The 70s: We think we know what we're doing; we don't know a thing

I have just begun reading Greil Marcus's 'The History of Rock and Roll in Ten Songs," and while I am not yet prepared to discuss the selections overall, one song highlighted has caused a re-examination.

Most everyone who knows "Money Changes Everything," is familiar because of Cyndi Lauper's version. While it's fine, the original from The Brains in 1978 trumps it. At least for me.

Lauper's version is angry, The Brains' version is more hurt, more unsure of itself. And more real.

That's because it comes from the voice of the victim -- this guy is bewildered; he knows what the deal is, but still can't quite believe it. Lauper sings it as the person leaving for what she thinks is the better reason. To her, she feels justified in that choice, and she doesn't care.

Maybe it's because I identify more with the victim here, but the slight quiver in lead singer (and songwriter) Tom Gray's voice provides the vulnerability that takes this song to the next level. I do, however, give the song one small demerit for the cheesy synth that would become ubiquitous over the next decade.

I don't know if "Money Changes Everything' belongs on Marcus' list. But The Brains' version is one that still stands the test of time, a slice of late 70s new wave pop with a sublime hook that illuminates, and accentuates, the pain.

I am not going to link Lauper's version; everybody knows that one....

It don't take long for the good to get gone

They ain't makin' 'em like this anymore:
Slim Whitman and his Cowboy Cool

Four deaths of public figures in one day is a lot. Four deaths of people who affected me in one small (or large) way or another.

“The Sopranos” deserves all the acclaim it received, especially the work of James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano. But its unending violence finally did me in, and I became weary of the killing, the language, and even the gratuitous sex. Still, we watched it religiously on Sunday nights for a few years, reveling in the stories told, the characters, the Jerseyness and the acting, especially that of Gandolfini. He domineered every scene he was in, and was larger than life. One of the greatest TV characters of all time.

Dave Jennings was the best player on several bad Giants teams during some of my formative football years. And that is especially sad given that he was a punter. But he was all I could brag about to my friends for awhile, arguing he was better than Ray Guy (he wasn’t), and trying to put a positive spin on Sunday after Sunday of dreadful Giants play.

A lot of my appreciation and love of music came from reading a stable of great writers: the likes of Greil Marcus, Dave Marsh, Paul Nelson, Robert Hilburn, Lester Bangs, and Chet Flippo, who died yesterday. I had long read Flippo’s work in “Rolling Stone” and especially remember his “People’ cover story on Springsteen during the ’84-’85 frenzy. The fact that Flippo was paying attention somehow legitimized the Jersey Bard. Flippo was a great writer who placed music in its proper place, i.e. gravely important and often a reason for living.

The likes of Slim Whitman is unimaginable today. Corny to a fault, with a falsetto that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Cowboy costume, pencil-thin mustache and yodeling, he certainly was an anachronism when he got really popular due to a late-night TV ad in the 80s. I don’t own any of his records, but I deeply respect his devotion to his craft, which only ended when he did. And I get older I have begun to realize, perhaps he wasn’t all that corny. Just very good at what he did.