Canned Heat was the first rock band I saw — an MSU concert that was as uptight as you might imagine. But already the prime songwriter and lead singer was gone. He wrote strange turns of phrase and intuition that suggested the English and even Roots America investigation into the blues was stubby. Never will know what he might have gone on to discover. I see his beach death scene in dreams.
Was at an event with media-design crazies who work all day online, who were explaining their methods and motions to a crowd of about 40 UX fascinateds. The panelists mentioned Medium a number of times (with notes about its shortcomings as a source of information). So I told my whole story about Medium and my “How I Capture Rapture” piece and how they stopped paying people.
Did I say who I was? No.
Did I name this blog? No.
Sure hope this is (Old) Beauty Mud.
Hey, the rain today wasn’t a ferocious as predicted …. got to see modern dance presentation at the Isabella Stewart Gardner and get one of my good ganders at a painting of a demon by someone who believed they were real.
(It’s “Saint Michael, Archangel.” The demon does not look like any clever monster-mashups from scary creatures. Really suggests something not from this universe.)
For a long time, I argued that a prime paradox of Blaze Foley is that you both had to know him and not know him as a person. Except for individual songs, those who wrote tributes and assembled documentaries about him included bumps of sentimentality and drunken mumbling (even the Morlix tribute) (even the Duct Tape Messiah soundtrack). Maybe someday, somebody who never met him would assemble a perfect retrospective.
Now I’ve been persuaded that this new Blaze movie is a worthy wild thing and I intend to see it (though may have to be on the small screen). But if it’s your introduction, I have to insist that what you pick up first is Live at the Austin Outhouse (Lost Art, 1999) and next the Duct Tape soundtrack and if you still need more, try to get an advance listen to the movie score.
Is the selection of tunes on Austin Outhouse ideal? No, nope, no. But every track is outstanding, it stays alert and forms a beginning-middle-end program.
I’ve owned this poster for at least 45 years:
Time to get out:
- The Classic Cobra Recordings 1956-1958
- Mourning in the Morning
- Cold Day in Hell
- Right Place, Wrong Time
- So Many Roads: Live in Concert (or, just as superb)
- All Your Love I Miss Loving: Live at the Wise Fools Pub Chicago
One of the most satisfying surprises you can get from a music collection is pulling out a release you haven’t played for, well, a lot longer than you might have imagined, and though it’s highly respected in general and you know you like it, there’s a beauty and depth you haven’t noticed before. The album fits with you and times better than ever.
I’ve been on a quest to identify records that generate deep, intelligent peace (gosh, I wonder why). While it’s too old to put in a new review, I have to give my blog prize to
The Pearl by Harold Budd/Brian Eno (with Daniel Lanois), Editions EG, 1984.
You stay alert and want to follow all the way through the 42 minutes. Really does take you on a trip, scene to scene, second to second. Sensuous as much as smart, kinetic as much as still.
First the outstanding Fulks/Lewis show (final encore: “Roll Over Beethoven” that brought the ghost of Chuck into the room).
And now a Red Sox win that ties the most they’ve ever had (105). Unbelievable fun.