Yep, I'm a Swiftie

I have a confession to make. I'm a Swiftie.

If I'm being honest with myself, and really, where's the percentage in that, I may have been right from the start. And by the start I mean when my now grown, married daughter started listening to her when she—my daughter, not Taylor—was a little girl.

At first I was hesitant to admit it, but it was a different time. That was then and this is now. Besides, these days, even if I didn't like a lot of her music, which I do, there'd be an awful lot of other things to like about her.

Let's start with the one main reason that brings me endless joy: she terrifies MAGA nation. That alone is reason enough to love Taylor Swift. With one Instagram post encouraging fans to register to vote, and driving them to vote.org, over 35,000 of them did just that. The GOP is scared that she could sway an election by endorsing Biden. Which she could. Fuck MAGA.

And while she didn't support a side, it's well known in 2018 she supported the democratic candidates in Tennessee.

Do yourself a favor and take nine minutes to look at this clip of Brian Tyler Cohen explaining exactly how Fox News and Republicans are melting down about Taylor. It's a thing of beauty.

Politics aside, a few other things to love about Taylor Swift. She's an extraordinary role model, which, if you happen to have a daughter, you know are in short supply. Unlike artists in her position, she not only appreciates her fans but she shows up for them, usually without fanfare or publicity. Taylor's been known to surprise fans at their homes, on their birthdays, at weddings, at their hospital bedside, and sometimes, like here, their engagement parties.

She's generous with her time as well as her money. At the end of the U.S. leg of her wildly popular ERAS tour, Taylor gave members of her crew $100,000 each as a thank you for all their hard work—do the math. Never mind, I'll do it for you. It totalled $50 million.

She cares about people. She's nice. She models gratitude. If you've ever seen her in interviews she's A) Genuine B) Intelligent C) Suprisingly funny D) All of the above.

The answer is D.

And let's not neglect to mention her work ethic. She's been a star for a long time now, but she didn't start out filling up 96,000 seat stadiums night after night. She worked hard from a young age to become the performer, songwriter and global pop star she is today.

Speaking of songwriting, her catalog ranges from teenage girl longing (Love Story / You Belong With Me), to cleverly written and performed break up songs (We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together), to a feminist anthem that resonates with truth (The Man). The first two songs my daughter played for me, also included below, were Hey Stephen and the heart-tugging The Best Day.

If you're already a fan, and especially if you're not, have a listen.

She's performed with, and counts as fans people like James Taylor, Mick Jagger, Ed Sheeran, Tim McGraw and Kendrick Lamar to name a few.

In fact, even this guy is a fan.

Heavenly Day and the New Year

Oh heavenly day
All the clouds blew away
Got no trouble today
With anyone

I've been thinking lately—I could stop that sentence right there just to see the shock on the faces of people who know me and former employers. But I'll keep going.

I've been thinking lately about the last time I was genuinely happy and carefree. Now don't get me wrong, I'm a generally happy person most of the time. Cynical, but happy. But sometimes I can't stop myself from wondering exactly how long ago it was that I wasn't worried about bills, kids, dogs, money, safety for my loved ones, the car breaking down, the state of the world, the state of the union, if the alarm was turned on, if the stove was turned off, my weight, my job, my wardrobe, my health, my sleep patterns, did I mention money? And on and on.

While there may be a supply shortage of children's cold medicine, baby formula, airline pilots, Sriracha, semiconductor chips and tampons, it seems there's always a never ending glut of things to worry about, even if they're things we don't need to worry about (Full disclosure: not actually that concerned about the tampons).

So how do I find some peace with my worries running through my brain like a runaway train? One way is by listening to Patti Griffin's Heavenly Day.

It gives me, how the kids say, "all the feels."

Her beautiful voice, the gentle, unhurried arrangement and the nuanced accompanyment of Buddy Miller takes me back to a worry free time, when simple things were enough. And it gives me an unncharacteristically optimistic hope they can be again.

But maybe more importantly, it reminds me to be present in the moment, which in advertising isn't always something you want to do—especially in status meetings, creative reviews, pep talks or town halls.

The song also subtly drives home the point that although there are admittedly times when it doesn't feel like it—like during political discussions, hard joking or deciding which black shirt I should wear—the people I love and who love me are in reality all I need.

The smile on your face
I live only to see
It's enough for me baby
It's enough for me

Now before you start flaming the complaint box, I know this post isn't the well written, laugh riot, quippy, quotable read you've become accustomed to from me. But seriously, how much did you pay for it? I rest my case.

Besides if you want funny and well written, there's always Round Seventeen.

So since we're just hours away from the new year, I want to suggest you try on my new found attitude of cautious optimism things will be getting better and brighter in the next 365 days. I also recommend turning off the news, stopping the doom scrolling and reorganizing your priorities. The earth is four and a half billion years old, and we're just here for a second. Shouldn't we be taking the time to focus our attention, energy and passion on the things and people that really matter? Yes. Yes we should.

So my New Year's wish for you is that all your burdens will be lifted, and just enjoying each other will be enough.

From the sides, top and bottom of my cynical, happy heart, may your 2023 be filled with nothing but heavenly days.

No one at my shoulder bringing me fears
Got no clouds up above me bringing me tears
Got nothing to tell you, I've got nothing much to say
Only I'm glad to be here with you
On this heavenly, heavenly, heavenly, heavenly
Heavenly day

More John Moreland please

Here’s how it happened.

My son and his girlfriend thought it was time the wife and I met her parents and they met us. Nothing loaded about that invitation.

So instead of meeting anywhere near where either set of parents live—because that would've been too easy on the old folks—they decided to have us schlepp out to Gladstone’s on PCH on a hot sunny Saturday morning for brunch.

By the way, note to self: the best thing about Gladstone’s must be the view because it sure isn't the clam chowder. How does a seafood restaurant screw up clam chowder? Maybe next time try to keep it down to one brick of butter. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I spent a lot of the meal braced for some kind of big announcement to be sprung on us by the cute couple but, to my relief, they decided to save that card to play at a later date.

Prior to the meeting, my son sat me down for a son-father talk, and let me know his girlfriend’s father was on the more conservative side of the political spectrum than I am, and I was advised, as was her dad, that in order to keep this first introductory meeting civil we should probably avoid discussing politics. Hard as it is for me to bite my tongue, and resist the pure joy that is embarassing my kids, I said I'd try.

Come to find out there was no need for them to worry. Everyone was on good behavior and getting along great. In fact, come to find out her dad was a very funny, interesting guy who I hit it off with from the get go. I really enjoyed talking to him and am very much looking forward to our next meal together.

That sound you hear is the kids finally letting their breath out.

At one point during the meal, he looked over at me and said, “So, I hear there’s a particular singer you’re pretty fond of.” To which I said, “Why as a matter of fact there just might be.” He then proceeded to tell me if I liked Springsteen—which he did also, so big points for that—I had to hear John Moreland. So on the drive home I fired up Spotify, and it was love at first listen.

First, as you may know I have a thing for singers with a little grit and gravel in their voice. Moreland's voice is uncannily close to Bruce’s, with just a hint of early Tom Waits and a faint bouquet of Warren Zevon.

Then, the songs. Beautiful, heartbreaking, truth-wringing, emotion-filled poetry. Deceptively simple lyrics that are pointed like a knife, and as moving as they are poignant.

Acoustic folk is not where Moreland started. He was a well-known figure on the Oklahoma punk scene—yes there is one—for a very long time. But he’s found his true sound, and it’s wonderful.

The first video here is the happiest melody I’ve heard from him, but don’t be fooled: listen to the lyrics. It's also the only performance with a band, the rest are him and his guitar.

If you’re ready for a good cry, take a look at the other videos and be prepared for a case of the feels.

And not that I needed more to seal the deal, but watch and listen to the last video, and you'll hear why John Moreland feels like home to me.

Unchained Melody

This may come as a surprise to you—I know it did to me—but some of the people who come to this blog actually come here to learn something. Mostly what they learn is there are better things to do with their time.

Today however, I’m putting out a few facts you may not have known about one of my favorite songs: Unchained Melody. So there.

Most people are familiar with Unchained Melody either by way of the Righteous Brothers hit in 1965, or the infamous Demi Moore / Patrick Swayze penis pottery scene in the 1990 film Ghost. But, and here comes the learning part, Unchained Melody had already been a hit a decade before the Righteous Brothers sang it.

Originally written by composer Alex North and lyricist Hy Zaret for the 1955 movie Unchained (hence the name), it was sung in the film by Todd Duncan, playing a prisoner longing for his wife.

Two different versions, an instrumental and one with lyrics, were released with the film and recorded by various people including Harry Belafonte. Unchained Melody was on the Billboard charts four times that year.

It would be impossible to show all the versions of the song that’ve been done in the last 65 years, but hell you’ve obviously got too much time on your hands or you wouldn’t be here.

I kid because I love.

Anyway, I’ve curated a few versions—including the Righteous Brothers—for your listening and viewing pleasure.

My personal favorites of this bunch are Rodric King, who started his musical career doing karaoke in bars and Mike Yung, a subway busker for the last 37 years performing on America’s Got Talent. They’re both genuinely amazing.

See if you don’t agree.

Tracks Of My Tears: The Sequel

A little over nine years ago, I did this post about a classic song I love: Tracks Of My Tears by Smokey Robinson. It was part of a series I'd do occasionally where I'd post different takes on the same song by various artists (I also did it for another favorite, Stand By Me).

The reason for that original TOMT post was fairly straighforward: I couldn't think of anything to write about and it was easy to slap up some videos.

But today the subject is TOMT.

There are only a few songs that are genuinely timeless. Songs like Stand By Me. Yesterday. And Tracks Of My Tears. Generation after generation, they continue to strike a chord (sorry) with listeners, and stir their souls in unique ways. Those experiences are both heightened and personalized even more depending which version you're listening to and how it hits you in the moment.

But the one thing they all have in common is they hit you every time.

TOMT is one of the most covered songs in history, a testimony to its endurance, power and emotion. So with tonight's post, I'm happy to add even more versions for you to enjoy and compare.

If you don't recognize the name Paul Stanley, you probably know the rock group he cofounded—KISS. Knowing that, the last thing I expected was a version of TOMT as beautiful as it is true to the original. Also grateful he decided to ditch the makeup for this performance.

Speaking of true to the original, this version by Boyz ll Men is as satiny smooth as it gets, with choreography that pays homage to the original Smokey Robinson & The Miracles live performances.

Lara Kincanon is a singer I've never heard of, but she does a more intimate acoustic version. And I'm not saying she's staring into my soul when she sings it, but I'm also not saying she isn't.

I know what you're thinking: if only we could give this classic a little blue-eyed soul. Have a seat, and try this one by Daryl Hall and Eric Hutchinson (after a little chat, the song starts at the 1:20 mark).

Last but not least is the Chris Blue version he sang when he auditioned for The Voice. Besides being a sweet and soulful take, it also happens to be my wife's favorite version. And apparently it made Alicia Keyes pretty happy too. So this version gives me marriage points and great music. How many songs can you say that about?

One from the heart

If you’ve been following this blog for any reasonable amount of time—and really, if you have you need to get outside more—then you already know I have what we could accurately call a slightly compulsive side to my otherwise sparkling personality.

Whether it’s food, movies, jokes, the crap tables or in this case, music, I’ll latch onto something then run it mercilessly into the ground, usually driving everyone around me crazy along the way.

I think by now you know a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey is one of my life long obsessions. I don’t even want to think about the money, time, travel and effort that’s gone into following him around the country for years. I’m not complaining: it goes without saying, even though I’m going to say it, that I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Especially the trips where I got double airline miles.

Well, the bad news for those around me on the friends and family plan is I believe I may have found another artist I can see myself getting that obsessed about. His name is Paul Thorn.

Gravel voiced, bluesy, honest, beautifully written songs that speak directly to and from the heart, he’s the real deal. In a world of singer/songwriters who should be wildly famous and popular, Paul Thorn is right up there at the top of the list.

How did I find out about him? Funny you should ask. I was surfing YouTube for a funky Donny Fritts video, as one does. The video I found was a song called Temporarily Forever Mine. I loved the idea of the title, and it was a beautiful song. I noticed it’d been written by some guy named Paul Thorn.

For the next four hours, I went down a YouTube rabbit hole watching his videos over and over (compulsive, remember?). I was hooked.

I went to his website, paulthorn.com, to see where he was touring. Come to find out the only Southern California show he was doing on his current tour was at a club called Belly Up in Solana Beach, near San Diego. On a Monday night. Not the best night or the closest venue, but it didn’t matter. I was going to see him and nothing could stop me - except for the torrential rainstorm that decided to hit the night he was playing. I couldn’t leave work early enough, and even if I could have traffic was impossible.

So, disappointed though I was, I checked his site again to see if there were any other cities I could catch up with him. Turns out, while I was sleeping, he added a Newport Beach show just two nights later.

Long story long, I scored two tickets to the sold out show. The wife couldn't join me, so I invited my friend Eric - a fine musician in his own right - and we went and saw him. It was spectacular. He performed an earlier album of his in its entirety, as well as several other songs of his. And one Jackson 5 song, which made me love him more.

You'll notice I haven't done any Jason Statham jokes. First, I'm pretty sure he's heard them all. And second, he was a professional boxer who at one time went six rounds with Roberto Duran, so I don't want to upset him.

Anyway, here are a few videos to give you a little flavor of what I'm talking about. I hope you like him as much as I do.

And should you decide you want to see him live, just say when. I’m in.

Not quite all over now

I'm not gonna lie. Once I've spent all my money—and I have again and again (in case you didn't know) on Springsteen tickets—my concert budget is pretty much shot. And there are very few bands I'm willing to pony up a few day rates to see.

But the one band I'd be willing to do it for is The Rolling Stones.

I've always liked the Stones. Never been hardcore about them, but even though it's only rock and roll, I increasingly appreciate their stature, influence and longevity. I feel like they're a band I should see.

The original punk band, the Stones were always the bad boys in contrast to the squeaky clean (at least in the beginning) Beatles. And though they've achieved monumental success, and I expect have gotten plenty of satisfaction in every way possible at this point, they're still out there doing what they do, despite being decades past having to do anything they don't want to.

Jagger still parades around stage with his arms and legs jerking around wildly, like he's a marionette being worked by a drunk puppeteer or a 75-year old British grandmother on a bender. Keith Richards still has a sly, knowing smile at the fact he's alive, along with the most distinctive guitar in rock and roll. I don't know what the hell Ron Wood is doing, but he was the first kiss for this account executive I used to work with, so there's that. And Charlie Watts just makes all the jazz intricacies and nuances he hides in the beat seem so effortless.

I can't explain why I feel this sudden urgency to see them. Maybe it's because it doesn't take Jedi instincts to know at some point they're going to decide they've had enough and call it quits. And while I'd like to think time is on my side, deep down I know it's not.

From all accounts, at this point their show is more greatest hits than not. I'm okay with that. In the same way I saw Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr. and Elvis, I'd just like to be able to say I saw The Stones live once.

What I'd really like is to score tickets to the small venue show they do before every arena show. Last time they were at the 20,000-seat Staples Center in Los Angeles, the night before they did an impromptu performance at the 350-seat Echoplex Club in Silverlake. Guess how fast they sold out?

Oh well. You can't always get what you want.

Thunder Road

You didn't really think I was going to get through the week without a Bruce post did you?

Anyone who knows me—as much as anyone can know anyone—would tell you Thunder Road is not just my favorite Springsteen song. It's my favorite song ever. I was trying to think about why that is. It's not the first time.

As you'd imagine, I get asked about my Boss obsession a lot, and I've pondered it for hours, months, years trying to figure it all out.

I was reading through the comments on this Thunder Road video, and I read this one from Jimmy Braum.

The second I did, it felt right.

So thank you Jimmy for putting in a line the feeling I probably would've rambled on for paragraphs about, without getting anywhere near as clear and succinct as you have.

As I write this I'm getting ready to leave work and head home.

I bet you can guess what I'll be listening to on the drive.

The rafters

I put up a Facebook post recently about my trip back to New York to see Springsteen On Broadway. In the comments, I saw my good friend Shivaun put one up asking me if I saw anything in the rafters. I was startled by it, not because of what it said, but because she remembered. It was a reference very few people in my orbit know about, and an experience I hadn't thought about in many years.

And Shivaun, if you're reading this, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of it.

It begins, as so many of my stories do, at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Bruce was doing a five-night gig at the late, great Los Angeles Sports Arena. My girlfriend at the time—now my wife—would always go with me to the opening and closing shows of his multi-night gigs. So it didn't come as a surprise that she didn't want to go to all five shows this time—two were enough for her.

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

Naturally I wouldn't have missed the shows for any reason, but this tour it was more important than usual that I be there. My dad had died unexpectedly a couple months earlier, six years after my mom had passed away. Being an only child, after I lost my dad, I jokingly (kind of) referred to myself as an orphan. My spirit—sad, defeated, lost and feeling very much alone—was in dire need of the kind of lifting only a Springsteen concert can give me.

I don't remember which show in between the opening and closing one it was, but with me that night was an art director, friend and one-time roommate of mine named Monte Hallis.

Now anyone who knows me knows I'm long past believing there's any concert worth a few hours sitting in the nosebleed seats. Unless of course that concert is Bruce Springsteen. If it means the difference between being in the building and not, I'll sit wherever I can get a seat.

Monte and I sat in the very definition of nosebleed seats: the very last row where you could reach up and touch the ceiling of the arena, at the complete opposite end of the building from the stage (may I direct your attention to the yellow arrow in the top picture).

It was just after intermission, and Bruce came out to start his second half of the show. Because I'd already seen it two or three times, I knew the first song was going to be Cover Me.

My Bruce tramp pals and me have a name for his songs we're not crazy about. We call them bathroom songs, because if we have to go, those are the ones we don't mind missing. And, I know you never thought you'd read these words from me, but there are songs of his I'm just not crazy about.

Working On A Dream is one. So is Outlaw Pete, or as my friend Kim appropriately calls it Outlaw Pee. And at the top of my list, Cover Me.

So the lights dim, Bruce rips into Cover Me, and I'm just removed from it all. I'm watching Monte watching Bruce. I see the entire arena in front of me rocking out.

Then it happened.

It was like a fog set in, figuratively speaking. Movie like, the sound slowly faded way, way down but not out entirely. The crowd jumping up and down and pumping their fists seemed to be doing it in slow motion. Scanning the building, I tilted my head up and peered into the darkness that lay just up above. Moving my eyes along the rafters from one side to the other, my vision landed on a beam above and a little in front of me.

And a smile came across my face, because that's when I saw him. My dad was sitting on the rafter waving to me.

He was sitting on a horizontal beam, legs crossed and dangling below him. His right arm was wrapped around a vertical beam, and he was wearing the new purple plaid bathrobe my girlfriend and I had given him at Christmas—two months before he died. He had his blue striped pajamas on underneath, and his brown slippers with the fleece lining on his feet. His glasses, like always, were sitting askew on top of his nose that'd been broken years ago and never set correctly.

As our eyes locked in what definitely was a moment out of time, I realized he wasn't just waving randomly at me.

He was saying he loved me.

He wanted me to know everything was going to be okay.

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

I understood, and I smiled and nodded up at him. Then, I slowly looked away from him and came back to the room. The sound dialed back up again, the fans were moving in real time and Monte was enjoying herself immensely.

I looked back up at the rafter, and he was gone.

Start spreading the news

Even though you could probably guess, I'll say it anyway—I love New York. It's the best city in the world, and it vibrates with talent, creativity and possibilities.

As a theater arts major, the fact there's a city where I can go to a Broadway play or two every day is a little bit of heaven on earth for me. I'm always looking for reasons to hop a plane and go there. Fortunately, over the past few years, I've had a couple very good reasons to visit.

The first was to see my friend Holland Taylor perform at the Vivian Beaumont Theater at Lincoln Center in ANN, the play she wrote and starred in about former Texas governor Ann Richards. It was a master class in acting watching Holland literally inhabit the spirt of Ann Richards.

Now you say, "Oh sure, of course he'd say that. He knows her." Just to be clear, she received a Tony nomination for Best Performance By A Leading Actress In A Play for her performance, so apparently I wasn't alone in my thinking.

This past April, the family and I hopped a plane to NY to see Hamilton. We'd had the tickets for a year, and even though it was coming to Los Angeles, we wanted to see it on Broadway. It's one of those rare plays that transcends the massive hype around it—for all you've heard, it's even better than that.

This October, I have yet another reason to head east. I don't know if you know this, but there's this singer from New Jersey I like quite a bit. Come to find out he's doing an 8-week residency on Broadway at the Walter Kerr Theater. It will be a night of stories, music, with just him, the guitar and piano. It's a 946-seat theater, the smallest venue Bruce has played in 35 years. And I'm going to guess at that size, there are no bad seats.

For as hard as it is to get tickets to a regular Springsteen concert, I'm going to wish it was that easy come August 30th when they go on sale. I've already seen one estimate that said it'll sell out in 45 seconds.

While Bruce has never done a show this intimate, I imagine it will look and sound a little something along these lines, minus the farm:

I'm going to say my prayers, keep my fingers crossed, live right, and be nice to everyone I know in New York and just hope I can see this once-in-a-lifetime Springsteen show. I know, I can hear you saying, "Geez, hasn't he been to a billion Springsteen shows? When's it going to be enough?"

That's easy. Never.

Heavy Lyfting

I don't know whether it's because I'm an only child, or just sometimes lost in my own world (I know, they're the same thing), but I've never been bothered by uncomfortable silences. In fact I believe there are places where they're perfectly appropriate.

For example, I don't want to hear about your day while I'm in the elevator. And, as I wrote about here, I don't want to hear anything you have to say while I'm in the men's room.

But when I fire up the old ridesharing app—Lyft is my service of choice—for some reason I feel I should listen and engage with the person I'm driving with, or more aptly, who's driving me. After all, it isn't some corporate yellow cab picking me up, it's an individual in their own car trying to supplement their income. I'm all about supplementing income, even if they're doing it with my money.

And in the same way every picture tells a story, so does every Lyft driver.

There are Lyft drivers I've ridden with that've been awesome, and actually feel more like friends. Natasha is one of them. Glasses, inked, Prius driver and cat owner, I don't know where else our paths would've crossed. I've ridden with her a few times, and she has an energy and openness about her that's refreshing. Plus she's funny, smart and laughs at my jokes. I think we all know what a pushover I am for that. It makes me wish the ride to work was longer so we could talk more.

Then there's Craig in San Francisco, who if I didn't know better I'd think was my long, lost brother from another mother. When I got in his car (a 5 year old American something that was spotless and looked brand new), he had Miles Davis playing, and the first words out of his mouth to me were, "You like Miles?" It was a great ride.

Funny, smart, engaging people.

While not as deep as Uber, the Lyft driver pool occasionally reminds me that while I enjoy the Natasha's and Craig's, the odds are not always in my favor.

I don't want to personality shame any of the drivers by name here. But here's the thing: there's a certain kind of driver that makes small talk, but it's like canned laughter on a sitcom. It's not real, but it fills the space. My driver the other morning was one of those. He talked about the weather, and answered questions I didn't ask. "How early did you start driving this morning?" "Oh it is a beautiful day, not too hot." Alright then.

I prefer Lyft over Uber, even though many of the drivers work for both services. But they almost unanimously prefer Lyft customers, saying they're nicer and friendlier than Uber riders. Which is how I feel about Lyft drivers, so win-win.

I work in Orange County, and the thought's occurred to me it might be interesting to drive for Lyft. As long as I'm going back and forth, I may as well bring someone along, use the carpool lane and make a little cash for gas and dinner.

Which all sounds well and good until I start thinking about sharing rides with total strangers, and remember I'm an only child.

Then it just sounds like crazy talk.

Bowled over

I've played the Hollywood Bowl.

Ok, not exactly played. I've walked across the stage in front of an audience. My high school graduation was held at the Hollywood Bowl, and it might've been the most awesome part of high school except for the time I talked my Consumer Law and Economics teacher Mr. Blackman into thinking he'd lost my final term paper (if my kids are reading this, don't even think about it). He gave me an A, but I still feel bad about it.

Having grown up an L.A. kid, I've seen plenty of concerts at the Bowl, so many I can't remember them all.

I saw The Eagles take it easy. If you could read my mind you'd know I also saw Gordon Lightfoot. When school was out for summer I saw Alice Cooper.

I've seen Bruce Springsteen and Jackson Browne perform together (I know, I'm as shocked as you are) for Survival Sunday 4, an anti-nuke benefit concert.

It's getting to the point I remember Crosby Stills and Nash belting out Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. I can absolutely confirm the Go-Go's got the beat. I saw Laurie Andersen do whatever the hell it was she was doing. I've seen Steve Martin getting wild and crazy with Edie Brickell while fireworks were going off in the sky.

There have been many, many more, but you get my drift.

Not all my memories are happy ones. There was the night my pal David Weitz and I were driving in my 1965 Plymouth Fury. Highland Avenue was jammed because of the show at the Bowl, so we turned up into the surrounding hills to see if we could find a shortcut around it. Out of nowhere, a police car appeared behind us, lights flashing. The officers told us through the speakers to get out of the car slowly with our hands up. We were young, but we weren't stupid. We knew this was serious.

Once we were out of the car, hands up, they got out of their car with guns drawn and pointed right at us. They told me to open the trunk, which I did slowly and with my hands in sight at all times. They didn't find whatever they were looking for, and after checking our I.D.'s, they let us go. Apparently we fit the description of two guys who'd been robbing the hillside homes recently. I figured the description was brutally handsome and incredibly funny.

Anyway, the reason my mind's on the Bowl is because a week from tonight, I'll be there again, not on stage, but watching the first J.J. Abrams' Star Trek with the Los Angeles Philharmonic playing the score alongside the movie. It should be a great night.

If you've never been there, or it's been awhile, you owe it to yourself to go. It truly is one of the greatest venues, in one of the most beautiful settings, you'll ever see a show at.

Even if you don't get a diploma at the end of it.

Simon says

The list of songs that've managed the virtually impossible task of rhyming the words yacht, apricot and gavot is a very short one. In fact, there's only one.

The song is You're So Vain. And the songwriter is Carly Simon.

You'll be hearing a lot about both of them in the coming weeks, because Simon has a new memoir coming out. (Ironically, it's being published by Flatiron Books, and not Simon and Schuster, the publishing powerhouse Carly's father, Richard L. Simon, co-founded).

To be sure, Simon has led a colorful life that's included lovers from Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty. When she was married to James Taylor, they were at one point the richest entertainment power-couple with a heroin-addicted guitar-playing husband in all of Martha's Vineyard.

One thing Simon promises to address, sort of, in the book that has the entertainment press chomping at the bit (if you've seen Simon's smile you know why that last line is so funny) is one of the timeless mysteries of the music world: who exactly is You're So Vain about.

She's already said in past interviews one of the verses is about Warren Beatty. Beatty himself has said the whole song is about him. He's so vain. Which brings up a contradiction inherent in the song that's bothered me each and every time I've heard it.

The main lyric is "you're so vain, you probably think this song is about you...." Here's the thing: the song is about him. So is he so vain, or just right in what he's thinking? Discuss.

Admittedly it's not a mystery on the scale of say who shot JFK, or did we know about Pearl Harbor ahead of time. But I have to say I'm kind of curious. Maybe we'll find out, time will tell.

The one thing I know for sure is it's not about me.

As an only child, I have to say that hurts.

Jean's dreams

Here's what won me over about Jean Kelley. It wasn't her voice, which is soulful and spectacular by the way. It was her humor.

When Jean appeared on this past season of The Voice, two chairs turned around for her: Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton. When the judges were fighting over her, each trying to convince her to choose them, Blake Shelton said, "I have to have you on my team." To which Jean replied, "Do you now?"

BAM! Moxie. Brass. Nerve. A Jean Kelley fan was born.

A lot of people think of these talent shows as shortcuts to fame and fortune. In fact David Grohl has a famous rant about how musicians should pay their dues first, and how a judging panel can destroy them by telling them they're not good enough. But here's the thing: every musician has been told they're not good enough - it's the price of entry if you're going to pursue it.

And as any artist who's appeared on one of these shows will tell you, it's no guarantee of anything except the moment. I have great respect for anyone who appears on them - they're putting themselves out there in the most demanding, nerve-wracking way.

While those shows weren't around when Nirvana was, if they were Dave Grohl and the band might've given it a shot. The truth is now, they're another tool in the box, a means to an end.

Still, no matter where they place in the competition, artists still have to play small clubs, rude crowds, be opening acts no one wants to hear and put all their time, money and soul into finding an audience for their music.

If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter - and seriously, there are far better people to follow - you know I've been promoting Jean's Kickstarter campaign to fund her EP and tour. As of this writing, there are 5 days left to raise the remaining $12,600 she needs to make this first part of her dream a reality.

I've written here about how great if feels helping someone's dream come true. But of course the best way to find out if that's true is to open your wallet, fire up the credit card and see for yourself.

And I think helping to fund Jean Kelley would be a great place to start.

Picture this

Last night was the high school graduation party for young Mr. Spielberg before he goes off to one of the top ten film schools in the country, and his good friend Trevor, who is graduating with him. It was a fun-filled evening, with many of his friends he’s literally grown up with and known all his life.

I’ve also known most of the kids there since they were in kindergarten. Which was great, because I never get enough reminders of how fast time is going by. Wasn’t it just yesterday they were asking me for 5’s instead of 20’s?

Anyway, besides the portable pizza oven catering the party, candy table, impromptu stage where my son (did I mention he plays five instruments?) sang with Trevor, was a wall with items representing who both boys were, their interests, where they’ve been and where they’re going. My boy was on the left. Trevor was on the right.

Each of our families had room for nineteen pictures. So late Saturday, we went online and had a ton of pictures printed out at Fromex. And they came out spectacularly.

The other thing they did was remind me how much I hate digital pictures. Not digital photography, just digital pictures.

Once you have the pictures in your hand, spending as much time as you want with them, they become time machines. They have the ability to take you right back to the moment they’re showing you.

I think too often we get caught up in the technology of seeing pictures on screen, and lose the meaning of the pictures themselves. I was reminded last night of something I've known but had forgotten - I'd much rather pass hard copies of pictures around than watch a digital slideshow any day of the week.

My beautiful son moves to Texas in August. But thanks to these pictures, and the many more I’ll be printing out, I’ll still be able to hold on to him.

His aim is true

There's a special running on cable right now called Elvis Costello: Mystery Dance. As you might expect, it deals with the life and career of the other Elvis.

Like most people, the first time I heard Elvis was on his album, My Aim Is True. Alison was the number one hit, and I loved it. So when Elvis came to the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, along with Nick Lowe and Link Wray, I was in.

I don't remember much about how the music sounded. What I remember most is that after about a twenty-five minute set, Elvis kicked over one of the giant speakers and stormed offstage. Punk movement. Angry young man. You get the picture.

I've seen Elvis many, many times since. And I'm always in awe of two things: how prolific a songwriter he is, and his endless versatility. From rock, to jazz, to country to classical, Elvis attacks every genre and infuses it with originality and the uniqueness of his sound.

One of the great concerts the wife and I went to was Elvis with the Brodsky Quartet at Royce Hall. We sat sixth row center, right in front of Jackson Browne (maybe if he had some connections he could've gotten better seats). My wife used to play classical violin, and she loves Elvis. So this was the perfect concert for her.

It was perfect for everyone. It was exceptional.

A few years ago, Elvis opened for Sting at the Hollywood Bowl. During that performance, he invited the fifteen-thousand people there to a free midnight show he was doing at the El Rey Theater later that night.

I don't have many regrets, but not showing up at the El Rey at midnight that night is definitely one of them.

Anyway, just a quick post to say I love his music.

And I'm pretty confident he won't be leaving the building anytime soon.

An open letter to Morongo Hotel & Casino

Dear Person In Charge Of Marketing,

Being a copywriter and creative director as long as I’ve been, I appreciate better than most people how difficult it is to create great advertising. Or even good advertising, you know, the kind that at a minimum gets the communication across in a somewhat entertaining, memorable, non-offensive manner.

And of all the mediums available, from broadcast to print to online, perhaps nowhere is that more true than radio. But then, I don’t have to tell you. I'm sure it's not the first time you've heard this, but your long-running radio campaign for Morongo ranks somewhere between an east-coast sewage spill and a crime against humanity.

I’ve tried to figure out exactly why I have this extreme reaction to your radio commercials. What is it exactly about them that provokes such a visceral, negative response? After some serious consideration, I think I’ve narrowed it down. Everything.

I’ve never been to Morongo Hotel and Casino, so I don’t know exactly what the experience is like. What I do know is if it’s anything like your radio spots, I’d rather stick dull needles in my eyes. Slowly.

I'd also like to offer some constructive criticism, although granted it's hard to know where to start. So let's begin with your tagline: Good times.

In print, on TV and on radio, your announcer or on-camera talent ends the spots saying, enthusiastically, "Morongo! Good times!"

Apparently whoever wrote the spots didn't realize the phrase "good times" is used in everyday vernacular to refer to something bad. For example, one person might say, "I'm number two million twelve on the waiting list for a kidney transplant." The person they're talking to would reply, sarcastically, "Good times."

I don't think the phrase means what you think it means. And no amount of airplay and false enthusiasm will change that.

It's the same as when people say something is bad, they actually mean it's good. Or when someone hears something they want to know more about, they say, "Shut up!"

All I'm saying is a working knowledge of what words mean and how they're used is probably a good thing to have in life and before you start writing radio spots.

Let's talk about talent. I could make a snarky remark like you should try having some in your radio spots. But I'm not going to.

But you should.

Instead of the painfully obvious non-union talent blathering on in the spots, you might try to pony up for union talent that can actually make bad copy sound palatable - a skill that would come in mighty handy in this case. I know, I can hear you griping about budgets and residuals and fast turnarounds. Here's the thing: you're a casino. It says right on your website that by 2008 you had put up to $2.8 billion into the local economy. Crying poor just isn't going to cut it. Pony up for some real talent and polish your public face.

On your radio spot I heard driving to work today, the non-union woman breathlessly says, "Sunday is fun day!" Is it really? It sounded more like "Sunday is being yelled with the direction to sound excited, but not quite making it day."

Also, the phrase "Sunday is fun day!" has been used in bad advertising of everything from mattress stores to car dealerships to coffee shops since the beginning of the Jurassic era. Besides, at a casino aren't all days fun days?

I realize you can't have original music for each spot when you do so many of them. But you can use better needle drop music. Perhaps a track that isn't so forced, isn't trying so hard. Maybe one that reflects a more elegant experience (assuming of course you can provide one).

Finally, the very premise of your spots has been done to death. I'm talking about the top of the spot, where your voice-talent (and I use the word talent loosely) is supposed to be in a recording booth, and we catch him saying something funny when he doesn't think the mic is on. The other problem is nothing he says is funny.

As the movie Spinal Tap teaches us, there's a fine line between clever and stupid. And you are most definitely on the wrong side of the line.

My suggestion would be if you have an agency creating your advertising, fire them and get a better one. And if you don't have an agency, get one. (At the very least, bring in a freelance writer for a fresh point of view. I'm just sayin'...)

There's a huge segment of the population who'd love not to drive all the way to Nevada to gamble and be entertained. And gamble. I believe with media buys that run your spots as frequently as yours do, you can change their perception of Morongo by upping the quality of your radio advertising.

Without attracting new clientele, you can't expect to expand and thrive. Then, if the current customers decide to reduce their visits and average spending, Morongo could wind up just another empty husk of a building, a symbol of excess and broken dreams. A reminder of what could've been if only you'd done better radio.

Good times.

That's the ticket

There are a lot of people I've seen in concert not necessarily because I'm a fan, but because I think I should see them. The reason can range anywhere from they're a living legend, like when I saw Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. at the Greek Theater, to they may not be around much longer, like when I saw Elvis at what was then the Intercontinental Hotel in Vegas (although technically my parents dragged me to that one, but I can still say I saw him).

One group that falls into both categories is The Rolling Stones.

Every time they've ever toured, I've sworn to myself I'd see them. And after hearing this morning they're going to tour for the first time since 2006, I made the promise again.

What's stopped me in the past has been money. Now, if you know anything about me, and really, we don't have any secrets, you know I'm a pampered poodle: I don't sit in the back of the plane. I don't stay in the standard hotel room. And I don't sit in the nosebleed seats at concerts, unless it's Springsteen and those are the only seats left. I'm guessing you already knew that too.

Stones tickets have traditionally gone for between $300-$600 face value. And me being me, guess which ones I want? That's $1200 before parking if I take the wife. I've never paid that to see anyone. Okay, well maybe once I might've paid close to that (twice as much) for front row seats to Springsteen at the Christic Institute concert with Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt. But it was his first concert in years and all acoustic. Front row seats, how often's that gonna happen? It was my money, I earned it and I don't have to defend it to you dammit, so how about you back off.

Glad we settled that.

Anyway, as we all know with Ticketbastards, er, Ticketmaster, the ticket price is just the beginning.

While hotels and airlines have just recently caught on, Ticketmaster has been tacking on bullshit fees to the face cost of a ticket for years. So even if you're seeing a show with a $65 face value ticket, you could wind up paying around a $100 after the extra charges.

Bands have fought Ticketmaster. So have fans. But the bottom line is they're not about to change. They don't exactly have a monopoly, but they have a majority of contracts with the major concert venues across the country. So it's pay or stay home.

I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to pony up for the Stones tickets this time, although I'm thinking I just might. Because you can't fight the law of averages forever.

I probably spend more time contemplating this than I should. I know it's only rock and roll.

But I like it.

They're Fine. They're Young. They're Cannibals.

As group names go, the Fine Young Cannibals was a good one. Besides spawning a ton of delicious chanti and fava bean jokes, the FYC also gave birth to many number one singles around the world, and two in the U.S.

She Drives Me Crazy and Good Thing.

For a while you couldn't switch to any radio station without hearing SDMC, or go to any club where they weren't playing it. I remember this one night in particular at Starwood. I was wearing my platform shoes and bell bottoms...

Perhaps I've said too much already.

Anyway, time marches on, and the lead singer of the FYC, Roland Gift, is 53 years old now. He's still touring, singing a few FYC songs but mostly his own. I can't tell you exactly why, but it makes me happy he's still out there doing it.

I never thought the 80's were a stellar decade for music. But at least there was one song that drove me crazy for the right reasons.

Disappearing act

Disappearing hasn't always been just for jumbo jets.

In 1983, there was this little film called Eddie and The Cruisers. Michael Paré played Eddie Wilson, a 1960's rocker who died tragically in a car crash. Or did he? Eddie's body was never recovered. The tapes for Eddie's second album, considered by his record company to be too dark to release, also disappeared that night with Eddie.

In the movie, set in 1983 with flashbacks, a reporter is doing a documentary about Eddie's disappearance. I won't tell you how the movie ends, but if you look at the poster for the sequel it pretty much gives it away.

I guess just the fact there's a sequel gives it away. Sorry about that.

Anyway, one reason I liked the movie was because of the music. Eddie and the Cruisers had an anthemic sound, with songs that often featured a solo by his black saxophone player and sung by Eddie with his raspy sounding voice.

I know, so hard to imagine I'd like a sound like that.

The music was actually sung by John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band, a New Jersey band who started out at The Stone Pony the same time as this other New Jersey band I write about once in awhile.

What this little film did manage to capture was the romance of rock 'n roll, the hopefulness of it, the anger of it and the sense of something lost.

Today, Eddie and the Cruisers would probably be touring C venues with a different guy they called Eddie as the lead singer.

But rock 'n roll never forgets. The dream lives on, and so does....oh crap. Almost gave it away again.