A Rat, Michael Jackson and the Piano

Kerry called, "Did you hear that Michael Jackson is dead?"

I don't know if I answered. What I do knew remember was how mixed my emotions were. Michael Jackson was about my age. We were children together. But, mostly, I remembered "Ben." A love song to a rat. I'm sure everyone else was thinking of "Thriller" or "Billy Jean," songs that changed the world. Not me. I was thinking about THAT song.

In fairness, I have my reasons. "Ben" was the first "real" song I learned to play on the piano. I remember the bumpy texture of the gray sheet music. The squeak of the hard piano stool as my little butt squirmed. The smell of "Lemon Pledge" furniture polish that my mom drenched our old acorn brown piano with until it reeked like oil and very old lemonade -- and shimmered like a country pond in August. That smelly old player piano was amazing.

It played -- all by itself (and with the maniacal pumping of a ten-year-old high on one too many Shasta cherry colas and six giant pixie sticks): "Red Wing," "She Wore A Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" and "Yes, We Have No Bananas!" My collie's tail thumped on the oak floor. She, Lightening, was so happy to be next to me and endured my playing (now that's love) as she panted in the summer heat -- and drooled on my bare feet. Bliss!

I hit a key. Me... me playing a SONG, which was probably halting and awful... but as a kid, it was magic. I hit a note and MAGIC would happen. Music was a friend I could summon like a genie and it would do what I asked without question. It was my best friend. It was the dog that would never have to be put to sleep because we had to move from the country into a tiny place in Rochester. It was what the inside of my head sounded like. It could cease my thoughts from running off in a thousand directions as they all stopped, listened -- and heard beauty.

That is the moment my life-long love for music began. Hearing that song always takes me back to a lazy summer day in Minnesota. My confusion about what I should feel fades away into that memory, childhood and an innocent love of music. Michael wasn't much older than I when he sang that song. Now he's gone. The world is a lot less innocent. I certainly am. But it is that innocent world that I find myself in every time I hear that song. I'm a kid at a piano discovering magic for the first time.

Ben 
by Walter Scharf / Don Black

Ben, the two of us need look no more 
We both found what we were looking for 
With a friend to call my own 
I'll never be alone 
And you, my friend, will see 
You've got a friend in me 
(you've got a friend in me) 

Ben, you're always running here and there 
You feel you're not wanted anywhere 
If you ever look behind 
And don't like what you find 
There's one thing you should know 
You've got a place to go 
(you've got a place to go) 

I used to say "I" and "me" 
Now it's "us", now it's "we" 
I used to say "I" and "me" 
Now it's "us", now it's "we" 
Ben, most people would turn you away 
I don't listen to a word they say 
They don't see you as I do 
I wish they would try to 
I'm sure they'd think again 
If they had a friend like Ben 
(a friend) Like Ben 
(like Ben) Like Ben 

Video for "Ben"

Really Creepy

I have been worrying about Sarah Mclachlan. How can she compete in a changing music world? I was fretting that she might get all Lady Gaga with it and make a painfully awkward CD appealing to kids. My heroes have embarrassed me before. I have a cardboard box full of embarrassment: artist who listened to the freakin' marketing people instead of their own gut. I still have nightmares of old 60's rockers recording disco songs in the 70's. Or artists from the 1970's recording syn-pop or punk in the 80's. Those albums sit in my closet -- to be pulled out on rainy, depressed days when I feel like a loser and want to feel better about my life. I may be a idiot, but at least I didn't put on pink leopard-print spandex and sing "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"

When will they learn? The kids will always look at "old people" trying to act with-it and hip as, well -- really creepy. Think grandma trying to dress like her teenage granddaughter.  Think Cher. If I were her daughter I'd change my sex and name too. An artist should do what they loved to do (example Tony Bennett) and new generations of fans will find them. Integrity isn't the worst word in the English language. It sure beats "creepy" and "pathetic" all to hell.

I love Sarah's album for being so, well, Sarah. Today I read the reviews that I didn't look at until I heard the album myself (and formed my own damn opinion... thank you very much). "Integrity" isn't the word they used. Try: "Nothing new...", "This could have been recorded in the 90's...", "She's preaching to the converted..." Better yet, they end by giving Sarah advice on how to "fix" her career. Marketing people and meddling record reviewers deserve a very cold place in hell. Abandon all hope ye who take their advice.

It was a relief to hear Sarah staying true to herself. But how would that sell? Her single isn't. I posted a picture of her ass in my last article in hopes of generating interest. The responds? A friend of mine looked at Sarah butt and said "Ohhh, that's kinda hot... in a celluloid kind of way." 

Well, today the critics can kiss her big fat Canadian ass. Sarah knows something they didn't. There are two music worlds now: kids downloading the latest Gaga single for free and the... umm, well... old people like myself. People who love CDs. I have portions of an article by Sarah Rodman below that is hilarious and enlightening. It points out why Sarah McLachlan is still the Queen of the album charts. I particularly love this part: "We're appealing to the last buying vestiges of the public, because adults don't steal, because we don't know how to..."


Music for the older set climbs the CD charts

By Sarah Rodman 
Boston Globe Staff / June 16, 2010 

“Laws of Illusion,’’ the new CD by adult contemporary singer Sarah McLachlan, came out yesterday and will almost certainly debut near the top of the Billboard album chart. Sade had a number one hit in February with her first album in 10 years. Michael Buble, Barbra Streisand, Susan Boyle — all singers who appeal to the over-40 crowd — have recently enjoyed top-five debuts on the album chart.

As consumers buy fewer and fewer CDs, an interesting phenomenon is occurring — artists who appeal to older listeners are showing up surprisingly high on the charts.

The reason: Adults are largely the ones buying CDs these days. Younger people tend to download in general and focus on singles.

“We’re appealing to the last buying vestiges of the public, because adults don’t steal, because we don’t know how to,’’ said legendary producer and songwriter David Foster, who produced Buble’s latest album. Older consumers, he said, are “still married to the concept of ‘put the CD in the car, put the CD in the library.’ We’re still in that zone, and that’s why this is still working.’’

To be sure, the hottest of the pop and hip-hop acts aimed at the younger demographic — Justin Bieber and Eminem, to name two — are still cracking the top spots on the album chart, but more and more it is the acts that appeal to older listeners that rise to the top. Streisand managed to best Mariah Carey when the divas’ most recent releases went head to head for the top spot in October.

Partly this is due to lower overall album sales. The recent reissue of the Rolling Stones’ 1972 album “Exile on Main Street’’ debuted at number two on the strength of only 76,000 copies sold, according to Nielsen Soundscan. Sales in that range have been equally winning for other “heritage acts’’ like Carole King and James Taylor, and Melissa Etheridge. (This has also been a boon to indie acts, which can debut high on the chart with totals in the 40,000 range.)

Mike Mullaney, music director at radio station Mix 104.1, which plays older artists like McLachlan and younger acts like Lady Antebellum, says fans of rock, country, and adult contemporary — largely older listeners — tend to be supportive of individual artists, “whereas the pop world is much more song-oriented.’’

“Most people won’t give you the gift of a download card; they’ll buy you a CD,’’ Pietroluongo said. “A lot of these artists that have done well, like the Susan Boyles and the Michael Bubles and the Josh Grobans. It’s like, ‘Well, what am I going to get my mom, sister, aunt, grandma as a gift or a stocking stuffer that’s under 20 bucks?’ ’’

Sarah Rodman can be reached at srodman@globe.com. 
© Copyright 2010 Globe Newspaper Company.

I have used only the portions of the article that reinforce my snarky point. For the full article, click here.

Tit

Like the title? Does it make you want to download music? It should. A while ago Hayley Williams of Paramore...

A) had her twitter account hacked...

B) didn't understand the difference between a private and a public message in a new app...

C) wanted to generate interest in her music...

...and a picture she took of herself topless magically appeared on her Twitter account.

Since then people have started following her twitter account in droves, her single with B.o.B. "Airplanes" is near the top of the charts and Paramore just sold out the O2 Arena in England. Dang, those must be a pretty amazing pair. Well, frankly my dear, I've seen her breasts and... I downloaded the single. The power of a pair of boobs is amazing. But in my defense Hayley has orange hair, is a little pixie, wares the geekiest glasses, has a tattoo on her leg that reads: "Shave Me" and is so EMO. How could I not be smitten? She's everything I like in a gal. And in fairness she is a good singer.

Who am I kidding? I fell for it. Sucker.

Now I've been hearing rumblings that Sarah McLachlan's 2010 Lilth Fair is fumbling toward bankruptcy. That's awful. Her latest album, "Laws of Illusion", is her best CD yet. She may have written better songs ("Possession", "Angel", and "Good Enough") but no album holds together better as a complete work from beginning to end. It is about her marriage: the trouble, the end and the emotional aftermath. It is a real, heartfelt masterpiece and... her first single hasn't even charted. 

She has talent, a compelling story, and an amazing voice. Didn't she pave the way for so many women in music (who are to "busy" to perform at the 2010 Lilth Fair)? Where did she go wrong? What does Hayley, Lady Gaga, Britney, Christina, Katy, Hannah and Mylie got that Sarah ain't got?

Oh, showing those? Mmmm, you're right. Let me fix that. Mr. and Ms. Fan, for your viewing pleasure: Sarah McLachlan's butt. Now run out and buy her CD already. Don't make me post an upskirt of Katy Perry. And as for you Hayley, Gaga, Britney, Christina, Katy, Hannah and Mylie... as far as I'm concerned, you can kiss Sarah McLachlan's big fat Canadian ass.

Thank You. Thank You Very Much...

To me, they are the most frightening three words in the English language: Elvis impersonator performing. I have avoided that hideous sight all my life. Oh, there have been close calls. I have been in the same building. I even heard the growl of "Hunka hunka burnin' love..." in the distance, but like a rat sensing a ship's impending doom, I have always scurried away quickly enough to avoid having to vomit or suffer a stroke.

I know, that seems a bit harsh. But you’re not me. You don’t know how the neurons fire in my head: those odd connections that my emotional, intellectual and subconscious scars have formed over the years. My brain is a screwed up series of causes and effects. I do stupid things that I will never be able to explain to social workers, judges or confused relatives. 

I'll try (just this once) to figure out my damage -- if only so you will understand my pain. I achieved musical consciousness in the seventies. And Elvis in the seventies was a frightening thing. No really. Don't give me that crap. Look at that bloated, sweaty thing on stage in a white jump suit. Judy Garland could claim to be cooler as a mess -- an amalgam of glamour and damage. Not Elvis. He was one-hundred-percent corn-fed American damage. I was just a little kid and he scared me. I mean REALLY scared me -- you know, the way clowns terrified the normal kids. If I wasn't good, I'd grow up to be like Elvis. I have always thought of Vegas as hell where bad entertainers go to die. Think Celine Dion. Think Cher.

Even scarier, for a music lover in embryo form, was that there were millions of Elvii all over the place (those damn impersonators -- they were be-jumpsuited, glitter-encrusted, bad-rock Santas (but these freaks were out year round), those black velvet graven images hanging for sale at gas stations with a eerie Christ like devotion.) And I honestly don't recall the day Elvis died. Odd, I was old enough. Dang, I recall Karen Carpenter's death, when Pee Wee Herman was caught in that theater... But Elvis croaking, nope. He died on the toilet for our sins, right? If we have Christ on the cross, shouldn't we have pendants of Elvis dead on the toilet being worn by the true believers? That would be cool. Tongue sticking out, head cocked to one side.

As you can see, this whole Elvis thing is an emotional Grand canyon gaping in my subconscious. So imagine my horror today, if you will. I sat down next to Kerry in our city's largest venue. It was National Cancer Survivors Day and Kerry wanted me to be there for her. I didn't hesitate. The theme this year was the Fifties. (I should have seen this coming, right?) Kerry picked up her place mat and read the schedule: "Hey, Vincent -- Elvis impersonator performing!"

Oh, no! Not THAT! But maybe she'd want to leave early. There might still be a chance. Then I heard a chilling announcement: "The door prizes will be given out AFTER Elvis performs." The bastards!! Kerry didn't win anything last year and had her heart set on a big honking basket of Jack Daniels and Dark Chocolate.

We ate, we chatted, I went with Kerry to have her picture taken with the hundreds of other cancer survivors. It was hard getting back to our seats. So many people and we were at the front of the venue. I froze as an old childhood fear sauntered towards Kerry. The crowd parted in the creepiest fashion, and surprisingly didn't toss down palms at his feet -- or even White Castle hamburgers.

I fell back, Kerry turned in puzzlement. "Watch out!" I muttered, as I pointed at the thing in the white leather jumpsuit she was about to bump into. Turning, her face lit up like a child seeing Santa or the Messiah -- or a clown. (Kerry is fond of circuses, cotton candy and clowns -- so she was dazzled by this sideshow attraction.)

Elvis jumped up on stage and launched into "Hunka hunka burnin' love..." Our table was right next to him. He had that whole Elvis-the-pelvis thing going. I felt the crushing weight of my flaming heterosexuality rise up as he thrust toward me. This was even worse that I thought. I was not feeling at all well. Through a haze of bad childhood memories, the sugar high from three pieces of coconut cake, and an intense sexual unease, I heard Kerry ask, "Are you gonna be okay?" Nope, I would never be okay again.

I nodded and gave a dorky fake smile. I knew how much winning a door prize meant to Kerry. I loved her that much. I'd tough it out. I closed my eyes and began counting.

Elvis jumped off stage and worked the crowd. A new fear gripped me. "Lord," I began to pray, "don't have it stop in front of my table. Don't make me shake its sweaty hand." I might get a virus that would make me fall asleep. When I awoke, I would love Elvis, normal people and deer hunting.

Senior citizens pushed away their walkers, grabbed each other and danced. All sense was gone. We were through the looking glass or in a David Lynch film. I expected to look over and see Sting prancing around in a leather thong next. Then it hit me. These ancient dancers were screaming teenagers when Elvis was in his hay day. The Elvis impersonator looked at one of the elderly ladies and smiled, "Hey, darling... my scarf matches your eyes."

He undid if from his neck and put it around hers. She beamed -- she was a teenager again. I heard myself whisper, "Awww..." In recent weeks, I had despaired that I would never look at a singer again and get week in the knees. My girlish fainting days were through. As the woman smiled, I realized that I may have judged a lot of things too harshly. He was bringing so much joy. It wasn't about him. What he was doing wasn't fake, not at all. It was as real as Amanda Palmer and unshaven arm pits.

He (real name Brad Boice) launched into an amazing version of "Johnny B. Goode." And than I remembered one Elvis song that I always loved -- but I couldn't recall the name or even the lyrics, just the realness of it. I struggled to remember. Brad sang his last song (dedicated to all the cancer survivors in the room): "Ta---ake my hand, take my whole life too. For I can't help falling in love with you..."

Oh yeah, that was it. I slipped my hand into Kerry's and smirked, the dopey way I do. She sighed. I got weak in the knees. One last thing, Kerry didn't win a damn thing -- again. But I didn’t go away empty handed.



"Can’t Help Falling In Love" 
(words & music by george weiss - hugo peretti - luigi creatore)

Wise men say only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you
Shall I stay
Would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you

Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you

Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you
For I can't help falling in love with you

This Old Record Collection

(or Why I Don’t Listen to These Losers Anymore)

I was going through my old record collection and scratching my head. WTF? Who are these people? What is a Milli Vanilli? (Just kidding, those two had great voices.) Was I ever hungry like a wolf? Was it a typo or did they mean to use their name twice. Isn't one Duran, enough? Or is it still one too many? Will I ever get a mad passion to listen to Sheena Easton again? As I looked at my once treasured records, I talk to the big hair, leg warmers and gobs of baby blue eyeliner.

Dear old records;
 
B-4 I toss U in the plastic garbage bag at the foot of my bed, I should tell U Y we broke up. (Lord, those old Prince albums were so hard to read):

10. You look like a dork in that Lady Gaga outfit your manager suggested you wear, Mind you, you still look better than Lady Gaga.

9. Your Playboy spread grossed me (and the world) out. It turns out no one really wanted to see you naked.

8. When you try spinning on stage these days, you fall... and can’t get up. Just stop spinning, damn it. It was never cool.

7. Did the world really need a dance version of “American Pie”? Or “Downtown” or “To Sir ... with Love”?

6. When you suggested the record be a concept album about your pathetic childhood, your band mates screamed, “No, no, no -- not again,” and ran from the room. Kitten, they didn’t leave because of “musical differences” -- they were about to slash their wrist out of boredom. Haven’t you done anything new in forty years? The world knows your damage -- move the hell on.

5. Wait, go back. A concept album? It’s the 21st century -- not the freaking sixties. Hey Moonchild, cut your hair and put down the joint.

4. Those compromising photos of yourself that you accidentally Twittered didn’t increase your sales as hoped (sorry, accidentally hoped).
 
3. Stop wearing spandex. Your grandchildren are ashamed, Rod.

2. Why do you insist on humiliating your offspring by having them perform with you? (And a special note to John Fogerty: your youngens looked like a pair of dorks in matching blue flannel shirts -- and those 1960 era bowl hair cuts. Damn! Are you planning a rock remake of Whatever Happen to Baby Jane? If not, have you consider dressing the lads in matching Lady Gaga outfits? I‘d buy THAT record!) The CCR kids do “Pokerface” -- wow!

1. What made you think you could record a decent Christmas album? You’re not Jewish.
 
Thank you old record collection for letting me get that off my chest, and you out of the bottom of my closet.

XXOO
Vincent