Waits and measures

This is going to come as a surprise to a lot of people who know me, but raspy, gritty, gravel-voiced singers seem to be the ones I'm most drawn to. That would explain the Springsteen thing. But I haven't always been the hardcore Springsteen fan you know me as today. Before there was Bruce, long before, there was Tom Waits.

When I was growing up, I lived in West Hollywood not too far from the Tropicana Motel where Waits lived for years. There was a restaurant called Duke's downstairs from the motel (it's since moved to Sunset Blvd. near the Whiskey), and it was for a long time the best breakfast in L.A. My friends and I would eat there a lot, and more often than not - if it was early enough - we'd see Waits there. I never spoke with him, but I do recall a few nods were exchanged.

Anyway, by any criteria, Tom Waits is that word that's used all too often to describe considerably lesser talents. He is a musical genius.

There are a few genuinely great, timeless songs that transport you to another place, or capture an experience and moment so well they just grab you by the throat. Or the heart. Their sad poignancy and melancholy, with visual lyricism so precise it's as if you're watching a movie instead of listening to a song, washes over you completely. For me, one of those songs is The Heart Of Saturday Night.

Over the years I've heard him perform it many times in concert. This video - which is actually just the audio off the album of the same name - is how I first heard the voice of a young Tom waits sing it.

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Waits has always experimented with all kinds of sounds and instrumentation throughout his career. And while he's never strayed too far from music, over the years he's also carved out a respectable and varied acting career for himself.

Which I think is a good thing. Because, and I'm braced for the flack I'm going to get for saying this, after years of smoking, drinking, carousing and vocal strain, it is impossible to listen to the Tom Waits of today and enjoy it.

Every singers voice changes with age. Some get richer, deeper. Others lose the ability to hit the highs and lows. But where once the grit in Waits voice lent his songs their melancholy, power and romanticism, for me the truth is now he's unlistenable.

Take a listen to this recent recording and see what you think:

I guess it could be described as beautiful noise. Or a bold expression of his art.

For me, the Tom Waits of today sounds like gravel and broken glass in a garbage disposal.

I realize how harsh that sounds. But I'm angry that the Waits I loved didn't care better for his instrument, and let it have the emotional impact of his early years even if in a more mature sound.

To those who think I've turned on him, I haven't. I will always respect and admire his genius, and will always have his library of songs to listen to.

Only now, it's not the songs that make me sad.

Land of hope and dreams

Since the very first time my friend Jeff Haas played it for me, Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road has been my favorite song. And being the fan we all know I am, it won't surprise anyone when I say that if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it at least ten thousand times.

Except here’s the funny part: last Saturday night, I felt like I heard it for the first time.

I flew to New York last Friday for the weekend to see Springsteen On Broadway, Bruce’s new and first Broadway show, where he tells stories about his life, sings a set playlist of songs and reads from his autobiography, Born To Run.

I'm just thankful we didn’t get the understudy.

What I wasn’t prepared for was how intimate, raw, emotional, joyful, tearful and brutally honest the evening was. I can’t imagine any other artist being that open with their audience (not that I spend a lot of time thinking about other artists). But then again, that’s always been part of the attraction to Bruce. He's not hiding behind his songs, he's revealing our shared experiences and feelings through them.

In the show, Bruce tells the stories of his life—his family, his rockstar journey, pays tribute to his late friend, sax player and sidekick Big Man Clarence Clemons, unflinchingly declares his love for his wife Patti— punctuating and adding perspective to them with carefully chosen songs from his library of forty years. I’ve heard every one of these songs dozens of times in concert. Yet, set in the context of the show, as I said, it felt like the first time.

It’s a scripted show—a considerable change from the mix it up, multi-night gigs and audibles he calls during his arena shows.

And speaking of arena shows, the 950-seat Walter Kerr Theater is about as far as you can get from an arena.

Easily the smallest venue he’s played in thirty years, it’s difficult to imagine a more perfect place both acoustically, artistically, historically and spiritually for Bruce to tell his stories. Yes it's a Broadway theater, but it is every bit as much an essential character in this transcendent experience as the music is.

I don’t want to give away a lot about the show, because I have friends who will be seeing it soon. I will say this: be ready to laugh, cry, reflect, rejoice, pray (you heard me), be grateful and celebrate with 950 of your newest, closest friends.

There is a point in the show when Bruce talks about his music and the journey we’re all on, hoping he’s been a good traveling companion along the way.

Frankly, I never would have made the trip without him.

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?

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.

You're breaking up

It's not exactly a contest, but I'm thinking this is definitely going to be an audience participation post.

I don't know why this is on my mind (Note to wife: really dear, no reason), but I was thinking about break-up songs. Not the crappy, syrupy ones that have too many strings and A minor notes (impressed aren't you?). Not the teen heartache or poppy Neil Sedaka-esque ones either.

I'm talking about the ones I listened to over and over that either perfectly captured the misery of the moment, or said what I wished I had.

Break-up songs are like fingerprints: everyone has one that's unique to them and their situation. Some are wistful. Some are vengeful. And some just kind of tell it the way it is. That's the kind I usually gravitated to because those songs were always the hardest to argue with.

So not surprisingly, here's the one that was always my favorite.

Now to the audience participation part. First of all, I don't think there's anyone who doesn't like to re-live one of the most painful times in their life over and over (Jewish, hello?).

Here's what we're going to do: let me know your favorite break-up song, and why. As they come in, an impartial panel of break-up and relationship experts here at Rotation And Balance International Headquarters will select the five most popular ones. Not only will they be posted here, but if you're the one who submitted it you'll also receive your break-up song as a gift from iTunes (I'll get your email addresses when we have the winners). That way, when the mood strikes, you'll be able to experience the excruciating pain of a failed relationship over and over again.

It'll be like you're an honorary Jew. Except without the bad wine and lackluster holidays.

You're welcome.

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.

Going to the Matt

For the life of me I don’t understand why YouTube isn’t called RabbitHole. I can’t tell you how many of them I’ve gone down late into the night when sleep seems to have lost my address.

Well, I could tell you but it’d just be embarrassing. Although if you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you know embarrassing isn’t necessarily a dealbreaker.

Anyway, I was going to do a post about my favorite song in the world by a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey, Thunder Road. And I was going to include several versions of it like I’ve done in the past for songs like Tracks of My Tears, Unchained Melody and I Can't Make You Love Me.

That’s when I came across a TR cover by Matt Nathanson.

I’m not particularly fond of Springsteen covers, but Matt Nathanson’s version grabbed me immediately. In the video, there’s a bit of a preamble to the song that showed me humor, and then heart, with a voice that’s as emotional as it is enjoyable.

Buckle up, down the rabbithole I go.

His song Used To Be hits home hard, as does the winsome Blush. Besides, how can you not like a singer with a song where the first line is “I fell asleep, had a dream Bill Murray and I were friends….” I know, right?

Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you that I’m a talented writer and good looking, but could stand to lose a few pounds. Wait, I may have gotten off point there. What I meant was they’ll let you know when I find a song or a singer I like, I play them into oblivion until I have to take a break from them for a while.

Honestly, I just don’t see that happening with Matt Nathanson. He’s one of those singers you can’t help but wonder why he’s not a bigger star, and why his songs aren’t playing everywhere.

See what I mean. Have a look and a listen.

Justin time

Here's how it happened.

We were sitting around having dinner one night, and my son was making fun of my daughter for liking Justin Bieber. Now, I'll admit I've been guilty of this many times my own self.

Every time a song of his would come on, I'd turn to my daughter and say, "Man, that girl can really sing."

She didn't think it was nearly as funny as I did. Especially after the 50th time.

Anyway, not liking to see her brother making fun of her, I promised to take her to see the Justin Bieber film "Never Say Never." When she asked if I'd take her to the midnight show, her brother laughed and said, "Dad will never go to a midnight show of that."

So I looked right at my daughter and said, "Absolutely." Besides, midnight show, months away, on a school night. Really, what were the odds of that ever happening?

That's what I was thinking as I sat at the AMC Theaters in Downtown Disney one minute after midnight Friday morning watching the movie with my daughter and her friend and a theater full of Justin Bieber fans.

Midnight. Seventh circle of hell.

I took this picture of the marquee as I walked in, and was going to post it to my Facebook account with this caption. But a funny thing happened.

I liked the movie.

Not going to go so far as saying I caught Bieber fever, but I will say my perception of who he was going in was changed by the time I walked out.

The first thing that struck me peculiar was the audience. I'd expected a theater full of screaming 11, 12 and 13 year-old girls with their parents snoring loudly in the seat next to them. Not the case at all. The audience was a cross section of tweens, teens, and surprisingly many, many adult Beiber fans.

I understand that you always have to keep in mind the filmmakers are showing you exactly what they want you to see. However, as the film - a combination of documentary and concert footage, home movies and interviews unfolds, what I realized is even though I don't like most of his music, Justin Bieber is a crazy talented kid.

It would appear he is surrounded by people who genuinely care about him, as opposed to someone like Michael Jackson who was surrounded by people who only knew how to say yes to anything he wanted. The dangers of surrounding yourself with people like that are tragically obvious.

No adult in this movie - in particular the tough-as-nails vocal coach who travels on tour with him - has a problem saying no to Justin. He's not the Golden Goose to them. He's a kid, and they're trying to protect as much of that as they can given the extraordinary circumstances he finds himself in. (Yes, I know they're all out of jobs if something happens to him, but that doesn't seem to be their main motivation).

Before I said I don't like most of his music. I've only been exposed to the songs my daughter plays over and over. But in the film there are other songs, many of which I liked.

Owen Gleiberman has an interesting take on it in a piece he wrote for Entertainment Weekly. He makes a lot of good points, but this is the part I think I agree with most:

A lot of people, in other words, hate Justin Bieber because they’re scared of him. Scared of the power that teen pop now wields in our world. But I’m here to tell you that they’ve got it backwards. Justin Bieber isn’t just a product; he’s a genuine, talented, true-blue appealing star. They have pinned their fear and loathing on the wrong phenomenon.

I know I'm going to get a lot of comments and razzing for liking the movie. It's okay, I can take it. And I'll answer them all.

Right after I get back from seeing the movie again with my daughter. And her brother.

Call for backup

They’re the unsung heroes of song. Backup singers.

Tonight I rewatched a spectacular documentary the wife and I had originally seen in the theater when it came out: 20 Feet From Stardom.

The film focuses on the careers of the great Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, Lisa Fischer, Judith Hill, Claudia Lennear, Tata Vega and The Waters Family. In their own words they tell us their stories of the unbelievable highs, crushing lows and relentless persistence it takes to have a career behind the spotlight. And just how hard it is to step out in front of it.

One of the many moving—although sadly not surprising—stories is how poorly Wall Of Sound producer Phil Spector treated Darlene Love and other women of color, taking advantage of them to further his own reputation.

He was a monster even before he shot anyone.

Throughout the film are interviews with Bruce Springsteen (who?), Sting, Mick Jagger and more explaining how their backup singers make or break their songs and shows. Often, the tunes you’re humming while you're walking to your car after the concert, and then sitting in the line of cars waiting to get out that's going to take at least an hour as you wonder why you didn't pony up for preferred parking and use the bathroom before you left the building, are the parts the backup singers were singing.

And then, there are the voices.

As you might imagine the film is chock full of music and songs, and the voices singing them are nothing short of magnificent. Every one of them deserving of a solo career as the headliner.

So no snappy end lines or funny twists of phrase today. Just a recommendation for a great film that deserves to be seen. About enormously talented people who deserve to be recognized.

A late break-up entry

You may remember a while back I did a post about break-up songs, and decided to turn it into a contest for the best one.

If you remember that, you're doing better than I am.

Due to the enormously underwhelming response, not only did I completely forget about it, but the grand prize of the winning song via iTunes remains unclaimed.

So here's what I'm going to do, since I'm not ready to break-up with this contest yet (I know, but I went for it anyway).

Let's give it another go. Submit your best break-up songs, and the selection committee here at Rotation and Balance will pick a winner shortly. We'll even sweeten the heartbreak pot: not only will you win your song from iTunes, you'll get the 5 runner-ups as well.

Entries from last time - Maybe You're Right, Hating You For Christmas and With Or Without You - are still in the running, so for the people who submitted them (you know who you are), no need to resubmit.

Just to get the tears rolling, I'm entering Can We Still Be Friends (don't worry, I'm not eligible to win).

What're you waiting for? Get listening. Because now, dredging up all your bitter, forgotten pain and heartache from the past could mean valuable prizes!

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.

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.

The change was made uptown and the Big Man joined the band

One night my wife and I were sitting second row at a Springsteen concert at the L.A. Sports Arena. It wasn’t an unusual place to find us.

As Bruce and the E Street Band were playing, she leaned over and asked me who I’d want to be onstage. Naturally I said Bruce. Then I asked her the same question. She took a beat, looked up onstage at Clarence, then replied, “Mrs. Clemons.”

I cried tonight when I heard Clarence had died. Not only for the fact of his passing, but for the end of any hope he might recover from the massive stroke he had almost a week ago.

For anyone who saw the last tour, it was easy to see it was a painful time for the Big Man. After two hip replacements, two knee replacements, major spinal surgery, and the wear and tear of carrying his larger than life frame around for 69 years, the Clarence of old – the one who danced with Bruce, jumped down to the runner of the stage, acted in sketches when Bruce was hamming it up (which was often) – was already gone.

His movement was limited to standing up from his ornate, throne-like chair at the side of the stage that he spent most of the concert in, and playing those unimaginably soulful, powerful, moving and profound sax solos as if it were the first time.

He was almost as much a part of the show as Bruce.

It’s virtually impossible to imagine E Street without him. And I guess in the larger sense, he'll always be onstage with them whether he's there or not.

Lots of chatty local news anchors have been wondering if it's the end of E Street. I'm here to tell you it's not. I believe Bruce and the band will tour again, sooner rather than later.

Because in the same way Bruce chose Charlie Giordano as keyboardist after Danny Federici passed away from cancer, he'll eventually choose another outstanding sax player to share the stage with him.

It goes without saying that whoever that turns out to be has some big – really big – shoes to fill.

And while Bruce fans will never be able not to think of Clarence at Bruce's side, they’ll graciously welcome whoever it is because Bruce chose them.

They're good like that.

Together my inner circle of Bruce tramp friends - Kim, Al, Jessie, Chris - have seen hundreds of shows here and around the world. And at every one of them, we talk about how people who aren't there have no idea what they're missing.

I’m so very grateful for all the times I got to see Clarence perform. I’m grateful my children got to see him on E Street.

And I’m especially grateful that Bruce knows continuing to play the songs Clarence loved and lived to play, and to keep rocking it hard, is the best and most lasting tribute he can pay to his dear friend.

Tonight, heaven is blessed.

And Gabriel is thinking he's never heard a horn sound so sweet.

The Big Man is in the house.

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.

The Wind

A few times on here, I've compared and contrasted different artists doing the same song. I did it for Secret Heart, Stand By Me and not that long ago, Tracks Of My Tears.

But I don't think I've ever contrasted an artist against himself (On Tracks Of My Tears, I counted the Smokey Robinson & The Miracles performance as a separate entity from Smokey Robinson singing solo).

As you could have guessed from my post about break-ups, I'm a Cat Stevens fan. I am now, and I was back then.

It's interesting to me that for so long, his religious conversion overshadowed his music. I guess it was to be expected given the political climate, and the fact that he walked away from his former success for so long. But somewhere along the way, he decided to come back to music and performing.

It's a very good thing.

And while age has slowed the songs down a bit, it's done nothing to make them any less heartfelt.

It's also interesting to note that while he's gotten visibly older over the years, I haven't changed at all. At least that's what I like to tell myself (Note to self: get rid of all the mirrors).

So, please to enjoy The Wind as sung by Cat Stevens then. And Yusuf Islam now.

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.

Music lesson

I'm sure you know the guy on the right. Here's a clue: he's Angelina Jolie's father, and he's also a National Treasure (see what I did there?).

If you said Jon Voight, you're correct.

And if you think the guy on the left looks like him, except with Michael Landon's hair, the reason is it's his brother James Wesley Voight, who goes by the stage name Chip Taylor.

You probably haven't heard of James Wesley. And unless you're a music fan you also may not be familiar with Chip Taylor. But you should be.

Chip has written a lot of songs, but is most well known for two of them. The first, surprisingly, is an empowering female anthem that was first made famous by Merrilee Rush, then later a huge hit for Juice Newton ("Hi Mrs. Newton, can Juice come out and play?).

It goes a little something like this:

The other song he wrote has been a rock classic since the minute he penned it. To this day, at keggers worldwide, for no apparent reason groups of drunk frat boys break out singing it. It's also been used to full comic effect in many films, like Major League where it wasn't just a song but was also the character's nickname.

WARNING: There's some rough language in the clip:

It was also one of the many (alright, two) number one with a bullet hits for The Troggs, along with this one.

In the mid-70's, Chip Taylor left music to become a professional gambler. At one point he was betting $10,000 a day on blackjack, and eventually was banned from Vegas casinos for card counting. In the early 90's he returned to music and performing.

I'll end this post by leaving you with Angelina Jolie's uncle performing his version of the song that made him a bazillion dollars over the years:

Closing time

My heart is broken. As a result of the virus and the new world order, one of my favorite restaurants in the world is closing. I first wrote this post about five years ago to the day. And if anything, I love this place even more now than I did then. And as you'll see, I loved it a lot then.

I feel terrible for the entire Walt's Wharf family—chefs, waitstaff, hosts, bartenders. There was never one minute where I didn't feel welcomed and wanted.

It's become a perfect storm for the seafood restaurant (and many others). Because of this bitch virus, the governor's stay-at-home directive and the very real uncertainty of how long they'd have to stay closed, the business simply wasn't sustainable. So after 50 years, 50 years!, they've been forced to shut their doors for good.

I can't remember all the lunch meetings, family dinners and special occasions that were celebrated there. But I'll never forget the meals and the hospitality. I just wish I'd know the last meal I had there was going to be the last meal I had there.

In my dream life, some rich benefactor comes in and saves Walt's Wharf and it just keeps on going. But dreams are just that.

As a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey I'm fond of says in one of his songs, "Is a dream a lie that don't come true, or is it something worse?"

In this case, it is.

Thanks for everything Walt's Wharf. Dining out definitely won't be the same without you.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Then, sometimes, you want to go where no one knows your name but you want to go there anyway.

I like to think of myself as someone who likes to mix it up every now and again. Who maintains an air of unpredictability. An edge of danger. I keep spontenaity alive.

I also like to think of myself as six-foot three, one eighty, blond and ripped. But that's not happening either.

Come to find out I'm actually a creature of habit. Today we met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite places, Walt's Wharf in Seal Beach. It's been there forever, and it's always great. At least what I always order is. Because despite a wide variety of fresh seafood, and a wine selection second to none, I have the exact same meal every time I eat there.

Cup of clam chowder with Tabasco. Small Walt's salad with a salmon filet on top. Iced tea. I wanted you to know in case you're buying.

It's a sure thing every time. The problem is I feel like I should try something else. Logic would tell me if my usual choice is so good, other items must be just as good if not better. On the heels of that, I think this meal makes me happy and what am I so worried about.

Besides, since when did I start living my life according to logic? Not a Vulcan, hello.

I'm not going to say feeling bad for having the same great meal at a nice seafood restaurant is a first world problem, but, you know, draw your own conclusions.

Here's what I'm trying to say. If you want to meet me for lunch at Walt's, and you happen to be in a hurry, don't worry. I know what I'm having.

Storm watch

Years ago there was a funny commercial for a now defunct airline that satirized local news and their panicky Storm Watch weather segments by showing a storm cloud that looked like this one.

Now, making fun of consistently warm and sunny weather in the City of Angels isn't exactly a new idea. But it's always a sure bet. And an easy laugh.

The minute there's a mist (a real mist, not like Stephen King's The Mist - that would be another kind of "watch" altogether) or drizzle in L.A., news programs immediately shift gears and start competing frantically for ratings.

They don't waste any time breaking out their state-of-the-art, scientific, grotesquely expensive Doppler Radar. Mega Doppler Radar. Doppler Radar 2018. And Doppler Radar So Accurate It'll Make Your Head Explode.

As I write this, it's raining outside. Not a hard rain—light and steady. Just like my high school girlfriend. And in a curious case of life imitating wanna-be art, the news weather people—excuse me, meteorologists—are all on Storm Watch for real right now.

It's as if the city was populated entirely by relatives of the Wicked Witch of the West, and newscasters feel they have to get the word out before water hits any of them.

One of the best commentaries on L.A. weather and the way residents react to it was in Steve Martin's L.A. Story. Martin played a whacky weatherman (aren't they all?) who always tried to find entertaining ways to report weather in a city where the weather never changes.

Until one day, it took a terrible turn for the worse.

Random comment: even though it has nothing to do with rain or Storm Watch, the Prius key joke in La La Land is one of my favorite L.A. jokes. Ok, back on point.

Anyway, rain. L.A. You see where I'm going here. I was thinking I'd wrap up this post by writing my way into an end line like a hard rain's gonna fall. Or who'll stop the rain. Maybe rainy days and Mondays. Something like that.

Instead I've decided to abandon the whole Storm Watch/L.A. thing, and leave you with one of my favorite rain-related songs ever.

Dry humor? You're all wet? Nice day if it doesn't rain? How about a ripped from the headlines one like Stormy Daniels. No, I didn't think so. Oh well, I tried. Not hard, but I did try.

Please to enjoy Flight of the Conchords I'm Not Crying.

Walk Away Renee

As you may know, in the past I've compared and contrasted versions of the same song. I did it for Tracks Of My Tears, Stand By Me, Secret Heart, and even a then-and-now comparison of Cat Stevens singing The Wind.

I do it for the sheer pleasure these songs, some classic, bring to the ears and the soul. I do it because there are great versions that don't get seen often enough and deserve to. I do it because it's exciting to discover new artists as they perform old favorites.

But mostly I do it because it's easier than thinking of a new post every day.

The Left Banke recorded the original hit, and their version is included here.

Sad and poignant, teary and nostalgic, melancholy and timeless, please to enjoy these versions of Walk Away Renee.