Showing posts with label john lennon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label john lennon. Show all posts

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Sleepless






I'm a chronic non-sleeper.

When I was thirty, I had to work the day shift at the hospital on alternating weekends. My normal schedule was second shift, 3:30 p.m to 10:00 p.m. Invariably on Friday nights before that seven a.m. call, I remained excruciatingly conscious. I'm a guilt-ridden Catholic soul who has an aversion to calling in. However, for the majority of my first shift obligations, I staggered off the sofa sometime around four in the morning, dialed the automated mailbox number and declared that I was "sick". In retrospect, I could have sucked it up and just went to work (like I do now). At that time, though, I regarded sleeplessness as such a dire condition that at one point I actually considered killing myself.

I remember arising from my agonizing cocoon on the sofa, switching on the tiny kitchen nightlight and thumbing through the Yellow Pages to find the Suicide Hotline number. I was all ready to dial it, but then I imagined the conversation.

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

"Well, I can't sleep."

Long pause.

"That's it?"

I didn't kill myself because I thought my reason wasn't good enough. That, plus I really had no means of accomplishing it. What was I going to use? Aspirin? How many tablets does one need to take to get the job done? There was no internet, so it would have been just a guess, and what if I guessed wrong?

Now here I am, thirty years later, and the scourge continues. The difference is, while it's still unbearable at three in the morning, I've accepted it as a fact of my life. And I buck up and plow through.

I used to think I was all alone, but I've since learned through offhand conversations that more people than not suffer right along with me. Selfishly, that makes me feel a little bit better. Nobody wants to feel alone.

I'll say right now that all the advice about how to sleep is utterly worthless. These "experts" a) never in their lives have had a sleeping problem; and b) are just spouting nonsense.

  • Don't consume caffeine after 12:00 noon.
         Okay.

  • Use your bedroom only for sleep.
          Fine.

  • Meditate or "journal" fifteen minutes prior to bedtime.
         I neither meditate nor jot thoughts down in a little notebook, and
         why would anyone do that? 

Here is the only advice that might work:  drugs. But good luck there. My doctor won't prescribe anything, such as Ambien, and I admit I'm not keen on that anyway. I don't want to find myself in the kitchen at 2:30 a.m., baking up a late-night entree of roasted boot. Or driving around aimlessly, firing up a cigarette and stubbing it out on my car's leather upholstery. Or even worse, posting nonsensical comments on social media, inadvertently starting a Twitter war over my professed hatred of Ariana Grande's shoes.

My doctor actually told me I'm going to bed too early. She said I should stay up until 11:30. I get up at 4:30 a.m. for work! Following her advice, assuming I fell asleep the minute my cranium alighted the pillow, I would get four complete hours of sleep.

The things I have tried:

Watching TV until my eyes flutter closed.
         
The way this works for me is, sure, I catch thirty seconds of snooze time; then a commercial jars me awake. I am then bleary-eyed for approximately three hours.

NOT watching TV. 
         
The whir of my bedroom fan, initially soothing, begins to grate on my nerves. The longer I lie awake, the more irritating it becomes. I get up and switch it off; but soon the room turns infuriatingly quiet.

Don ear plugs and a sleep mask.
        
Now I'm left alone with my thoughts. Plus my back hurts.  My mind WILL NOT SHUT OFF. I eventually begin to drift off, but the snort that wheezes through my nostrils jolts me awake and the cycle begins anew.

I only fall asleep after four or so hours once my body has acquiesced to utter exhaustion.

I believe I am genetically melatonin-deficient. And speaking of melatonin, ingest it at your peril. I tried it ONCE. I lay awake, bug-eyed, for an entire night.

My remedy is, there is no remedy.  Perhaps alcohol, but I can't function at my job while hungover. Thus, the real remedy is acceptance. Accept the things I cannot change.

I haven't tried these, and maybe they would work (but I doubt it):
















These songs make sleep seem so romantic, wistful, enveloping; don't they? I wouldn't know.

The truth of the matter is, like John Lennon, who, from his songs I suspect was an inveterate non-sleeper like me, this is what it's really like at 3:00 a.m.:


I've decided I'm going to call it a "personality quirk"; one that I can regale strangers with for hours. If someone at work greets me brightly in the morning, instead of replying offhandedly, I will say, "Well, you know I only got two hours of sleep last night." Then I will sigh dejectedly. Granted, people will search for an excuse to slink away, but hey, spread the pain, I say. If I have to hear tales of your 2006 Alaskan cruise every freakin' day and how you spied a seal reposing on an ice floe, well, it's time to share MY world. And by the way, can you sit at my bedside and repeat those stories again? 

That just might work.












Friday, May 18, 2018

Happy Bir....

(To my friend, "Your Name Here")

My birthday isn't until tomorrow, but I'm choosing to celebrate it tonight. 

When I was a kid, I considered the year 2000 and thought, wow, I'll be forty-five! Essentially on my death bed! The good news is, it's 2018 and I'm still kickin'. And I know now that forty-five is nothing. When I was forty-five, gravity was still averted. You know that picture you run across from 1945 in the ragged family photo album and you think, really? That's my mom? Turns out that, yes, we all were young and dewy-skinned once. I don't look like myself anymore, but I'm so used to my countenance in the morning mirror that I don't give it a second thought. It's only when I (accidentally) see a photograph of myself that I realize some grievous calamity has apparently occurred.

I've given up on regaining my lost figure. It just doesn't work anymore. I'm not going to become one of those delusional fitness fanatics. I've never exercised more than ten days in my life and I'm not about to start now. Plus, I deserve to eat.

The thing about turning 63 is that I spend more time looking back than forward. I mostly choose to remember the good things. It's not that I've forgotten the bad. I can conjure up those memories in a snap if I choose to, but when I do, I tend to view them philosophically, like a neutral bystander. Humans do the best they can do with what they have. I don't hold it against my parents for what they did. They didn't damage me on purpose. 

Today I received some birthday wishes from my co-workers. My best work friend Barb brought me a single-serve DQ cake. It was awesome. The cake had a cobalt-blue plastic butterfly ring atop it and I slipped it on my finger and wore it throughout the day. Everyone I encountered chose to ignore the humongous butterfly encircling my finger; sure (no doubt) that I'd made an unfortunate fashion choice. That made me giggle. A boy (really) that I trained four years ago asked me about my birthday plans and we got to talking about retirement. I told him that 2020 is the year. He said, "It won't be any fun here without you." I didn't realize I was still "fun". I used to be fun back in 1997, when I commanded a department at Aetna (US Healthcare), but I essentially just feel tired now and don't have the energy to be engaging. How lame must everyone else be, that I am regarded as the "fun" one?

I blame (or credit) Sirius Radio with my current state of look-back. Every single song I click on evokes memories. I hover between classic country and sixties and seventies rock; and sometimes fifties rockabilly. Some of the songs make me cry, for reasons only known to me. My best friend died in 2000 (when she was only forty-five). The songs we shared together are bittersweet. I almost feel embarrassed to still love those songs, because Alice is gone and she and I can't share them. 

When I hear John Lennon's voice, my heart breaks a little. John was my education in "real" music, beginning when I was nine years old or so. 

I don't "sum up" when it comes to music. Songs are quicksilver. Songs are not dissectable, like some scientific experiment. Anyone who slices and dices music is not a music lover. I love a song by the Honeycombs and one by Tommy James, and one by Steve Wariner and "God Bless The USA" by Lee Greenwood just because. I like Boston and Gene Pitney and Bobby Bare and Dobie Gray. Nobody needs to know why. 










Happy Birthday to me.










Saturday, October 14, 2017

1981


By1981 I had settled into my new routine, working second shift at the hospital, which was the best job I'd ever had up to that point. As a dedicated scaredy-cat, I'd dipped my toe into the waters of a couple of unknowns -- a year in retail, another year as a government employee, until I stumbled upon my true calling.

My hard and fast rule was that I refused to accede the raising of my kids to a miscellaneous daycare worker. Thus, I was relegated to evening positions that involved the requisite changing of the guard -- a husband who came home from his day job at 3:00 and bluffingly assumed family responsibilities while I trundled off to my clinical night job.

I blithely assumed that a father would have his kids' best interests at heart -- until I came home one night at 10:00 and found the Christmas tree askew and its decorations oddly-placed. Disassembled and reassembled into a half-assed facsimile of the decor I'd lovingly put together but one day before. Apparently Dad had been engrossed in a telephone call with one of his friends while two toddlers laid waste to my painstaking bauble-hanging. Before I'd left for work that day, as the final scenes of the movie "Nine To Five" pranced across my TV screen, I'd admired my prodigious decorating skills, and had decided all was right with the world.

Everyone was asleep, so I didn't interrogate anyone, but two and four-year-olds tend to lie anyway. Trust me, little kids are natural-born liars.

I'd apparently semi-abandoned country music by that time, because the songs I remember from that year are almost entirely pop (or what we referred to as "rock").

For a rock pop fan in 1981, the offerings were awesome. I hate purists. I'm not even a purist and I, of anyone, have the bona fides to be one, if we're talking sixties country. I don't know what rock purists remember from that particular year -- The Who? I always hated The Who. The Stones? The Rolling Stones were already old by then, but they refused to pack it in. I never was a Stones fan, either. I've tried.

No, the best singles from 1981 are songs such as these:

(Still one of the best pop songs ever)





If anyone tries to tell you Hall and Oates are not sublime, they are wrong. Just wrong. 



I didn't even know who Bruce Springsteen was in 1981. I would watch the $20,000 Pyramid in the mornings (remember that?) It was hosted by Dick Clark. Some celebrity contestant -- I don't remember who -- was being interviewed by Dick. Clark asked the guy who his favorite rock artist was, and the dude replied that the best rock artist in the whole wide world was Bruce Springsteen. Dick said, "Well, that's your opinion. A lot of people would disagree with you." I was like, who? That was the first time I'd ever heard the name Bruce Springsteen. I still don't think Bruce is the best rock artist in the whole wide world. He's pretty good, though.


(I could give you the secret to why Springsteen's recordings are so good, but then I'd have to kill you.)

I think we'd gotten a special deal on HBO. At the time, HBO replayed the six same movies approximately ten thousand times. That was great if one really liked the movie. Ask me anything about "Nine To Five". Go ahead. Around that time, somebody (hopefully not Harvey Weinstein) convinced Neil Diamond that what he really needed to do was act. That somebody was sorely mistaken. I love Neil Diamond and I love, love George Strait, but neither of them should have ever taken one step in front of a movie camera. Nevertheless, "The Jazz Singer" became one of HBO's six featured movies, and I watched it and watched it again. Lucie Arnaz played the female lead. It was wallowingly schmaltzy, but it featured some good songs:




Two artists from 1981 would later go on to form a super-group. Here's Jeff Lynne:


In case you don't know, the other was George Harrison. George deserves his own damn post, and his hit from that year doesn't have a decent video. Don't take my omission as disrespecting George, because I respect him to pieces.

Country was fully represented in 1981. Those "purists" probably didn't appreciate these two hits, but they can go to hell. These two singles, especially the second one, will live on forever.



I awoke one cold December morning to my AM radio and a disc jockey saying words that seemed like an awful dream. I think he'd just played Ticket To Ride, and I thought, in my haze, well, that's a blast from the past. 

Then he said John was dead. 

I rolled over and flipped the volume dial on my radio. I still recall that green comforter tucked up to my chin and touching its white-etched flowers with my fingertip. 

And then he played this song. 

This song hurt so much because it was exactly, distinctly, the John who had transformed my life. From the tender age of nine, the very first time I'd heard him through my transistor speakers, John became my first love. 

I'd never lost anyone before I lost John. I was twenty-five years old. You don't lose somebody at twenty-five.

1981 was a good year in so many ways. I had two cute but incorrigible sons who romped around in blue-flannel pajamas. I loved my job. I was finally seeing a way out of crushing debt. Pop music was fun -- like music is supposed to be. 

Life doesn't really care how happy or sad we are:













Saturday, December 22, 2012

Christmas Songs?

Writing a Christmas song has to be a trip down Failure Lane.  Face it, all the good ones were written long ago.

We have two local radio stations that play Christmas music non-stop starting somewhere around July November.  And, since I like Christmas music as much as the next gal, when I'm driving somewhere, I like to flip between the two channels.

I made an early trip to Target this morning (Did you know that you can't buy a gift card with a gift card?  I thought a gift card was the same as money.  That's what the bastards always try to tell you.)  Thus, in the early morning sunlight, driving my one mile to Target and back, I punched the radio button for "Christmas 24/7".  I managed to hear my two absolute most HATED Christmas songs; not once, but playing simultaneously on both stations!

  1. That stupid Peanuts song with the kids' choir.  HATE HATE HATE IT.
  2. The Little Drummer Boy.  There is just no good way to jazz up that song, although the female diva (I have no idea who) tried her best.  Problem is, I cannot tolerate the RUM PUM PUM PUM.  Unless I am drinking RUM.

There are Christmas songs that I love, but the wistful ones (I'll Be Home For Christmas, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, The Christmas Song) make me cry, so I can only torture myself with them once a year.

And I love certain soaring chorals (O Holy Night) and songs I remember singing in church when I was a kid (Oh Come All Ye Faithful, Hark, the Herald Angels Sing).

I also like kitschy songs!  Jingle Bell Rock, Feliz Navidad (although not technically kitschy), Honky Tonk Christmas (Alan Jackson).

I think to write an enduring Christmas song, it must be written on the piano....unless you are John Lennon, and who is?  If I ever try my hand at writing one, I'm going with the piano.

The two videos I'm featuring here don't exactly give the listener a warm fuzzy feeling, but I like them.  And yes, one of them is John Lennon.




Here's hoping all your Christmas songs make you smile, or cry.  Whichever you prefer.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Golden Voices






NPR (one of my faves?) has an online article, titled, "50 Great Voices".

Lists such as these are always interesting, but are generally consensual ~ a group of individuals gets together and hashes out their mutual top 50; weeding and eliminating and ranking artists as they go.

Music, however, is personal, emotional, and, I believe, mostly biographical.  Perhaps most of us can agree that certain voices are technically superior.  That does not account, however, for each of our life stories, and the way certain singers have influenced our own lives.  It's not necessarily the vocal prowess; often it's the way they have laid their hand upon our shoulder.     

And who, really, can even think of their own top singers, without first hearing them and realizing, hey!  This is one of my top singers!  Truly, one cannot even narrow the list to 50.  Somebody else is inevitably going to pop up; someone we hadn't even thought about.

I do know who my ultimate favorite singer is, but, in fairness, I have had almost 60 years to ponder the question (although I don't think I actually ever pondered it.  Maybe I did, when I was around 13, but what did I know then?)

But, for fun tonight, I thought I would search out some video performances of singers I really like.  All of them may not be the world's greatest singers, but don't forget the emotional and biographical aspect of this exercise.

There is no order to this, so I'm not ranking anybody.  I will, however, save the best for last (at least my best).

Steve Perry




Burton Cummings (and the Guess Who)



Art Garfunkel





Sam Cooke





Gordon Lightfoot



Daryl Hall (Hall & Oates)



Al Green (yea, the real one)



John Lennon (and the Beatles)




Eddie Brigati (and the Rascals)



Brian Wilson (and the Beach Boys)



Bill Medley (and the Righteous Brothers)



Connie Smith



Gene Watson




Tammy Wynette



Patsy Cline



Merle Haggard




George Strait



Dwight Yoakam



Roy Orbison




I know I have left out a bunch.  Inevitably.  I'm one of those people who is all about the songs, more so than the singers, usually.  I mean, if I was just going to list songs, I'd include Sheena Easton here.  Seriously. And ABBA.

I did try, however, to include the singers whose bodies of work are, to me, indisputable.

And yes, Alex, ultimately, I will go with Roy Orbison for the win.  I've heard a bunch in my 57 years, but I have never, and will never, hear one better.

But the question remains....Who are your golden voices?  Let me know, please.   I would love to discover artists I've missed, or don't even know about.

What's better than sharing music?  Nothin'.






























Friday, August 12, 2011

Nashville Co-Writing

The best way to NOT gain friends and influence people is to criticize the fad of Nashville co-writing, but here I go.

To me, it's the bane of music's existence.

Inevitably, like any fad, at some point, co-writing is going to be considered passe, naive, and uncool.

Every woman is wearing those fancy flip-flops, with the jewels and flowers, too. In five years, they'll be cleaning out their closets, unceremoniously dumping those "stupid-a$$" shoes in the trash.

Lennon and McCartney didn't actually co-write songs, you know. Merle didn't need a co-writer.

To me, if you are incapable of writing a whole song by yourself, maybe you should reconsider your hobby or your vocation or whatever you consider it to be.

Here's the deal: I thought songs were supposed to be meaningful. An expression of emotion. How does that work with co-writing?

Writer: Here's how I've been feeling lately, and I think it would make a
good song.

Co-writer: Oh, I know exactly how you feel. And it goes like this: ("strum
strum strum.....crying")

Writer: That's not exactly how I feel.

Co-writer:
Sure it is.


Here's how it REALLY works:

Writer: I want to write something commercial.

Co-writer: Oh, I know exactly how you feel, and it goes like this: ("strum strum strum....tractor")

Writer: That's it!


Bob Dylan to his (imaginary) co-writer:
You know what I mean, right?

Imaginary co-writer: No.


Harlan Howard used to hang out at his favorite watering hole and listen to people's stories. He didn't "invent" emotions. I'm not claiming that Harlan never co-wrote a song. I'm saying he didn't need to.

If co-writing is such a wonderful revelation, why are the songs on the radio so crappy? Why do they all say the same thing?

Here's why they all say the same thing: The Nashville writer goes from appointment to appointment, carefully monitoring his day planner, so he doesn't miss his next "session".

Since when do great songs get written on a schedule? I've had songs come to me in the middle of the night. Do I get up, get dressed, and go padding down the street in my bunny slippers, to ring another writer's doorbell, demanding to be admitted into his "writing room", so we can scribble out a hit? And is a writing room really necessary? Does one need a formal "room" in which to write songs? My my, what in the world did writers do in the olden days?


Merle Haggard to his (imaginary) co-writer:
I want to write a song about the working man.

Imaginary co-writer:
I know exactly what you mean, and it goes like this: ("strum strum strum.....boots and wranglers")

Merle Haggard: No.


I've been reading ad nauseam about "the only way to make it in the biz is to co-write" for far too long. Face it, there is no way to make it in the music biz anyway. So, why go to all this trouble?

The thing that kicked this topic into gear for me was reading an article in WSJ this week about singer Ashton Shepherd.

I'd never heard the gal before, so when I read the word, "traditionalist", my interest was piqued.

To clarify, she is not a traditionalist at all....unless you consider traditional country's peak to be approximately the year 2009.


Ashton Shepherd


It's pleasing to picture Ms. Shepherd at home on the porch with a guitar, writing her songs, solo, and many of her slow, personal ballads were born right there. But she's recently found Music Row style co-writing, working with such proven hit-making veterans as Dean Dillon and Bobby Pinson—an energizing alternative, especially for the faster songs on her record.

"I was a little leery of it, but it really ended up being pretty cool, and I've learned some things off of it....I knew this was going to work out. And we sat there and wrote '(blah blah blah)' in about 45 minutes. I like things spontaneous, and first-time kinds of things, and that was the first song we ever wrote together, which makes it a little more sparkly."


Perhaps she should move back to the front porch. Don't get me wrong, I like Dean Dillon. And he's an apparent legendary co-writer, it seems. I'm just saying, I listened to snippets of Ashton's songs online, and I didn't like even one of them. Unfortunately. Not one of them was "sparkly". No offense.

If you can write a good song, just write it. Don't set up an appointment.

If you can't write a good song, a co-write isn't going to help. It will, in fact, make things worse.


How many songwriters does it take to write a hit song?

Four (apparently).

I have no punchline for this; sorry. I'm open to a co-write on the joke, though.


Here's a little secret I have never shared: When I was a kid (or tweenager, as they call them nowadays), way back in the 1800's, my parents owned a motel on the outskirts of the wild and woolly town of Bismarck, North Dakota.

One day, my best friend, Alice, and I came home from school on the bus, excitedly anticipating the Merle Haggard concert that evening.

Turns out, that wasn't the pinnacle of our excitement. You see, my mom was anxiously awaiting our arrival on the bus....to let us know that, YIPPEE!! Guess who'd checked into the motel?? Merle and Bonnie!

I won't share the embarrassing details regarding Alice's and my actions that day. Okay, well, let's just say we walked and walked and walked and walked in circles around that motel, surreptitiously (we wished) conducting surveillance on that room, Number Twenty-Seven. We were there, hiding in the bushes (okay, there weren't any actual bushes) when Merle stepped out to walk his dog. I think (okay, I know) we hauled out my little portable battery-operated record player, and played the "Mama Tried" single over and over, approximately 200 yards from good old number 27. What must Merle have thought? Get me away from these lunatics?

Naturally, then, I like to think that Merle wrote this song while whiling away the hours until he had to board the bus for his concert, strumming his acoustic, to drown out the noise of two giggly girls encamped outside his room.

Yes, Bonnie Owens is credited as a co-writer. But I read the words straight from Bonnie's mouth: What she told Merle to do was to lose the third verse. So, don't jump on me, saying that Bonnie co-wrote the song, because she didn't.



Look! Merle wrote a song....all by himself! Isn't that precious? Little Merle. I suppose he thinks he'll get a hit with it, too. Oh, if only he'd had someone help him.

Let's set him up with some appointments.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Officially Old

Yes, I've officially turned the corner.

I just ordered a CD from Amazon that I now realize that I already had.

How does that happen??

See, I wanted to order a book. And they said, if you have $xx.xx in charges, you get free shipping. So, I thought, well okay! I'll just order a CD and that'll add up to enough to have free shipping, PLUS I get a CD, too!

So, I looked through their choices of discounted CD's. And I thought about it, and looked at a few, and I finally settled on one that I thought I would like.

Well, SURE I would like it! I already have it! Moron!

So, now I've got two. Always good to have a spare! (I guess).

In case you care, here's the one I got:


And yes, it's good, but I wouldn't necessarily say DOUBLY good.

Here's a sampling of what you would find on the CD (if you were to purchase ONE copy):



And the book I was buying? It's this:


All 822 pages of it! I'm going to enjoy this! And only $20.55 at Amazon.com

That doesn't negate the fact that I am now old and senile.

But one learns to live with one's limitations.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Are You Old Enough To Remember This?

I remember it well. 1964. I was across the street from Valley Elementary, talking to Debbie Lealos about this new group that we were hearing on the radio. I probably was walking to Wednesday catechism, no doubt. My absolute FAVORITE thing to do in the WHOLE WORLD!

We were talking as only nine-year-old music critics could, about the merits of the latest single from this British group called the Beatles. Having a sophisticated conversation about "I Want To Hold Your Hand".

In the course of our discussion, we also reached a consensus that Paul was the "cutest" Beatle.

Painful admission: I thought that the best singer in the group was Paul, but I actually had the guys confused at the time - not having videos to watch - so the one who I thought was Paul singing was actually John. So, I guess John was my favorite singer, in hindsight.

A while later, it was announced that the Beatles would be performing on the Ed Sullivan Show! (Maybe now I would be able to discern who was singing what.)

Well, this was the absolute highlight of any nine-year-old girl's life, or of any girl's life who was old enough to know what music was. (My two-year-old sister probably didn't meet the criteria).

But, you know, why the heck was the Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights? What worse night of the week could one choose? You know how Sundays were. All you did was mope around, thinking about how you had to go to school the next day. (Sort of like now, when I mope around, thinking about how I have to go to work the next day).

But on this particular Sunday, I was filled with anticipation. I think I talked to a few friends on the phone....."Hi, what are you wearing for the big Beatles debut?" I probably never actually said that, but you know, we did have to make our preparations for the big TV event.

Around six-ish, I parked myself in front of the Zenith, tuned to CBS, of course. I think there was something on like "Lassie". (Man, how lame were the shows back then? That Timmy didn't even have any friends. His only friend was his dog. PLUS Timmy was always falling into a well or something. The clumsiest kid ever. I say, if I was his mother, I'd have just left him there. That'd teach him to be more careful.)

But the bottom line was, I was parked there, and I was in charge of the TV. No way was I going to let my mom turn the channel on me. Not that she would. I think everybody watched Ed Sullivan back then. I shudder to think what the competition was, if everyone was content watching Topo Gigio or the guy who talked out of his glove. Remember that dude? And he made money! He sewed some buttons on a glove for eyes, and he drew a mouth on it, and this is how he made his living!

Finally, Ed came on. He probably said something like, "Tonight, we'll have a re-enactment of a scene from the latest Broadway show, starring Ernest Borgnine, the guy who does the glove-puppet thing, The June Taylor Dancers, Topo Giogio, and...........THE BEATLES!" (scream)

And finally, after weeks of anticipation, there they were!

You just wanted to die; it was that good. They kicked it off with "All My Loving", with Paul playing that backwards guitar. (I saw Paul in concert a couple of years back, and surprisingly, he still does that famous head bob. Pretty spry for a guy in his sixties.)

Notice how the girls in the audience are all having conniptions, while the one lone guy is like, "Yea, whatever. I'm WAY cooler than that." (He wasn't).

I also like how John, Paul, George, and Ringo do their very proper bow at the end of the song. Very respectful.

Then they launch into a lame cover song, called, "Til There Was You", again with Paul singing lead.

I'm thinking that John lost the coin toss backstage, because he didn't get to sing lead on any of the songs that night. "What the hell, mate? You mean I don't get to do ANY songs? What am I supposed to do? Just stand there, strumming my guitar and smiling like an idiot?"

They actually showed more shots of RINGO than they did of John!

And notice how this video has their first names superimposed over their images? "GEORGE". Okay, thanks. I know who George is. I was just having a problem figuring out who was PAUL and who was JOHN.

And, of course, all the time, John's thinking, there you go, Paul. You and your self-indulgent Broadway tunes.

Finally, they break into "She Loves You", which is memorable because of the dual head-shake of both Paul and George.

And poor George. He has to keep moving from Paul's mic to John's. No wonder he was so skinny. But at least he got air time. Unlike John.

Then Ed breaks in to announce that he just got a telegram from Colonel Tom Parker and Elvis, wishing the Beatles all the best on their American debut.

Yea, for sure.

You know that Elvis was sitting at home (in the jungle room) watching this telecast and thinking, "Well, it was a good run while it lasted. I guess the "Teddy Bear" songs aren't going to cut it anymore."

Ed also announces that the Beatles will be on NEXT WEEK'S SHOW, along with Mitzi Gaynor. Oh man. I can't miss Mitzi! (Who's Mitzi Gaynor again?)

For their final number, the boys do "I Want To Hold Your Hand" (again with Paul singing lead).

So, there you go. This is when rock 'n roll began. Elvis Presley was all fine and dandy, but he was small potatoes compared to the Beatles.

And I was there. And I watched it.

So, I guess I was privy to the rebirth of rock 'n roll music. Oh, you can quibble, and say that Chuck Berry invented rock 'n roll. I don't disagree, in theory.

All I know is this: Nobody got excited about rock 'n roll until 1964, when the Beatles showed up.

And nothing's ever been the same since.




Friday, March 14, 2008

My BEATLES Test

Okay, yes, American Idol featured the Beatles songbook this week (and next week, I hear), so I'm reminded of the Beatles once again.

But does one ever actually forget the Beatles? Of course not. I submit that, for 99.9% of the population, if one could see the results of their brain scan, there would be at least ONE Beatles song roaming around back there in the recesses of their brain.

So, did you ever ask yourself, what's your favorite Beatles song? Well, that's a trick question, isn't it? Because the answer is ever-evolving.

P.S. Those who say that "Yesterday" is their favorite Beatles song are lying or hopelessly lame. I'm not saying it's not a good song, but c'mon. You've got the entire Beatles catalog to choose from, and you pick, "Yesterday"? No way.

So, I thought I'd do a little test.

Pick a few (cuz you can't narrow it down to one) Beatles songs that are your favorites, and also give your reasons why.

I'm going to severely limit myself, since I'm stuck with whatever I can find on YouTube, but I'm hoping I can find a few favorites there.

So, here's one:

YOU'RE GONNA LOSE THAT GIRL


This was from the movie, "Help!" and the soundtrack of the same name. I'm really hesitant to commit, but I do have to say that this is one of my very favorite Beatles songs. Nobody ever mentions "Help!" as one of the Beatles' best albums, but I happen to like it........a lot.

ALL MY LOVING


Early Beatles. Very early. One thing I do admire is George's lead part on this song. Simple, yet memorable. I remember this song from way back in the olden days, when all we had were "record players". 1963, I'm guessing. Also, I don't want to only single out John. I liked Paul, too, although John was the better singer.

IN MY LIFE


Yes, everybody lists this one. But I can't really let that deter me. This is a glorious song, from John. It's not "Yesterday", by any means. Sorry, Paul, but this one is sublime.


GOOD DAY SUNSHINE


This one is from the album, "Revolver". One of the top two Beatles albums, in my opinion. And, of course, my opinion is CORRECT.

So, there's four. It's difficult to do this post, because all I want to do is listen to more Beatles songs, and I get sidetracked from the task at hand.

But I'd be interested in YOUR favorite Beatles songs, and why they're your favorites. Sentimental reasons? Reminders of a special time in your life? Just good songs? (duh - that kind of goes without saying.)

And, P.S., looking at these videos, I really miss John.