Somehow, inexplicably, we've reached Week 26 in our Discography music discussion, which means that our year is half-over. This has left me feeling, if not outright maudlin, at least elegiac, although that may also be the fall finally arriving to global warming Vermont. No matter, I can't imagine that we'll run out of songs to discuss - or friends to appreciate - after one year, and I'm sure we'll continue on. Last time we had one of our best thematic weeks, and this week we're back to our more free form ways.
Robert Johnson, I Believe I'll Dust My Broom
As I mentioned above, I was feeling oddly emotional about reaching the halfway point in our music discussion (at least as we initially envisioned it) and was thinking of a number of songs to match that passing mood (some of which will show up in the next couple weeks) but instead I'm going to follow my general rule of writing about what I was thinking about in the week leading up to submission. I know that the Elmore James cover, Dust My Broom, is more famous, and pretty damn serious, but I've always had a soft spot for the Johnson original (although even that one is either a cover or was heavily influenced by another song; such is the nature of the Mississippi blues). Gary Beatrice and I had a friendly debate one time about whether Johnson was singing about love or sex or death or just hitting the road (or some combination therein). It is a blues song, so I guess it could just be a clarion call to infidelity, although that's not why I like it (although my ex-wife might argue that point). Rather, I think the song is more about wanderlust and leaving your world behind. When a poor black man from the Mississippi delta in the 1930s sang about the Philippines and Ethiopia he might as well have been talking about visiting the moon. I have a ridiculously overpowering, if not tangible, sense of wanderlust, as any of my friends will tell you. Part of it, doubtless, relates to the fact that I never even owned a passport until I was 42, and even then a friend of mine had to explain how to get one and the difference between a passport and a visa (stupid Hoosier that I am). However, the first time I went overseas I caught the travel bug, and it's an especially virulent strain. I'm in the process of planning four different travel courses with students: this Thanksgiving Mike Kelly, Kelly Thomas and I are taking twenty students to Spain and Portugal; in the spring Cyndi and I are leading an undetermined (but I'm betting eighteen or more) students to India and Sri Lanka; next Christmas break Steve Wehmeyer and I are leading students back to Zanzibar for two weeks; and in the spring of 2018 Cyndi and I are leading students back to Jordan. In addition, Wehmeyer and I are heading back to Zanzibar this spring to prep for next year's trip, and while I'm there I'm thinking of letting Steve fly back home and I'll head off to Namibia for a week. The Namibia trip is mainly to prepare for a student trip for the following year, although partially because the words Scudder and Skeleton Coast need to be used in the same sentence (and not just this time). Clearly, I've got it bad, and it's only when you actually write it all down does it seem crazy. When I came back to the States after my sabbatical I remember talking to my students about Yemen and they wanted to know how it was even possible to go there. Students: "Who did you know there?" GS: "No one." Students: "Who met you at the airport?" GS: "I caught a cab." Students: "Wait, how did you even get there?" GS: "Instead of typing in Orlando on Travelocity you type in Sana'a, duh." Yeah, it does look crazy when you write it down. By the way, Dave Kelley was the only person I told about the Yemen trip in advance, and he may never forgive me. So, anyway, if anyone wants to meet me in Zanzibar or Namibia, and you don't mind I have work to do, we can hang out.
Gary Beatrice
Violent Femmes, Blister in the Sun, and Kool and the Gang, Jungle Boogie
About ten years ago my wife Margie and her sisters Myra and Linda threw a 50th anniversary party for their parents. To no surprise to those of you that know any of them, the party was spectacular and my in-laws loved it. They rented a hall in Covington, invited family and their parents' friends, served great food and drink, and hired a disk jockey. The DJ was great. He was respectful and fun when making announcements and introducing Margie's parents and her family, and he played music that the vast majority of the guests would enjoy: Sinatra, Elvis, Patsy Kline, Motown and so on.
By 11:00 or so many of the older guests left. Margie and I and her sisters were cleaning up and my four children, my nephews and their teenage friends were making musical requests. The disk jockey started playing bland current "alternative" music which was even more formulaic than the pop music for which it served as an alternative. Then to my astonishment I heard the unmistakable opening notes to the Violent Femmes "Blister In The Sun". I am certain that neither Dave is surprised to hear that I made a beeline to the dance floor where my children, my nephews and their friends were doing some type of jumping up and down on a pogo stick dance. Of course, I joined right in singing every word at the top of my lungs and pogo sticking like an idiot. And for two minutes and twenty five seconds my nephews and their friends looked at me in awe recognizing that I was far cooler than their parents and quite possibly far cooler than any other forty five year old they'd ever met.
In a brilliant musical segue, "Blister In The Sun" became Kool and the Gang's "Jungle Boogie". I love "Jungle Boogie" and Kool and the Gang! The beat, the chants, it's early disco at its best.
Being Pulp Fiction fans my children appreciated "Jungle Boogie" and the five of us chanted, screamed along, and played air trumpet with our invisible trunks.
Suddenly I noticed that we were the only ones on the dance floor. Some of my nephews were clutching their parents, thankful for their bloodlines. Others were insisting to their friends that they had no idea who I was. I am pretty certain I heard a cock crow three times.
"Jungle Boogie" is played at every Bengals' home game and it fits their jungle motif very well,and sounds great on the stadium loud speakers. What you may not know, and I am not making this up, is that for the last couple seasons the Reds' organist plays "Blister In The Sun" at many home games. I wish I had been there for that conversation.
Reds organist: "Charge" is a classic but fans are getting tired of it and it no longer seems to motivate the players.
Reds organist's assistant: I've always liked "Blister In The Sun". That should inspire the team.
Reds organist: (puzzled) Should I sing "When I'm out walking I strut my stuff and I'm so strung out. I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out" or should I go with "Body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why. My girlfriend she's at the end, she is starting to cry."
Reds organist's assistant: Just play the music.
And so they do, almost every game, while old couples and young children innocently clap along.
God, I love Cincinnati.
About ten years ago my wife Margie and her sisters Myra and Linda threw a 50th anniversary party for their parents. To no surprise to those of you that know any of them, the party was spectacular and my in-laws loved it. They rented a hall in Covington, invited family and their parents' friends, served great food and drink, and hired a disk jockey. The DJ was great. He was respectful and fun when making announcements and introducing Margie's parents and her family, and he played music that the vast majority of the guests would enjoy: Sinatra, Elvis, Patsy Kline, Motown and so on.
By 11:00 or so many of the older guests left. Margie and I and her sisters were cleaning up and my four children, my nephews and their teenage friends were making musical requests. The disk jockey started playing bland current "alternative" music which was even more formulaic than the pop music for which it served as an alternative. Then to my astonishment I heard the unmistakable opening notes to the Violent Femmes "Blister In The Sun". I am certain that neither Dave is surprised to hear that I made a beeline to the dance floor where my children, my nephews and their friends were doing some type of jumping up and down on a pogo stick dance. Of course, I joined right in singing every word at the top of my lungs and pogo sticking like an idiot. And for two minutes and twenty five seconds my nephews and their friends looked at me in awe recognizing that I was far cooler than their parents and quite possibly far cooler than any other forty five year old they'd ever met.
In a brilliant musical segue, "Blister In The Sun" became Kool and the Gang's "Jungle Boogie". I love "Jungle Boogie" and Kool and the Gang! The beat, the chants, it's early disco at its best.
Being Pulp Fiction fans my children appreciated "Jungle Boogie" and the five of us chanted, screamed along, and played air trumpet with our invisible trunks.
Suddenly I noticed that we were the only ones on the dance floor. Some of my nephews were clutching their parents, thankful for their bloodlines. Others were insisting to their friends that they had no idea who I was. I am pretty certain I heard a cock crow three times.
"Jungle Boogie" is played at every Bengals' home game and it fits their jungle motif very well,and sounds great on the stadium loud speakers. What you may not know, and I am not making this up, is that for the last couple seasons the Reds' organist plays "Blister In The Sun" at many home games. I wish I had been there for that conversation.
Reds organist: "Charge" is a classic but fans are getting tired of it and it no longer seems to motivate the players.
Reds organist's assistant: I've always liked "Blister In The Sun". That should inspire the team.
Reds organist: (puzzled) Should I sing "When I'm out walking I strut my stuff and I'm so strung out. I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out" or should I go with "Body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why. My girlfriend she's at the end, she is starting to cry."
Reds organist's assistant: Just play the music.
And so they do, almost every game, while old couples and young children innocently clap along.
God, I love Cincinnati.
Dave Wallace
Jackson 5, Maybe Tomorrow
When I was growing up, I mistakenly considered the
Jackson 5 to be a teeny-bopper band. I could not have been more
wrong. Their initial group of singles was the last great explosion of
music from Motown and one of the most incredible run of songs by any
group. I Want You Back, ABC, The Love You Save, I'll Be There, Dancing
Machine, I Am Love, just to name a few. Awesome stuff. Although I'm
generally not a ballad guy, I love this song. It starts off as a fairly
standard ballad, but takes off when it hits the chorus. The harmonies are
fantastic and the call-and-response is amazing. The brothers keep pushing
each other along, with Jermaine exhorting the others to "Sing it!
Sing it!" Pop music doesn't get any better.
Miranda Tavares
I'm not gonna beat around the bush. Pun intended. The
pun, of course, relates to our presidential candidate joking about sexually
assaulting women. I'm not upset about his use of the word "pussy,"
because it's just a word, but sexual assault is never funny, and I'm pretty
much in a rage about Trump's lightheartedness in speaking about violating
someone like that. And I was in a rage about his supporters. I know Hillary got
some flack about calling them a basket of deplorables, but certainly half of
their comments about the admitted sexual assaults proved Hillary correct. To
quote one such eloquent, sensitive soul, "Hell, so what? I want to grab
some pussy!"
I am horrified at my fellow American citizens. I don't
understand how we have become so divided. Some people I thought I knew are now
strangers. I see ugliness in so many familiar, even loved, faces. I am at a
loss as to how a decent human being can support such a large, steaming pile of
regurgitated cheetos. So I have taken the past couple of days to chill, to
listen to more music and less news media, and I discovered solace in Chris
Knight (yes, I know I didn't pick Chris Knight; I'll get there eventually, I
promise).
Chris Knight paints pictures of the part of America that I
have kind of skipped over. I live in an urban area, and I see poverty all
around me, but most of that poverty is related to race. Not that it's all about
race by any means, but it's a pretty obvious factor. I have traveled to more
rural areas, and my former job had me visiting these rural residents in their
homes, but I have not lived there (for years and years, anyway), and I am not a
part of their culture. There are certain things I take for granted that they
have never been exposed to, and of course the reverse is also true. And
although the Trump supporters are not limited to these areas, they are
certainly concentrated there, and now I think I finally get it. These are
people who struggle like anyone else. They just want to feed their families.
They are making it, but every day is a close call, and one extra hardship could
destroy the whole precarious card house. They are scared, and desperate, and
vulnerable. And they look out for number one. Not because they are selfish and
uncaring, but because there's only so much looking out they can do, and family
comes first, and once they've got the family all set there's just nothing left.
They've seen family farms get foreclosed, factories and mines where 2, 3, 4
generations have worked close down, historic local businesses go under. They've
learned to live for today, and not to trust in the future. And they've damn
sure learned not to trust the politicians. The politicians who bailed out the
banks that foreclosed on the farms, the people who made the tax laws and trade
deals to allow the factories go away, who made the environmental laws to make
the mines close - these politicians, regardless of their good intentions for
the future, took food out of families' mouths today. They know the politicians
suck. Just like a bunch of dum dum lolipops, they may be different colors, they
may claim different flavors, but they all taste the same. So, obviously, anyone
but them. Because at least ferret-wearing, daughter-lusting, openly bigoted,
poorly-tossed word salad is a flavor they haven't tried before.
Out There Laughing is actually a pretty communist song, and
the people I have just spend the last 18 pages discussing would boo me and
throw PBR for saying this, but the similarities are pretty amazing.
"Someone sent our jobs to kids in Singapore, and bought control of the
guys you voted for." The basic message is, whoever you are, you're
probably getting screwed. (Of course, it proposes to fix this by ending the
free market, but we'll stick a pin in that for now). I feel like this song is
unifying in it's rejection of the current state of affairs. Because the one
thing we can all agree on is we're not happy with the way things are.
Nate Bell
No real depth or insight at all this week from
Nate---maybe I should say even less than usual! Miranda has covered the
cerebral and the outrage this week.
Mine is just for fun:
The Bastard Suns "Pirates of the Whiskey
Sea": The Bastard Suns - Pirates of The
Whisky Sea
"Please excuse our mess and our
depravity".
That line is a fair summation for M and I's lives and
personalities. This song has great, bawdy, and fun lyrics. The
white-guy reggae-ish sound of the Bastard Suns is extremely catchy, and this
offering doesn't take itself too seriously. I hope someone enjoys and
gets a chuckle out of the lyrics and taps their foot a bit. A little fun
in life is all we can really hope for, I hope this does it for someone out
there on the blog :)
Dave Kelley
Gabba,Gabba, Hey!!!!!!!!
The Ramones, I Wanna Be Sedated
My selection this week is based upon the inherent
awesomeness of The Ramones as well as the Trumpster Fire that is the current
election cycle. Yep, another addition to the 2016 election from hell
playlist. Please someone, sedate me!!!!!
I think of the Ramones as the id of Rock and Roll.
The lizard brain so to speak. They were just so fucking basic
and geniuses of simplicity. The playlist for Little Steven's
Underground Garage radio station is described as "music that influenced
The Ramones, music influenced by The Ramones, and The Ramones." Hell
yes. Short, loud, catchy, and memorable blasts of inspired music straight
from the gut and the groin. Unlike The Donald, their music grabs you in
appropriate ways. I am always in the mood for some Ramones.
So:
"Get me to the airport, put me on a plane
Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I go insane
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain
Oh no, oh no, oh no!!!!!"
Nate and Miranda, I intend to blast this just before we
leave to catch the flight to New Orleans Thursday!!!!
Gary Scudder
Robert Johnson, I Believe I'll Dust My Broom
As I mentioned above, I was feeling oddly emotional about reaching the halfway point in our music discussion (at least as we initially envisioned it) and was thinking of a number of songs to match that passing mood (some of which will show up in the next couple weeks) but instead I'm going to follow my general rule of writing about what I was thinking about in the week leading up to submission. I know that the Elmore James cover, Dust My Broom, is more famous, and pretty damn serious, but I've always had a soft spot for the Johnson original (although even that one is either a cover or was heavily influenced by another song; such is the nature of the Mississippi blues). Gary Beatrice and I had a friendly debate one time about whether Johnson was singing about love or sex or death or just hitting the road (or some combination therein). It is a blues song, so I guess it could just be a clarion call to infidelity, although that's not why I like it (although my ex-wife might argue that point). Rather, I think the song is more about wanderlust and leaving your world behind. When a poor black man from the Mississippi delta in the 1930s sang about the Philippines and Ethiopia he might as well have been talking about visiting the moon. I have a ridiculously overpowering, if not tangible, sense of wanderlust, as any of my friends will tell you. Part of it, doubtless, relates to the fact that I never even owned a passport until I was 42, and even then a friend of mine had to explain how to get one and the difference between a passport and a visa (stupid Hoosier that I am). However, the first time I went overseas I caught the travel bug, and it's an especially virulent strain. I'm in the process of planning four different travel courses with students: this Thanksgiving Mike Kelly, Kelly Thomas and I are taking twenty students to Spain and Portugal; in the spring Cyndi and I are leading an undetermined (but I'm betting eighteen or more) students to India and Sri Lanka; next Christmas break Steve Wehmeyer and I are leading students back to Zanzibar for two weeks; and in the spring of 2018 Cyndi and I are leading students back to Jordan. In addition, Wehmeyer and I are heading back to Zanzibar this spring to prep for next year's trip, and while I'm there I'm thinking of letting Steve fly back home and I'll head off to Namibia for a week. The Namibia trip is mainly to prepare for a student trip for the following year, although partially because the words Scudder and Skeleton Coast need to be used in the same sentence (and not just this time). Clearly, I've got it bad, and it's only when you actually write it all down does it seem crazy. When I came back to the States after my sabbatical I remember talking to my students about Yemen and they wanted to know how it was even possible to go there. Students: "Who did you know there?" GS: "No one." Students: "Who met you at the airport?" GS: "I caught a cab." Students: "Wait, how did you even get there?" GS: "Instead of typing in Orlando on Travelocity you type in Sana'a, duh." Yeah, it does look crazy when you write it down. By the way, Dave Kelley was the only person I told about the Yemen trip in advance, and he may never forgive me. So, anyway, if anyone wants to meet me in Zanzibar or Namibia, and you don't mind I have work to do, we can hang out.
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