Random Music #4

Random Music #4

by Michael Dare

Elvis Costello, Accidents will Happen, I was there at Hollywood High School when he sang it for the first time, we're only hit and run, Armed Forces hadn't come out yet, the world premiere, used to be a victim now you're not the only one, the best song I'd ever heard, singing solo with Steve Nieve on piano, full of the wordplay he's famous for, with two deliberately confusing and addicting lines, "your mouth is made up but your mind is undone" the first time and "your mind is made up but your mouth is undone" the second. It's understandably difficult to remember which comes first, both working as punchlines to each other, creating mental confusion and my favorite musical mistake of all time, the first verse opening line, "Oh I just don't know where to begin," then the second verse opening line, "There's so many fish in the sea." The first time Elvis sang the song, he opened with "There's just don't know where to begin," a combo of the opening lines of the first and second verses, which is exactly what you'd say if you REALLY didn't know where to begin. His next album, Armed Forces, came with a bonus 45 of that first live performance at Hollywood High. Accidents WILL happen, what a concept, but he never performed it the same way since, and that's certainly not how he did it in the rockified studio version. I don't wanna hear it cause I know what I've done, then the Attractions broke up and Costello appeared on Sessions at West 54th, he and Nieve did a tour together, and they went back to the original version, the Hollywood High version, like a personal gift to me, a perfectly justifiable memory jog, because I was there again, at the Troubadour, which came out as another CD. Listen to either one and when Elvis says "Good evening" and the crowd swells up, that was me, about halfway back, younger and thinner, just like Elvis.

My Morning Jacket does Wordless Chorus which fulfills the title with a chorus supposedly devoid of words, but I definitely heard a who and an ow.

Cream, White Room, with black curtains in the station, no soul pavement, did he really say silver horses fly down moonbeams in your dark eye, wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves, way back when heavy metal put the vocals up front and you could actually hear every single demented word, I remember how absolutely heavy and forbidding and evil it sounded the first time, Clapton on wa-wa when wa-wa was new, now sounds nothing more than light-hearted good old fashioned psychedelic blues, the only movie I can picture is tripping in the park and black light posters.

Cracker, Get Off This, we ain't got no government loans, we're just doing what we wanna, if you want to change the world, shut your mouth, nice sentiment, Dylanesque jangling, killer hook, loud rock, Hey Jude ending, driving off into the sunset at the end of a thriller.

Big fan of the California Guitar Trio who dare to take on Pipeline, the surfing classic, meant for the beach but perfect for internet surfing too, dazzling fingerwork, live performance, makes me want to shove my computer and pick up a guitar.

And I feel like I been here before, how did they know, CS&N, decades ago, that the song they were singing was precisely what I'd be going through right now, sounds great, impeccable harmonies, through my dinky computer speakers, do you know, don't you wonder, what's going on, we have all been here before, a new house, a home, a glimpse of security, alive in Seattle, we have all been here before, the satisfaction of new possibilities and reliving peaceful moments from the past, saw them at the Hollywood Bowl, Joni Mitchell opened, the day after Woodstock, they told us all about it at the Bowl, their second gig ever, the night I burnt my draft card at a barbecue set up for the purpose, what an idiot, probably worth something on eBay, we have all been here before, a table, a lamp, simple stuff, your son bringing friends home for the first time in years, why did it feel so good, watching them hang on the porch, Max and his friends, who the hell are they, Seattleites, a scruffy bunch, probably never heard of Crosby, Stills, or Nash.

You see what happens is you end up actually listening to the music, remember what that's like, when it's not in the background but WHAT YOU'RE DOING, just listening to music, which means you get no work done, and believe me, I've got work to do, so bye bye, but I'm not turning off the music, just changing its position in the focus department, like the Bush Administration, see yuh later, pal.

Random Music #3

Sting reading Dowland for a minute of pretension from his recent album of Renaissance music which is actually pretty good. Should I delete all the short non-musical vocal tracks or are they welcome variations. Today, the latter.

Chet Atkins & Les Paul doing Caravan, as good as it gets, guitar heaven, simple backbeat to two guitars speaking a whole other language, I could listen to it all day, crystal clear discussion between two musicians at the height of their skills, clearly improvised, part of a whole library of music from the two of them, major, masterpiece, essential.

Tony Bennett is inescapable. Like him or not, you should have him shoved down your throat every once in a while, Cold Cold Heart with Tim McGraw. Night music. Late at night, even into morning music. Try to say something bad about Tony Bennett, I dare you. Whatever this is, it's perfectly what it is.

Paul Simon, Cecilia, you're breaking my heart, I'm down on my knees, I'm begging you please to come home, jungle drums, is that an accordion, strangely Cajun, stomping, back woods, primal, you're shaking my confidence, baby, rattles, congas, old slack string guitar, hand claps, a crowd pleaser, great for singing round the fire, killer hooks a plenty.

Heat from Hamell on Trial's Songs for Parents Who Enjoy Drugs, who me?, heat, burning it back, exposing the nerve, drums, guitar, harmonica, rap beat with melting layers, shades of Lou Reed, who do you serve, I'm not accepting defeat, if this weren't random, perfect companion piece to Peter Gabriel's Heat, absolute keeper.

The Who, Tea & Theater from their latest, we did it all, didn't we, jumped over wall, slow fingerpicking, acoustic, brushes, heartfelt vocal, sounds great, a dream derailed, one of us gone, one of us mad, one of us meek, all of us sad. Lean on my shoulder, the story is done, we're older now, all of us sad, will you have some tea? Very nice, gentle, melodic, a beautiful return to form.

Neil Young, It's a Dream, I try not to read all the news, I hold you if you have a bad dream, it's only a dream, plaintive, violins, just a memory, wait a minute, violins?, has this been run through the schmaltz machine? Okay, redeemed by steel string guitar, full of visuals, subtle, fading now, fading away, just a memory without any way to stay, an old man walks along on the sidewalk, the same old man who took a look at my life?, could be, you investigate and get back to me, at 6:32, too long, too many repeats, a drag, goes nowhere and did I mention not fast?

Longer boats are coming to win us, major classic, hold onto the shore, mandatory, melodic, poetic, they'll be taking the key from the door, Cat Stevens at his best, I don't want no blood on my lawn, just a flower I can help along, the soul of nobody knows how a flower grows or where the parson goes, searching, seductive, perfect double tracked vocals, short, precise, come and gone.

Beck, Devil's Haircut, good transition, from angel to devil, nasty guitar, maracas, synthodoodles, basic drums and what are those off key squawks, coming to town with the big case blues, in my mind, full of dynamics, changing from one sound to another, suddenly his voice coming from faraway victrola, adventurous, experimental, driving rock, future feedback, a keeper.

Solo piano, what is this?, you better watch out, I'm telling you why, it's nighttime in the big city, a department store Santa sneaks a sip of gin, mistletoe makes an old man sad, eight reindeer land on the roof of the Abernathy Building, it's theme time radio hour with your host Bob Dylan, the best DJ on earth, taking a theme and running with it through the decades. special yuletide extravaganza, leave the driving to me and Rudolph, some funky old jazz version of dashing through the snow, swinging for Christmas, Ledbelly singing his way out of jail, serving time in Angola, singing for children, Christmas is a coming, and it's a jumpin', chicken crows at midnight, stir-up Sunday, his recipe for figgy pudding, lord nelson, party for Santa Claus, why hasn't Ry Cooder recorded this song, fabulous cha cha, merengue horns and bongos.

Song I want to hear: Carmen Miranda doing the Carmina Burana. Weird Al, would you please get on it?

Suddenly, Bob Seger does a passable James Brown in Sock it To Me Santa, Santa's got a brand new bag.

Debadoh doing Beautiful Friend, my voice is all shot, alone on guitar, he lied, his voice isn't shot, great song, I still have a lot to learn about me, no one's sure if we should be together, she opened up her heart and let me in, half is enough, plaintive wailing, skipping ahead.

Dinosaur Jr. say they can Feel the Pain but I don't think so. Only I can feel the pain.

Thom Yorke, The Clock, just discovered the guy, techno-funk-folk, beautiful voice, lotta chicka chickas, driving, changing sounds, like Beck, unpredictable, good soundtrack music, can't make out the lyrics, might as well be in Latin, like a chase sequence through an Arab landscape but something mysterious is about to happen, a beam of light, the camels all fall down. Christmas is as over as this column.

Random Music #2

Pink Floyd. Hey You. Unmistakable. Hey you, out there in the cold, standing in the aisle, can you feel me, hey you, don't help them to bury the lie, don't give in without a fight. tinkling guitar and synthospace, the drums kick in, the harmonies, open your heart, is this from The Wall?, don't know, it's from Echoes, damn the best of, full speed ahead, fabulous solo, Hey you, always doing what you're told, won't you help me, saw Pink Floyd on acid at the Santa Monica Civic, can I handle the flash back, oh good, I don't have to, it's already playing Bach - Toccata & Fugue in F maj, not the famous one in C min, but similar, same fucking organ, same fucking cathedral, something sinister about to happen, mathematical fingerwork, like listening to a calculus professor solving equations, every possible permutation, calculated, solemn, dramatic, majestic, good typing music, the keyboards coagulate, letters and numbers and notes, it's all the same, a random flow from one to the next, thank you Sebastian, but can you please end this, turning into a sermon, a minister droning on and on about something in the bible, turn it off, I can't stand it, Bach, baby, okay, we get it, why is he still playing, how long is this, eleven minutes?, and we're only up to five? Fuck it, next...

John Mayer, I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You), from his new album, Continuum, got the whole thing, still haven't heard it all or weeded out anything, sounds cool, smooth, Fly like an Eagle, I will beg my way into your garden, hold on to something, hold onto something something, look at you, finding something, Hall and Oates, nice guitar, reminds me of Larry Carlton, another of those singers who finds the strange space between regular voice and falsetto, a nice rasp, still haven't found the song from this album that makes me go wow, might not come up randomly for ages.

Marianne Faithful, Why'd 'Ya Do It she said, why'd 'ya let him suck your cock? You know it makes me sore. The closest any female has flipped the Jagger bit sideways, a woman, angry at her man, taking it out on the other woman, a bitter and spectacular performance, full of betrayal and conviction, driving outrageous guitar, solid backbeat, like Satisfaction, every woman listener thinking you go girl, and every male listener thinking oh fuck, I never want a woman that mad at me, chicks are all crazy, get in, get out, that's my motto.

Peter Gabriel, Steam, can't separate it from the video, like many of Gabriel's, a pulsing parade of imagination, directed by Stephen Johnson, who also directed Peewee's Playhouse, total genius, get a life with the dreamer's dream, you know your culture from your cash, I know you, you know your sinner from your saint, gimme steam, what the hell is it about, brilliantly mysterious, stand back, about celebrity heat, clay animation, real as anything you see, green from your read, quick from the dead, I know you, this is more than I can take, oh yeah, I need steam, I'm going to get up and dance till it's over.

Dixie Chicks, So Hard, I feel so guilty, that was a gift I couldn't give, life was how we picture it, prove everybody wrong, when it doesn't come easy, hoo boy, file this one under boners, right next to Pump it Up, sneaky hit songs about erections are so hard to come up with because everything they say sounds like innuendo and out the other.

Nick Lowe, sorta lame, Drive-Through Man, is this a parody, hokey, country, it wouldn't kill you to lift that blind, I know you feel it, exposed and uncovered, like a wild east wind, gimme a break, outta here.

Random Music #1

I did what I always do, randomized my music list and pressed play, giving me my entire music collection, at least two weeks worth of solid music, in a brand new order, never knowing what's going to come up next, determined this time to write along.

Song number one was Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, the electronic version, by either Walter or Wendy Carlos. I listen and try to tell whether Carlos had a penis when he/she played it. In any case, a ballsy performance.

Next, right now, Leo Kottke's Vaseline Machine Gun, and I'm going to type along and try to keep up, much too fast, no words, the fastest fingerpicking, a modern miracle, my random music collection giving me random clues into the nature of the universe because it's not the songs themselves, which I've heard a million times, but the anticipation of what's coming up next, brilliant transition or some sort of glitch.

Gotta admit Kottke mutated nicely into Gershin's Rhapsody in Blue, another mysterious Christmasy choice which could just as randomly have been Zappa's My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mamma. Here's that part again. You know the part. The Woody Allen part. Can't think of anything nicer to write to, right back to New York, '71, studying at Strasberg, trying to improvise, but then it all turns black and white, that montage, Christ, am I going to actually have to go out and look through my video collection for Manhattan? Is that the movie you're going to force your kids to watch?

I see movies when I'm not even watching them. I see movies when I look outside, when I stand in line, when I talk to people, face to face, every one a movie with a beginning, middle, and end. I can't help but see movies when I listen to music. I construct an entire miniseries in my mind every time I hear Every Breath You Take. I'll be watching you, particularly the Rockapella version, a cosmic barbershop quartet sets the scene for any number of cinematic happenings.

This seems to be one of those moments. I've woken up before them, made a cup of coffee, found a hole in my phonebook, and not merely dived but back-flipped into the keyboard for a moment of contemplation. It's still fucking Rhapsody in Blue. How long is this? Sixteen and a half minutes? Fuck it. I'm clicking on the next random song button.

10cc, Art for Art Sake, money for god sake, not their best but hard to delete.

Next. A piano piece by Buddy Foley, Seattle musician, ordained madman of the community, a subterranean world of technomythology and mysterious collections of infinite oddities. A nice reminder of another time in my life, but short, shit, it's already playing something else, what is it, Andrew Bird, So Insistent, plaintive violin, sort of Scottish, drunken sailors, a jig, add a guitar, they're dancing, bottles smashing, a whole movie in this song that won't be written by me because I'm too into the next one, Antonio Lauro's Valses Venezulanos, as good as classical guitar playing gets, I urge it upon you. I'm going to stop now and just listen to it, no, not just that, not just listen but pretend it's me. If I had the sheet music I could play the piece like Bach's Solo Cello.

Could I possibly be happier than to be listening to Allan Sherman's One Hippopotami? Not likely. A paranoia is a bunch of mental blocks, and when a Casey meets Kildare, that's called a paradox. A paramecium is not a pair. A parallelogram is just a crazy square. Nobody knows just what a paraphernalia is. And what is half a pair of scissors? It's a single sciss.

Wow, Day Tripper. You can't make me write about the Beatles. No. Don't make me go there, dammit, walking down Hollywood Blvd. to see a movie when it's all over the TV in the sidewalk shops, the souvenirs of Hollywood and somebody shot John Lennon. Prescient, got a good reason for taking the easy way out, yeah, right, classic in every way, that riff, the hook, It took me so long to find out. I found out. I found out.

Glenn Miller, The American Patrol, or is it? I've gotten two MP3s called Glenn Miller's The American Patrol and they're both entirely different pieces of music. One's a fraud, yuchh, ptuee, I spit upon it, the bastards, but the other one is surely the Glenn Miller I love. If it's not Glenn Miller, it should be, but there's another random Schroedinger's universe in which this song is in a box, 50% Glenn Miller, 50% not.

Warren Zevon with David Lindley doing Casey Jones, trouble ahead, trouble behind, and you know that notion just crossed my mind, not the Grateful Dead riding that train high on cocaine, but two other guys, Lindley a particular guitar hero I met on the set of Square Dance, invited by Rob Lowe to hang around the set that day, he played a village idiot who could play a mean violin, and there was David Lindley, whose violin work was actually going to be heard on the soundtrack. I watched as he gave a violin lesson to Rob, who would have to mimic Lindley in the film, eight degrees of mental connection, I'd forgotten all about it, answering the obvious question, whatayuh do if you want to play a musical instrument like David Lindley? Get cast as a village idiot and look like Rob Lowe. And you know that notion just crossed my mind.