Showing posts with label classic rock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label classic rock. Show all posts

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Hip questions on Tom Petty death report


News that the great Tom Petty died from an accidental overdose closes the book for many who are satisfied that this answers all the relevant questions. Petty, 66, was self-medicating to alleviate chronic pain resulting from a broken hip.

So that’s that, right?

Wrong. I’m restless over what to me is the key unresolved question.

How did Tom Petty break a hip? I can’t find it anywhere.

What happened? Did he fall off a ladder? Slip on a spill in Aisle 6? For heaven’s sake, was Tom Petty out shoveling snow?

Each of those scenarios nearly befell me in recent years, scrapes that led me to after sticking the landing think, “Whew, that was close. I could have broken a hip. Oh, well. Better me than Tom Petty.”

At the time of his October 2 death, it was reported Petty was worth $95 million. He could have afforded a squad of guys whose round-the-clock job description was KEEP TOM PETTY FROM BREAKING A HIP!

He was such a national treasure he should have been encased in bubble wrap and moved in armored cars on a continuous loop from home to stage to studio. Keeping him safe should have been codified in any national health care plan

I wonder if we’ll ever learn how it happened.

My Thanksgiving dinner prayer included all the graceful staples about lost loved ones, culinary blessings and that the Almighty would lend a holy hand on climate change since it was looking like we’d do nothing at all, but the conclusion was more personal.

“ … and please tell Tom Petty how much we miss him.”

Amen.

I really do miss him. I’m normally immune to grieving over the deaths of men and women I’ve never met. I think it was different for so many of us with Petty. It felt like losing a brilliant friend. Someone we counted on for most of our lives was gone.

And it was all because of a broken hip. Such a shame.

I always thought Petty had plenty hip to spare.



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Friday, October 13, 2017

Echoes of loss: Missing Mom & Tom Petty


The admission will cause some to label me a real SOB, but I’m having trouble deciding who I’m missing more, my Mom or Tom Petty.

Mom, 84, died July 7. Petty, 66, died too soon.

Petty wrote “The Waiting,” “Refugee” and “Free Fallin’.”

Mom wrote grocery lists with detailed brand instructions involving feminine hygiene products.

I’m missing Mom more than I thought I would. I thought I’d feel relief that her demise was tidy and involved none of the negative hypotheticals I’d indulged the last years as her mind bit-by-bit began floating away. 

I miss laughing with her even as toward the end her punch lines were unintentional. Remember, her last best joke was when they were wheeling her off the porch to the ambulance parked outside her senior living home (she’d fallen and shattered her wrist). Her neighbors asked her what was wrong.

“They’re taking me to the hospital. I’m gonna have a baby!”

I think she was joking, but who knows?

I find myself driving past her old place at odd hours. One of her favorite things to do her last year was for me to take her on long rides in the country while Broadway show tunes played on the radio.

I still sometimes make the rides, but now I’m all alone. She was right up to the end the most persistently sweet person I’ve ever known and the reason no one who’s ever met her would ever dare call me or my brother a son of a bitch.

I miss her.

But I miss Petty, too. I just didn’t see that one coming.

A friend, another steadfast Petty fan from way back, said “he’s the only artist who never even once embarrassed me with a look, a period, a statement, or song, much less an album.”

Heck, even his Christmas song is good.

SNL’s 10 p.m. show last week was from ’79 when Petty & The Heartbreakers were the musical guests. They played “Refugee” and “Don’t Do Me Like That.” I hope you caught him, all thin, snarl and sneer. 

He made looking cool so effortless. Same with his songwriting. His knack for writing compelling, catchy hits is unmatched.

How many artists have their last album (“Hypnotic Eye” ’14) be as stellar as their first four decades previous? And with zero lulls. Drop the needle on any song from any album and your pulse will begin to hum.

My favorite album? It was his least favorite.

It’s “Echo” from ’99.

I remember hearing the first notes from “Room at the Top of the World” and feeling I’d just been introduced to a new best friend. It would be there with me for the rest of my life. And it has.

It was like that with every Petty album.

He hated “Echo,” I’ve read and never played any of it in concert. You’d never know it from the often-raucous songs, but the album was for this soulful man an anthem of defeat. His marriage was ending and he was fighting a heroin addiction, the same scourge that was simultaneously killing Heartbreaker Howie Epstein.

I urge you to download the “Echo” title track. It’s an exquisite lament. Knowing its enigmatic message so pained this beloved and gentle man only adds ache to the inherent poignancy.

I like what Val said when I told her the news. “Oh, that’s too bad. He seemed like such a delightful guy.”


I like that she didn’t mention his music. Because he was truly delightful. It shone through in his songs, his videos and his funny cameos in movies like Kevin Costner’s “The Postman,” “King of the Hill,” and “The Larry Saunders Show.”


His joys, even in the face of woe, were irrepressible. I love in the “Runnin’ Down a Dream” rockumentary when he’s asked about his addictions during the “Echo” period. He in hushed tones, very serious, says how drugs can devastate lives and kill creativity. And, clearly, he means it. He’s felt its unholy ravages

But then his blue eyes begin to twinkle and a small grin appears. He asks the interviewer, “You don’t happen to have any drugs, do you?”


And he cackles unrepentantly. It’s very funny.

I read him saying this summer was going to be his last big tour. He had a 4-year-old granddaughter he was looking forward to spending time with.

Thus, the Heartbreaker leaves us broken hearted. 

Ah, life can be a such a bitch.

Especially when you lose the ones who weren’t.


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Monday, April 25, 2016

RIP Prince & and which rock superstar will deserve resurrection


I’m convinced we’re nearing a day when our collective grieving over dead rockers will be so majestic God will respond by restoring in whole to us the deceased superstar.

I’m thinking it’ll maybe happen with Jimmy Buffett.

Or not.

I was surprised by the death of Prince.

I can’t say I was sad. It’s not like he died owing me money.

Die owing me $20 or more is a way to ensure I’ll show up at your funeral wailing over the loss, stopping only long enough to pester your widow/widower to square things.

With Prince, I was what I categorize as “an admirer, not a patron.” I’d never bought a single record, nor paid to see any Prince shows or movies.

But his greatness was apparent, never more so than when I saw in 2004 the Rock ’n’ Roll HOF clip of him soloing on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” It was during a George Harrison tribute with a band that featured Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, Stevie Winwood and Harrison’s lithe son Dani, an exact ringer for his old man (my favorite Beatle, but only my fourth favorite Wilbury).

It’s incredible. Prince is joyfully showing off like he’s auditioning to be Petty’s lead guitarist.

My favorite part is watching Dani’s reaction. He’s playing rhythm guitar with an attitude I’d call workmanlike: no facial expressions. Then Prince comes on and Dani lights up.

This son of rock royalty is acts like he’s never seen anyone play guitar like that before. There’s a reason for that.

He hasn’t.

No one has.

So Prince was a genius.

But was he popular?

You’d certainly think so from the weekend’s media reaction.

He did a great job at the 2007 Super Bowl, but in spite of all the grieving how many people saw a Prince show?

Mass popularity isn’t the surest indicator of true greatness — and to that this unheralded blogger says, “Whew!” — but it’s the only indicator we have of cultural relevance.

The answer is not many.

In the four decades of performing, he’s never once been one of the Top 20 grossing acts.

These lists include some unlikely candidates like Taylor Swift, New Kids on the Block, Britney Spears, Justin Bieber and, ah, Cher.

My point again isn’t to assess artistic excellence.

I’m merely wondering, gee, if this is how we’re going to grieve for Prince what will the reaction be like when Mick Jagger, Petty, Paul McCartney, Elton John, Roger Waters or, yes, even Jimmy Buffett succumbs to the inevitable.

Because all the great and beloved rockers — by every measure superstars — are in or near their 70s and will one day die.

It’s bound to happen to everyone.

Well, everyone but Keith Richards.

It’s going to happen to Ringo.

I wish no ill on anyone, but I admit to praying for the sake of our collective cool that Ringo doesn’t one day become the last surviving Beatle.

It’ll be big news, too, when Stones drummer Charlie Watts dies. Many fans will be bereft, memorials will be erected, tributes aired and many tears shed.

And he’s just the drummer!

Mick’s death will be monumental, as will McCartney’s.

Remember, in just the past four months besides Prince we’ve collectively mourned Glenn Frey and David Bowie.

In fact, it’s fair to look at all these deaths as warm-up acts.

When the classic rock superstars begin to fall, our grief escalation is going to soar up the charts.

That’s why I believe God will one day see our suffering is so great He’ll take action.

He’ll see humanity so absorbed in mourning His heart will be moved.

The clouds will part, a D-major chord will be struck and on the third day rock will be restored.

Who’ll it be?

I say it’ll be Bruce Springsteen.

Really, if this many people are this beside themselves over the death of Prince, what’s it going to be like when Springsteen dies?

I know.

We will be unable to function. We will wallow in grief. The world will cease to spin.

God will be moved to act.

He’ll resurrect Springsteen.

The only ones happier than his fans will be the greedy bastards who set golden circle prices at TicketMaster.

It’ll be neat, too, because he can call his first post-Lazarus album “The Rising (and this time it’s literal!).”

Springsteen will be most worthy of resurrection because he’s exceptional even among the greatest.  He cares about his fans, area foodbanks, up-and-coming artists and even who gets to use the public restrooms in North Carolina.

So get ready for the day when our mourning will really mean something.

I’m convinced we can together grieve so hysterically the Almighty will resurrect The Boss.

And he can bring Clarence back with him!

Baby, they’ll be born to re-run.


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Monday, January 4, 2016

9th graders learn who's better: Stones or Beatles


My daughters know not to ask Daddy any homework questions involving subjects like algebra or biology.
I just don’t get it.
Same goes for humanity, sociology, civics, nutrition, astronomy, horticultural, automotive repair, personal finance, IT, physics, chemistry, fashion, hospitality, theology … 
And let’s not even get into why they know to run to Mommy anytime they have questions involving basic grooming and hygiene.
So I was taken aback when our 9th grader approached and said she needed my insights on a subject she’d been assigned to argue for debate class.
Who’s better: Stones or Beatles?
Now, it was my turn to be taken aback.
This is what they’re teaching in our middle schools?
I couldn’t believe it. This isn’t a subject that ought to be discussed in a classroom.
It ought to be discussed in a dimly-lit bar with a really cool jukebox.
And I should be the teacher!
In fact, my entire life has been something of an honors tutorial on the subject. I remember spending hour-after-hour in the Athens bars going point-by-point over every song in their glorious catalogs to divine the answer.
It was Ohio University where I graduated with a .23.
That wasn’t my GPA.
It was my BAC.
I started my answer with a question: Who did you choose to argue: Stones or Beatles?
“The Stones.”
Hallelujah.
If she’s learned anything from me it is musical tastefulness, a realm which to me is far more important than all that scholarly crap that winds up on the resumes.
She was correct.
The Stones are the better band.
I plugged a Stones playlist into the stereo and as the first iconic chords of “Jumpin' Jack Flash” began to play I commenced my illumination.
“First of all, the Stones are the better band merely on the basis of longevity. They’ve been thrilling the world for 54 years.”
That cannot be overlooked.
“Brown Sugar,” “Wild Horses,” “Shattered,” “Sweet Virginia,” “Memory Motel,” “Miss You,” “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll,” “Waiting on a Friend” and “Honky Tonk Woman” are just a handful of the hits the Stones recorded after the Beatles hung it up. And if I had the opportunity, I’d play for each of you the outstanding 2005 “A Bigger Bang” album to prove the Stones are still in their fifth decade capable of great studio work.
Many great bands burn out or fade away within five years due to ego, addiction, artistic differences, death, suicide, envy or the other many pitfalls of fame.
The Stones have overcome all those and reign still.
Second, the Stones are more inspirational.
Ask Bruce Springsteen.
I heard an apt interview with him where he summed it up perfectly. He said it changed his world when he saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.
“I remember looking at them and thinking, well, there’s only four guys in the world who can do what they’re doing and there they are. No one else can do that. Me, included. But when I saw the Stones they were more gritty, more real. They weren’t smiling. They weren’t pretty. I thought, man, I can do that. The Stones are what made me want to be in a band.”
Every musician in the world wanted to listen to the Beatles, but they wanted to be a Stone.
Another point: the Stones were dangerous.
When the Beatles were playing it safe singing, “All You Need is Love,” the Stones were releasing, “Sympathy for the Devil.”
I played it for Josie and emphasized the lyrics with historical context about crucifixions, Russian revolutionaries and WWII holocausts.
I watched with glee while your kings and queens fought for 10 decades for the gods they made
I shouted out “Who killed the Kennedys?” when after all it was you and me
The world in 1968 was raw from war, strife, injustice and the monumental assassinations of JFK and Martin Luther King Jr. And here comes Mick Jagger beseeching sympathy for the devil.
They didn’t shy away from confronting this. In fact, when Robert Kennedy was murdered during the recording sessions, the Stones had a historic choice to remove the Kennedy line in the name of taste.
Instead, they made it plural.
Even today, it’s incredibly incendiary.
I told her the Stones are the better band is because they are a true band.
I love that about them.
I contend if the Beatles had never met you still would have heard of John, Paul, George and Ringo. They all had the gifts to be famous.
John, Paul and George all went on to individually make tremendous and indelible solo music. They were a trio of geniuses.
And Ringo, well, Ringo would have made a dandy game show host.
Had the Stones never met, the only one anyone would have ever heard of is Charlie Watts and the only people who would have heard of him are the handful of obsessives who can name famous jazz drummers.
Mick would have become a financier, Keith a junkie, Bill Wyman a gynecologist and Brian Jones still dead.
Instead, they had each other and became something the world will never see again.
That Stones solo work is either obscure or sucks just bolsters my point.
And though their lifestyles contradict the opinion, I contend the Stones would to this day still be playing music together in shabby clubs and theaters if they’d never become famous.
I still believe — despite all the inflatable dolls, the private jets and the disposable supermodels — with the Stones it’s the music that matters.
And because this was a school project and I want my darling to succeed, I needed to share with her the one irrefutable reason that would blow away anyone arguing the Beatles — and I love the Beatles — are better.
None of the Stones ever got anywhere near Yoko.
Class dismissed.

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