The Unified Theory of Double Nickels

So I just turned 55, mere days after leaving my son at college on the East Coast. Naturally, this led me to reflect on my trip East 37 years earlier, the sights, the sounds, the sensations. And as the OnceWereBachelor journey turned a new corner (OnceAgainABachelor, maybe?) this transition caused me to take stock of where I am and what it all means. 

 He is in the exact opposite corner if the country from me, as if he had mused "how far away can I get from mom and dad?" That's where he is, some elite liberal arts, New England school, with beautiful, remote grounds, that will very soon be exploding with bonfires of yellow and orange leaves dissolving into the Autumn sky. Until it all gives way to a World War I winter landscape of grey.

I made the same trip, to a different school that was nevertheless much the same, in 1985. For both of us, it is our first East Coast fall, and later our first bonafide winter. Like me, he will become very familiar with the scent of smoke from chimneys and Blistex on the lips, the feel of gloves, the utilitarian importance of warm footwear. 

As for sounds, my freshman soundtrack was informed by the fact that immediately upon arrival, I sought out the college radio station, and obtained a Friday night slot as a DJ, spinning the latest indy music. My roommate was a mid-day jazz DJ, so we pretty much defined ourselves by that radio station. I was betrothed to REM there, the Replacements, the Hoodoo Gurus, Guadalcanal Diary, Mojo Nixon & Skid Roper. But the song that most reminds me of that freshman fall, more than the Violent Femmes' "Add It Up" or the Replacements' "Bastards of Young", is this song, "Life in a Northern Town", by the Dream Academy.

 

 Now, the plan was to spend a few days in the area, to assemble all the gear that a Hawaii kid would need for his first extended stay in the Polar North. That meant driving to Target. Driving to Bed/Bath/Beyond. L.L. Bean (my thoughts on Bean here). While driving all over New England, I found myself listening to a band from the late Nineties and the new millenium, that I had mostly ignored until now. Fountains of Wayne were mostly an East Coast band anyway, unfortunately known for a hit song that was misrepresentative of their work. I had recently downloaded their album Welcome Interstate Managers, generally considered their best work, and which I had come to appreciate as power pop meets singer songwriter. 

 Fountains of Wayne co-founders Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger met back in 1986 as freshmen at another New England school, Williams College, where they bonded over learning REM songs on acoustic guitar in their dorm hallway. Thereafter, they became songwriting partners.  Interstate Managers was self-financed and independently recorded in response to being dropped by their major record label. In sweet revenge, it became their most successful release thanks to the aforementioned hit song. The album is particularly resonant to me because it seems to comprise the magnificent highs, the gutter lows, and the general absurdities of Generation X adulthood that I had experienced these past 37 years. And it even contains a perfect New England winter song, just like "Life in a Northern Town" was, back when I was a freshman. I found myself hitting repeat on this song all week as we drove all over Maine, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, a song to a New England girl I could pretend I knew.  Here is "Valley Winter Song".

 

Another song on Interstate Managers is a crunchy uptempo number that wouldn't have been out of place on my college radio show on WRUC 89.7, which was flush with tuneful smartassery from bands like the Replacements, Mojo Nixon, or the Violent Femmes.  Here is "Bright Future in Sales".

Now,  Adam Schlesinger* had already carved a small niche for himself as a songwriter for movies and TV.  My interest in Schlesinger was piqued because I had learned that he had penned the title song for Tom Hanks' directorial debut film, a love letter to not-the-Beatles early Sixties rock n roll.

That Thing You Do had been on repeat in my living room for the past couple months.  It is a perfect film that just captures a sweet and innocent creative moment, when fame doesn't really matter, and neither does musicianship or even songcraft.  What matters is friendship and love and youth.  Just consider the clip above, the pure exuberant joy, the sheer Hard Day's Night of it all, friends cheering each other on.  It is the film I turned to when I realized that my son was in fact going to leave me very soon, and there was no turning back.  It made me feel better about what was going to happen next.  Or at least help me forget it was happening.

*I hate to write this footnote, but, despite his youth and health, Adam Schlesinger died of Covid-19 very early in the pandemic, in April of 2020.  Rest in Peace, Adam.  Thanks for the tunes.

The Police, Live on Don Kirshner's Rock Concert

When I was twelve, I was not seeking out live rock n' roll, on television or otherwise.  I much preferred a good episode of Magnum P.I.  I don't even know whether we got Don Kirshner's Rock Concert (or its cousin, The Midnight Special) here in Honolulu.  My only exposure to live rock  at the time was the musical guest on Saturday Night Live, which more often than not I would use as the opportunity to go brush my teeth.

Pity then that I never saw this performance from February 1980 by the fledgling lads from the U.K. then diminutively known as the Police.  It would be a few more years before they were known world wide as The Police, and decades before they would triumphantly return in the new millennium as THE POLICE (without question, I could make the same grammatical point about the bass player, then curiously calling himself Sting).

But check this 34 minute concert out, 10 months before they release their third album, Zenyatta Mondata.  Here in America, they only really have Roxanne to hang their hat on, and maybe Message in a Bottle.  It is remarkable for how undeniably determined these three young musicians are to show to the world how brilliant their music is.  This is Sting before he became too big for the Police, too big for the world.  This is Andy Summers before his own unique guitar style became a cage he would eventually want to escape.  And this is Stewart Copeland demonstrating that he was beyond great well before anyone else ever realized it.

It's all there.  The "Ee yo yo, ee yay yo" and "jah! jah!" refrains.  The reverb triggers on the snare.  The Mickey Mouse scoop-neck t-shirt and green nut-huggers.  The glassy leads from that iconic tobacco Telecaster.  Whether for someone like me, who never watched Kirshner or much paid attention to the Police until after the hype disappeared, or for longtime fans, these are not the familiar arrangements of their hits.  Heck, the improvisational vamp alone in the middle of Can't Stand Losing You is memorable in that it's not what they did in their reunion tours in the 21st century, much less when they were doing it fresh in the Eighties the number of times I saw them live.

This is something entirely different than what Police fans are used to.  This is them before they took over the world.

An American Look Back

She & Him is the pop music duo of Zoey Deschanel (the uncertain rebel hippie of Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous) and guitarist/producer M. Ward (sorry, I got nothing on this guy; the world is full of unsung guitar talent).  Their aesthetic is decidedly retro-lux, and their presentation is reminiscent of my favourites the Style Council.  I discovered this video one night while obsessively searching for vintage stereophonic console cabinets.

I was instantly captivated and charmed.  I had to know more.  I had to hear more.  Thanks to the aforementioned obsessiveness, I quickly pieced together that their video was almost a direct cribbing of a Chevrolet film short from 1958 celebrating American Design.  Wow.

The Unified Theory of Post-Modern Friendship

So I collect friends like I collect shoes. I have a few special pairs I’ll wear forever.  I pledge fealty to them and keep them going until they can’t stand it anymore.  The same is true for friends. I make them for life.  Distance and time may separate us, but I’m proud to say I have two types of friends: those I’ve known for a lifetime, and those I will know for a lifetime.  If one doesn’t fit into either of those two categories, then I’m sorry, but he’ll be nothing more than part of the backdrop of my life.

Luckily, things like email and Facebook are helpful in this regard.  These digital tools have helped me to stay connected with my beloved friends, and I must confess, it has also helped me expand their numbers.

Copley Hall, Georgetown University

Take for example Thomas, whom I quickly fell in with our first year at Georgetown.  Friendships formed deep in the dark bowels of an antebellum dormitory are hard to quantify or describe, but he and I, and a couple others, drew closely together like a tight, wet knot.  In the end, we marched drunkenly side by side up muddy hills in that final Senior Week, feeling like we’d all been in the same platoon in Vietnam.

The last time I saw Thomas was probably 20 years ago in Buffalo.  I had come from Honolulu and he from New York City, to stand next to our other bestie while he took his marriage vows.  We were there moments after Larry had his “talk” with his Eisenhower-era dad, who offered a few terse words before the whole shebang fired off:  

“Tonight’s the big night , Son.  Be gentle.”

Thomas and I looked at each other with bemusement so familiar …

Anyway, right, the digital age.  So we email on a semi-annual basis, and these messages serve as a more substantive exchange than those we enjoy every few weeks on Facebook.  Here’s a lengthy one that is, I think, emblematic of men just like us, who have followed this path to forty-something OnceWereBachelorhood.   It is mostly unexpurgated.

Three of Us at a Wedding, Plus Backdrop

TO: BEN

FROM: THOMAS

Totally random question that a) I should know about because it’s my field or b) I should have asked you about a long time ago, but do you remember this dude from Gtown, pretty sure his name was Ben Wallace — he was more my friend (for a brief time and never that close) around Village B time; he also lived in Village B with this totally wild crew who basically destroyed their apartment and lived like animals, with broken whiskey bottles on the floor, etc. — one of the dudes he lived with was like a [something infamous] and general problem child but was [vaguely well connected]; the other was some French dude who used to lie around naked in bed with this weird chick when I was over visiting. 

Anyway what I remember of Ben was that he had kind of dark ratty hair, a decent amount of it, and he was quiet and kind of writerly/literary, or maybe just an English major; he was from DC; and maybe that’s about it. We hung out for a small bit and then drifted apart I guess.

Anyway, do you think/would you recognize him from this shot/bio? All the details fit, I think, but it’s hard to gauge because he looks so “normal,” for lack of a better word, and without the big hair it’s hard to judge:

http://www.benjaminwallace.net/bio.html

Hope all is well with you. I’m at the tail end of closing/shipping/putting out Sine Qua Non’s million-page September issue. Insane. I’m handling 37 stories over 125 pages. Psycho. Kid #2 on the way, supposedly due August 4, don’t know whether boy or girl. . . Kid #1, Funicular, now 2.5 and he/she sings early Stone Roses singles by himself/herself, unprompted. Good times. . . 

All best//T

-- 

THOMAS BUTTS (a pseudonym)

Senior Editor

SINE QUA NON FASHION MAG (a pseudo-title, for perhaps the flagship of its kind)

1 FANCY STREET

13th floor

New York, NY 10036

TO:  THOMAS
FROM: BEN

Dude.  

One day I was driving and half-listening to NPR.  I tuned into the middle of an interview; they were talking about this ancient bottle of collectible wine that supposedly belonged to Thomas Jefferson.  Sounded interesting so I perked up and paid attention.  Turns out they were interviewing the author of a book focusing on that particular bottle.  THE BILLIONAIRE’S VINEGAR.  I made a mental note to get it used on Amazon because the curious subject sounded engrossing in an esoteric but entertaining way, and because the author sounded engaging and intelligent.  At the end of the interview, they ID’d the author as Ben Wallace.

A chill went up and down my neck, because I remembered the following:

Many years ago, you had a brief man-crush on a fellow named Ben Wallace, or at least that’s what Larry and I thought.  Maybe Don, too, but as with everything Don, that’s hazy.  You would come home and tell us about this guy who was intelligent and engaging and living what I subsequently learned was what could be described as a BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY lifestyle.  Much alcohol, debauchery, and hateful characters whom one would years later regret being associated with.  One of them, I knew through my friend, Laura, as a John Belushi-type.  Anyway, this Ben, like you, was nurturing some nascent literary tendencies. I think I remember meeting him somewhere, probably that bookstore/bar/coffeeshop that was enjoying some of-the-moment cachet.  Dylan’s I think it was called.  You both smoked Camel Uns, I think.  Possibly weeks later, Larry came home saying that Ben had begun researching a book he wanted to write about vampires and was turning up at Lauinger Library with all kinds of requests.

Your man-crush, as with many of your misadventures of the time, inexplicably faded, never to be acted upon.

So I found the book and paid $ 0.99 plus $3.99 shipping on Amazon Used*, eventually turned my full attention to it, and concluded that I was right, the author was engaging and intelligent and had written an engrossing, esoteric piece.  It was a great read.  And that he in fact was the fellow you had a man-crush on, many years ago.

I never highlighted this discovery with you because I figured that you, being a New York man of letters of sorts, would already know.  Guess I was wrong.

[Take care].

*Incidentally, I just picked up GOJIRO used for a similar bargain basement price, after being swept up in the giant lizard craze of summer 2014, remembering that in your first year at some publishing house, you had shared an excerpt with me.  I can’t be bothered to read it, but it’s nice to have on my shelf, a remembrance of 1990.

I also just finished EMINENT HIPSTERS by Mr. Donald Fagen, a loose collection of his writing.  Again, the low low price being the common feature of this footnote.  He sounds like an asshole.  Be careful not to meet your heroes.

TO: BEN
FROM: THOMAS

The whole thing is kind of nuts — I’ve seen his byline (off and on ... he’s been getting some good play lately at New York mag) for years now but never had the a-HA! moment until yesterday. (In fairness, it’s a somewhat generic name for a NYC writer, and there’s another more famous one named Ben Wallace-Wells throwing me off the scent.)

Your recollections are quite exact — more detailed than mine. I’ll cop to the man-crush and the literary vibe, and a big yes on the roommates, and the strange abandonment of friendship. (For no particular reason; I think we enjoyed each other’s company fair enough but we never really found like THAT THING that we were both obsessed with, or bonded over, or some such. And/or we weren’t secure enough in our literary man-crushes to be all “Hey — do you love William Blake and want to pattern your life on his work? Me too!") Don’t remember the meeting at Dylan’s (though I do remember the hot-spot-of-the-moment vibe of that place). I think I’ll look him up — though my initial note to him is bound to be quite awkward (“Remember some weird dude from Village A that you hung around with for like 5 minutes in 1987 and then never really saw again? Well it’s me!"

Anyways. . . GOJIRO! Yes. I remember everything about that book being kind of cool, though even I never read the damn thing. Have since become friendly with the writer, who’s a very cool cat. 

And Fagen’s book: It’s been on my maybe-I-buy-this-next list for a while now; frankly the only thing holding me back is what I have heard or read from reviews about the whole bummer/bitter vibe of the whole thing. Or maybe it’s just part of the whole thing. Though I think I do understand his frustration (I think I read some excerpt about his opinions of the crowds at his recent shows, and having seen he and Becker a couple years back at the Beacon Theater here, I second that emotion — I didn’t think the crowd would be filled with eminent hipsters per se, but I also didn’t think it would be filled with beefy men from Long Island in suits from 1982 with their wives dolled up like they’re seeing Frank Sinatra at the Sands in 1963.

That said, F@CK IT!!! If I judged bands solely based on the attire, demeanor and hipness (with minus points for the dark side of the hip coin, douchebaggery), I would have precious few bands to listen to. I’ve already doubled down over the weekend and downloaded lossless audio files of the entire Steely Dan discography, the better to nerd out on their particular genius of artistry, virtuosity, and production. Long live the Dan — though I may skip that book.

Rock//T

Summer Mixtape 2013: Pre-1984 Springsteen

Here I am halfway through this summer and I still haven't put together a Mixtape to play in my truck for those morning drives to the beach, or along Ala Wai Blvd. at night while the hookers congregate three at a time on the sidestreets to stay off HPD's radar.

Then I find this post at The Trad, images of New Jersey in the early 80s.  As a kid I spent several summers with cousins in Cranford, NJ, and we would always go down to Wildwood or Seaside Heights for a day or weekend.  Those Jersey kids I hung out with, Mickey Marino, Dave Levy, and Frankie Williams (the strongest kid I ever ever met) and the inimitable Schlick and Styszy -- I can't say we became friends for life, but it sure felt like we would be. Sneaking into the community pools, raiding my uncle's bar, collecting newspaper money to spend on the weekend, lifting weights in somebody's basement, trying not to get into a fight with the bigger kids at the community center.  Crowding onto a field on July 4 with just about every other kid in Union County, waiting for the fireworks show to start.  During the day we'd sleep in, then hop on our ten speeds and ride uptown to the Pink Submarine for sandwiches and soda and to spin Bruce Springsteen's "Prove It All Night" for about the billionth time on the jukebox.

This was before Born in the USA.  A fine album, sure, but Springsteen before then will always be those summers to me, before he was the world's, he was Jersey's.

What I Wore Twenty Five Years Ago: What Paul Weller Wore

Twenty five years ago, I was fully beneath the sway of the Style Council, a pseudo-collective of self proclaimed modernists led by one Paul Weller.  Like him, you can bet that I was frequently shod in the versatile black beefroll loafer.  I wore them with shorts.  I wore them with jeans.  I wore them with pegged chinos. Mostly without socks.  Utterly without irony I once wore them with my first purchased tuxedo, a shawl collar from Jos. Banks.  I refused to shell out for the useless patent tux slippers to go with them, and couldn't afford them anyway.

Weller started with the Jam during the first wave of punk in the late 70s.  Here he is at the close of the Jam era, dressed much like I was in a button down oxford, chinos with surcingle belt, white sox, and the aforementioned black loafers.  At least I'm about 95% certain that's what he's got on his feet, as anything below his Rickenbacker is obscured by the crowd.



I was too disconnected to be a Jam fan contemporaneously, but when Weller disbanded them for a new, more mature, jazzier and more soulful project, I was on board from the get go.  My trajectory as college punk morphing into urbane intellectual followed his.  Known as The Cappucino Kid, Weller and the rest of his councilors cultivated an air of cafe culturalism steeped in Godardist politics and style, and seasoned their records with britpop versions of soul, vocal jazz, piano jazz (Weller's collaborator at the time, Mick Talbot, was a huge piece of the puzzle), and eighties era rap.  Without a doubt the Style Council writ a blueprint followed later by groups such as Oasis and Vampire Weekend.  Now, Weller knew that I knew that he knew he was posing, but nevermind that now.  Here they are, dressed well and bringing it all together in style.



As you can see, towards the end of the video, what is Mr. Weller shuffling around in rather stylishly but a pair of beefroll loafers, probably in black to match the checks.

Anyway, in short order Weller closed up shop on the Style Council and moved on to his third act, the solo career.  He has turned out a truly monumental catalog of solo work of depth and quality, more focused than his Jam or Style Council years.  His voice too has matured and the anger of the 70s, and the flash living of the 80s, have caught up to him and thus imparting, what - more gravitas?  We should all mature as well.  Perhaps it's the black beefroll loafers he no doubt - here - pairs with his take on the 70s slim look.

Summer 2010 Mixtape: The Ladies of U.K. Soul

This weekend I'm taking my son camping on the beach. Sure, in the heat of the summer sun, we'll be cranking standards like "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Love Shack", but after the kids are asleep in their tents, you can bet that we adults will be sipping cocktails around the fire with these ladies of British Soul filling the cool salty air.

Corinne Bailey Rae is the new face on the scene. Her debut album a few years ago offered a couple of minor hits which deserve repeat listens. I believe she can be described as a singer-songwriter, as well, and the intimacy she must feel with her works adds depth to the music, I think.

I hate to describe her as an historical artifact, because by all estimations, Sade is timeless and transcendent. These songs from the Eighties certainly are. To call her a siren, a chanteuse, or a torch singer would be to minimize her sublime appeal.

Summer 2010 Mixtape: Cheap Trick Two-Fer

What are summer nights for but whiling away the moments, hoping it never ends but knowing that inevitably it will. As endless as they may seem, no matter how much you fill them up with fun or adventure or romance or memories, there are only a finite number of them. One day, one night, it won't be summer any more and you'll have to wait for next year. Nevertheless, I'll bet they were each perfect summer moments strung together one after another.

That's how I feel about the next two songs on my Summer 2010 soundtrack. They're strung together back to back, perhaps the best one-two pairing on any record from my youth. Okay, maybe that's hyperbole. I'm sure I'm missing many others, but this one is about as perfect as they come: cuts 2 and 3 from side two of Cheap Trick's earth-shattering Live at Budokan. And when you hear Mr. Bun E. Carlos knock out that punchy double-time beat to "I Want You to Want Me", you know that in six minutes' time and with the last crashing power chords by Rick Nielsen and Tom Petersson on "Surrender", pure pop perfection will, alas, be over like summer moments.

Walking a Tightrope

Only James Brown can do James Brown. Well except maybe for an 80's era Eddie Murphy (anybody got a link to Eddie's "James Brown Celebrity Hot Tub"?). As a matter of fact, any one else trying to do James Brown had better be joking. Because no one could do it like the Godfather of Soul. Just ask Prince.

That being said, sometimes there is an exception that proves the rule. Ladies and Gentlemen, submitted for your approval: Janelle Monae.

I can't get this song or video out of my head and I don't want to.

I Hate to Admit This

Twenty five years ago, I was an arrogant high schooler who thought he knew everything about everything. I knew that nobody over 30 could ever be reasoned with, that nothing good ever came out of my school, and that I would never come back to Honolulu to live. And I knew that quality music was never broadcast over the commercial airwaves. Back then, when I drove a 20 year old Ford Mustang with a factory radio, broadcast was all I could get, because I was loathe to cut into the original dash to install an aftermarket cassette player. I was forced to listen to the local "album-oriented rock" station. I scoffed at most music that I heard. Even this song. Especially this song.

I remember this song playing over and over my senior year and I thought I hated it. But it was the right song for that time in life. And I found it hard to ignore.

Don Henley crafted a perfect song when he wrote and recorded The Boys of Summer, and I was too immature to acknowledge it for over a decade, maybe more. It's a song full of ghosts and loss. The snare is unwilling to let go and the music that drapes around the lyrics is translucent, like lace on a closed coffin. It is adolescent and worldly at the same time.

Now I'm 42, loving life in Honolulu, and I am proud that my kindergartener son has started at my alma mater.Top: My son strolling the same walkways I walked on his first day of kindergarten. He's preppy in the RL Polo, pegged cargoes, blue argyles, and skechers loafers. And Speed Racer backpack.
Bottom: His homeroom, with Ms. G, who was there when I was.

He is in for thirteen years there, and I am just over the moon that he got accepted and wanted to go there. Hopefully, by the time he graduates he's more mature than I was as a senior so he doesn't miss some universal truths that I missed.

Go here for the original video, which can't be embedded out of YouTube.

The Very First Night of September

On this night not too long ago, but long enough, I treated myself to a birthday present as I often do. I proposed to my girlfriend, she became my fiance, later my wife, and now the mother of my son. That night we played this song over and over again, it's lyrics written on a little piece of paper encircled by a diamond engagement ring. And that's how my bachelorhood ended.

Grab a Piece of Something That You Think is Gonna Last

Here's one of my all time favorite bands, doing one of my all time favorite songs.



There's a lot going on under the surface of this video. This marked the beginnings of Steely Dan, and by the end of the decade, the rest of the musicians would be tossed aside by the founders and lead songwriters, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, famously friends from their college days at Bard. They would be sacked in favor of session players. Ironic since lead guitarist Jeff "Skunk" Baxter and drummer Jim Keltner are a pair of very sought after session musicians themselves, and second guitarist Denny Dias was no slouch either. Then Fagen and Becker themselves would stop touring not long after, and ultimately cease to write Steely Dan music altogether for over a decade. Part of the reasoning, they claimed, was to let recording and performance technology catch up to their exacting musical standards.

I'm sure this is true to some extent, because the releases Fagen made solo were benchmarks (especially The Nightfly), and when a new Steely Dan recording finally came out, 2000's Two Against Nature, it raised the bar again and won critical acclaim. Becker and Fagen hadn't missed a beat in almost 20 years time.

But for all their uncompromising standards, Steely Dan will always be a band of the Seventies to me, and that's why this appearance on the Midnight Special (a show I was too young to appreciate, much less be allowed to stay up to watch) has so much going for it. Fagen's voice is incredible, either because of it or - more likely - despite his youth. There's more, though. In addition to their acid-hair look, the performances and showmanship of Baxter and Dias would lead one to believe that these guys are imitators of the Allman Brothers twin guitar attack style. Nothing could be further from true. In less than a couple albums' time, great guitar soloing could still be found on Steely Dan records, but this was no guitar-hero band. Far from it, Steely Dan had more in common with jazz combos in style, performance, and configuration than any other rock n' roll band of the time.

And what of their look? Their grooming standards certainly leave much to be desired, particularly Denny Dias's purple crushed velvet pants (Denny, they're not slimming by a longshot, Denny). These guys don't look too far away from the Partridge Family, but by God, they sure sound light years' distant.

Mediterranean Sundance or "Everyone Needs a Hobby"

Let's face it, OnceWereBachelors concerns itself with esoterica. It is essentially a diversion about procrastination. Or an exercise in procrastination that focuses on diversions. When you've got a wife, kid, mortgage, private school tuition, career, you want to think that you can have a sanctuary of interests, activities, collections, a sanctuary of time and place, where your wife, son, colleagues or clients can't get to you. Sometimes it's in the garage. Sometimes it's in a bar. Other times on the ocean, or beneath some expensive headphones, or a cold, dark theater in the afternoon, in front of a movie your wife or son would never watch with you. Whatever, it arguably makes you a better dad, husband, law partner, citizen.

My newest diversion is this:



There is a backstory to this tune and where it fits in my life, but its personal. When I get paid the publisher's advance to do the print version of OnceWereBachelors maybe I'll tell it, but that would be filler. For now, just let the tune speak for itself. Al Di Meola and Paco De Lucia playing "Mediterranean Sundance" at the Warfield Theater on December 5, 1980, recorded for posterity (on vinyl) as Friday Night in San Francisco. A legendary concert featuring jazz picker Di Meola, fingerstyle flamencoist De Lucia, and John MacLaughlin (another jazzbo), playing as a trio, unplugged so to speak.

No, I'm not going to watch it over and over again seeking sanctuary. I'm going to try to learn it. On the floor of my office at home. Legs crossed, Ovation roundback in lap, and beer within reach. Poring over a tablature of the tune I found off the internet at a website called Fretplay, while the CD repeats constantly, or while I study the above clip, or clips like it, on YouTube.

Thus will I repeat a ritual that has changed little (changed due only to technological improvements and disposable income) since I was a wee student. Teach myself guitar. I've done it with Social Distortion. R.E.M. Los Lobos. Stevie Ray Vaughn. This is my first jazz piece. I give myself until September to learn it.

Wish me luck. Or at least time and space.

Just to Show I'm Not Just About Anarchy and Argyle Skateboards

You don't need Punk Rock to take you back to '77. Here's one of the greats from the era. Boz Scaggs doing Lido Shuffle. I'd love to say it teleports me to my pre-high school days when my cousin Teresa taught her brother and me to unhook a girl's bra, by placing hers on the back of a chair. But that was Cheap Trick's Live at Budokan. Really, I mostly ignored Boz until I found this album in my wife's collection when we started dating during the heady days of the Afghanistan invasion (by the Americans, not the Soviets).

Of note is the late, great Jeff Porcaro on drums who's got the tempo up above the cut on the record (I love referring to pre-digital music as being on "records").

We were supposed to spend Christmas with my parents in Mineola ...

Hands down my favorite band since I was thirteen. Wishing us all a little peace, love, and understanding are the four thugs from Queens. RIP Johnny, Joey, and Dee Dee.

Inside joke: CJay is sporting a Sid Vicious hairdo.

And yes, sadly, I know where Mineola is.

The Modern Jazz Quartet

I have only a modicum of understanding when it comes to jazz. Call it the common knowledge of any person who has shared an American college dormroom with someone in the intellectual East. Also, being amongst classmates prepping for the Foreign Service Officer Exam, we were reminded that jazz was one of the only originally American artforms, evidently a question that was always asked during the FSO interview.

But beyond that I can tell the difference between the variety of jazz sub-genres, dixieland, cool jazz, bebop, swing, et cetera. I can identify the giants, and spit them out catechism style by single name like the Hipsters do: Miles. Dizz. ‘Trane. Sonny. Bird. Monk. Et cetera. I can even appreciate what guys like Wynton were trying to do by perpetuating the traditional styles versus what guys like Stanley Clarke and Billy Cobham, even Spyro Gyra and Pat Metheny, were doing with jazz fusion. But no, I could not grasp Ornette Coleman. Or Kenny G for that matter.

I would venture to say I’ve got enough jazz schooling to have a reasonably topical discussion with a bunch of aficionados at a smoky club over rye highballs before the house band hits the stage. If I want to, I can even whip out the story about how I got to meet Dave Brubeck backstage in 1998 at the Blaisdell Concert Hall, when a promoter friend asked if my date would like to present him with a lei after his performance. “Would I” exclaimed the attractive classically trained pianist I brought.

But, if I really want to up my cred I’ll mention my favorite jazz artists, the Modern Jazz Quartet. No I don’t have encyclopedic knowledge of their recording or label history, but they’re obscure enough not to be iconic, yet iconic enough not to be obscure (the same can be said for Charlie Mingus, and frankly I could be writing this paragraph as much about him as about MJQ). I first became aware of MJQ when Signet Bank in D.C. ran a series of memorable black and white TV ads profiling time-tested artist-unions of great renown. Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn were featured. I think The Everly Brothers. And these guys, Milt Jackson on vibes, John Lewis on piano, Percy Heath on bass, and Connie Kaye on drums (I had to look that up on wikipedia), talking about creative partnership, dressed in matching black turtlenecks and amidst their instruments. MJQ were confident enough to completely disband in the 70s. They re-formed on a semi-permanent basis in 1981, for the sole reason that they wanted to. In jazz, there is no cashing in for reunion tours a la Van Halen, Black Sabbath, or Quiet Riot.

Listen to their performance of Django. You can’t ignore how unique the vibraphone sounds in context; better for my money than the acclaimed intimacy that Miles Davis’ soft horn offers. It’s the kind of music you listen to because you’ve concluded a long day working late. The wife and son are already asleep but you’re not ready to get in bed yourself. You want to enjoy your darkened home, alone, in solitude.

Free Yourself

Another one from my younger days. The late, the unknown, the Untouchables, from Southern California, knocked around with guys like Fishbone and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Much style. Much hyperactivity. Catchy tune. Hard to find, either on vinyl or in binary code (I was going to say "digitally", but that didn't sound right).

I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down

OK, so as any OnceWereBachelor knows, Marriage and Fatherhood, take its toll. You get old and you get busy. You can't log hours in the gym, on the road, or (in my case) in the outrigger canoe quite like you did in your twenties, without hurting yourself both mind and body. One must exercise efficiently. I've turned to two things. The first is Bikram's yoga (the hot room yoga) which is a hell I'll save for another post (it's enough for you to know at this point that it is hell).

The second is stand-up paddle surfing, which can be heaven, once you get the hang of it. Here's some guys who have.



And then there's me. I just bought a board last week (a hard to get Blane Chambers 10'3"), and although I've logged many hours surfing and even more paddling. Neither completely prepares you for stand-up, which is touted as an excellent core and conditioning workout. I'm supposed to experience weight loss and the rock hard abs I never had when I was young enough to both paddle and drink competitively. Right now, though, all I do is float around and fall down.

Which brings me to this great Elvis Costello cover of the old Stax single I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down.



The upshot of all of this, I guess, is care for yourself so that you can have the longevity to see yourself get into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, even after coming into the game as a stone outcast.

Donald Fagen's New Frontier

YouTube is a wonderful thing. It is now my go-to site when I need to hear a song I don't have a copy of in digital form and need to find fast. Since I don't have a "record player" I can't play my collection of vinyl. Moreover, there are some music videos that I'd just like to see again after decades have passed and the gossamer days of early MTV have given way to the huge corporate hydrant firehosing the Industry of Cool down our throats. The New Frontier video represents the former and not the latter, as I actually own this song on vinyl, tape, 2 CDs (one for my home and another for my car) and on the iPod. Instead, this video is one of the first to go beyond the cliches of the day, which included girls in red heels, post-apocalyptic Road Warrioriana, and lip-synching in construction sites. Check out the Elvis Costello glasses, the little watusi dance, Atomic Cafe animation, the Brubeck album cover. It has it all.

And the song itself? One of my favorites off my Number One Desert Island Disc. Donald Fagen's The Nightfly came to me as a freshman in college and was a revelation, that pop music could be evocative without being sentimental, could be beautiful without being - well, lame. I listened to it back to back to back often, particularly in the hot summer of 1988 when I slept on a mattress in the kitchen of a basement efficiency studio on S Street, NW in DC. It was my only happiness that didn't involve punk rock music, and was therefore even more special.

Songs that Speak Truth: Once in a Lifetime

Truer words were never sung:

"Well, how did I get here?"

"Same as it ever was. SAME AS IT EVER WAS."

"How do I work this?"

"This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!"

"MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE"