Nothing Like The First Listen

The other day a co-worker asked me to make him a mix of tunes. There are few greater small pleasures in life for me. Now he didn't specify what kind of a mix, which would have been easier. No, he didn't request a mix of songs exclusively by British fops or songs only recorded south of the Mason-Dixon Line or songs only about animals--requests that would have been easy to accomplish. So, I had my usual response to the general "make me a mix" request--I went overboard, zealously. He'll be receiving a nice box set of mixes from me, filled with universally great songs as well as some geared more specifically to his personality and perceived likes (though he is a vociferous Rod Stewart hater, how could I refrain from including "Every Picture Tells a Story"?). Of the hundred or so songs I've collected for him, I'd be willing to wager 90% of them will be new to his ears. Just the thought of how thrilled he might be to hear such gems as Dan Reeder's "Work Song" or R.L. Burnside's "Stole My Check" or The Coasters' "Shoppin' For Clothes," or some other unpredictable song for the first time, has me giddy.

I started thinking about this phenomenon--the first time you hear a song destined to be one of your all-time favorites--and was struck by how few of the thousands of "all-time favorite" songs on my list I actually remember in detail hearing for the first time. Why? Shouldn't everybody remember vividly the first time they heard "Satisfaction" or "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Mamma Mia" (sic)? Maybe it's the saturation of listening to such songs so many times over years and years that dims the memory of the first time. Maybe some songs have just always been in one's consciousness. Who knows?

One song that stands out is a rather obscure one, "Boston," by a guy named Dave Derby. I was in a record store, the only customer at the time, and all of a sudden the song came over the speakers. Looking back on it all, I can't say I wasn't the victim of that great record store ploy employed in High Fidelity when John Cusack announces he's about to sell five copies of the Beta Band's 3 Ep's record, puts the record on and everyone in the store starts grooving and asking what the record is. Maybe the guy in the store I was in, who certainly knew a little of my tastes in music, knew that I'd respond to the beautifully gloomy, dreamy "Boston." Halfway through the song I had to ask what was playing, by the end of the song I had bought the record.



Having been a big Meat Puppets fan for several years, I of course was excited when their 1987 record Huevos came out. I remember playing the record for the first time late one night in an apartment I shared with two other guys, after they had gone to bed. Not being able to crank the volume became torture when I heard the first riffage of the great "Look At The Rain." But when the band kicked in again the glorious wailing of the title phrase after a false fade-out, well, in some ways I've been swooning ever since ("I gotta shirt that costs a dollar twenty-five/I know I'm the best-dressed man alive!").



I was at a friend's when he played me Bill Fox's epic Shelter From The Smoke album for the first time. Those jangly first notes and the not-expected high lonesome voice of Bill singing, "Over and away she goes ..." spelled instant addiction. I am blessed to see Bill play often, and often he begins his set with "Over And Away She Goes" and I am able to re-live that first-time thrill of being granted admission to a singular world once again.



Strangely, the most vivid "first-time" listening experience I remember is a bit confusing; I don't remember the exact song I heard. I had just returned to college and had to get up at dawn on a snowy, dark morning to return a rented car. As I drove down empty streets, the radio played the Roches' "Hammond Song," or was it "Losing True"? Seeing that "Losing True" is kind of a re-make of "Hammond Song" (I bet many Roche sister fans wished they'd make more and more re-makes--gorgeously strummed acoustic guitar, three angelic voices all-entwined, and a touch of Frippery thrown in for seasoning), nearly thirty years of memory have confused me as to which one I actually heard on that drive. All I know was that I had to have that song, that sound. Funny, though, I can't remember the first time I actually heard the song I didn't hear that morning.



Here's hoping thirty years from now, when my co-worker is reflecting on his lifetime of good listens, he'll remember a moment listening to one of the mixes I've made for him.

Whither Whistlin'?

Does anybody remember whistlin? I'm not sure. This morning I spent a few idle minutes sitting on the back porch doing nothing but listening to birds whistle. Mellifluous cacophony. One in particular sounded most familiar: choooo choooo ch ch ch ch chooooo. Either that bird's been around a helluva long time, or that mating call's been so successful it's been passed down through the generations. I remember lying in my bed as a kid underneath an open window as the morning breezes rustled the large acorn tree's upper limbs right outside the window. That same choooo choooo ch ch ch ch chooooo greeted me to a new day.

It all got me thinking. Does anybody whistle anymore? Seems like you could always count on some old guy entering your daily orbit whistling some old air. And those old guys could whistle, some of them even appeared to be able to harmonize with themselves. I can't remember the last time I encountered someone who was randomly whistling a tune. Could it be that rock songs don't lend themselves to easy, happy whistling (try whistling "Johnny B. Goode" or "Get Off My Cloud"--you're liable to give yourself a hernia or heart attack), and that now that many old guys are children of the rock era, whistling is becoming obsolete? Has the social kibosh that's been put on whistling at girls filtered down to eliminating all whistling? Why, when I think of whistling, do I always think of men? Except, naturally, for Lauren "Just Put Your Lips Together And Blow" Bacall.

My dad was a decent whistler, tune-wise, but he was a Michelangelo of the loud, hey you! whistle. He could quickly contort his mouth and, with no help from any fingers, let out a shrieky whistle that could startle a desert monk. I wish I had inherited that attention-getter. As it is, I painstakingly taught myself the two fingers from each hand stuffed on top of a folded back tongue whistle. Not bad (though it must be twenty years at least since I've utilized it), but nothing compared to the old man's. But again, when was the last time you heard such a hey you! whistle?

Now I'm not as up on current popular music as I used to be, and for all I know Lady Gaga is a whistlin' dervish, but when was the last great song to employ whistling? Besides those great movie theme songs I don't even have to mention, and the Andy Griffith Show theme song, of course, I do remember a few great rock songs with significant whistles. In fact, while pondering all of this today I heard Otis Redding whistling away his time sitting on the dock of the bay. The Beatles of course whistled their way through "Two Of Us" and Peter Gabriel not only whistled but mentioned whistling tunes in "Games Without Frontiers." I'm sure there are a host of others, but those are the ones that stick on the tip of my tongue. As well as my good old friends the Meat Puppets, who not only have a song called "The Whistling Song," which doesn't really whistle, but a song called "Maiden's Milk," which is all about whistling.

I don't know, maybe I'm old and nostalgic, but I think if we whistled more, maybe we could reduce some of the negative energy around these days. Something tells me things would be a little more civilized with more whistling in the air. So go ahead now, put your lips together and blow.




Meat Puppets--Maiden's Milk

My Top Ten Songs Of All Time (This Half Hour's Version)

About a year ago, Rolling Stone came out with a special issue listing the top 500 songs of all time, according to them. Of course everyone knows such an undertaking is absurd yet endlessly fascinating. Naturally, I turned the whole thing into an epic project: I amassed all 500, tracking down the couple dozen I didn't already possess, and started putting them on CDs for a couple friends of mine. Tomorrow I'll see them again, so tonight I burned up vols. 16-20, encompassing songs 315-407. Among the many travesties in the list I noticed, this one struck me the hardest: The Who's "I Can't Explain" came in at #380; Eric Clapton's "Tears In Heaven" came in at #362. Let alone "I Can't Explain" not placing in the top 100, how it falls below, 18 spots!, "Tears In Heaven" I'll never be able to comprehend, let alone, well, explain. But, admittedly, compiling such a list is tough tough tough. As an experiment, then, a few minutes ago I just started listing my all-time favorite songs, cutting myself off at what I thought was ten (I've never claimed mathematical geniusosity, or ever tried to rein in my love for music). So, after writing down my spur of the moment favorites, I quickly assigned numbers to them. By the time I post this, the list could/would change drastically, though I'm sure five or six would remain always (not necessarily this list's top five or six). Anyway, for what it's worth (nothing), here's my top ten favorite songs this half hour. I can't really explain the list, but I do know my number thirteen will kick most of your top tens any day.

1. Sweet Thing--Van Morrison
2. Apple Suckling Tree--Bob Dylan and The Band
3. Eight Miles High--Husker Du
4. Favorite Thing--The Replacements
5. Cyprus Avenue--Van Morrison
6. Lo and Behold!--Bob Dylan and The Band
7. Kiss--Prince
8. Where Have All The Good Times Gone--The Kinks
9. Ambulance Blues--Neil Young
10. Rocks Off--The Rolling Stones
11. Hey Hey What Can I Do--Led Zeppelin
12. Carey--Joni Mitchell
13. Enchanted Pork Fist--Meat Puppets

Directions There There

Now listen, these might not work too good if it gets overcast, but you should be ok. Now turn around here and head that way, right, left. That's east, basically. Go up about a mile until you see a guy named Virgil. Hunh? Don't worry, you'll know him. Just past him you come upon a donut shop. Signal like you're going in but keep on going. Just in case. Now after the big transformer towers stop, at Koone Road, I think, you'll see Lefty's Hardware anyway, you need any nails, by the way? Well, about half a radio commercial past Lefty's, you'll want to veer right. Don't. The car will fight you, trust me, but make a left instead. Eventually you'll see a sign that it's Malinger Road you're on. Hunh? Eventually, like five or ten miles. Now that's when you want to start looking for the smelling salts plant. Roll your window up, by the way. On the other side of that is a kind of truck run-off path. Avoid that or don't. Don't really matter. Just make sure you go right at the first casino billboard. The first. If you miss it and go right at the second, well, send me a postcard from hell, is all I'll say. So right at the first casino billboard sign, route 45 or 167 or one of those kinds of numbers. If you're equipped with cruise control, engage it; you got a nice little trek ahead of you. Just don't fall asleep like Honore did. Getting the new arm tomorrow, matter of fact. Be able to gut fish like nobody's business. Now round about the time you start feeling creepy on this road, but goddamnit before you start fearing for your life, make a left. Any street, don't matter. Well, it do if you turn at the street with the charred mattresses on the corner, avoid that one, but all the others are safe, or not unsafe, might say. Don't matter 'cause you're fixing to hit a parallel street, the Onaway Expressway. Can't miss it. And if you do you'll notice by the rumble strips and glass shards. Anyway, you want the lane for the Expressway going south, which is the one marked 17 West. Don't ask, just merge quickly. Now around the third bend to your left, don't bother counting right bends, that's a exercise of concentration no one needs, but just around the third bend to your left you'll see a kind of ad hoc dirt road off ramp. Take it. Now just up the rise you'll come to some woods. If the gate's up, just nudge it going slow, about ten or so, and you'll be fine. Don't bother closing it, neither. Fletcher'll get it, in time. And don't mind the bumpiness, those shocks you got'll take it. Now follow that path, Ernie says it's a road, but I'm kind of partial to naming it a path. Anyway, follow that until you're on your second decade and despairing of ever seeing your loved ones again. Right about then, say two more quick Mary's and I swear on my daddy's head you'll hit macadam again before you reach that second hour of our death, amen. Now then's where it gets tricky. About a quick beer down the road there's what used to be a flashing red light. Used to be, being operative, before them Stoney kids shot it out. Now it ain't red nor flashing, but by then it should still be daylight out and you'll see it, or what remnants there are. Take a hard right there. And never mind the one way signs pointing at you, that's just there to scare away the literates. If you see a cop, hook 'em horns and continue coasting. At the second Stuckey's, and it comes up fast after the first one, believe it or not, make a u-ee and then a quick right down Lesser Main. You'll see some working girls so you know. Continue on Lesser Main till it turns into Hardly Main then soon after that you'll see an access road near some train tracks. Jog right there, but after crossing Dry Creek sprint if you value your windshield. Next thing you know your check engine light will come on, which disregard totally. It's just the big magnet Brick buried there twenty years ago. It'll go off after your next car wash. Two point three miles after the check engine light comes on, you're there. Well, not there there, but the filling station, Brick Muller's, only Brick's dead and his son Jeffy runs it now, which is another tragedy best left untold. Anyway, by then you'll need a full tank to get to the there there. And then, well, hell, get Jeffy to focus if he seems to be wandering a bit, you know, use your fingers to point at your eyes or something, and he'll be able to tell you how to get to the highway straight away. Got it? Now don't text or sound your horn at the bovine, and you can't miss it.

Meat Puppets-We're Here

Smiles

I went to a kids hockey game tonight, the son of some friends from college. I'm happy to report my friends were good, mellow hockey parents (yes, "mellow hockey parents" is not always an oxymoron). No surprise to me, then, that when their son came out after the game, a tough loss, he smiled and thanked me for coming to the game. A family who gets it.

Reminds me of an incident a few years ago when I was teaching, which I just had to turn into a high-horse poem:



Smile, Margaret


Smile, Margaret
The father commands in a whisper
From the back of the room,
Urging his eleven-year-old daughter
Who takes the stage with classmates to sing.
Not perform or entertain
But to sing simply.
As if she wouldn't.

And if I weren't ignorantly childless
I'd turn and say,
Talk is cheap, dad.
Beget smiles with yourself,
Not your pointed finger words.
Create joy rather than expect it.
Smiles are natural
Not conditioned reflexes like language.

Is there anything
As lonely
As impotent
As joyless
As to demand a smile?
Or as pathetic?
Remodel your life now.

Meat Puppets-Sam

Touchdown King

Call me Uncle Proud. Third down in the red zone. The slot receiver goes in motion, takes a hand-off from the QB and sweeps left, makes a deft cutback and bulls over the goal line: paydirt. Touchdown. No. 10, my ten-year-old nephew, conveniently named Danny. Thirty-three years after I suffered a crushing loss to the arch-rival Sabres while wearing the Bulldog Blue and Gold, Danny started the payback early with his first quarter TD, and the Bulldogs never looked back. Revenge, even a third of a century later, is oh so sweet, especially when it's a blood thing. Look out Cleveland Heights, bragging rights are mine.

Also saw a great movie, today, Cold Souls. Go see it.

Meat Puppets-Touchdown King

Elvis Presley-Danny

Little Bit Of Rain

It's raining a bit this morning, a slow chilly rain. Is this the chilliest it's been in the daylight in three months? It feels good, though, and looks better. Autumn good-naturedly punching us in the upper arm. Hello, it's me. A day to get back to reading, over-nap, pick your fantasy football team, shed some tears in empathy. Or just a day to sit on the roof-protected porch and watch and listen.

If I were a true Dylan fanatic I could tell you precisely how many of Bob's songs mention rain in some way. The best I can guesstimate, though, is lots.

I read in the paper yesterday that statistically Sunday is the rainiest day of the week. Could be. We all know Mother Nature can be one ironic shrew. My daily environmental hypotheses go like this: Sunday--the day you're most likely to get your car shat upon by a bird; Monday--the day more leaves fall off trees than any other day; Tuesday--the day most cracks in pavement form; Wednesday--the day more squirrels get hit by cars than any other day; Thursday--skunks are smelliest; Friday--cloud formations look most like ex-lovers; Saturday--the day more people say, "We could use a little rain 'round these parts" than any other day.

Has Tom Waits ever sung "A Little Rain" in New Orleans?

Are umbrellas more trouble than they're worth? How many good downpours does the average umbrella protect you from before it's lost, stolen, broken? My guess is less than a dozen.

Is there a more exuberant weather song than the Meat Puppets' "Look At The Rain"? Has any singer made you feel the rain as acutely as Fred Neil?

Fred Neil-Little Bit of Rain
Meat Puppets-Look At The Rain
The Kennedys-A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall