wouldn’t love it.

The record was about a year old at the time, and I was of course already familiar with its two ubiquitous singles, Money and Time, both of which were receiving constant airplay on just about every rock or pop format station in the country.

And sure, I liked those songs well enough, but something else restrained me from taking the plunge and exploring the more of that ‘taboo’ genre of ‘hard rock’ — a category under which Pink Floyd certainly fell in those days. It was a label having much more to do with my religious mores at the time than with anything else.

No Sympathy for the Devil
You see, being raised a straight-laced Baptist, I just wasn’t into that stuff. And it wasn’t as though I considered the music as all that bad necessarily, the fact was, it was simply out of my scope at that time in my life.

Hey, I was into pop; I was a Top 40 guy, like the vast majority of kids I hung out with back then. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend on records. I was mostly a radio-head. The only albums I owned were the Beatles LPs and 45s I’d had since grade school.

Of course I can remember a time when those in my family and church frowned upon even Beatles music. I clearly remember my Uncle Bill on one occasion trying his best to dissuade me from listening to it, calling it “ugly,” “the devil’s music,” and so on. I also clearly remember thinking the guy was nuts, but fortunately didn’t offer that opinion out loud.

Elton John’s Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting was about as hard as I rolled back then, and in fact, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was one album I did own at that time, but only because a buddy of mine had given it to me for Christmas that year. But by way of comparison, that was pretty much my speed in music.

AM Top 40 still ruled the airwaves in the early-to-mid-70s, and I was just all about it. Motown, Elton John, Chicago; these were the sounds that streamed from my car radio and 8-track player. That was soon to change, however.

Van was relentless; he peppered me daily with incessant praises of Dark Side, insisting that I give it a listen. But while I liked what I’d heard on the radio just fine, I was pretty lukewarm to the possibility that the rest of the album could be all that special. However having been primed by Kenny’s challenge, Van eventually wore me down. I decided it was finally time for me to broaden my horizons.

So I went out and purchased the 8-Track, and was instantaneously changed forever. Not since the Beatles had I received such a musical revelation. The aural qualities of lead guitarist David Gilmour’s instrumental and vocal craftings along with Roger Water’s unbelievably intelligent, biting lyrics came together in a sound so far beyond anything I’d ever heard before that I simply could not believe my ears.

The album truly rocked my world.

Okay, I know you may be rolling your eyes just a bit, particularly if you’ve grown up hearing the now familiar tunes from DSOTM and perhaps haven’t quite received the same rapturous experience that I did. And if that’s the case, I simply say ‘to each his (or her) own.’ All I can tell you is how it affected me. You simply have to understand just how different, how forward thinking that work was at the time.

I suppose that now, decades later, as Rock ‘n Roll has evolved and many artists have ridden the musical coattails of Pink Floyd’s, and subsequently, The Beatles’ innovative sound, you simply have to be as old as I am to appreciate just how unique and different things really were back in 1974.

However in my opinion, despite the passing years and musicians who have come and gone, attempting to borrow from the genius that is Pink Floyd’s legacy, no one will ever render that sound ‘common.’ It’s still every bit as fresh and ‘out there’ today as it was back then.

Comfortably Numb
So there as I sat last Saturday, enraptured in the envelope of sound booming from my speakers. I reconnected to that special sense of being I felt as a young man with my whole life ahead of me. Many changes, many victories, and a few defeats as well would follow in the ensuing years.

However I’m doubtful that in my life, my ability to feel — to inject my emotions into the soundtrack of that music; the impact it had on me emotionally — could ever have been duplicated by anything else.

I dunno. it’s a very personal feeling I have, and one that’s pretty tough to describe. But it’s one of the things I treasure the most about my life. It’s the one thing that no one can take away from me; the one thing that no one needs to validate.

Only me.

Only me and my music.

Thanks, Kenny. I love you.


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Oh and by the way, which one’s ‘Pink?’ — A Miniseries (1 of 2)

(Originally written on September 20, 2007)

This is the first in a number of former, nearly-completed-but-never-posted stories that have been piling up in my dead-blog box for as much as two-and-a-half years running. This particular one was originally intended to be posted in September of 2007, soon after we moved into an apartment following the sale of our home.

Hitting ‘The Wall’…
I’ve experienced more than my share of creeping malaise these past few weeks since moving into this one-bedroom apartment. Seems the more I unpack the less moved-in I feel. For Michelle and me the disconcertion of suddenly becoming vagabonds after nearly a decade-and-a-half of blissful geographic stability has been tough to take, and even tougher to shake. Despite the payoff that no doubt lies at the end of our journey — in January 2008 — it’s been pretty hard for us to focus on anything beyond than this ‘moving experience’ in the interim.

However last weekend, while in the process of getting settled, a wonderful memory came streaming back to me, reintroducing me to some feelings I hadn’t felt in quite awhile; it was just the recharge I needed.

Run, rabbit, run…
2007 has likely been Michelle’s and my busiest year ever since beginning this long, strange trip together. What with the kids graduating from college, then directly on the heels of that, our deciding to buy a new house and everything that has entailed; selling our existing abode quickly and then facing the reality of calling an apartment our home-in-between-homes for six long months.

It’s all been more than exhausting, physically, and dealing with the melancholy sentimentalities of leaving our ‘first love,’ every bit as taxing, emotionally.

But now, with the advent of having to cool our heels here in our temporary digs while awaiting our new home’s completion, I was determined to take advantage of the situation in at least one regard.

For all the obvious hassle of having to moving back into an apartment again, it did supply a sort of perverse nostalgia that Michelle and I both felt right away; it kind of made us feel like we were back in college again. And with that in mind, to go along with the experience it only seemed right to me to have a jammin’ stereo system in place to announce our arrival.

Nah…just kidding; I’d never be so inconsiderate as to indiscriminately play my stereo loud enough to annoy the paint, let alone the neighbors. Nonetheless, it is the law that an apartment just isn’t an apartment without tunes — well at least in my book, anyway.

So last Saturday I went to Wal-Mart, bought a cheap-o audio cart and celebrated the reinstallation of my stereo system here in our new temporary home. I even set up my old turntable, anxiously anticipating hours of listening to my old LPs — something I’ve done precious little of the past several years. However, it wouldn’t exactly be records I’d listen to initially, but rather CD bootlegs of LPs.

Turns out that my son, Shawn, had gone through an ‘old-school Rock’ phase a few years prior and had acquired CD copies of some of my favorite oId favorite Rock ‘n Roll classics. Fortunately for me he’d made ol’ Dad a copy of them although I had all but forgotten I even had them since they weren’t in commercial jewel cases like most of my ‘legit’ CD collection.

I pulled out a few I hadn’t listened to in what seemed like a lifetime; moldy-oldie albums that I once owned (and subsequently wore out) as 8-track tapes and/or LPs back in the 70s.

In addition to the obligatory Led Zeppelin Four and Houses of the Holy, which I had always enjoyed a great deal, but never counted among my favorite favorites, a select few of those little silver platters really sent my head spinning that afternoon, immediately returning me to that time in my life when anything was possible; a time when David Gilmour’s wailing guitar was my muse, and Roger Waters’ lyrics were my personal Devil’s Advocate.

I returned to my Animal(s) past and visited The Dark Side (of the Moon), once again.

For a single Saturday afternoon, Pink Floyd was back together and playing in my living room.

It’s not as though I’d forgotten how much I loved Pink Floyd. But for some reason, listening to those classic offerings that afternoon carried me back to the particular remembrance of why.

It was a memory I knew right then and there I had to explore; to write about, and pay tribute to someone I rarely speak of in this space, but whom I deeply respect; a person as different from me as night is from day, but to whom I will always be grateful, for challenging me to be whom I have in many ways become.


Next: Us…and Them