The shadow on the wall tells me the sun is going down

Standing around thinkin' about it

In thinking about the fact that Ruby dislikes some of the music that I play for her (she is fond of Disney Pop, "Happy" (unfortunately not the Stones tune – and other popular hip-hoppy stuff), I have come to this realization:

Some of the same music my parents hated, my kids (well, Ruby, at least) now hate. The circle remains unbroken. 

The irony is that my parents, at least my Dad for sure, really loved music. And they never really got my affection or understood everything that I was listening to so loudly in my room. My Dad thought it was nonsense, and my Mom thought it was all just noise and silliness.

These days, my life has too much nonsense, noise and silliness in it, none of which has anything do with how my kids perceive my music.

Not that there ever is, but no great lessons or wisdom with all of this – just a reminder that all problems, past, present and future, are relative.

I don't know if you can hear me

Two recent comments from Ruby that are part of the larger experience of exposing kids to music and your heroes.

Driving around lately, the kids have been part of my recent fixation and fascination with Teenage Fanclub.

Jack seems to like most of what he hears, taking note of the Beatles influences. In fact, he sings along quite well with "Start Again." Good taste (see right), good kid.

Ruby, on the hand, has been repeatedly asking for other music, namely more Beatles. Last Friday, after another playing of "Songs from Northern Britain," she said, "I detest this band. Where are the Beatles?

I certainly cannot find one speck of fault for her Fab Four affinity, though I obviously have a bit more work to do.

I then went on to tell them about a book I just finished. "I just read a great book about something I love almost more than anything else."

Ruby: "They wrote a book about us (meaning her and Jack)?"

I actually meant Mark Lewisohn's "Tune In: The Beatles: All Those Years Volume 1," the exhaustive look at the band's early years.

But her knowing comment brought my biggest smile in quite some time.

There are places I remember

This was the place: Shavertown, PA

I had a paper route starting in 5th grade. I only delivered about 22 papers six days a week, but they were to houses fairly well spread apart. After school, it would take me about an hour and a half to finish, with another 15-minute walk home.

Unless I stopped at McCrory's, which was a fairly common occurrence. This 5&10 was at the end of a shopping center that was a centerpiece of my family's life for around ten years. At one end there was an Acme, where we got the majority of our groceries. I still remember the average tally for the week coming to around $20, an astronomical figure in my head.

But it was McCrory's and their small but hugely influential record department that is still with me. They also had a soda fountain, where in the summertime heat I might stop for a 10-cent orangeade after my paper route. That dime though put a large dent in my 44-cents-a-day take home pay from my route (2 cents a paper).

Rather I tried hard to save my money for important purchases, such as a new baseball glove that was the first thing I ever really earned with my own money. And as important as that was, it probably didn't rate as highly as the 45s I bought at that record counter.

Shortly before I had my paper route, my mother gave me the 69 cents at McCrorys so that I could come home with this:

How I wish I still had the picture sleeve (I do, however, still have the record itself). This record was life-altering in so many ways. I played both sides nonstop for weeks. I stared at that photo for hours. I sang "I Saw Her Standing There," to my parents from the back seat on the way to the Acme.

Soon thereafter I was able to buy my records with my money -- the real start of my record addiction. For the next 5 years or so, I bought dozens of 45s there, and even a couple of albums -- at $2.99 they were harder to save up for.

One day, a new Beatles 45 appeared in the rack behind the register, and I had to have it. There was no clerk around, and I leaned, leaned, leaned over the counter to grab it. Just as the counter started to tilt over, the clerk came to the rescue, telling me to be patient.

How could I be patient in the face of this:

I still do have this sleeve, but the record is missing. If I only knew then what I know now.

McCrory's is no longer there, and so many other things from that time are also gone: my parents, many relatives, and even some friends. All now just memories.

But today, on the 52nd anniversary of The Beatles first appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show, I am reminded how one unassuming department store held so many treasures that also led to memories that will also never go away.

Suspended in my masquerade

The Dudes

I once had a fling with David Bowie. His music, I mean.

My introduction to the man began long ago in an out-of-the-way, long-gone record store in Kingston, Pa., right after "Ziggy Stardust" came out. I was still looking to fill the unimaginably large music hole left by the Beatles breakup and had seen a blurb about the record in "Creem." The owner said to me, as I contemplated purchasing the album as I held it in my hand, "that is the hottest guy in town." Naive as I was, I still found quite hard to believe that the Spiders from Mars could have any impact on that sleepy suburb. He said something along those same lines when I added Zappa's "Waka Jawaka" to my purchases.

Then I really knew he was full of it.

I rather liked (and still do) "Ziggy," becoming especially fond of then sidekick Mick Ronson. But I mostly had a lukewarm relationship with Bowie through the years, liking some, dismissing most of the rest. And I admittedly lost touch with him after a so-so performance I witnessed at the Dean Dome around 1988.

But Bowie, who shockingly died today, was the sort of which we won't see again, I think. Yeah, that's a cliche, but along with making a lot of very good music, he sort of made weird (and I mean weird in the most positive way possible) somewhat mainstream. I don't know if that part is good or bad. After all, now it's normal to be weird, if that makes sense.

Being responsible for "All the Young Dudes," was more than good, though.

And it's worth it just to hear you say...

Still the greatest -- and the coolest

Last night I happened to catch an old episode of "Family Ties," which, according to Google began its run in 1982. This particular show had the kids complaining about their parents taking them to a showing of "A Hard Day's Night," saying that the groundbreaking film was ancient and uncool. "A Hard Day's Night" debuted in 1964.

Now, 51 years later, my kids and I can watch it (and listen to the album incessantly) and I never hear those words.

Maybe I am doing something right as a Dad.

Running into the darkness

While I was with the kids last week in PA, “Born to Run” celebrated its 40^th anniversary. I read several remembrances of the album, but have not had a chance to jot down my own. Until now.

I’m often wondered if I can say the album changed my life; the previous effort, “The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle may have had more of an effect on me, at least at the time. That record signified that something major was happening, and was the first time since “Abbey Road” that I felt something that strongly about an album. “Wild and Innocent” made me rabid. But “Born to Run” confirmed that I was right.

“Born to Run” had cornerstones that remain signposts, and still nothing in his catalog (or just about anyone else’s, for that matter) moves me more than “Backstreets.” Add in “Thunder Road,” “Jungleland” and the title track and you have something that reeks of grandeur and brilliance. It is one of the great rock albums. I think it’s THE great American rock album.

I saw an ad in mid-August in “Rolling Stone” that the album was imminent:

I cannot tell you how I felt when I saw this ad

I could hardly control my excitement. I had waited and waited for news about the album, and with no Internet or many news sources, that was hard to come by in Central Pa.

I wasn’t sure exactly when the album was actually coming out, so I took a trip to Wilkes-Barre, about an hour away, to visit a couple of stores. The first one (and I am ashamed that the name is gone from my memory), several blocks south of the Public Square, had an employee unboxing albums.

I can still see this guy and store in my mind. It was primarily an appliance store, with a couple of aisles of albums. But it was known for having the best prices in town.

The employee had opened several boxes and gone off to do something else. I peeked in one, and there it was  -- the Holy Grail. I just grabbed it and headed for the register. He hadn’t even put the price tag on it yet, and that didn’t matter. I would have paid any price they asked. He immediately came back and told me to put it back in the box and wait until he put in the racks. It’s amazing how I can remember the minute details of this, some 40 years ago, but can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.

I paid (I think it was $4.99), ran to the car, and started my 47-mile trip home in my white-hot '72 Torino. I think I drove recklessly, I know I drove too fast. I picked up a couple of hitchhikers who wondered why I was driving like a maniac. I got a speeding ticket. I may have been out of my mind.

When the needle hit the vinyl on my Sony Quadrophonic system in my bedroom, I knew the wait was worth it. It seemed as if the opening piano and harmonica of “Thunder Road” said more about my life than anything I had heard since the Liverpool invasion. I played the album over and over that day. Into the next week, throughout the year, and to this day. It seemed like the culmination of everything I liked about rock and roll rolled up into 39 minutes and 22 seconds. There’s no need for me to go into each song; that’s been done ad infinitum by people much smarter than me. But it looked important when I stared at the cover. It felt important when I opened the gatefold. And it sounded more than important when I heard it.

You know, yeah, it did change my life.

During the trip, I mentioned to Jack that it was the anniversary of an important Springsteen album. Although he has seen Bruce twice, he doesn’t quite grasp the significance of it all – yet.

And I am well that Springsteen is so very uncool is this hip-hop world, and is so very uncool to the synth-pop crowd, and so very uncool to the death metal, grunge, hipster crowds and you-name-the-trend crowd. And I am well aware that he is referred to as "Dad-rock."

That's just perfect, as least for me. My kids probably prefer the Beatles at the moment. Grandad-rock if you will.

But they like Springsteen, and he is alright in their eyes.

And that’s all right with me.

Baby, You're a Rich Man

These days John, Paul, George and Ringo 
have been replaced by Stuart, Kevin, Ruby and Bob

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

I finally got around to seeing the 2013 documentary "Good 'Ol Freda," about Freda Kelly, the young and vivacious
Liverpudlian who served as the Beatles secretary for 11 years, outlasting the group itself by a couple of years.

The film, which has rekindled my love and fascination of all things Fab Four (not that either was all that far away), is charming, delightful, wondrous, and even bittersweet. It's hard not to fall in love with Freda, with all her innocence, and harder still not to reminisce fondly about the music and era itself.

I love this music more than any other, and if I tend to romanticize it perhaps a tad too much, well, can you blame me?

Fifty-one years after the start of the revolution was televised on that late-winter's Sunday night, the magic still remains.

And "Good 'Ol Freda" brings it all back home again, one more time.

With you I have been blessed

I am not a big fan of all things Star Wars, but I know two very significant stormtroopers who are (and who also happen to be Beatles fans to boot).

So, in a galaxy far away, this it what happens when two worlds collide.

Happy Star Wars Day.

I'm sorry sir, no one by that name lives here any more

When I was young, I would spend time looking at my grandmother's photo album, which was filled with faded and torn pictures, some from the very beginning of the the 20th century.

Many of those photos were taken closer in time to when I was viewing them than the one at the right is to now.

Translation: Time moves on rapidly.

So, to anyone who reads this, specifically Jack and Ruby in the future, here is more information than anyone will probably ever need or want to know about one family's home.

61 Grace Ave, Shavertown, PA, circa 1960

• That's my brother's bike leaning against the house -- there was a lattice gate that lifted up where the push mower was kept under the screened-in porch.
• That's the small patio where my dad would sometimes grill hamburgers and hot dogs. 
• That's our 1956 Ford (I think) at the far right.
• That's the clothesline where my mom (and sometimes my dad) hung out all of our laundry to dry -- we had no dryer.
• That's the back yard where I spent hours and hours hitting a baseball, kicking a football, playing catch with my dad, and having lunchtime picnics under whatever kind of tree that was with my mom.
• That's the window to our one and only bathroom upstairs to the left.
• That's my parent's bedroom window at the upper right
• That's where the living room housed our black-and-white Philco. 
• That's the same living room that had a fireplace that was not often used for warmth, but more often for popping popcorn and Santa's visits. Except that night when I heard screaming downstairs after I had gone to bed; I ran down the stairs to see my mom standing on a chair and my dad chasing a bat with a broom -- said bat supposedly entered the room down the chimney.
• That's the same house I where I first heard rock and roll, and soul, and country, and gospel -- much of it through the sounds of brother's record collection.
• That's the house with the kitchen that always had a radio playing -- my mom listening to WILK and Rag Mop" by the Mills Brothers, and my brother's transistor forever turned to WARM, the Mighty 590.
• That's where I first saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.
• That's where I was shielded from the turbulence of the times -- Vietnam and the Civil Rights Era.
• That's where my parents sent my brother off to college -- the first member of my extended families to do so.
• That's where, starting in 5th grade, I walked to and from Shavertown Elementary, fitting my paper route in right after school.
• That's the house with very few books, save for a couple of Reader's Digest Condensed Books and a Funk &Wagnall's encyclopedia, which was bought in weekly installments from the local Acme Market.
• That's the house we moved from 3/4 of the way through 6th grade,
• That's the house that really felt like a home, and that sure is a hard feeling to replicate.

Let not your heart be troubled



She's got the whole world --
and her daddy's heart -- in her hands

When searching for an appropriate song for Ruby’s sixth birthday celebration, I was tempted to go with a Beatles or Springsteen (a couple of her favorites – I wonder who her daddy is?) number, but I thought I would go a bit out-of-the-box.

When I think of showstopper, the performance below comes to mind. Full of joy and passion, Billy Preston brings it, hitting on all cylinders.

Sort of like the sweetest little girl in the world.

And besides, Ruby is nothing less than a showstopper herself.

Little darlin,' it's been a long, cold, lonely winter

Got to thinking today, that to commemorate Yoko's birthday while ignoring what would have been George Harrison's 70th birthday couple of days ago, is just plain sad -- and wrong.

So here is a clip of my favorite Harrison song. This rendition, with the late Pete Ham from Badfinger, is wonderful in its simplicity, not to mention extraordinarily beautiful. And it's especially moving to see this performance and hear the song performed with such clarity and honesty. A gem.

But I would be remiss not to post The Beatles version as well, which is a monumental piece of studio magic.

Happy birthday George, and thanks.

Once there was a way to get back homeward

After last night's brief brush with unsavoriness (if that's not a word, it should be), it's time to revisit beauty, significance and High Art.

I am always one for a good debate on the best album ever made, and my choice changes from week-to-week, or even day-to-day. The choice always rotates around a core group, and last month it was "Exile on Main Street" Next month it might be "Born to Run" or "Moondance" or "Every Picture Tells a Story." Or one of another half dozen or so.

Back when albums and music were better, they were sequenced into sides: Sides A and B, or 1 and 2. "Darkness on the Edge of Town" was (and is) more powerful because the defiance of the music was bolstered by the hope against hope contained on the four corners of the album. The opening and closing song of each side were infused with the mantra of  "I'm not going to give up no matter how tough and ugly things get."

This also forced you to be an active listener; you had to physically get up and turn the record (or tape) over.

And no record ever rewarded a listener more for going to side 2 than "Abbey Road," which contains the single greatest album side in the history of music. Now, the whole thing is spectacular, and easily is part of the greatest album discussion.

But side 2 is positively epochal, a suite of songs so stunning, that fit together so well, that it towers above the rest of everything is the history of rock music.

In fact, here is my claim: The side 2 song suite represents the Greatest Artistic Achievement of the 20th century. I am talking art, music, film, literature. Everything.

It starts with "Here Comes the Sun," which sends shivers down your spine, and then things only get better. One freaking climactic moment after another, highlighted by a medley that contains so much brilliance that it seems unfair to put it all on one album. Paul McCartney does his best work here, but Lennon and Harrison also shine, and Ringo's drum solo says "hey, don't forget about me, either."

Layered voices, astonishing hooks, dreamy mood pieces, balls-out rock and roll, and sonic heights galore, and it all adds up to a work that makes you proud to be a human being. Listen to the remastered version on headphones -- nothing recorded since sounds better.

Also significant is that this project was the last recorded work by the group. Talk about going out on top. If hipster revisionist history throws a claim of overrated at The Beatles, this record alone will refute it. After listening closely, if anyone still makes that claim, you can't trust their judgement. About anything.

"Abbey Road," particularly the final 22 minutes, sets a standard that most likely will never be equaled.

But there's this angel in her eyes that tells such desperate lies, and all you want to do is believe her

If we have time, the kids and I will continue our educational journey this evening with the DVD Time-Life History of Rock and Roll series. Tonight is Soul, and I wonder if Ruby’s patience will allow her to sit through more than 30 minutes of rock and roll that fails to mention The Beatles.

Jack, of course, will eat it up, and that’s great as there is a lot of vital and life-changing (at least for me) footage and music that was a big part of my education as well.

I have not watched these episodes in a while, and as for tonight’s Soul extravaganza, I can’t remember if the song below is part of it.

If it’s not, it should be.

Jesus was an only son

Last night the kids and I were watching the Time-Life History of Rock and Roll. They’re big on anything Beatles, and it’s heartening that they (especially Jack) are interested in something so important to me.

So, we see the strange saga of John’s "we’re bigger than Jesus” flap, but Ruby mishears it, saying, “well, of course, the Beatles are bigger than Cheez-Its, silly”

That’s a VERY big admission from her, as Cheez-Its are near the top of her snack list.

Two guitars, baby, bass and drums

On this day 45 years ago, at Abbey Road studios in London, The Beatles recorded two minutes and two seconds of sonic perfection.

John Lennon considered it a throwaway.

I consider it a sublime example of just how vital, inspirational and life changing pop music can be.

The Beatles -- And Your Bird Can Sing

Learned more from a three-minute record...

Speaking of radio, "Little Steven's Underground Garage," which is always great and a true bright spot on the dial, was especially noteworthy last weekend. In the first of a three-part series, he and special guest Bruce Springsteen discussed their influences, along with the first records each bought.

For Little Steven, his first purchase was "Tears on My Pillow" by Little Anthony and the Imperials, while Springsteen's was a record of Dusty Rhodes (wasn't he a professional wrestler?) doing Elvis covers. "Meet the Beatles" was the first album for each.

For me, it was the Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand," although as Springsteen mentioned on the show, I also was attracted to novelty records. "The Twist" and "Limbo Rock" were Top Tens for me, and I was fortunate because my 10 years-older-than-me brother had many of the most boss 45s.

When he was out of the house, I would go into his room and play some of them quietly and stare at them like they were all various pieces of the Holy Grail. I was especially enthralled by the Sun label. It's bright yellow illustration of a rooster was striking, and even more prized because of the wondrous sounds I heard when I put them on the turntable. Elvis, of course, but also Billy Lee Riley, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis.

At the time I didn't know I was holding history in my hands. But I knew these were significant; they felt real, and had some primoridal sound that suggested a larger world outside of that tiny bedroom. I played these records and looked at them for hours, and I was lucky -- my mother never told me to stop, only to be careful with them. I like to think I treated the records with the museum respect they deserved. The time spent in that room turned out to some of my most important education.

By the time "Rubber Soul" (my first album) came out, I had cajoled my parents into my little record player, on which I played my own tiny, but ever-growing, record collection until I wore out the grooves. I went to McCrory's every week with my paper-route money to check out new releases, hoping for a Beatles picture sleeve each time.

I've gone on about this before, but this is why today's music seems so disposable. It's downloaded, from somewhere in the air, and it feels like it could all go away in one quick breath, or click. And if it's new music maybe it wouldn't even matter.

A few weeks ago I was looking through my old albums that I don't really play anymore. Each jacket has a story, a memory, and sometime provokes a question: What the hell was I thinking with this Uriah Heep album?

But I can't part with them; each is a mile marker: some good, some bad, some great, some embarassing, some indispensible. When I hold my very worn copy of "Sgt. Pepper's," I'm 12 years old, listening to life-changing music while my parents are downstairs and my brother is studying across the hall.

And life is full of promise, and not so complicated.

We liked the same music, we liked the same bands, we liked the same clothes

Thirty years ago tonight I was at a Springsteen show with my friend Marty Hasselman at The Spectrum in South Philadelphia. After a typically riveting River-era performance, we headed out to the parking lot, where a dazed and confused guy ambled up to us and said, “John Lennon just got shot.” We both said, “what?” and headed quickly to my car and turned on the radio.

WMMR, which usually followed Philly-area shows with uber-jock Ed Sciaky playing a couple of hours of what they called, “Bruce Juice,” instead was playing the Beatles' “In My Life.” They quickly followed it with “Imagine.”

We knew it was true.

Many things factor into my love of and passion for music, but none more so than The Beatles. Their three consecutive appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show in February of ’64 caused a seismic shift in my second-grade world, and the world around me as well.

I started listening to the radio intently, waiting for the next Beatles single. Out next-door neighbor Jim Balavage started a mop-topped, Beatles-influenced band that rehearsed in their living room, and I would argue with his sister Cathy the merits of the Beatles versus The Dave Clark Five. Jim also tried to show me how to play the opening riff to "Day Tripper" on the guitar.

I sang “I Saw Her Standing There,” to my parents in full voice while riding in the car on the way to Acme. I had Beatles bubble-gum cards, watched Beatles cartoons and pretended I was Paul McCartney and John Lennon in front of a tiny record player in my bedroom.

And I really heard music for the very first time.

The music of The Beatles was and is monumental, and those who question that or demean the group's influence are willing participants in a most-questionable revisionist history.

It stands the test of time; to this day much of it sounds as fresh and vital as ever.

And my kids love them. Their influence will live on.

John Lennon once famously said, “Before Elvis, there was nothing.”

I feel the same way about The Beatles.

Strictly 100: Number 12 – The Beatles

And told me you were gone, gone over the rise

Everybody has a “Where were you when…” moment, and if we live long enough, we’ll have many of them.

My first happened 47 years ago today. I was sitting in my second grade class at Westmoreland Elementary in Trucksville, PA. Suddenly another teacher came to our door and walked up and whispered something to our teacher (whose name has escaped me). One of the other kids in class, Brian Hoover, was able to overhear what was said. He came to the back of the classroom and said, “somebody shot the president.”

Our teacher then told us the news in a quivering voice.

This really was unthinkable, and the first shot, literally, that kicked off the 60s. Of course, 7-year-olds cannot fully comprehend the magnitude of something like this.

I certainly didn’t know that this would be the beginning of a most-tumultuous rest of the decade: Vietnam, race riots, more assassinations. These were unsettling times for a for a grade-school kid in the 60s; there were images every day on the nightly news that seemed bewildering to me.

Thankfully, my next “Where were you moment…” came just a few months later when The Beatles were on Ed Sullivan for the first time.

I was sitting in a darkened living room with my brother and parents, watching in awe while the rest of family seemed somewhat disgusted. Even my brother, who I think thought they were just a teeny-bopper fad.

I, of course, was enthralled, and I think it allowed some normalcy to enter my world in light of other unsettling things at the moment.

Even if my mom and dad thought the Beatles were anything but normal.

Growin' Up

Top 5 reasons "High Fidelity" is essential:

1. Voluminous and spot-on pop-culture references.
2. The knowing that record obsessiveness can overwhelm one’s world and influence lives; i.e., how the relationship between men and music can be special, complicated, inspirational, and at times, self-defeating.
3. A prescient view of how the innocence and promise of youth can never quite be fulfilled, but that it can all turn out OK.
4. Yes, “Thunder Road” is the best opening track in rock and roll history.
5. Rob = Dennis, or the written soundtrack of my life. Up to a point..

High Fidelity is not great literature. It won’t go down as one of the most important books of the century, decade or perhaps even of 1996.

It is, however, funny, touching, and like holding a mirror up to my face and seeing my silhouette covered with words. Words that are not just recognizable, but defining: mix tape, obsessed, records, confusion, women, failure, redemption….

I spent countless hours with friends and colleagues at Wee Three Records in the Lycoming Mall, discussing or arguing:
* Who was better, Tom Petty or Graham Parker?
* If “Get it On (Bang a Gong)” has the greatest fade-out in all of rock music
* Whether “I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock and Roll)” was the best rock and roll song of the ‘70s
* Fred Sanford or Archie Bunker?
* If “Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads” is the best record ever made
* Ways the New York Giants will embarrass themselves next
* Whether Badfinger was the second coming of the Beatles (really)
* Shemp was no Curly, but still pretty good and way ahead of Curly Joe and Joe Besser
* Why Rush are great musicians but not a great – or even good – band
* That Willie Nelson never wrote a decent song after the early ‘70s
* Lemmon and Matthau or Randall and Klugman?
* Stax or Motown?
* Which will ruin baseball first, Astroturf or George Steinbrenner
* That the Police, the Doors and the Grateful Dead are the most overrated bands in history
* How and why our hometown resembled Mayberry and/or Hooterville of “Green Acres” fame
* That 1966 was the greatest year in music history
* If the songwriting team of Difford and Tilbrook (Squeeze) were the new Lennon and McCartney
* The greatest soul singers, the greatest debut albums, the greatest George Jones songs
* Why the girls we knew didn’t care about any of these things, and what this said about our relationships (or lack thereof)
The movie version of "High Fidelity," while good, does not quite hold up to the Hornby's novel. The British setting offers a great deal more truth, and there is no cartoonish Jack Black to muddle things up.

The novel touches all the bases; it nearly overwhelmed me with the shock of recognition.

And gave me the hope that despite all of my missteps, if I keep trying, maybe I could someday get it right.
Strictly 100 – Number 9: High Fidelity (the novel)