The greatest perk of this gig is getting to know some of the folks I’ve respected since I was a kid. Bassist/Stick player/cellist Tony Levin is one of those guys. His work with King Crimson and Peter Gabriel alone is worth the price of admission, but the guys’ CV is longer than your arm.
Check it out over on The Good Men Project, and keep an eye out for his new band, Stick Men, on tour.
Marlene wasn’t the first jabber-jaw whose inane rambling caused me anxiety, and she certainly wasn’t the last. You work with these people, too, and even if you don’t you hear them prattling endlessly on fake news and talk radio.
In fact, a constant stream of babble seems to be de rigueur in the era of cell phones, social media, and blogs. Good thing I’m not one of those guys.
So for those of you who no doubt wish you could tell someone don’t speak*, here’s a playlist of talking songs:
Predicting the future is a common theme in music, and not just with the Mael brothers and those “Future’s So Bright” chuckle heads. Some are optimistic, others pessimistic. We’ll be anything from merpeople to robots, or at least in love with robots. Or annihilated by them.
Here are some songs about the distant future, some of which is now in the past:
“I came home early today. Is that okay with you?” he said.
“I’m just not used to seeing you home this early.”
“It’s your mother’s birthday. We’re taking her to Red Lobster. What’s that crap on your face?”
Many people land here due to a search engine. I assume most of them are looking for photos or music to download. I always feel bad when I see that someone searched “Alice Cooper,” for example. Sorry, buddy – there’s nothing here but a bunch of words.
But occasionally I get traffic based on very specific search terms. I’d like to take a moment to help these folks out in case they’re still looking for answers, so in no particular order here we go:
Life continued in the Chicago suburbs. My baseball skills improved, and I started holding my own in fights. I made a best buddy. We’d play Evel Knievel and Hot Wheels and listen to his Monkees records every day after school. He had a Labrador named Sunshine, named for his only 45: John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders.”
My father was around less and less, and when he was he was in a bad mood. He spent his weekends in the garage now, tinkering with an old Austin-Healey. I stopped hanging out with him while he worked on the car because I felt like a nuisance.