-- Recent Listens --

In the digital age, sometimes we only listen to snippets of songs and base our purchases on that.  Unfortunately, we miss a lot of good stuff.  I still listen to CDs top to bottom, just like LPs.  Call me an Olde School Fool.

Manfred Mann
The Manfred Mann Album ('64)
My Little Red Book of Winners ('65)
Throw away their '64 hit single, "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" (which just plain sucks) and this double CD of their 1st and 3rd releases gives us early pop with some unexpected punch.  With an exceptional vocalist/harmonica man in Paul Jones and Mann's take on keys, these tunes are more sophisto than expected.

B.B. King
In London ('71)
Underrated.  Stalwart supporting cast.  Every song sounded as if they cut the track off.  I demand more than 38 minutes.  Where is the full show?  Until that happens, this disc is fulfilling.

Faces
A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse ('71)
Pre-Stones Ron Wood shines.  Post-Beck Rod Stewart swings.  Rollicking piano from Ian McLagen.  Only four total LPs.  This is #3.

Argent
Ring of Hands ('71)
Rod Argent (Zombies) has written a couple of classy hits: "Time of the Season" and "She's Not There".  Though no standouts, this album releases some uplifting prog and psychedelic rock.  Leading up to another Argent crack track: "Hold Your Head Up".

The Guess Who
Live At The Paramount ('72)
Seventeen minutes of "American Woman" is pure crotch rock.  This whole disc is great.  Cummings never sounded better.  Other flav-o-rites are "Pain Train"  and "Truckin' Off Across The Sky". 

Jaco Pastorius
Jaco Patorius ('76)
Weather Report.  Herbie Hancock.  Lenny White.  Jaco was the best bassist on the planet and left too early ('87).  Fretless electric.  Magnificent.

Ian Gillan Band
Scarabus ('77)
Defined as a jazz/rock band?  Though a bit eclectic with jittery rhythms and tight arrangements, Gillan summons his demons with patented screams and rockisms.  The extra live track, "My Baby Loves Me", is a trip.

Thin Lizzy
Black Rose: A Rock Legend ('79)
9th studio for Lynott.  Gary Moore has his 6-string signature stamped throughout.  Last great TL LP.  Too bad Phil and Rory Gallagher couldn't cook up for some Irish stew.

Frank Zappa
You Are What You Is ('81)
And not what you eat?  Songs like "Harder Than Your Husband" and "Dumb All Over" pretty much sum up FZ's take on American society: Modern Americans behave as if intelligence were some sort of hideous deformity.  Quote/Unquote.

Robin Trower
20th Century Blues ('94)
#14 for rotating Trower Band.  Still methinks the trio format works best for Procol Harum guitarmeister.  Explodes on most songs with sopping fuzz and curdling wah-wah. 

Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire
The Swimming Hour ('01)
Very cool and refreshing, especially after a dip.  Blending of several musical styles.  Bird was trained in the Suzuki Method.  Not Toyota.  Sounds of Donovan with violin and guitar edges, making this a bit complicated.  But fun.

Sex Mob
Dime Grind Palace ('03)
Slide trumpet from standout (and monster) Steven Bernstein.  Crazy.  Avant garde.  Jazz.  Own them all, your ears will never be the same.  Oh, and their name kinda gets you excited.

Stephen Stills
Man Alive! ('05)
Why did it take 14 years for SS to make this?  Vocals still intact.  Crushing and/or heartfelt guitars.  A little gospel.  A little reggae.  And a lotta great, intelligent music.  

Chuck Prophet
Let Freedom Ring ('09)
A knockout should end things.  "Sonny Liston's Blues" opens up for another frenzied/visceral/smooth/ragged adventure from CP.  # 11 from a performer I have witnessed 3X.  And hope to see again.
 
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Mojo ('10)
One hour of TP doesn't sound like a great situation to be in.  However, this blues drenched rocker kicks it.  Though sometimes falls back into "Damn The Torpedoes" era, this is refreshing.  Vocals, as usual, are the tough part.  Mike Campbell (guitar) totally steals the shoo.

There you have it.  Music journalists (of which I'm not) tend to scrutinize and analyze a bit much.  By being concise, I hope I didn't bore you with profound statements and insightful perspectives.  I usually don't have many of those anyway.

   

 

                                    

Opinion : California and Prop 19

Everybody has an opinion, like we all have a brain.  So, mine is of little significance or relevance except to myself.  But I shall share my viewpoints with you anyway.

Proposition 19 Proposes:

1)     Adults (21+) can carry up to an ounce of their own pot and related paraphernalia without fear of arrest by state and local authorities.

My Humble Opinion:  How about the feds?  I know they have more to worry about, but a few high-profile cases that they can broadcast will make the public even more fearful to display their goods.  And define 'related paraphernalia'.  Does that include a hookah or three-foot bong?  Or just a roach clip?

2)     The ability to tend a home garden up to 25 sq. feet and consume its grow in a 'nonpublic place', but not in parks, near schools or on the street.

My Humble Opinion:  Once again, define 'nonpublic place'.  Doesn't that mean 'private'?  So, parks, schools and the street are out.  I definitely think the school part is important, especially if it's grade and middle schools.  But if anybody with a decent sense of smell has walked even near a high school can attest, the smell is of tobacco.  Maybe masking pot?  Both are harmful to young lungs.  I think it will be extremely hard to enforce the size and quantity of gardens.  Neighborhood watch groups?  Isn't it the seeds that are required to start a garden?  And where are these seeds purchased?

3)      Leave it up to local governments to license businesses that want to allow onsite pot use by its patrons.

My Humble Opinion:  Another quagmire of rules, licensing transactions and bureaucratic BS.  Just like tobacco, smoke is smoke.  Vaporizers?  Edibles?  It is, of course, up to the individual to frequent these establishments or not.  Contact highs should also be addressed. 


4)     To authorize commercial cultivation and retail sales.
5)     To reap revenues through taxes and fees.

My Humble Opinion:  The last three items are all aimed at making money.  But will the local/state municipalities use it wisely?  How can these funds be used competently?  Education at all levels, job creation, etc.  Once again, how to divvy up the money will be tricky.


The current decriminalization of pot (in many states) is already in place.  I think that this is the level that it should stay at.  It seems more and more police are turning a blind eye on public usage, if no harm is being done to the citizens in general.  The safety of the public is essential in determining if pot use is OK.  All the medical pot laws are in disarray and need tightening up.  Passing Prop. 19 will only muddle this issue.  I don't know what it will take to make pot as easy to purchase as liquor.  It should, at some time become legal.  At this time, however, I am very skeptical as to its validity.  I would vote NO on Prop. 19.

NaCl or not NaCl? That is the Question

Himalayan Pink

As any normal (or abnormal) high school attendee can attest to, the Periodic Table of Elements was a thing of beauty, complexity, frustration, indifference, fatigue, anxiety, fun, pain or just plain annoying.  So we all (norms and abbys) should know the symbols Na and Cl, right?  In my case, I would think Na was part of ShaNaNa and Cl was cluster.  So, obviously (obvious as the hair in my nose) it means to cluster (a small group or bunch of something with Bowzer in it) the members of Sha Na Na and demand a new album.  "Not so fast," I'm told by a lurking smarty-pants named Laura.  "That's not what it means.  I really hope you aren't serious."  Serious as a heart attack, Miss-I-know-science-and-you-don't.  OK, it sounded stupid.  I'll take another stab at it.  As soon as you-know-who leaves the room.  I google NaCl.  Hmmm.  The combo of sodium and chloride forms salt.  Ah yes, it all comes crashing back to me.  The reason why I flunked Chemistry.  All those letters hodge-podged together with no real meaning.

So, on we go to the real story: salt.  No, not that crummy Angelina Jolie as Jane Bond spy movie that left a bitter, acidic flavor in my mouth with a hint of anchovy that required countless goblets of purified, desalinated spring water.  No, not that Salt.  But the food enhancer.  The Laurel to pepper's Hardy.  Edible salt is produced by evaporation of seawater or brine from sources like brine wells, salt lakes or sweaty glands (I made that last one up).  The history of salt is quite a long grinding story beginning, supposedly, in 6050 BC.  As in Chemistry, I had a hard time with History.  How on Earth (Geography) can we figure out how old the process of briquetage was, used first by the Neolithic people of the Precucutani culture (Social Studies), unearthed at an archeological site in Romania?  This process was extracting salt from salty spring water and the Cucu thrived because of it.  Why?  They needed something to put on their fries (Home Economics).  This was a dangerous alliance and after a spike in population (Statistics), the demise of these poor Cucus was imminent.  All they had was salty water.  And salty fries.  Here is my outrageous but worthy theory as to why these people died off:  their arteries hardened like the Bonneville Salt Flats. 

The religious aspects of salt are quite intriguing also.  Did you know:  In some ceremonies, bringing salt to a housewarming or wedding is essential.  I presume that most foods are tasteless and rice is too expensive.  Did you know:  In Japan, the Shinto religion uses salt as a ritual purification for Sumo wrestlers.  That must be where throwing salt over your shoulder for good luck comes from.  And a little salt in your opponent's eyes never hurts.  Did you know:  For the Wiccans, salt is their symbol of the element Earth and it's used to cleanse areas of harmful or negative energies.  I don't know about you fellow non-Wiccans, but the areas I clean usually don't require salt.  And the biggie:  Jesus, in the New Testament, referred to his followers as "salt of the Earth".  The Apostle Paul encouraged Christians to "let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt (Colossians 4:6).  Poor pepper was not even mentioned.

Designer salt, as I call it, has been the rage in fancy-shmancy restaurants for sometime now.  Oooh, should I have Murray River Flake from Australia with my wallaby?  How about Aderwood Smoked Salt (Pacific Coast) on my smoked salmon?  Or Black Lava Kai (Hawaii) on my black bean and pineapple burrito?  This stuff sounds pricey, too.  Probably coming to a black market street corner near you.  "Yo babe.  I seez ya got some chicken in your shopping bag.  Youse need some Red Alae Kai to accent its flavor.  And it got some of dat iron oxide youse gals need.  Or how about some moist Fumee De Sel here.  It's a real bargain."

Recently, salt has been making some noise in the health arena.  High blood pressure.  Ulcers.  Cardiovascular disease.  We've heard it before and we'll probably hear it again.  The culprit is the processed foods and the high levels of sodium.  Even too much of designer salt isn't good for you.  What sounds better, though?  Hardening of the arteries from Morton's iodized table salt or Fleur De Sel sea salt?

"Salt is the only mineral we eat in its direct mineral form", says Mark Bitterman, author of  "Salted: A Manifesto On The World's Most Essential Mineral."  He is also a selmelier or salt master.  For me, it's back to the salt mine.  I'll be waiting for that new Sha Na Na album.

Global Salt Output 2005

A September To Remember

Three superb and illustrious guitarists came slinging through this dusty cowtown in the month of September with a cumulative life span of 189 years, which averages to be 63 per axeman.  [NOTE: I did this higher math problem so you didn't have to, you're welcome]    If you're in the advanced age group (I am) or the electric guitar appreciation group (I am) or just a music nut in general group (we should all be), you would have been freaked over for this trio.

Dave Mason (age: 64)
Sept. 4, '10
Taste of Colorado

Every year during the Labor Day weekend, The Taste of Colorado celebrates local/regional/national cuisine and free music.  To heck with the buffalo chips and falafel bites, let's hear some open-air jams.  Of course, the food circuit with music has much to be desired.  This year it was Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, contemporary swing of the 40s and 50s (sorry, didn't go); Bret Michaels, singer of Poison (sorry, wouldn't go if you paid me); The Four Tops, R&B writers/performers of "I Can't Help Myself" and "Reach Out, I'll Be There" (barely heard two songs, not so hot, Sugar Pie) and Dave Mason, British guitarist and writer of "Feelin' Alright" and "Only You Know and I Know" (ZOIKS!  Had to see him).


The name Dave Mason conjured up a fragmented trip down memory lane.  I knew he had helped form Traffic ('67), played acoustic guitar with Hendrix on "All Along The Watchtower" ('68), played on George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass" LP ('70) and formed his own band ('70).  What I didn't know:  DM played on the Stones' "Beggars Banquet" ('68), toured with Delaney and Bonnie ('69-'70), released an LP with Cass Elliot ('71) and was set to be the second guitarist for Derek and the Dominos, instead of Duane Allman.  Talk about rock royalty.  The Dave Mason Band put out some classic tunes on 10 releases until '87 and, other than playing on Fleetwood Mac's "Time", not much material besides live stuff starting in '99.  After six years in the making, the '08 "26 Letters-12 Notes" was a great comeback disc and put DM back on the musical map.  And he is ready to release another one this year, hopefully.

At the Taste, he stormed through some tight grooves off this much anticipated disc and it sounded like he didn't miss a beat.  His voice was still as distinctive as his solo days and the few stray Traffic tracks.  But it was his guitar that sung like a veteran.  Wielding a green Strat, sunburst Les Paul and 12-string Ovation, crisp, precise leads rang out to proclaim that he is way under the rock radar but maybe, just maybe, he wants a little more attention.  He said he had been asked by a fan on this tour to "play that Joe Cocker song.  And then I realized that I actually wrote that song".  He blasted into "Feelin' Alright" and the sparse, toothless, stringy gray-haired crowd rocked along.  This sun-shiny afternoon gig highlighted all the lowlights of this scary crowd, but everybody was quite peaceful.  A lot of them should have been in bed, though.  And his encore?  A searing, euphoric "All Along The Watchtower" that left little doubt that DM still can rock and roll.  One had to wonder:  Mason might be driving his way into a Traffic jam.

Jimmie Vaughan (age: 59)
Sept. 16. '10
Soiled Dove Underground

A couple of weeks prior to this show, I jokingly was saying Jimmie Ray Vaughan.  I know, not so funny.  But you know what?  JV's guitar playing wasn't a joke, either.  Sure, he's the bro of Stevie.  Sure, he's not a virtuoso player/performer.  Sure, he hasn't shook the rock/blues world.  But JV awarded the capacity crowd of 400 with a strong sense of who he is and what he can do with his white Strat.

I didn't care much for The Fabulous Thunderbirds (Tuff 'Enuff?).  Nor did I consider him worthy of paying attention to.  I think I shouldn't be so quick on turning my nose up at somebody who is, according to other world-renowned guitarists, an accomplished and outstanding string-man.  I hadn't even given him a chance.  Though his catalog is rather spare, I listened to some of his earlier blues tunes, "Strange Pleasure" ('94), "Out There" ('98) and "Do You Get The Blues? ('01) and I was impressed.  Not 'Oh my, I'm blown away' but rather 'Hey, that's tasty'.  JV is touring in support of his newest, "Plays Blues, Ballads and Favorites" and in this low-ceiling, half-moon club, with two saxes, bass and drums accompanying him on upbeat shuffles, his set was hot and sweaty.  Aside from a few tunes that slowed the night down when a "who's that old lady?" singer came out, he was all rock and blues.  Some of my friends didn't want to see him because, in their minds, he was riding on Stevie's coat tails.  Their loss.  JV squeezed every ounce of his guitar journey out on stage and even showed some cockiness by playing a two-minute lead with guitar behind his head.  A smile on his face the whole set meant his legacy is still alive and we were all fortunate to catch him.  He knows what this crazy world can do to you and your family at any moment.  He is making the most of it right here, right now.  Go see JV.  He's not SRV.  He's not Jimmie Ray.  He's just a skilled musician doing what he does best.  And that's no joke.


Johnny Winter (age: 66)
Sept. 30, '10
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom

What can I say about the #9 pick on my personal list of top electric guitarists?  For a living stringbender (yes, JW is still alive and well), he is #6, behind Beck, Clapton, Page, Blackmore and Santana.  And you know what?  If Page doesn't have the licks (he admits he doesn't), if Blackmore isn't willing to resurrect Purple (calling Hughes, Lord, Paice) and Santana continues to put out unoriginal stuff (at least in comparison to "Abraxas") , JW would be my #3 of living legends.  On this particular night, in a room that normally could contain 1,700 patrons, a mere 400+/- showed and that was just plain wrong.  Here was, in the flesh, the best, white blues specialist in any world.  And he did not disappoint.

To be honest, the songs weren't even the event.  JW was.  With black cowboy hat pulled just above his piercing eyes, black sleeveless "T" showing just how skinny his tatoo'd arms are, black jeans, black boots and black Lazer guitar, you would have thought of a very white Black Bart.  With a pigmentation problem.  But before we get to him, let me mention the opening song, before JW took the stage.  A snarling, biting guitarist of unknown origin, completely strafed the crowd with an explosion so raw, so menacing, it left my jaw hurting.  This monster's name is Paul Nelson, rhythm guitarist.  And savior.  He helped JW recover from first: his long-time swindling manager, second: his painkiller addiction, third: a 2005 carpal tunnel surgery on his left wrist and fourth: a 2006 broken hip.  Not only can Nelson blast paint off a plane with his riffs, he can be a nice guy.  His sonic opening song paved the way for JW to shuffle to center stage, take his seat, nod to his friend and then totally tear up the place with "Red House".  

This was strictly a blues show.  I had read that JW is only playing the blues and very little rock.  It didn't matter.  Each song and solo were crystal clear and relentless.  He attacked all six strings with ten long, lean, manicured fingers.  And having a thumb pick, strumming down and plucking up with bare fingers, meant a constant melange of activity.  Old songs like "Apple Tree" and "Used To Love Her, It's All Over Now" were spun into the Wintersphere.  Songs by Sonny Boy, Muddy, Albert Collins.  And JW.  Amidst the show, I tried to remember what songs were being played, but all I could do is watch, listen and feel.    


I was pleasantly surprised at the number of youngsters that crowded to the front, as the older farts sat (yawn) at tables behind us.  I got close enough to smell his breath, though fortunately other smells prevailed.  One gripe I did have was with all the cell phone and digital cameras going off in his face.  It was one flash/glow/light after another.  But it didn't have any affect on JW, his unwavering stare, his gruff-less vocals or his guitar slicing.  And when he pulled out the Gibson Firebird and slid off the last two songs and was then accompanied off the stage, then and only then did I take a breath.  "I'll be playing blues on the open road till the day I die."  White.  Hot.  Blue.

Overall, these two Texans and one Brit, in one month alone, satisfied my greed and hunger for guitar.  Don't ask these fellas for their AARP cards.  They are in the prime of their lives.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

Trivial Question:  What Do These People Have In Common?

• Sidney Lumet (film director)
• Andre Previn (pianist, composer)
• Polly Bergen (actress)
• Henry Luce (magazine publisher of "Time", "Look" and "Fortune")
• Aldous Huxley (writer)
• Esther Williams (swimmer, actress)
• Archibald Leach (actor) 

Other than the entertainment business (too easy) or multiple marriages (too obvious), the answer is Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, street name 'acid'.  Maybe I'm the only one alive on this planet to hear, until recently, that many Hollywoodites in the late '50s participated and lovingly embraced psychotherapy by dropping LSD.  By some estimates, this numbered in the 100s.  Timothy Leary's famous mantra, 'Turn on, tune in, drop out' had not even been imagined yet.  In '60, Leary had only first experienced 'magic mushrooms', so he was not as hip as say, Mr. Leach (stage name Cary Grant).  This experiment with psychedelics was administered in a very private clinic in Beverly Hills, appropriately named Psychiatric Institute of Beverly Hills.

The Hollywood of the '50s is a world apart from today's model.  Back then, celebrities conducted themselves privately and without public drama.  Entertainment-industry people led traditional social lives.  Privacy, money and emotional insecurities were not discussed and their need to look normal worked for awhile.  But LSD-25 came around and changed many performer's thoughts and actions, mostly in a positive and creative way.  At this time, acid was legal in medical usage but also was being used by the CIA, US Army and the Canadian government in developing a truth serum or chemical warfare.  Between 1950 and 1965, a reported 40,000 people worldwide would be tested or treated with LSD.  Can you imagine if we had invaded Afghanistan and their poppy fields, armed with acid and not guns, what would have happened?  "Uh, Sarge, it looks like they have several elephants charging us.  What's our next move?"  "Soldier, drop and give me 100.  Blotter hits, that is.  We'll out hallucinate them."  As the LSD craze hit the streets and started the counterculture, cultivated by Leary and Hendrix and Jefferson Airplane, it also spread rampant abuse and deaths.  It was criminalized in '66.  So what began in '38 as an experiment to produce a stimulant for the central nervous system by Swiss chemist, Albert Hofmann, became an unruly and somewhat out of control uncontrolled substance.

Mr. Grant loved it.  His dysfunctional self-portrait and huge ego, were soothed while on LSD.  He found depth in his personal life and came to grips with his personality.  He profoundly told 'Look' magazine in '59 that he did acid weekly and it helped him cope with his celebrity status.  "I know that all my life, I've been going around in a fog.  You're just a bunch of molecules until you know who you are."  And others followed, as I stated above.  Esther Williams imagined that she had a penis.  Yikes.  That could scar a woman for life.  It made her realize what the death of her brother had meant to her family.  That he lived on in her body.  Or Aldous Huxley, writer of  'Brave New World'.  On his deathbed, Huxley requested and received intramuscular acid from his wife.  Go out on a vacation.  Or Polly Bergen.  Oops.  Her flashbacks weren't much fun.  And the doctor administering it was "high, stoned, completely gone".  And the fun had to end sometime as Mr. Luce's wife, Clare Booth stated:  "We wouldn't want everyone doing too much of a good thing."

Another quote from Mr. Grant, whilst on the couch, high: "I'm unscrewing myself.  That's why people use the phrase 'all screwed up'."  Maybe 'screw you' has more to its meaning than we know.  My personal favorite comedic role from Grant was in "Arsenic and Old Lace".  Done in '44, presumedly before his head trips, this movie quote is quite funny.  "Insanity runs in my family, practically gallops."  By coincidence (or not), Grant made his last movie in, yup, you guessed it, 1966.              

I wish Grant had made one final appearance before he passed.  He would have multiple roles in "Apocalypse Now".  Imagine Grant in his typical, Mid-Atlantic/ British accent as Willard (Sheen): "Each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter."  As Kilgore (Duvall): "I love the smell of napalm in the morning".  As the unnamed freelance photographer (Hopper): "The man's enlarged my mind."  And finally as Kurtz (Brando): "The horror, the horror."  He could've been tripping throughout the entire shoot to make it seem more realistic.  I mean, who would want to actually be put through the rigors of Coppola's manic direction without a drug?  This second rated male actor of all time (Bogart was voted #1), did films in '59 ("North by Northwest") and '63 ("Charade").  Was he tripping? 

 So, there it is.  LSD was useful for a number of people.  And harmful to others.  As Leary always said though, that psychedelic substances, used at proper dosages and under stable settings, alter behavior in beneficial ways.  We shall soon find out if LSD makes a comeback.  It is back in the labs, being tested.  Grab your Wayback Machine and hold on.  It might get interesting.

                                                                                         

SpinFlashBack

The Groundhogs
'Scratching The Surface'
1968, BGO records


The Groundhogs.  Doesn't exactly illicit much Rock and Roll oomph, does it?  But oomph they have.  Led by Tony McPhee (guitarist/vocalist/composer), the 'hogs were under the American radar as far as the British Blues Boom of the '60s goes.  In the U.K., however, their future acceptance included a #9 on the U.K. charts ('70, "Thank Christ for the Bomb"), #5 ('71, "Split") and #8 ('72, "Who Will Save the World?").  Hardly a ripple over here.  Except for a single American bluesman by the name of John Lee Hooker.  An early gathering of future 'hogs, The Dollarbills, found themselves opening for Hooker in '64 and quickly changed their lame name to John Lee's Groundhogs.  This was in homage to Hooker's '60 track, "Ground Hog Blues", which eventually lead to their second release, "Hooker and the Hogs" ('68).  Also in '64, though, there were some questions to be answered.  ONE: Would McPhee join John Mayall and his Bluesbreakers to replace Eric Clapton?  Two: Would McPhee join Peter Green and newly formed Fleetwood Mac?  Not many musicians would turn those offers down but he stuck to his vision.  Judge for yourselves.  His 'hogs catalog is waiting to be heard.

Their first, "Scratching the Surface" ('68), is their rawest, most unrefined and unashamedly blues release and, as its credits state: Entire album recorded live (no overdubs).  This loosey-goosey focus is what a lot of Brit Invaders tried to do.  Replicating and reinventing the blues, to much American chagrin, was a testament to their love and respect of this art form.  Many traditional loyalists of the blues were turned off as the guitars and amps were turned on.  I think more than a few Americans in the mid/late '60s were hoping that this was just a fad.  Something that would rise for awhile and then go down in flames.  Like a lead balloon. 

Starting with a nice, unadorned lead on the first track, "Rocking Chair", McPhee immediately sets himself apart.  "Walkin' Blues", with blistering guitar and sweet, laid back vocals.  "Married Men", more straight forward blues.  Chuggin' and churnin' with "No More Doggin'".  "Man Trouble" and its heavy bass/drums rumble that satisfies all 6+ minutes.  A theme of man and woman, from a British perspective, comes through loud and proud.  A raucous complement to McPhee's snarling axe and steady vocals is astounding harmonica gymnastics by one Steve Rye.  This is his only 'hog appearance as he trades fierce and armor-piercing blows with McPhee, almost upstaging him on all of the tracks.  McPhee had to work hard to be the dominant alpha-dog and this CD is much better for it.  Rye's original, "Early in the Morning", sneaks up and envelops us with his nasty harp and rock vocals.  His interpretation of the much-recorded and tweaked "You Don't Love Me", again with solid vox and solo-showmanship, made McPhee prove as to who the leader of this band was.  Sadly, Rye, who should be on everybody's list for harp God, died in '92.  He never proved himself as he fell prey to substances.  He is a virtual non-existent player that could have achieved superstardom. 

Most of these tracks resemble the blues/rock shuffle of "Sittin' On Top of the World", a '30 song by The Mississippi Sheiks and "Come On In My Kitchen", '36 by Robert Johnson.  These songs are linked because the melody of "Kitchen" is based on "Sittin'".  I guess we could compare/contrast far worse songs with than these classics.  So, today I'm proclaiming it to be Groundhogs Day.  Take that Punxsutawney Phil.

Have You Been Concussed Lately?

One late night a few years ago, I was channel surfing, finding nothing inspiring as usual, 150 channels with nothing to watch.  After about four revolutions through, I was ready to be put to sleep, thumb aching, eyeballs glazed, brain flat lining, except when I got to C-SPAN, I stopped.  This is a great channel to catch exciting Capitol Hill, White House and other political drivel.  But something compelled me to keep watching.  Standing, talking is a youngish man with a gray sport coat, light-blue shirt and a white undershirt.  Hmmm, looks like a geek.  Huge forehead.  Smooth features.  Medium skin tone.  And a slightly feminine voice.  But what really caught my glazed eye was his Harpo Marx-like hair.  Many Brillo pads.  Brown curly-cues with no particular order.  Afro, man.  I had to turn it up when I noticed the feed was from C-SPAN2's  BookTV.  My interest piqued a little more because I rarely seek out talks from authors.  How boring.  And C-SPAN?  Come on.  I must have really been out of it.  But there was something very different and appealing about this person.  He spoke about his soon-to-be-published-book, "Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking".

I learned a lot about Malcolm Gladwell after that intro six years ago.  An amazing, concise, intelligent and witty writer.  A social scientist with journalistic chops.  He had written for a couple of conservative magazines and The Washington Post as a business writer.  He is currently writing for The New Yorker, which is one of my favorite mags.  He has just published his fourth book.

Let me back up though, if I may.  Around a month ago, I had a chance to golf for the first time in four years.  With my patented right-left-tree-dub-fairway technique, I was actually doing OK.  Approaching the 16th green, as passenger in the cart (too lazy and old to walk), I got whacked with an errant tee shot.  The offending golfer was only about twenty yards away.  I was lucky.  It could have shattered my big nose, biffed my eye, busted my bad ear.  Instead it got a hard head.  My golf buddy thought it had hit a tree from the sound.  Thanks Mr. N.

I thought about this incident when the prospect of a concussion was introduced.  Is your vision bleary?  Did you lose consciousness?  Can you stand?  Can you walk?  Can you finish the rest of the 18 holes?  Are you going to finish that hot dog?  Let's see.  No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Nah, you can have it.  I was fine except for a slight cut and another knot on my melon.  I was going to correlate this incident with the ever-expanding coverage and recent concerns of concussions in sports.  I didn't really think that the bonk on my head was a concussion.  I have seen X-rays of a boxer's head before and after a match.  And it was frightening.  The brain was clearly pressed up against the back of the skull and somewhat misshapen after the fight.  I recently read where doctors think Lou Gehrig's Disease (ALS) was caused by his numerous concussions.  Playing football as a kid and baseball as a pro.  And we've all heard the stories of past NFL'ers who have health problems.  Not just physical health but mental also.  As for me, I was fine.  Or was I?

Here's where we get back to Mr. Gladwell.  He has written an article for The New Yorker titled "Offensive Play: How different are dogfighting and football?"  Huh?  I had to scratch my head.  And then I started bleeding again from picking the scab off.  Damn you, Gladwell.  After a damp towelette, change from white shirt (now a bit red) to a red shirt (ha, what do you think of that head wound?), a couple of Advil, a drink of water, a short nap, a bite to eat, another nap.... Now where did I put that magazine?  Who would put it there?  Ahem.  Where was I?  Ya, the article.  Basically, Mr. G. writes about CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), 'a progressive neurological disorder found in people who have suffered some kind of brain trauma.'  It can mimic Alzheimer's with 'behavioral and personality changes, followed by disinhibition and irritability, before moving on to dementia.'  Also in the mix is Lou Gehrig's disease.  Sounds plausible.  I mean, getting hit repeatedly on the dome would cause most of us to say "Stop it. That hurts".  And that's where the dogfighting part comes in.  The dog will fight to the death for its master.  That's his only lot in life.  Please the master.  And when the football player, be it Pop Warner league, high school or pro, is told to "Do it for the team", is he not trying to please somebody?  His dad?  His coach?  His team?

So, a lot of little hits accumulate.  A lineman averages 1,000 head hits in a season.  If he plays 10 years in the pros, add high school and college, the total is around 18,000 hits to the head.  Talk about a subconcussive trauma headache.  Mr. Gladwell feels that football, at all levels, should take a good, hard look at itself and try not to be that dog owner that just looks at the bottom line: win at all costs.  And try to minimize the amount of times one person gets hit.  And let that person get his head back.  Doctors have recommended that after a concussion, the person should have his head examined.  I know, bad joke.  But most pro footballers will not come out due to their training and their love of the game.  Are they being used?  Former Bronco wide receiver Brandon Stokley, he of at least six concussions, said he knows the potential of future health problems.  But he would not change a thing.

I think Mr. G. took a huge leap from dogfighting to football.  I also think he has made a wicked point.  We know football is violent and is a choice.  We know dogfights are morally wrong and the dogs don't have a choice.  Are we, the fans, the coaches, the owners, the TV stations, are we morally wrong for letting men (and women) hurt themselves for our pleasure?  New technology for safety goes only so far.  Rules to protect keep expanding.  But still. 

Taken from Gladwell's article:  "There is nothing else to be done, not so long as fans stand and cheer.  We are in  love with football players, with their courage and grit, and nothing else - neither considerations of science nor those of morality - can compete with the destructive power of that love."

And if you go to the golf course and see somebody with a football helmet on ..................