I Know it’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll…
November 29, 2008
But I like it. It turns out that it is hard to concentrate on putting together a perfect rock playlist when the overseer keeps whipping you all the time. Nevertheless, I’ve managed to come up with 45 songs that more-or-less satisfy our two criteria. Let’s review:
1) The song must rock. No offense to Steely Dan (who are very good), but I once knew someone who listened to them to go to sleep at night, so they don’t get to be on this list. I discovered, however, that not all the songs I thought of rock super hard. Some of them are a bit slower, grinding blues thingies, but at least they tend to have gutsy soul vocals and/or bitchin’ guitar parts.
2) The song can’t be overexposed on typical classic rock radio. This got very tricky, as plenty of the hardest rockin’ songs get played all the time (“Jack and Diane”). Also, some artists are played so much that five or ten of their songs are probably off-limits for this list (ahem, The Doors, Zeppelin, Hendrix), but I still wanted to include them, so I tried to pick songs that are played less frequently. Finally, I picked greatest hits from some artists that are outside the reach of typical classic rock stations. These songs might get played plenty on soul or funk or metal stations, for example, but not on classic rock, although I think they fit.
Originally I was going to meticulously arrange these songs in the perfect order, but in the interest of getting this post up before I return to the sulfur mines I’m just going to throw them at you in no particular order. Here we go:
“Voodoo Chile (Slight Return) – Jimi Hendrix You may play along on air guitar.
“Think” – Aretha Franklin You remember the scene in Blues Brothers?
“Boom Boom” -Big Head Todd & The Monsters W/ John Lee Hooker May be the best version ever.
“I Drink Alone” -George Thorogood & The Destroyers The Blues never rock as hard as when Thorogood plays them…
“Milk Cow Blues” – Eric Clapton …Except maybe for this smokin’ Robert Johnson cover.
“Lost in the Flood” (Live in NYC) – Bruce Springsteen Live version adds rumble and menace to an old fave.
“Green Manalishi” – Fleetwood Mac From back when crazy guitar hero Peter Green ran the band.
“Death or Glory” – The Clash Punk anthem is often overlooked by classic rock stations.
“Little Wing” -Stevie Ray Vaughan Hendrix wrote it, Clapton and Duane Allman covered it too, but this is my favorite version.
“Come to Papa” – Bob Seger Play this more! It makes a good change from “Night Moves” or “Turn the Page”.
“Invincible” – Pat Benatar I get so amped listening to this! Who says chicks can’t rock hard? (okay, sometimes I say that, but I should really know better)
“Girls Rock Your Boys” – Quiet Riot Quiet Riot is not quiet enough to get played on The Mountain, apparently.
“Immigrant Song” – Led Zeppelin Hammer of the Gods! There are at least eight Zep songs that get more airplay than this one.
“Tribute” – Tenacious D You don’t have to be serious to rock hard.
“Jungleland” – Bruce Springsteen Epic from my favorite rocker. Would get more play if it wasn’t seven minutes long.
“Hot Rod Lincoln” – Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen I may just have wanted to write the band’s name…
“Jack the Ripper” – Link Wray Dirty boogie from a true guitar hero.
“You Give Love A Bad Name” – Bon Jovi Bon Jovi seems underplayed on The Mountain at least.
“Rollin’ and Tumblin’” – Cream ‘Cause you gotta have Clapton, and this one keeps a lower profile than some of his other stuff.
“Green Onions” – Roy Buchanan The original is great, but I only listen to this version now. Here’s to you, Roy.
“Superstition” – Stevie Ray Vaughan Another great song made greater by a master axeman.
“Back Door Man” – The Doors Tough to find a Doors song that hasn’t been played to death, but this great blues cover has life left in it.
“Whipping Post” – Allman Brothers Southern rock classic.
“Frankenstein” – The Edgar Winter Group Yeah, how about a 9 minute jam to change things up.
“Lawyers, Guns, and Money” – Warren Zevon This does get played, but not as much as “Werewolves of London“. Terrific lyrics from one of rock’s best songwriters.
“Will It Go Round in Circles” – Martin Sexton Martin knocks this one out of the park. Hearing him do it live may have been the best moment of my concert-going career, and I’ve been to dozens of shows.
“Pressure Drop” – Toots and the Maytals Oh, the pressure’s gonna drop on you…
“Tear the Roof Off the Sucker/ Give Up the Funk” – Parliament Funk classic will in fact tear the roof off.
“Revolution” – The Beatles I think we all know which version of this song I’m talking about.
“New Orleans” – Gary U.S. Bonds Before the electric guitar took over, the saxophone ruled rock’n'roll
“Black Betty” – Ramjam Aw, what the hell. It’s my list.
“Walk of Life” – Dire Straits The boy can play.
“Out in the Street” – Bruce Springsteen Best Friday song ever.
“Bad Reputation” – Joan Jett & the Blackhearts One of the hardest rockin’ ladies of all time.
“Bring Me Some Water” – Melissa Etheridge This does get played a bit, but talk about passion and intensity!
“Tom Sawyer” – Rush Why the hell not?
“Pump It Up” – Elvis Costello Because organ players can rock out too.
“Baba O’Riley” – The Who My favorite Who song tends to get skipped in favor of stuff from Tommy.
“Godzilla” – Blue Oyster Cult Great song, but it coulda used more cowbell.
“Rainbow in the Dark” – Dio Gets played more on metal stations.
“Ace of Spades” – Motorhead Ditto. Frenetic high energy stuff.
“Thunderstruck” – AC/DC The Mountain doesn’t usually dig this deep into AC/DC because they just rock so hard.
“Adam Raised A Cain” – Bruce Springsteen I imposed a strict Springsteen cap on myself, believe it or not.
“Boom Boom (Out Go the Lights)” – Pat Travers And we’re back to blues rock.
“I Ain’t Done Wrong” – Yardbirds Yardbirds w/ Jeff Beck on lead guitar.
And thus ends my playlist. Now it’s time for you guys to throw in all the great stuff I missed!
It’s Still Rock ‘n’Roll to Me
November 28, 2008
I would like to tell you about the first time I fell in love with a radio station. It was the spring of 1996, and I’d heard somehow about this new radio station that was starting up on 99.5 FM. I don’t know if that frequency had been empty previously, or if some other station was going under, but now it was going to be “ninety-nine five, The Hawk” and play classic rock. Another thing the ads were very specific about was the time that the new station would begin broadcasting. I thought it would be cool to hear a radio station being born, so I sat down in front of my radio a couple minutes before the appointed hour and tuned it to 99.5 FM. At exactly the appointed time, the beginning of Springsteen’s “Born to Run” rumbled out of the radio, and I was smitten.
I listened to The Hawk for the next five years, whenever I was in Colorado. It became my standard for what a classic rock station should be. One time when I returned from “back east”, however, my radio station was gone. It had been replaced by something called “The Mountain”. Since this new station promised to play classic rock, and to break away from conventional classic rock radio by playing “deeper tracks” and album sides, focusing on more music and less talk, and by eschewing tired gimmicks like giveaways and shock jocks, I decided to give it a try. I was soon turned off by how seriously they seemed to take their mission, however. I remember one station ID spot where they quoted Mahatma Gandhi, and I just said “that’s it!” and turned the dial to 107.9 The Bear. I mean, c’mon guys, it’s frickin’ radio.
I never really got comfy with The Bear, however, and after a period of drifting and playing nothing but cds I eventually came crawling back to 99.5, the station where I had been happy in simpler times. Luckily, The Mountain had toned down the self-righteousness a notch, and I’ve been able to listen to them for the last four or five years. They’ve grown a lot as a station in that time, and have endeared themselves to me by doing some genuinely cool stuff. Their 3-hour block of no commercials, minimal talk (song IDs and such), maximum music every weekday from nine to noon is how radio should be. I love the daily “barrel of monkeys” request segment, and the integration of their station with their website is a model for other stations.
Lately, though, it seems like The Mountain has forgotten how to rock. I mean, they are still playing “classic rock” but a lot of it is mellower, less intense and passionate stuff. Their station slogan could be: “The Mountain, where you can go to hear the softer side of Billy Joel and The Moody Blues”, or how about “The Mountain: where Crosby, Stills, and Nash never played with Neil Young”, or maybe “Do you remember Yes or Emerson, Lake, and Palmer? Have you forgotten about ELO or Gary Wright? Well, The Mountain didn’t forget about them. The Mountain plays them all the mother-loving time.”
Well, I say that it’s not hard to come up with songs that aren’t over-exposed on classic rock radio but that still rock hard, and to prove that I’m not just a filthy prevaricator, I’m going to put together a three hour rock-block myself. I figure that a 4-minute per song average is acceptable, so I’ll post a 45-song playlist here later today or possibly tomorrow. I invite other classic rock aficionados to chip in via comment, and we’ll see if we can’t get at least a nine-to-five no-repeat, no-talk playlist together. And remember, “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye is a terrific song, but it does not rock.
P.S. One more slogan: “99.5 The Mountain asks ‘Are you ready to Rock?’ If so, we hear that 103.5 is playing Bob Seger right now. Or you can stay here and listen to James Taylor.”
Waking ‘Bekah
November 26, 2008
In the early days of our relationship, Rebekah was recovering from some very tumultuous times in her life. She was truly a fragile flower in those days, and this was seldom more apparent than when I had to awaken her from her nightly Ambien coma. Each morning was a miniature Lazarus spectacular, complete with weeping, praying, paramedics yelling “clear”, the chanting of clergy and the crackle of the defibrillator (I provided most of the weeping – ‘Bekah could be really cranky when she woke up).
The intervening years have been good to ‘Bekah. Whatever my shortcomings as a spouse (dwindling career prospects, bizarre sexual hangups, snoring, possible incipient madness, fiscal irresponsibility, chronic infidelity, the cockfighting ring I run out of her school after hours, my snarky blog, etc.), I am a fairly good nursemaid. Several years of regular meals, plenty of sleep, scrupulous adherence to medical appointments and medication schedules, and a low, low incidence of drama have done good things for Rebekah’s health.
Nowadays waking her is a much easier proposition. After feeding her I simply head for the bathroom and turn on the shower. Usually, the pressure of the cultural taboo against wasting water is sufficient to pull Rebekah out of bed and into her day. Some days, however, I have to use my Duck Spatula (“Duck” is my pet name for Rebekah). I designed the Duck Spatula, and built it myself out of a baking sheet (any thin sheet of metal will do) riveted to the metal pole from an old pool-cleaning net. Its use is likewise simple: merely insinuate the edge of the spatula-head under Rebekah and, using the pole as a lever, flip her out of bed and run like hell.
Mood Swings
November 26, 2008
Lately my temperament has undergone a change from what I would generally describe as stolid to what can only be called mercurial. My emotional state changes with little or no provocation, my ability to focus phases in and out without warning, and I never know who the hell I’m going to be when I wake up each morning, which I find profoundly disturbing.
Most of yesterday was spent in a fugue state, and when I decided to attend the weekly meeting of my gaming group, it was partially from a sense of obligation and partly from a fear that, if I didn’t go this time, I might stop going, and then I would stop having friends, which would leave me more completely at the mercy of my burgeoning brain fever. I know that sounds crazy. The fact that I’m in a mental state where this kind of stuff seems not only real but urgent is pretty much the problem.
Anyhow, I went, and it turned out to be a great thing. Despite his pathological dishonesty, Jon has been just superbly creative lately, and being around him and Ezekiel and Dylan awakens my own desire to create and narrate. Since these urges are just about the healthiest imperatives I have left at the moment, it turns out that last night was great therapy. I got onto an upswing and was able to ride it all through today, though I feel it fading a little now.
Thanks, gang, for letting me use this space in a more confessional manner during the last couple of days. I’ll try cracking wise again real soon, I promise.
A Monday Miscellany
November 24, 2008
Well, there seems to be a lot going on in my life these days.
My current job won’t last the year, so there’s a whole ball of issues there which I’m going to skip over because they are too tedious for this space.
I finished Decalogue, concluding a months-long journey through one of the finest pieces of cinema human kind has ever produced.
I’ve been reading the early Sherlock Holmes stuff, namely the first 2 novellas (A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four) and the first seven short stories. Good times.
Have fought off the virus that troubled me last week, but between that and the rigors of job-hunting, I’m feeling pretty much exhausted physically and emotionally – wondering if I can bounce back or not.
Bed & Breakfast
November 23, 2008
(Part IV of an intermittent and ongoing series)
As previous installments have shown, I have about 30 minutes of hard dealing to get through each morning just to care for the livestock around here. Once that is done, I get to take a little break from the insanity and and fix Rebekah breakfast in bed. I do this almost every morning, and I feel like it lets Rebekah know that I care about her – especially on those mornings when I have a day off during the week and could otherwise sleep in! Anyhow, breakfast isn’t typically too involved; oatmeal is Rebekah’s fare of choice at the moment, though this is subject to change at any time, as are any of milady’s other preferences.
Feeding the Beasties
November 22, 2008
(part III in an intermittent and ongoing series)
I shall resume my tale of a typical morning at the point where Clementine, who is being a right bastard today by the way, has gone outside. While she offloads her metabolic byproducts, it is time for me to feed the cats. Now, on mornings when Gypsy begins his food-yowling before sunrise, or augments it by flinging himself bodily into the bedroom door, I usually give him discount cat food we get from Sam’s Club. This may not seem like much of a punishment unless you’ve read the ingredient label, so I reproduce it for your edification:
Ingredients: Brewer’s Rice, Shredded Newspaper, Toenail Clippings, Powdered Cellulose, Gravel, Scabs, Calcium Sulfate, Strychnine, Potassium Sulfate, Despair.
Anyhow, Gypsy’s been good this morning, so he gets his prescription weight-loss food from the vet, which is made mostly from black magic and guys who squealed on the mob. I quickly dial the combination on the cat food safe and scoop Gypsy out some of the good stuff, then deposit it in his bowl in the laundry room. After Gypsy minces in there, I close the door for his protection and head back to the kitchen. Clementine is pawing at the door now, so I scoop food into Cleo’s bowl, pluck her out of the air as she drifts by, and set her down in front of it. Past observation has shown that it will now take her anywhere from five to seven minutes to find the food directly in front of her, but I don’t have time to watch, because it’s time for Clemmy to come back in.
Clem shoots a stiff paw to my groin as I let her in, and I do my best to shrug it off as I head over to turn on the stove and get the ingredients for her breakfast out of the refrigerator. For the next fifteen minutes or so I will be busy searing steak and sautéing mushrooms, as well as preparing a fresh green salad. It may not sound that hard, but trust me: anything becomes a challenge when you have a sixteen-pound dog hanging off your sweat pants and snarling incessantly.
Finally I’m done cooking and can lay Clem’s breakfast out in front of her. She dives into the steak and mushrooms while I croon encouragements to her: “That’s it Clem, eat up so you’ll grow big and strong”. I watch anxiously as she sniffs at the salad, because I’ve decided to try something new today: Arugula! Clem snuffles around the salad bowl very carefully, then turns and squats over it, urinating deliberately as she looks back over her shoulder at me to make sure I get the message. When she’s finished weeing, I scoop her up and carry her to her corral.
Nothing is Good
November 21, 2008
In related news:
1. Everything is bad.
2. I hate everything.
Job hunting, not much fun at the best of times, has not gone well this week. I hate job hunting. Also, yesterday Yevgeny forgot to engage the hand-brake on one of the sulfur-carts, and when it got away from him it rolled over my left foot, crushing three of my toes. I hate Yevgeny.
A Day in the Life
November 20, 2008
(Part II of an intermittent, ongoing series)
On any given day, my first order of business after waking up is to loose Clementine upon an unsuspecting world (actually, I’m pretty sure the world suspects by this time, but there’s not much it can do). This is a fairly involved process, for safety reasons. First I take the master remote which controls Clemmy’s cage defenses from its wall dock. Next I deactivate the perimeter fragmentation charges, and kill the voltage running through the cage itself. Finally, I draw back the three tempered-steel bolts and fling wide the door of her cage while crying “Havoc!”. Originally this was intended as a warning, something akin to yelling “Fore!” on the golf course, but I find that it also helps keep Clem’s attention focused on me as we head for the bedroom door, so that she doesn’t pounce upon my sleeping wife.
Then we head down the hall to…oh wait, crap, actually, I have to go back to the bedroom now and put on some sweats, because the school bus stops right behind our house at this time of morning, which means that there’s a crowd of school children milling around across the street from our back yard waiting for the damn thing, and apparently their uptight parents don’t think they’re ready to see the kinds of things that are sometimes left uncovered by the secondhand maternity lingerie I usually sleep in. So I go back and change while Clem cavorts in the hall. Gypsy makes a plaintive cry of “Food!” which must seem to Clem to be an accurate assessment of Gypsy’s ecological role, because she takes of after him, which thankfully rids me of both of them for the precious time required to get dressed.
Then I close the bedroom door behind me, so that ‘Bekah will be spared any further ruckus, and pad down the hall. When I reach the kitchen Cleo, the remaining member of our little menagerie, attempts to dive-bomb me from the top of the fridge, but her miniscule bodyweight and the unique aerodynamic properties of her incredibly fluffy coat conspire against her, causing her to get caught in a sudden updraft and float off-course. Figuring that it will be some minutes before she drifts down to the floor, I ignore her and focus on more immediate matters.
I can’t see Clementine, but Gypsy’s panicked bleating leads me to suspect that she has him trapped in the excruciating Fujiwara Pawlock variation she’s been practicing at Doggy Arena. “Clementine!” I yell in the general direction of the living room as I sling open the sliding door to the backyard. Clem shoots by me like a streak of heat, yapping out her diminutive Boston Terrier challenge to the disinterested mob of adolescent punks across the street. I flip them a desultory bird myself as I shut the door. It’s going to be a long day…
Woke Up This Morning
November 19, 2008
My bedroom walls are the first thing I see every morning, unless ‘Bekah has made me sleep on the couch, or down in the study, or out in my car – and then I guess there are those mornings after I’ve gotten jacked up on animal tranquilizers the night before, and the first thing I see is usually some anonymous stretch of pavement or the inside of a dumpster. Anyway, my point is, there are a good many mornings that I wake up looking at my bedroom walls. Rebekah has painted them this wonderfully restful blue that just makes it much easier to transition from repose into reluctant consciousness. To keep the room from being “too blue”, she has painted the ceiling white, which is a trick she learned from one of those home decoration shows on HGTV.
The next place my eyes usually find as they blink their way open is the string of colorful Tibetan prayer-flags hung across our window. They always give me a chance to reflect upon some hope or goal I have for the day ahead, allowing me to continue my serene awakening. Unless Gypsy is crying really loud for food, in which case I think of how hard I’m going to pull his tail when I catch him, and then I just feel ashamed…which, as it turns out, is also good preparation for my typical day.
