Nashville's Lance Cowan & when (deferred) dreams come true; oh, round 'bout 30 years

Hearing the first song on his third album in two years made me feel so ecstatic I had to pull over and text my congratulations to the artist Lance Cowan.

I’m sentimental about Lance, sentimental about anyone who ignores the dream squashers to claw his or her way into the winner’s circle.

Spoiler Alert: By most accounts he’s been a winner far longer than the dream squashers will ever know.

So I’m sitting there being the kind of driver we urge our children to be and then I find I’ve become immobilized by the second song. Then the third. Then the fourth.

It was on-first listen becoming one of those rare albums were cynics eager to find flaws become disappointed — and is disappointing a cynic playing right into his or her hands?

I should confess I have a rooting interest in seeing Lance succeed. We were roommates in Nashville from 1985-88. We met as reporters at the Nashville Banner. 

He had dreams of becoming a singer songwriter.

I was doing exactly what I’d dreamed of doing, that is becoming a swashbuckling news reporter in a Big City because like even base idiots knew the great American newspaper would never leave us.

It’s a dream I pursue still.

Lance had other motivations. If overnight fame was elusive, as it persistently is, he would engage fickle fortunes in a staring contest, one that would endure for three decades.

It was the Country music era best described by Tom Petty as “Bad rock with a fiddle.”

And throughout this span of dubious commercial accommodation, Cowan stayed true to both his family and his instincts.

He began a one-man publicity shop that earned the respect — not to mention to the client fees — of authentic Americana artists Joe Ely and Guy Clark and more than a dozen quality musicians. 

Behind the scene, he never stopped writing, playing or believing his time would come.

The result of this manifest itself in 2024 when fame didn’t just blink. It wiped both eyes with balled up fists as if it was beholding a reality it couldn’t comprehend.

A 60-old unknown released “So Far, So Good,” a “new” album and it was beginning to appear on numerous “Best of…” lists.

Lance Cowan was through holding out, or so it seemed. Scant months later he released another album and another satisfying release, “Against The Grain.”

But as I sat there listening to “The Air That You Breath” play out, it dawned on me that he was still holding out. 

Again.

Because “Breath” is his best album. It’s a better album than many veteran acts have pulled off over decade’s long careers.

It’s like watching a dependable and beloved family horse be invited to run in the Derby, writing off the long shot and then being dumbfounded when the horse emerges from the pack down the home stretch.

At a time when much of the nation is at the throats of the rest of the nation and vice versa, Lance Cowan is an antidote to all the bitter vitriol.

He’s flesh and blood evidence that staying true to your values can overcome the life obstacles we all long to bitch slap into submission.

He’s not just one of the best stories in Country Music. He’s one of the best stories in the whole Country.

I’m sentimental about Lance, sentimental about anyone who ignores the dream squashers to claw his or her way into the winner’s circle. Spoiler Alert: By most accounts he’s been a winner far longer than the dream squashers will ever know. So I’m sitting there being the kind of driver we urge our children to be and then I find I’ve become immobilized by the second song. Then the third. Then the fourth. It was on-first listen becoming one of those rare albums were cynics eager to find flaws become disappointed — and is disappointing a cynic playing right into his or her hands? I should confess I have a rooting interest in seeing Lance succeed. We were roommates in Nashville from 1985-88. We met as reporters at the Nashville Banner. He had dreams of becoming a singer songwriter. I was doing exactly what I’d dreamed of doing, that is becoming a swashbuckling news reporter in a Big City because like even base idiots knew the great American newspaper would never leave us. It’s a dream I pursue still. Lance had other motivations. If overnight fame was elusive, as it persistently is, he would engage fickle fortunes in a staring contest, one that would endure for three decades. It was the Country music era best described by Tom Petty as “Bad rock with a fiddle.” And throughout this span of dubious commercial accommodation, Cowan stayed true to both his family and his instincts. He began a one-man publicity shop that earned the respect — not to mention to the client fees — of authentic Americana artists Joe Ely and Guy Clark and more than a dozen quality musicians. Behind the scene, he never stopped writing, playing or believing his time would come. The result of this manifest itself in 2024 when fame didn’t just blink. It wiped both eyes with balled up fists as if it was beholding a reality it couldn’t comprehend. A 60-old unknown released “So Far, So Good,” a “new” album and it was beginning to appear on numerous “Best of…” lists. Lance Cowan was through holding out, or so it seemed. Scant months later he released another album and another satisfying release, “Against The Grain.” But as I sat there listening to “The Air That You Breath” play out, it dawned on me that he was still holding out. Again. Because “Breath” is his best album. It’s a better album than many veteran acts have pulled off over decade’s long careers. It’s like watching a dependable and beloved family horse be invited to run in the Derby, writing off the long shot and then being dumbfounded when the horse emerges from the pack down the home stretch. At a time when much of the nation is at the throats of the rest of the nation and vice versa, Lance Cowan is an antidote to all the bitter vitriol. He’s flesh and blood evidence that staying true to your values can overcome the life obstacles we all long to bitch slap into submission. He’s not just one of the best stories in Country Music. He’s one of the best stories in the whole Country.

Our new national anthem should be "We Will Rock You!"

 

The knee-jerk reaction to the 5 Iranian Women’s Soccer players who were granted Australian asylum is that they would be persecuted for not singing the Iranian National Anthem.

I think with more nuance.

Like maybe the song just sucks.

These women must be enlightened by Iranian standards at least. Did you know Iranian women have enjoyed voting rights since 1963?

I did not know that.

I have to figure they’re really bad at voting because they keep picking the exact same, angry bearded men over and over and over.

The Iranian National Anthem was composed by Sayed Bagheri, 57. He was 19 when he wrote “Sun of the East” and is today a political science professor in Tehran, assuming he’s survived the onslaught of the past 15 days.

Here are some sample lyrics. Keep in mind, he was 19 when he wrote this:

When we think of those East End Lights

Muggy nights

The curtains drawn in the little room downstairs

Prima Donna Allah you really shoulda been there

Sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair

And it’s one more beer and I don’t hear you

Anymore!

Sorry, that’s not “Sun of the East. It’s Elton John’s “Someone Saved my Life Tonight.”

It is not the Iranian National Anthem. Or maybe it is. In fact, I saw articles that said Iran has four national anthems. You’d think they could trade in a couple of them for one leader who didn’t interpret obscure passages in Holy texts as a license to kill.

But having four sort of tracks with an idea I’ve pushed for years now: change the national anthem to reflect the governing posture of the current POTUS. Two recent examples:

• Barack Obama: “Why Can’t We be Friends,” ironically a song beseeching friendship by a band named “War.”

• Joe Biden: “(All I Have to Do is) “Dream,” by the Everly Brothers. 

Our national anthem is 224 years old. Now, that can’t hold a candle to “The Wilhelmus,” the world’s oldest national anthem. They’ve been belting that one out in The Netherlands since 1578.

I didn’t realize anyone started singing out loud until the 1950s.

It’s like John Lennon said when asked about singers like Bing Crosby. 

“Before Elvis,” he said, “there was nothing.”

I’m a student of national anthems from around the world and the quirky customs they instigate. We can learn a lot about our fellow Earthlings by studying the songs that inspire and unite them.

That’s why I’m proposing the United Nations clear some auditorium space and prepare to host a talent competition where pop stars from countries around the world sing their national anthems and relate just how close they come to the ideals espoused by their most patriotic songs. 

We could bring back my all-time favorite of celebrity judges Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson — and have them heckle the hapless artists as they defend their anthems and the contributions their nation’s have made to the greater good.

It’s too controversial for me to suggest a singer who won’t be divisive. 

But few hear will argue with me that the song that most captures the zeitgeist of President Trump and his administration is by Queen from 1977.

Yes, I’m proposing our national anthem for the time being should be …

We Will Rock You!

It’s combative. Declarative. It’s so in-your-face that when you turn the other cheek it head butts you right between the eyes.

Sing it with me!

We Will! We Will Rock You!

We Will! We Will Rock You!

We Will! We Will Rock You!

I just pray that one day we’ll all wake up and realize all the deadly rocking has suddenly stopped.

Through the years, the ol' heave ho

 

It’s not something I’m proud of but there’s been a time or two when my drinking transgressions were so egregious bar employees have felt justified in giving me the ol’ heave ho. I’ll never forget the elderly bar prostitute’s mocking cackle.

I went back a few years ago. They all remembered me. Said if I didn’t behave, they’d slip something in my drink that would cause me to be violently ill as soon as I left the bar. They said times had changed and that this was the new heave ho.

Just then “Achey Breaky Heart” came on the juke box and the old bar whore jumped up on the table and started dancing. They yelled at her to get her ass off the effing table but she wouldn’t listen.

Well, you can surmise what happened next. I saw them put something in her drink and just wait for the song to end.

Me I got the hell out of there.

I didn’t want to stick around to see the ol’ ‘ho heave,

It's time for Body Function Olympics

 We’ll soon be hearing about lots of Olympians competing with guts and heart. If I had my way, there’d be an Olympics where the guts and hearts, etc. were the actual competitors.

I’m suggesting an Olympics to which we can all relate. I’m talking one that gives the gold medal for things like marathon bladder control, highest blood pressure and for overcoming daily grooming frustrations.

I’m suggesting it’s time for the Bodily Functions Olympics (check  your local listings).

So many Olympic events are about elements you and I lack. We’re not muscular enough to lift weights.We’re not agile enough to figure skate. And we’re not insane enough to do one of those ski jumps that lead to the agony of defeat.

Few of us can relate.

But everyone of us has a bladder that bosses us around. Every one is exposed to events that raise the blood pressure. And we’re sooner or later prone to sneezing fits that strike with the force and recoil of a full body orgasm

Thus, BFO will be the people’s Olympics

Now let’s get this out of the way right up front. The BFO will not involve anything icky.

No bowel movements. No booger farming. No spurting reproductive organs.

Those niche kinds of competitions are like the ones the gnarly surfer dudes play under the X Games brand.

The BFO will ignore what could, I guess, be called the XXX Games. 

But the BFO will always keep it classy — with one exception.

The BFO will include farts.

So many of the events will be universally engaging.

Just think about how gripping the Men’s Highest Blood Pressure event will be.

I can pick 10 frontrunners just from my local bar who daily confront high blood pressure and all its native provocations.

They percolate along at a resting rate of, oh, 210/140  (normal is in the neighborhood of 110/75).

But there is a visible spike when say, the bartender appears to be dawdling, the smashed burger’s been overly smashed to smithereens, or someone mentions that coach Mike Tomlin might return

Participants will be permitted to have a nagging spouse on-site to really get the ‘ol blood boiling.

I believe the Fastest Facial Hair Growth  event would lead to great ratings.

“Watching hair grow” may not seem like anyone’s idea of compelling viewing, but it has the potential to be a breakout sport— like curling!

It would begin with a gentleman barber applying the shaving lotion. We’d get to know him as the shave continues.

But the real fun will begin when they cut back to each contestant and show time-lapse recordings of the hirsute men sprouting their beards.

I have high hopes for Men and Women’s Power Sneeze competition. This comes to me from a story I saw years ago in the reliably entertaining, Weekly World News, purveyors of the memorable story, “Baby Born With Wooden Leg!”

This one was more grounded: “Wife leaves husband of 33 years after his 132-mph sneeze blows off half her hair!”

Gesundheit!

Bladder Capacity Marathon will see who can go the longest without urinating. Each participant will be given a quart of water every 30 minutes. Judges will be on hand to score the freestyle dance moves each participant comes up with as each strains the seal as the bladder screams for release.

Lastly, and this is bound to be controversial to some, but the BFO is going to need a few good farts.

Someday I’ll share the story of Le Petomane (pictured above, real name Josef Pujols, pronounced POO-holes, of course), a French performer from the late 1800’s whose whole act was based on his ability to control at will the force and pitch of his flatulence.  As one reviewer wrote:

“Le Petomane’s unique ability to control and stylize his farts offered a style of comedy that transcended age, race, gender and time.”

It was said he could extinguish a flaming candle from 10 feet away — with his back turned toward the candle.

I envision throngs of people crowding the host city with dreams of playing an historic role in the inaugural BFOs.

So, clearly, we’ll  need a whole squad of La Petomanes

Not to compete.

They’ll be there for crowd dispersal.