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 5 of 6)

It's Monday, May 23, 2011, Day Five of my six-day pre-blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU, reposting of some of my somewhat more obscure, yet favorite stories over the seven-year life of this space.

I’m beginning to see a pattern here. It would seem that many of my favorite posts are thoughtful, rather sad tributes to people in my life who have died. Yesterday it was Johnny Carson, today it’s my step-mom Maxine, and tomorrow it will be filmmaker John Hughes. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself...

Anyway, one thing I wanted to mention regarding today’s repost is how much I wish I’d taken Latin in school; it’s a fascinating language for me, largely because so much of our English words are based on Latin derivatives. And being the latter-day etymologist-wannabe I’ve become in my old age, I could poke around a Latin/English translation website for hours – which is what it appears I DID in coming up with the title for this story.

However again, I don’t want to get too far off-track here, except to say that I now realize that when I wrote the story back on June 1, 2010, I goofed a bit in my self-translation of the title phrase Secundum Memor, which, allegedly, is Latin for, In Accordance With Remembering.

The problem is that in actual Latin usage the words would be transposed. It should be phrased, Memor Secundum, with the preposition secundum following its object instead of the other way around, as I’d mashed it up via an online translator. Oh those crazy Romans; maybe I need to get to know their language a little better if I want to use it.

But all levity aside, this is another serious post and one that’s especially close to my heart, as its subject is the woman with whom I shared a turbulent, emotional, quintessential love-hate relationship in my youth. Nevertheless, there was perhaps no person I ever more wished to be accepted by than my step-mother, and thankfully, in the end, I was. Enjoy...

TUESDAY, JUNE 01, 2010

Secundum Memor

For me, Memorial Day is always at least a day late
My father served in the army during WW II, but luckily for my family, didn’t see any time on the battlefield. He’s still with us today; a hale and hearty 86-goin’-on-87 year-old.

None of my aunts and uncles lost their lives fighting for our country either.

I didn’t have any friends or relatives who died in Viet Nam (that I know of, anyway), save for a high school buddy of my late brother David, Glenn Bailey, for whom I always say a prayer each time the calendar rolls around to the final Monday in May.

I don’t believe either of my kids have had friends who’ve lost their lives in Iraq or Afghanistan; nor have any of our family friends with children in current military service dealt with the anguish of such a fate.

Even my most famous soldier-relative, WW I’s most decorated, Sergeant Alvin C. York, who defied incredible odds and employed legendary valor, managed to come through his tour of duty in The Great War with life intact.

So, that being said, Memorial Day, apart from a general reverence on behalf all of the men and women who fought to secure my freedom, had never been all that personal a day of remembrance for me.

That is, until ten years ago today.

June 1, 2000 was the day my step-mom, Maxine was laid to rest.

She died that Memorial Day weekend from a viral infection, which suddenly overtook her body during recovery from a previous surgery. It was shocking; unexpected; devastating. She was 78 years old, but had always been in good health. However that began to change following a second knee replacement in 1999 and a subsequent series of complications, including removal of a benign tumor and a staph infection, which she was recovering from at the time that the secondary viral infection took over and ended her life.

The stormy relationship Maxine and I shared is well-documented, yet the loss I still feel each June 1st has never abated; and I doubt, ever will.

For the vast majority of my adult life, I was on wonderful terms with the woman who raised me; who taught me responsibility, and “the principle of the thing.” But it hadn’t always been so.

The lessons she delivered were hard and unrelenting; the same way that she had learned them, growing up during The Great Depression. I had every reason to rebel; every reason to hate her, but I endured, and eventually won her favor.

The years seemed to mellow her, but I’m not certain of that. All I know for sure is that her stance toward me changed after I became an adult. She often made it a point to let me know that finally, I had “done good” after years of not-so-subtly suggesting that I never would.

I learned the definition of forgiveness through my step-mother; not by her example, but rather by God’s provision of my opportunity to grant it unto her, despite all the reasons I had not to.

Ten years later, now with adult children of my own, with whom many of the same issues of will that my Mom and I battled having come and gone, I see things through different eyes; even more so now than I did ten years ago, when I stood at the podium of Forest Lawn’s Church of Our Fathers, delivering her eulogy.

There are always two sides to every story; dual points of view, both seemingly ‘right’ in the eyes of those who hold them. Whether it was hers or whether it was mine that was the correct one is immaterial.

What is important, and what is that part of the substance of my character gleaned from my relationship with Maxine, is that there is good in every situation, no matter how dark or daunting. A battle of wills does not always declare a victor, nor does it always brand a loser.

Maxine taught me that there is more than one way to love.

Thanks, Mom.


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Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 4 of 6)

It's Sunday, May 22, 2011, Day Four of my six-day pre-blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU, reposting of some of my somewhat more obscure, yet favorite stories over the seven-year life of this space.

Seeing as though we apparently missed The Rapture, I thought that today I would reprise a story about someone who at least lives in Comedy Heaven: the legendary King of Latenight, the late Johnny Carson.

The post, The King Is Dead...Long Live The King originally appeared on Monday, January 24, 2005, the day after Carson’s passing, as my tribute to a longtime hero of both my childhood and adult life. Johnny Carson defined an entire genre of television and certainly, just as well defined a big part of the lives of his millions of fans throughout his show’s 30 seasons on the air.

It’s almost unbelievable that today marks 19 years since, quite literally, Carson’s swan song: Bette Midler’s rendition of ‘One For My Baby’ at the close of the penultimate Tonight Show With Johnny Carson (the actual final show the following night, on May 23. 1992, included no guests besides sidekick Ed McMahon and previous Tonight Show video highlights).



At any rate, in tribute to that, and because I’ve always considered this one of the most heartfelt stream of words ever to proceed from my fingers...Enjoy.

MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 2005

The King Is Dead...Long Live The King

Sorry to interrupt, but this can’t be helped.
It was my sincere intention to complete my current series before I went on to any other subject. The story of my brother’s current battle with Alzheimer’s Disease has taken more than six weeks so far, and it’s been excruciating to try and get through. As a matter of fact, I’ve got plenty of other story ideas I want to get to. They’re all lined up in queue inside my head just waiting to be written as soon as I can get this current gorilla off my back. However interruptions happen, such as my side posts at Christmas and New Years, because they’re holidays that merit such timely recognition. Now another event has occurred, which in my world deserves similar pause and reflection.

The King is dead.

No, I’m not talking about Elvis — he’s still working the graveyard shift down at the 7-Eleven. I’m not talking about some Middle Eastern potentate or even the King of Beers. I’m talking about the King of Late Night. I’m talking about Johnny Carson.

Johnny passed away around dawn Sunday morning in his Malibu, CA home, apparently due to complications from emphysema. It was no doubt the result of his many years of cigarette smoking, which makes it all the more disgusting and painful for me to take.

You see, I come from a long line of smokers. I am the only one of all my brothers who has never smoked. My Dad quit 22 years ago after having smoked on and off for 23 the previous 43 years. All of his family have been heavy smokers, including my paternal Grandfather, who himself succumbed to emphysema in 1973. I guess that makes Carson’s death a little more personal for me. And it also makes me a little more angry because it circles back to add a stinging reminder as to my own failure as a parent; the fact that despite the example of our family’s history I apparently couldn’t make a strong enough case to prevent my own children from becoming smokers themselves.

Shawn and Amy tell me that they are mostly ‘social smokers.’ They acknowledge that it’s a harmful habit and that someday, they will definitely quit. But as I’ve told them to no avail, I’ve grown up around it and would dare say that I’ve known quite a few more people in my lifetime who after only smoking for a few years have tried to quit and found it extremely tough. How tough, I can’t say, because thankfully it has never been my problem; yet it’s obviously something that’s difficult to deal with, so why start in the first place?

Okay, okay...I’m veering way off course here. It wasn’t my intent to make this post a rant about smoking. I’m not a cigarette-Nazi, and quite frankly it doesn’t bother me to be around it; after all, like I said, I grew up with smokers; I’m used to it; it’s not a major issue. What I do have an issue with is the fact that it has killed yet another person; a person I grew up with; a person I truly loved and thought the world of: Johnny Carson.

You all know who he was, but if you don’t have a clear recollection of actually witnessing him host The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, you likely don’t know what he was. He was a pioneer. He not only defined the genre of late-night talk, he was The Beatles of talk show hosts. He set the standard. He broke the mold.

In the 1960s, when I was between 8 and 12 years of age, there was no cooler treat than being able to stay up until 11:30pm to watch The Tonight Show. I always felt so ‘grown up,’ getting the chance to laugh at the sometimes racy, certainly ‘adult-oriented’ humor of Johnny and his guests. Carson defined the now standard concept of the comedic monologue to begin each show; now it’s standard practice. It may not have started with Carson, but he became the standard-bearer for its use to subsequent generations of comic talkshow hosts to follow.

I know that a lot of you thirtysomethings probably think that Johnny Carson was a little old-fashioned, compared to the raucous, zany or hip, urban styles of David Letterman, Jay Leno, Conan O’Brien and Arsenio Hall. Certainly they all fed off of the Carson genre and added their own special augmentations, most of which are both funny and worthy of praise in and of themselves. But if you were to ask them (and all have been asked over the years) who is the greatest of them all, to a man they point to Carson.

Everyone watched Carson. Of course the fact that there was no cable in all but a fraction of U.S. households in even the latter years of his run didn’t exactly hurt his ratings. But the fact is, Johnny Carson was the definition of water cooler discussion. His show was what everyone talked about in the office the next morning. His monologues were often the topic of discussion for morning radio DJs throughout the country. And perhaps as importantly, all America knew that if someone made an appearance on the Tonight Show, either as an interviewed guest or a musical performer, that person or band was important. They had made it. That’s how significant Johnny Carson’s influence was.

Johnny & Ed
I had actually been thinking about Carson recently, and wondering how he was doing; it seemed amazing how time had flown since he left the public eye. After leaving The Tonight Show on May 23,1992, he basically went into seclusion, making public appearances very rarely and television appearances almost never.

Carson’s sidekick for over 30 years, Ed McMahon would go on, following The Tonight Show to enjoy perhaps his greatest celebrity with the syndicated Star Search TeeVee series, while also putting his face on seemingly any show or product he could throughout the decade of the 90s.

Yet even as McMahon’s public presence began diminishing over the past few years, I was still hopeful to see Johnny to resurface at some point. Unfortunately he stuck to his guns just as he’d said he would when he announced, “When I retire from television, I’m going to stay retired from television.”

And now he’s gone...and I feel like shit.

I feel as though someone just reached into my soul and ripped out a huge chunk of my childhood, not to mention a good part of my adult life. I don’t know anyone my age who didn’t think the man was The Man. He was, quite frankly, a hero to my generation; someone to be admired.

Johnny Carson was 79 years old; not exactly a spring chicken, but three years younger than McMahon, who is now 82. Not that I would have ever wished it upon him, but I always figured that Ed would be the first to go.

The Boy Who Would Be King
When we were kids, my brother Alex and I would pretend that we were Johnny and Ed. I was Carson, of course.

We would do imaginary interviews with greats like Jimmy Stewart (with me doing double-duty with an extremely lame Jimmy Steward impression). Of course Zha Zha Gabor would always stop by with her legendary cat and her even more legendary question to Johnny (which I would learn only years later are merely urban legends). And of course, Carnac the Magnificent would make an appearance as well, giving the answers to Ed’s questions before they were even asked.

But now all these years later I hold in my hand the LAST question. It has been hermetically sealed inside a mayonnaise jar, sitting on Funk & Wagnall’s porch since noon today.

The question is a simple, “Why?” However, we’ll never know the answer. Carnac won’t be making any more appearances.

The King is dead.

Long live the King.


_{Photo Courtesy Carson Productions, Inc.}

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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Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 2 of 6)

It's Friday, May 20, 2011, Day Two of my six-day pre-blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU, reposts of a few of my personal favorite posts that you may have missed, and a few that I, quite frankly, had all but forgotten about myself until I decided to do this retrospective.

Andy And Me
Today’s retro post is another in what I consider to be one of my more personal back-glances at my professional career, and yet another reason why I will never feel as though my life hasn’t been absolutely full.

For anyone my age, the image below is unmistakable; its artist as easily identifiable as a Renaissance master. Andy Warhol was perhaps the best known pop artist of my lifetime. And inasmuch as his timeless, ‘Marilyn’ is perhaps his best-known work, his greatest contribution to pop-culture may in fact be a written quote rather than his trademark painterly photographic treatments.


_{© 1962 Andy Warhol}

In a 1968 exhibition catalog for his exhibit at the Moderna Museet in Stockholm, Warhol penned the wildly-famous and oft-used pop-culture maxim, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” The quote’s popular paraphrase, “15 minutes of fame,” is attached to seemingly every ephemeral, one-hit wonder-celeb that comes down the pike these days, in essence, giving prophet’s credence to Warhol’s famous line. And while its sarcastic, quasi-derogatory inference may be an insult to those who crave fame’s fickle favor, for regular folks like you and I, it can be a subtle vote of accomplishment to actually see the product of your own hard work reflected in even a modicum of recognition; to realize even your five minutes of fame.

For when it all comes down to it, in my opinion, sometimes close is more than close enough.

Enjoy.

Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 1 of 6)

A Royal Awakening
Today is Thursday May 19, 2011 and I just got a jolt of adrenaline from my visit to the blog of a dear old friend; someone with whom I rarely communicate anymore. She was the very first person to let me know that this blog was more than merely an online diary; that there actually was someone out there. She became AYBABTU’s first commenter, in my third post on May 25, 2004.

This isn’t the first time I’ve made reference to the story about Queenie’s inaugural comment, but now, years later, I come back to it because it holds such a strong place in my heart.

We each started our blogs that same month, as did thousands of others during Blogger’s historic upgrade of early ’04. We became enthusiastic supporters of each others’ work for several years thereafter, but gradually, as has been the case with many, we each eventually fell off the pace as life took precedence.

However on a nostalgic whim today I decided to check up on Queenie’s blog and was delighted to discover that after having dropped out completely for more than a year, she has recently begun posting again.

And just as great (to me, today, at any rate) is the fact her blog still looks exactly the same now as it did in 2004, so I was immediately transported back to seven years ago, when this wonderful adventure of blogging began for both of us.

And then suddenly it registered that the anniversary of AYBABTU is just a few days away, as is Harold Camping’s prediction of the coming of The Rapture, supposedly happening this weekend, on Sunday May 21st.

So, I decided that just in case the world comes to an end as we know it a few days before my seventh blogaversary on May 24th, I wanted to mark the occasion a few days early.

As a matter of fact, I think I’m gonna make this a running theme this week; a sort of ‘The Six Days of Blog-mas’ if you will.

Each day I’ll post a brief blurb regarding the life of my blog along with a link to one of AJ’s (other) Greatest Writs that's not listed in my ‘best of’ page (in the nav bar above). To be honest there are a few favorite stories that I’d been considering regurgitating anyway, so this seems like as good a time to do that as any. Hopefully you’ll find them enjoyable to read again, or for the first time.

Blogaversary Post #1
Anyway, for today I give you, Random Ruminations of A Man Left To His Own Devices (Part II). It’s the humorous part of an early two-part post from June 2004, on a pair of topics that came to mind while I was left on my own by my wife for the weekend.

Part two is a site more enjoyable read than part one, which now in retrospect I find to be a rather bitchy whine about the shortcomings of male friendships. You can read it if you want, but don't forget to wear your hip-waders.

Enjoy, and I’ll seeya tomorrow!

It's my blog & I can lie if I a-want to

I said yesterday that I would write about the ELO concert I went to back in 1977, which was interesting in that it was not only a great show, but my first "date concert" as well. Well sorry, but I'm gonna change course and talk about a show I just saw last night instead. We'll save ELO for tomorrow.

Any "Toad" fans here, boys and girls? Yes, I see that hand (that was for you, Sam). Well if you know Toad the Wet Sprocket, you know Glen Phillips, the band's former lead singer. Glen played at a great little bar in Nashville that I frequent more than any other music venue here. It's an unassuming place in a strip mall called 3rd and Lindsley Bar & Grill, and I think I need to sit down sometime and come up with a list of the great bands I've seen there over the last 10 years — dozens. From Dave Mason to David Gray to Patty Griffin. It's a great place, and if you ever spend some time in Nashville, you really need to check it out.

As you may know, since Toad's demise in January of 1998, Glen took some time off and then embarked on a solo career. In the last couple years he has played here in Nashville fairly consistently, and last night was my second time seeing him in the last couple years.

Due to the fanaticism of Toad followers, which continues even now more than six years since they split, he always seems to draw an enthusiastic crowd that calls out a half a dozen requests for their favorite Toad song between every tune. Last night he played before a packed house at 3rd, along with a live local area radio audience, broadcast by WRLT Lightning 100 (the best radio station in town by far, IMO).

For the first hour (the radio broadcast portion), he was able to do a lot of his newer individual stuff (along with a few Toad standards) without interruption. After the broadcast was finished, He then continued to play for about 45 minutes, during which time the requests came in fast and furious from the crowd. From reading comments on the fan forum at his web site, apparently it kinda got ugly in Atlanta a couple of nights earlier, with a number of fans being pretty obnoxious throughout the show shouting out requests.

Fortunately that wasn't the case here. Glen took it all in stride and seemed happy to oblige as much as he could, although he did say he couldn’t do some of the songs requested (apparently there are some songs that he's either contractually prohibited from doing or just unwilling to play). However after the first song of the bonus set, while being bombarded with more Toad requests from the crowd, Glen made what I thought was kind of a telling statement, albeit good-natured. He said, "Okay, it’s gonna be a half hour of request madness, but we’re gonna alternate between Toad songs and the things I've written in the last several years...just so I don’t feel terrible...okay?” He was smiling as he said it, but I'm sure a good measure of truth is behind it. It's gotta be a double-edged sword for him have his older music be so adored, to near exclusion of the new stuff he's excited about.

Among the the Toad songs Phillips played were standards Walk on the Ocean and All I Want, along with All Things In Time, and Throw it All Away, from Toad’s final CD, Coil. On the latter tune, I was apparently the only person in the place shameless enough to throw the confetti on cue, causing him to momentarily crack up while singing the song. So to reward my nerdiness, Glen asked me to request the next song. Considering how embarrassed I felt being put on the spot, after freezing for 5-10 seconds, I requested the only song I could have at that moment: Stupid.

It was a great show and I'm especially looking forward to his upcoming album with the fabulous Nickel Creek, Mutual Admiration Society, and a tour to ensue in a couple months. No Nashville dates have been announced as of yet, but hopefully they will be soon.

Although they've worked together before, I've only seen NC and Glen individually, and both are incredible so I would highly recommend seeing this collaboration live if the tour comes to a concert venue near you.

Okay the hour is wee and I gotta go back to work tomorrow, so hopefully I'll get the ELO story you've all so anxiously awaited (sheesh...who am I kidding?) up by tomorrow night. TTFN.