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Hamilton

This is a piece I wrote in 2016, right after Hamilton won its barrel full of Tonys. Thanks to Disney +, I’m finally set to enjoy my first view of Hamilton this month. And the opportunity prompts me to think back to when I first became aware of the play and its phenomenon, and its peripheral connection between me and and an old college friend.

Leslie Odom, Jr.

This year, for the first time in many, many years, I watched the Tony Awards broadcast.
I don’t watch a lot of awards shows.  Neither the Oscars nor the Emmys hold any interest for me; I record the Grammys and the American Music Awards, but I fast-forward through the looooong stretches of each that bore me to tears–left to my own devices, I can watch a three-hour Grammy or AMA show in twenty to thirty minutes, maybe forty minutes, tops.  Middle-aged power pop fans are just not the target demographic of these shows.
But one of the things that did catch my interest on this year’s Grammys was the performance from the Broadway sensation Hamilton.  Honest to God, I just thought it was captivating.  So I tuned into this year’s Tony Awards show to try ‘n’ soak up a bit more of that Hamilton buzz; and, more specifically, my wife Brenda and I wanted to root for Leslie Odom, Jr., the actor who plays Aaron Burr in Hamilton.  Now, we’ve never actually met Leslie; but–a very long time ago–we knew his Mom and his Dad.
First, a bit of background about me and The Great White Way.  I’ve spent a lot of time writing about rock ‘n’ roll, punk, bubblegum, pop, and power pop.  It may surprise some to learn that someone like me–whose all-time favorite musical acts are The BeatlesThe Ramones,The FlashcubesThe Kinks, and The Monkees–also loves Broadway.  But there were always Original Broadway Cast albums around the house when I was a kid, so I was exposed to this music, immersed in it, since even before John, Paul, George, and Ringo paid that first visit to ol’ stoneface Ed Sullivan one Sunday night in ’64.  As a toddler, I would accompany my parents on shopping trips to J.M. Fields or K-Mart, and I’d randomly sing snippets o’ show tunes while sitting in the shopping cart.  This could border on the awkward and embarrassing, like when I would suddenly bellow, Here’s to the son of a B–tra la! from Carnival, or re-enact the domestic quarrel scene from Gypsy, concluding that I was gettin’ my kids and gettin’ out.  Hello, Child Protection?  Yeah, there’s this kid in the department store, and you won’t believe what’s comin’ outta his mouth…!
West Side Story.  The Music Man.  Camelot.  Funny Girl.  Carousel.  And, my favorite, Carnival.  I heard all of these, and many more, and they were ultimately as much a part of my formative musical alchemy as the British Invasion and The Monkees.  The lure of rock ‘n’ roll was ultimately too much competition for musical theater to withstand, but I never exactly stopped loving Broadway, either.  I’ve never seen a play on Broadway, but I did see an Off-Broadway production of Jesus Christ Superstar in 1973, and I saw Wicked in London’s West End in 2010.  I’ve seen many, many local theatrical productions, both professional and amateur; Brenda and I have even been known to attend high school musicals, and I mean high school musicals where we didn’t know any of the student performers–we were just there to enjoy the play.


This ongoing love of music and musicals also led me to a short-lived TV series called Smash.  Smash ran for two seasons, from 2012 to 2013, and it was kind of a mess, really.  But it had its moments, and I never missed an episode.  And I noticed an actor who had a recurring role on Smash, and I called Brenda in while I watching him on the show.  Hey, Bren.  This actor’s name is Leslie Odom, Jr.  It could be a coincidence, but damn–doesn’t he look a little like Les?
I met Les Odom in college at Brockport, in Spring of 1979, I think.  Les was friends with a couple of the guys I lived with, Truck Thacker and Ray Ramos, so I saw Les here and there in our dorm suite–partying, kibbitzing, listening to music (with The O’Jays‘ live “Wildflower” a particular favorite, as I recall).  Les was from Queens, so he was on the school’s charter bus to New York City during Spring Break; I was also on that charter bus, accompanying Brenda back to Staten Island, where I would be meeting her parents for the first time (and, of course, also making a side trip to see The Flashcubes play on the Bowery).  That bus trip was a bacchanalia on wheels, a mobile version of dorm life, and enough fun that I only minded a little when all these downstaters kept putting down my home town when the bus passed through Syracuse.  You call this a city?  Man, this ain’t even big enough to be a borough!
(And this may be a case of my memory rearranging facts to suit my narrative, but I do believe it was Les who said, Naw, man–come on!  It seems like a nice place.  Leave CC be!)
When I graduated from college in 1980, I decided to stay in Brockport while Brenda completed her studies.  We got an apartment in the village, and were surprised to discover that Les and his girlfriend, Yvette Nixon, were also living in the same small complex, Villager Apartments.  We were never really tight, but we renewed our friendship nonetheless, and spent some time hanging out over the course of that summer. I have a specific, vivid memory of Yvette making dinner for us in their apartment one night, and we spent a lovely evening drinking and partying, alternating between watching Ted Kennedy’s firebrand speech at the Democratic National Convention and listening to James Brown’s Live At The Apollo LP.  I remember it as a happy, happy time.
But Villager Apartments didn’t seem to remain a happy place for Les and Yvette.  Brenda and I both remember them as a really cool, very nice couple, and we all got on quite well.  But Villager’s manager, Pete–who lived next door to Brenda and I, and was also a friend of ours at the time–may not have shared our affection for Les and Yvette.  It may have been racial (which is an easy stone to cast, even when it’s not true), or it may have been a simple matter of friction between tenants and an apartment manager.  I didn’t see any of it.  All I know is what Pete told me: that Les was banging on Pete’s door late one night, presumably to report a problem with Les and Yvette’s place, and Pete opened the door and pointed a gun at Les.  Les shouted, No, Pete!  It’s me–Les!  No shots were fired, and no one was hurt, thank God.  But Les and Yvette moved out not long after that.  We never saw them again.
When we saw this Leslie Odom, Jr. on Smash, we knew in our hearts he had to be Les’ son.  Had to be.  Odom’s a common name, but the resemblance was strong enough.  Now, Les was a big guy, and Leslie, Jr. didn’t seem to be as physically large–well, on TV, anyway.  But Yvette was of slighter build, so it was plausible. I did the Google Stalk thing that everyone does now:  Leslie Odom, Jr. was born in August of 1981 in Queens–roughly a year after we’d last seen Les and Yvette, and in Les’ home town.  But no matter how much we researched, we couldn’t confirm the identities of this actor’s parents.  Well, yeah, we knew his father was Leslie Odom, Sr–we are indeed that well-versed in the time-honored art of deduction–but we didn’t know his mother’s name, and we couldn’t say with absolute certainty that his Dad was the Les we used to know.
When we saw the performance from Hamilton on this year’s Grammys telecast, we noticed Leslie Odom, Jr. in a prominent role.  The performance was intriguing; the idea of “a hip-hop musical” wasn’t intrinsically attractive to me, but this seemed so powerful, so well-executed, so goddamned irresistible, that it just knocked me out, man.  My budget wasn’t likely to accommodate a trip to New York and Hamilton tickets any time soon, but I kept my eyes open for further TV glimpses.  Everyone knew Hamilton was going to dominate the Tonys.  And that meant Brenda and I were going to watch the Tonys.
The awards show itself was amazing, actually.  Host James Corden was fantastic, the comedy bits and musical numbers were endlessly engaging, and–unlike the Grammys or the AMAs–I never felt like fast-forwarding through anything except the commercials.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening of television.  Watching the scene from Hamilton, I found myself mesmerized; the only comparison I could think of was The Beach Boys‘ masterpiece Pet Sounds; not because Hamilton is in any way reminiscent of Pet Sounds, but simply because that’s what comes to mind when something is as good as it gets, nonpareil, a summit of achievement and accomplishment.  Tough to make that pronouncement based on a couple of numbers seen on a 32″ TV screen, but screw objectivity anyway.  There was a giddy joy in surrendering to the moment, and letting it sweep all cynicism away.
When it came time to award the prize for Best Actor In A Musical, we knew that Leslie was up against Hamilton‘s creator and star, Lin-Manuel Miranda, and we figured Miranda was a lock. But Leslie won!  We whooped and hollered as if he were one of our own.  And, in the conclusion of his acceptance speech, Leslie, Jr. acknowledged, “Leslie Odom, Sr., Yvette Odom, and Elizabeth Odom taught me well as well.”
And there it was.  Confirmation!  I’m not embarrassed to admit that Brenda and I both screeched like young teens at a One Direction show. And we’re pretty sure we saw Les–Les, Sr.–in the audience, pumping his fist in jubilation, proud of his son. It felt so damned good.
They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway.  Sometimes that harsh glow can be blinding, too much to take in; but sometimes, there really is magic in the air.  That magic can manifest in music and art, and also in friendships long gone, but still remembered fondly.  That glitter never rubs off.  It never will.

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THE BANDS THAT WOULD BE KINKS! Vicarious Introductions To Various Songs By The Kinks

While I was driving home from work the other day, my iPod shuffled its way to “I Need You” by The Kinks. “I Need You” was the lesser-known third entry of the early Kinks’ triumvirate of powerhouse riffs, following the big 1964 hits “You Really Got Me” and “All Day And All Of The Night.” Unlike those first two, “I Need You” wasn’t a hit; it was, in fact, merely the B-side of the ’65 single “Set Me Free.” Though more obscure than its big brudders, “I Need You” nearly equals the hypnotic ferocity of its predecessors.

But my introduction to the headbanging splendor of “I Need You” did not come via The Kinks. I first heard the song when The Flashcubes included it in their live sets in 1978. Love at first power chord!

It occurred to me that there were several Kinks songs which I discovered vicariously. Among my all-time favorite rock ‘n’ roll acts, The Kinks are the only one where my initial exposure to a number of their classic songs came when somebody else covered ’em. That’s certainly not true of any songs by The Flashcubes, The Ramones, or The Monkees. The only Beatles songs I remember first hearing second-hand were Anne Murray‘s “You Won’t See Me” and Rain‘s “Helter Skelter” (from the TV mini-series about Charles Manson). I knew Cliff Richard‘s “Blue Turns To Grey” before I knew The Rolling Stones‘ original. I heard Syracuse chanteuse Nanci Hammond‘s rendition of “In My Room” long before I even realized it was a Beach Boys song (which was odd, because we had the Surfer Girl LP in the family collection when I was a kid, but I didn’t notice it). Hell, it wasn’t until the 90s that I discovered The Hollies wrote and recorded the original “Have You Ever Loved Somebody,” which had been one of my Fave Raves by The Searchers. See, I never learn…!

The Kinks were a different story, and I don’t know why. Ultimately, I’m grateful for whatever twisting path brought me to Muswell Hill’s finest. I did become a Kinks fan before I heard any of these Kinks covers, but these well-respected men and women helped to enhance the journey.

THE FLASHCUBES

As noted, Syracuse’s own power pop powerhouse The Flashcubes introduced me to The Kinks’ “I Need You.” It wasn’t the only Kinks song I heard the ‘Cubes do, but I knew “You Really Got Me,” “Where Have All The Good Times Gone” and “This Man He Weeps Tonight” well before I heard The Flashcubes cover them live. (Among other songs the ‘Cubes taught me were Big Star‘s “September Gurls,” The Jam‘s “In The City,” Eddie & the Hot Rods‘ “Do Anything You Wanna Do,” The New York Dolls‘ “Personality Crisis,” Chris Spedding‘s “Boogie City” and “Hey Miss Betty,” April Wine‘s “Tonight Is A Wonderful Time,” and Eddie Cochran‘s “Somethin’ Else.” I love The Flashcubes.) After hearing the ‘Cubes perform “I Need You,” I really wanted to hear The Kinks! However, The Kinks’ Kinkdom LP was outta print at the time, and a used copy at Desert Shore Records in Syracuse was stickered with a higher price than this po’ college student could afford. Finally snagged it on a budget compilation in the mid ’80s.

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY

By far the most recent example on this list. When my nephew Tim co-hosted This Is Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio a few years back, his playlist included Holly Golightly’s covers of two Ray Davies songs, “Tell Me Now So I’ll Know” and “Time Will Tell,” both from her 2003 album Truly She Is None Other. I wasn’t immediately familiar with either song–The Kinks’ version of “Time Will Tell” was an unreleased demo track at the time–but they got my attention. Holly Golightly’s magnificent rendition of “Time Will Tell” is one of but three Kinks covers out there that I prefer to the original version.

HERMAN’S HERMITS

I’m pretty sure I heard Herman’s Hermits’ hit cover of “Dandy” well before I heard The Kinks’ original. It may have been close, though; I don’t remember “Dandy” on the radio at all, not even on oldies shows, so I may not have heard it until I bought a used copy of the Hermits’ “Dandy” single in the late ’70s.

LYRES

I once wrote in Goldmine that the great Boston group Lyres didn’t want to be like the early Kinks, they wanted to be the early Kinks. I meant it as a compliment, and Lyres’ On Fyre remains one of my very favorite albums of the ’80s. On Fyre includes a cover of The Kinks’ “Tired Of Waiting For You,” and I certainly knew that one already. But I didn’t know “Love Me Till The Sun Shines,” a Dave Davies song, and Lyres’ version just floored me. Another one of the three Kinks covers I prefer to the original.

THE PRETENDERS

Yeah, The Pretenders’ “Stop Your Sobbing” is the third of the three Kinks covers I prefer to the original. Whatta record! The Pretenders also introduced me to another obscure Kinks song, “I Go To Sleep” (also covered by Peggy Lee), but “Stop Your Sobbing” was the kingpin.

THE RECORDS

The Records’ 1979 eponymous debut album originally came with a 7″ EP of covers. Of the four EP songs, the only original I knew beforehand was The Rolling Stones’ “Have You Seen Your Mother Baby (Standing In The Shadows).” I don’t think I knew Spirit‘s “1984.” I definitely did not know Blue Ash‘s power pop classic “Abracadabra (Have You Seen Her).” Nor did I know The Kinks’ wonderful “See My Friends,” which is now one of my many favorite Kinks tracks, but which was introduced to me via a cover by The Records. Thanks, lads!

VAN HALEN

Nope. Just kidding. And once again: why do I love The Kinks? Because they’re The Kinks. And God save The Kinks.

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To Beat Or Not To Beat

Call me a bundle of nerves. Call me a frustrated Ringo Starr. Most people just call me annoying, because I can’t stop drumming. I don’t mean sitting at a drum kit, bashin’ away while a garage band of my peers stumbles through a gloriously inept approximation of “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone.” That would be great! No, the vehicles of my percussive assaults are counter tops, tables, even my own legs if I happen to be sitting down. Maybe there’s actually a song playing, as I attempt to keep time with it in my own inherently flawed fashion; often, it’s just an imaginary song in my head. Either way, I try to play along. Badly. And it pisses people off.

When did this start? Probably when I was a teenager, I guess, though maybe earlier. I did receive a set of bongos from my great grandmother’s husband in 1968, when I was eight years old, and I certainly enjoyed pounding those pagan skins. About a decade later, I would take those bongos with me to college and go on to become percussionist for internationally obscure jazz combo Bud Mackintaw & the Skeeters (but that’s another story).

I’ve generally drummed by hand–it’s the bongo player in me–but I’ve owned drumsticks, too. My first sticks were castoffs from real drummers playing live rock ‘n’ roll, projectiles that slipped through the grips of Tommy Allen of The FlashcubesBarry Whitwam of Herman’s Hermits, or Martin Chambers of The Pretenders, among others. I also bought myself a pair of drumsticks somewhere in there because…I dunno. I just wanted to participate. I wanted to be a musician. A guitarist. A singer. Something. Drumming was the easiest thing to fake.

For all that, I’ve never even sat at a drum kit, not once, not ever. It almost happened one time in college, when my roommate Paul and I were working on a campus radio station commercial for a local chicken wing place called Munchies. Trust me, Munchies had the best Buffalo wings imaginable, and I wrote a radio commercial celebrating that rainbow of spice (from mild to abusive and even nuclear), all to the tune of “(Theme From) The Monkees:” Hey hey, we’re the Munchies! Clever? That’s me! There was a drum kit available for our use in producing the commercial, and Paul suggested I handle the percussion. I protested that I wasn’t really a drummer, but Paul said what the hell, I could keep time adequately when attacking a chair with my sticks to provide rhythmic accompaniment to Blondie‘s “Accidents Never Happen” back at the dorm, so, y’know, good enough. Well, fine by me! But scheduling complications and technical issues in the production room scuttled the whole thing.

My attempts at drumming have mostly been a source of tension and discord for those around me. The night before our wedding in 1984, my bride-to-be Brenda and I went out with a bunch of pals for drinks and merriment. There was fun! There was camaraderie! There was beer! There was music, which meant there was me, drummin’ on the table with manic glee. And there were the unaffiliated folks at the next table over, angrily insisting I cease that infernal pounding. Brenda thought it was hilarious.

After decades of complaints, I’ve grown tired of it all. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been making a conscious effort to curtail the drumming. It’s difficult, because the rhythmic impulse is ingrained within me, in spite of my lack of discernible prowess. But I’m trying. People hate to hear me pounding on counters, and I understand that. It’s a flaw in my character. I don’t think it’s quite as heinous as some character flaws I don’t exhibit, like smoking, or farting, or talking during a movie, or voting for Trump. But I have to grudgingly admit that it’s a character flaw nonetheless. I fall so far short of being who I wish I could be. I talk too fast. I don’t enunciate with sufficient clarity. I drum. But I’m trying to fit in better. I’m trying not to be an annoyance. I’m trying.

I’m not giving up air guitar, though. Let’s not get crazy. Some concessions are simply too much to ask.

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The Everlasting First: The Jam

Continuing a look back at my first exposure to a number of rock ‘n’ roll acts and superheroes (or other denizens of print or periodical publication), some of which were passing fancies, and some of which I went on to kinda like. They say you never forget your first time; that may be true, but it’s the subsequent visits–the second time, the fourth time, the twentieth time, the hundredth time–that define our relationships with the things we cherish. Ultimately, the first meeting is less important than what comes after that. But every love story still needs to begin with that first kiss.


Anyone who knows me also knows who my favorite bands are: The BeatlesThe Ramones,The FlashcubesThe Monkees, and The Kinks. There are dozens and dozens of worthy acts that I love almost as much–I am proud to be a pop music fanatic and obsessive–but I think I’ve made it clear that this fantastic five sits permanently up there as my Top, my Coliseum, my Louvre Museum, et al.
The Jam used to be right up there with those Beatles and Ramones, too. While I certainly never stopped loving The Jam, they’re not as ever-present in my mind as they were a few decades ago. But in the late ’70s and early ’80s, The Jam rivaled The Ramones for the coveted title of Carl’s favorite rock ‘n’ roll group.

My introduction to The Jam was inauspicious, to say the least. One afternoon in the Fall of 1977, I was lounging in my freshman dorm room, listening to Brockport’s campus radio station WBSU. I listened to WBSU, like, all of the time, constantly pestering the student jocks to play more of the new punk/new wave stuff I wanted to discover–BlondieThe DictatorsThe Runaways, and the above-mentioned Ramones brudders–and also more of the ’60s stuff I loved, from The Raiders (“Let Me!”) and The Dave Clark Five (“Any Way You Want It”) through The Monkees (the station owned the only copy of the group’s Changes LP I had ever seen, though some of the BSU jocks flatly refused to ever play anything by The Monkees).

But this particular afternoon was a singularly revelatory WBSU session, as I heard The Flamin’ Groovies (“Misery”), The Vogues (“Five O’Clock World”), and The Knickerbockers (“Lies”) for the first time. And the station also played a brand-new song by a punk group out of England, performing a cover of “The Batman Theme.” As I heard the song play, I wrote in my journal: “1977 and Batman’s a punk. Progress.”

And that was the first time I heard The Jam.

From small things mama, as Bossman Brucie would later say. If I seemed dismissive at the time, I think I was nonetheless intrigued. The Jam next crossed my consciousness in October, when TV’s The Tomorrow Show took a look at this punk rock thing that was driving some of these mixed-up kids crazy, with the pogo dancing and the safety pins and the anarchy and the use of impolite language. Tomorrow Show host Tom Snyder promised “a punk-rock jam,” but he was himself mixed-up; what he meant was that his guests would include The Jam’s Paul Weller, along with Joan Jett from The Runaways, and Kim Fowley, The Runaways’ former manager. I don’t remember much about this show, other than a sense of no love lost between Jett and Fowley, and the fact that I’d already developed a serious crush on our Joanie (“crush” in the sense that I wanted to hug her and squeeze her and call her Gorgeous; my girlfriend Sharon was neither impressed nor amused). I have a vague recollection that Weller was serious and focused, and that he knew what he was talking about, but the precise details are lost in the cluttered hallway of my memory. I really oughta at least try applying a feather duster to that place some time.

I’m not exactly sure of the sequence of events after that, of how I went from The Jam? to THE JAM!! I do know there were four specific songs involved: “In The City,” “I Need You (For Someone),” “The Modern World,” and “All Around The World.” I can’t tell you where or when I first heard any of these, but I can tell you that the first two were staples of The Flashcubes’ live set. I saw the ‘Cubes for the first time in January of ’78, and it was immediately clear that any songthey did was okay by me. I bought the U.S. Polydor 45 of “I Need You (For Someone)”/”In The City,” and played it often.  I picked up import singles of “The Modern World” (a track I think the ‘Cubes also used to cover) and “All Around The World” when I worked at Penn-Cann Mall in North Syracuse that summer. I was hooked. Guitarist Weller, bassist Bruce Foxton, and drummer Rick Buckler had created exactly the sort of modern world I wanted to inhabit.

I returned to Brockport for my sophomore year in the fall of 1978. By then, the previously-cited girlfriend Sharon was already three or four heartbreaks ago. In early October of that semester, I aced some test or paper or somesuch, and felt I deserved a reward; so it was down to The Record Grove, where I purchased a copy of The Jam’s second LP, This Is The Modern World. I went back to my dorm, and put it on my roommate’s stereo, the volume set somewhere north of lethal. God, I loved this record on first spin. Just about everyone considers it The Jam’s least-noteworthy effort, but it’s always gonna be special to me. “The Modern World.” “All Around The World.” “I Need You (For Someone).” Then on to the tracks I didn’t already know: “Standards.” “Life From A Window.” Wilson Pickett‘s “In The Midnight Hour.” I couldn’t play Side One loud enough.

My next-door neighbor, on the other hand, thought it was already a wee bit too noisy. I hadn’t even met this chick yet, but she pounded on our mutual bedroom wall, imploring me to turn that goddamned racket down already. I grumbled, cursed, but complied. Ever the gentleman, that’s me! I did eventually meet this girl next door later that month. Her name was Brenda. Wonder whatever became of her…?

(And yes, she still thinks I play that goddamned racket too loud.)

The Jam didn’t exactly fall beneath my radar after that, but I didn’t get their next album, All Mod Cons, until well after the fact. Someone–either my then-current roommate Tom or my future roommate Paul–played “Down In The Tube Station At Midnight” for me on his WBSU show in the spring of ’79; I liked it, I guess, though it didn’t have the exuberance, the immediacy of the Jam tunes I already loved. It was…mature. It would take some getting used to.

By the time I adjusted to the idea of a more grownup-sounding Jam, the group hit me with a new album, Setting Sons. What an amazing record this was! I rarely listen to whole albums nowadays, but I owe myself the pleasure of giving this another complete spin soon. Supposedly originally created as a concept album–a dirty phrase in the post-punk world of 1979-1980–Setting Sons succeeds as a stunning song cycle, simmering with the charred embers of shattered idealism, discarded friendships, wistful memory, and defiant hope. I regard Setting Sons as The Jam’s masterpiece.

The Jam’s follow-up album, Sound Affects, was nearly as good, highlighted by “That’s Entertainment,” an unforgettable number that Weller is said to have written following a pub crawl; the track would have been worthy of The Kinks. The “Going Underground” single was another winner, and The Jam were firmly ensconced near the Toppermost of my Poppermost.

And then they were gone. Another album (The Gift), and a pair of 1982 farewell singles, “The Bitterest Pill (I Ever Had To Swallow)” and “Beat Surrender,” and Weller pulled the plug. The Jam never caught on in the States at all, but they were huge stars in Great Britain, and they quit at the height of their success. I never had much interest in Weller’s next project, The Style Council, but I have to concede neither he nor the rest of The Jam owed me anything. They’d already shown me the modern world, and all around the world: in the city, down in the tube station at midnight, lost in a strange town, Eton rifles beneath a burning sky, gone underground to a town called Malice. That’s entertainment.

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I’m In Love With A Sound

By Carl Cafarelli

You love music. But what do you really, really love about music?

I have a sound in my head.

If you want to be highfalutin’, you could say it’s an audio equivalent of Plato’s Forms, an abstract ideal that represents the perfect sound, beyond human realization, just outside our mortal ability to craft and replicate in this mundane real world. If you prefer to remain grounded to the planet we inhabit, you can call this sound a mere (?!) joyous reflection of every song I’ve ever heard, every tune I’ve ever loved, and every fantasy I’ve ever entertained of the promise of pop music.

But it’s neither. It’s an AM radio, tuned to an imaginary station that never existed. It’s as real as dreams, as corporeal as passion, and as timeless as memory, experience, grace, hope, ambition, disappointment, and love. It kinda sounds like The Beatles in 1965. Also James Brown. The Ramones. The Bay City Rollers. Otis Redding. Chuck Berry. The Everly Brothers. The Sex Pistols. Paul Revere & the Raiders. Prince. The Go-Go’s. The Isley Brothers playing “Summer Breeze.” KISS singing “Shout It Out Loud.” The Monkees being The Monkees. The Flashcubes. God, The Flashcubes!

What do I really, really love about music?

Everything.

I can’t narrow it down more than that. I love the way music makes me feel, even when the feeling is melancholy, like how The Kinks’ “Days” reminds me that I recited the lyrics of that song at my Dad’s funeral, or when some random tune recalls past betrayals, lies, or heartbreak. Lyrics. Hooks. Harmonies. The drum, the bass, the guitars. “It’s My Life” by The Animals blows me away every time I hear it, its self-assured wall of melody unerringly prompting me to marvel at the precise, perfect placement of each note, each lick. Everything in its place. “Twenty-Four Hours From Tulsa.” “On Broadway.” Badfinger’s “Baby Blue.” Bowie’s “Life On Mars?” “God Only Knows,” and the entirety of Pet Sounds.  “In The Midnight Hour.” “Laugh, Laugh.” “Freedom” by Wham!, ferchrissakes. “I Only Want To Be With You.” “I Wanna Be With You.” “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend.”

I’m writing a book called The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1). Notice the singular rather than the plural “records;” an infinite number of records can be The Greatest Record Ever Made, as long as they take turns. (“September Gurls.”) You live your life within each song as it plays. (“The Tears Of A Clown.”) Your faith is fully invested, without reservation, and your belief is rewarded with each never-ending spin. (“Kick Out The Jams,” muthas and bruthas.) The allegiance is eternal, immortal…at least, until the next song plays.

Do you believe in magic? I do. And that means I’m unable–unwilling–to dissect music’s appeal. That would be like trying to tell a stranger about rock ‘n’ roll. Well, actually, I’m eager to do that.  But my discourse will retain its reverence, its delight, its wonder, its awe. My cranial transistor is tuned to Sly Stone, Alice Cooper, Suzi Quatro, Rotary Connection, Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, The Shangri-Las, P.P. Arnold, The Smithereens, The Four Tops, and to a bunch of singers and groups I haven’t even heard yet. But I will. I’ll hear ’em all. What do I really, really love about music? My God, what is there not to love? And how would we even know how to love if we didn’t have it?

The beat’s cool, too. I do dig the beat.