Monthly Archives: January 2014

To the Anonymous Band Director in my Dream Last Night

Dear Mr. Anonymous Band Director, I know you’re really angry, and I want you to know that I appreciate you taking us on this trip to Orlando and/or Los Angeles to be in this strange and occasionally terrifying Halloween pageant/parade thing.  I’m sorry that I left my flute at home, but I’m going to try to make it up to you by fake-playing this trumpet that’s conveniently placed on the ground next to me. Uh oh, I can see by the look of insane rage on your anonymous yet vaguely familiar face (Mr. McMillian? Is that you?  Oh, wait…Uncle Herbert?) that you’re not buying any of it, since I don’t even know how to hold a trumpet.

Hey, wait a minute, someone’s passing me a flute!  But this isn’t my flute, it’s got some kind of goop sticking the keys down.  Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Anonymous Band Director!  Yeah, okay, so I sold my solid silver open hole flute when I was a starving graduate student, eating on my Texaco credit card, and replaced it with an el cheapo nickel beginner flute from a garage sale years later.  I regret it more than you can know, trust me.  But it does play just fine and there’s no goop in the keys.  So stop staring me down and go talk to the many anonymous professors whose classes I forgot I was taking until the day of the final exam and was forced to take it anyway.  I’m pretty sure they’re standing over there with my first grade class, the one that always laughs when I fall out of my desk over and over.  In my underwear.

Band2

Now let’s rock out to some flute songs.  Here’s a list of songs I found that have good flute parts.  Of course, it’s an incomplete list (What?!!!  No “John Barleycorn”?!!!) but it does list a bunch of good ones. Here’s a hilarious lip-synched version of “Going up the Country” – the flutist doesn’t even pretend to really be playing, ha!  He’s not even holding it right, ha!  I like to think I’d do the same thing in that situation.  So as you are watching the bearded, biker-looking flutist doing his silly shenanigans, just substitute the band nerd above in your mind.

And now let’s hear from that flutist extraordinaire, Ian Anderson, performing one of my favorite songs ever.  Ever.  Again, please substitute the above band nerd in your mind.  Just imagine me in tights and lace up boots posturing in a vaguely medieval way across the stage.  What a dream come true that would be for me.  In fact, I think I’ll get out the old beginner flute, put on some tights and boots, and lip/flute-synch in my living room to this video when I finish this post.  Maybe.  It won’t be as good without that jacket.  And without me being Ian.  In the shuffling madness of the locomotive breath…

You really can’t do a flute post without talking about Traffic, but they really warrant their own full post, so I’ll save my Traffic-raptures for later and simply say – here’s another of my favorite songs ever.  Ever. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to pretend that I’m playing the flute on this song, since my pained flute-face above is pretty much identical to this one…

Okay, future Traffic post be damned…you know I can’t resist a little Barleycorn.  I play this song on my humble little garage sale flute a lot and it sounds just fine.  (You got that, Mr. Anonymous Band Director?  It sounds just fine.  Now be gone!)

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WC Don’s, R.E.M., and Big Arm Dancing

 

In the days of my youth I was told what it means…oh, sorry.  I got sidetracked a little there.  In the days of my youth, Lynyrdskynyrdville had one of the greatest dive bars ever to sling a beer and hire a band. It was so cool that Rolling Stone named it one of the top ten dive bars in the United States.  That’s right.  Little ole Lynyrdskynyrdville had one of the top ten dive bars for a while there back in the mid-eighties to the mid-nineties.  It was called WC Don’s, as in “We Couldn’t Decide On A Name”, but we just called it Don’s.  It was an alternative music mecca, benefitting greatly from its reasonable proximity to Athens, Georgia – in other words, Don’s was a major stopover on the southeast dive bar circuit for Athens-based bands.  R.E.M. was among the plethora of bands that performed there in their early, college rock, pre-widespread-fame days, and I, naturally, was there.

As I told our rock-brother and fellow blogger over at the University of Music, I had no premonition of their impending enormous fame at the time.  They were just Georgia guys, pretty much the same as Mississippi guys, a couple years older than me, but of my own generation. The bar was tiny and there was, accordingly, always a close connection and a lot of interaction between the bands and the audience, and R.E.M. was no exception to this.  Looking back now, though, I should have realized that they were destined for greatness, because of their sound – it was really different and fresh, yet it had that delicious Georgia feel to it at the same time.  We all went crazy over it, doing that weird “big arm dancing” that was so popular at the time and which I’m so embarrassed at having done now.  You know what I’m talking about, right?  Where you flailed your arms about wildly in big swinging arcs? If you weren’t around then, or don’t remember, go check out the girl with the ridiculous hat in the Thompson Twins’ “Hold Me Now” video.  I’m pretty sure she started the whole thing.  But her big arm dancing was mild compared to the throw-your-shoulder-out antics that eventually evolved.

 

I like to claim the seventies as “my era” because the music was better overall, and it was my era, if you count high school, but the truth is, I came of age at the dawn of the eighties, and so in actuality, horrible though it may be, I’m a member of the big arm dancing generation which big arm danced to R.E.M.  We were all part of what I think of as a gap generation – just a little too late for the heyday of classic rock, yet not really digging the Thompson Twins or Spandau Ballet or Flock of Whatever either, and looking around for jewels in the dust that played music which spanned these two eras, and R.E.M. was perhaps the biggest era-spanning jewel of all.

 

The main things I remember about R.E.M.’s stage presence in those early days are that they were tight and polished, and Michael Stipe was a really beautiful boy with his tumbled curls. He came across as the shy, intellectual type.  I remember my wasted friend hit on him one time, as I stood, horrified, behind her.  She was doing her best to flirt and seduce him, but it was that drunken kind of sloppy flirtation/seduction, and Michael was not amused. Finally, he just kind of rolled his eyes and very gently said something like, “You’re drunk.  Do you have someone to drive you home?”  She pointed at me, who was lurking awkwardly in the background, and he said, “Then you should let her take you home now.”  It was terrible. Of course, I didn’t really have to take her home – some fella gladly stepped up when Michael wisely stepped out.  But now she has to live with that memory her whole life – being told to go home by Michael Stipe.  And I have to be the awkwardly-lurking-in-the-background friend of the drunk girl my whole life.  Lovely.

 

Anyway, despite the big arm dancing and drunken, embarrassing friends, those were great times.  I dedicate these R.E.M. songs to my fellow gap-generation rockers – those tail-end Baby Boomers and early-Generation X’ers like myself.  R.E.M. made music that was uniquely ours and sounded like us.

I wish I had never made that rule about only having three videos per post, because I’m breaking it today. I have a long list of favorite R.E.M. songs – here’s four of them, starting with “Drive”.  Because nobody tells us what to do.

Follow me; don’t follow me…no really – please follow me.

This song still plays in my head regularly after all these years, and I can still visualize myself big arm dancing insanely to it.

And this one goes out to the ones I love and the ones I left behind, of course.

 

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Duped and Damned by the Doors Dude

Like so many other girls before and after us, my college roommate and I had an obsession with the utter beauty of this man…

morrison

We had an enormous black cloth banner-thing with this very picture on it – you’ve probably seen those before if you’ve been around a while – on our wall in our dorm room. It was sort of the rock ‘n roll version of the famous red swimsuit Farrah Faucette poster – it was everywhere.  A lot of guys even had one. That was probably mostly because of the music, and that was part of the deal for us too, but mainly it was because we considered Jim Morrison the ultimate paragon of male beauty and we wanted to gaze upon his square-jawed gloriousness morning, noon, and night.

So you can imagine our excitement when walking to the commons to eat one day, we saw that the campus was flooded with fliers printed with a picture of The Lizard King.  The only other information on the flier was a date, location, and time.  Since the location indicted that this mysterious Morrison-related event was to be held in the auditorium where we were shown old movies and student films and such, we assumed that somebody on campus had maybe made a Doors documentary or something like that. So we gathered up our friends and made arrangements to go.  This was during our Janis Joplinly, sorternity era, and our group looked something like this…

hair

That’s right, we looked a little like the cast of Hair. And this was in the early eighties, so we were extra weird. Our little Hair-lookin’ group walked up to the building where the big Doors event was to take place and hung around at the bottom of the long exterior stairway to wait for a couple cast members to catch up.  As we stood there, this “straight”, as we used to ridiculously say, in short hair and a suit walked by and said, “y’all here for the program?”. Being the doofus that I am, and not picking up on any clues, like the short hair or the suit, I said, “hell yeah, I’d follow Jim Morrison anywhere”.  The straight stopped in his tracks, turned to me with a look of horror and disdain and said, “then you’re following him STRAIGHT TO HELL!”.

At this point, the truth of the situation slowly began to dawn on me.  We had been tricked. This was actually some kind of anti-rock ‘n roll thing.  Some kind of religious Doors dissin’ activity.  The rest of the Hair cast just laughed and some of them turned around and walked away when they realized that there wasn’t going to be a cool documentary or whatever.  You know what I did, right?  I mean, I couldn’t let that Doors dude damn me to hell without a word in my defense, could I?  No.  So I ran up the wheelchair ramp, Birkenstocks flapping wildly, baubles and beads jangling, to the Doors dude and said, “how could you say that to me?  I was in the church youth choir!  I won the Shubert award for being one hundred percent present at all performances and practices! I got first place in the Bible drill two years in a row!  Two years in a row!  I BELIEVE!” That finally stopped him. He turned and looked at me and said, “not if you listen to that Satanic music, you don’t.”

I think I just lamely mumbled something like, “you’re wrong, jerk”.  The Doors dude walked on and my friends caught up with me – they wanted to see what the program was anyway.  To tell the truth, I did too – we were all curious.  So we sat quietly in the very back and listened to this guy’s presentation on the evils of rock ‘n roll in general and the Doors in particular.  He did the reel-to-reel backmasking thing supplemented by a bunch of slides telling us what we were supposed to be hearing.  And the answer to your question is – nope.  I didn’t hear any of it.

I won’t go into an extensive analysis of the Doors dude’s judgmental remarks, except to say that fortunately, it had no impact on me or my spirituality.  Nor did it make me feel bad for being into any kind of music, or for being dressed like an actor in Hair, or for expressing myself joyfully and enthusiastically in any number of ways throughout my life as a free and (relatively) independent woman.  All it did was reinforce my belief that it is wrong, unkind, and detrimental to judge others based on their appearance, interests, tastes, or spiritual interpretations.

Being first place (two years in a row!) in Bible drill and memorizing all that scripture has served me well in life, even though in actuality the church youth group I was in as a kid was pretty much just a hotbed of teenage rebellion and hormones.  That’s a story for another post, trust me.  And now you’ve been duped too.  You think you’re getting a post about the Doors, and you wind up having to hear about my spiritual views.  Don’t feel bad – I’ve been using this strategy for years – people thinking they’re getting a Jack Black, “School of Rock” style rock-history lesson, when really they wind up learning John Locke’s social contract theory or something.  Mmmmwwahahaha.

Now let’s get our Doors on.  This is such a great clip and it pretty much sums up the whole Doors vibe, so I’m only doing this one.  LA woman’s gonna have to do, in other words.  And Mr. Mojo Risin – keep on risin’.

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Exercise for the Anti-Athlete: Gettin’ Funky

  I was never an athletic girl.  I was the one that sat in the outfield making clover chains as the softball flew over my head.  I was the one feigning cramps regularly in P.E.  I was the one that sat by the fire, flirting with ski instructors, on the big ski trip.  I was the one that only faked an interest in football, and that was just to make some guy happy. In fact, the best football game date I ever had was when the guy wanted to leave at halftime to go check out a band downtown.

Fortunately for me, there is one bright spot in this vast wasteland of non-athleticism – music makes me move.  A lot of times when I go to concerts and everyone is sitting, it’s all I can do to stay in my seat and not be “that one girl” that stands up and dances wildly and makes a fool of herself.  The inner Marie is dancing just as wildly as the one girl, and always has been.  One of my earliest memories is of dancing by myself in my bedroom as The Monkeys’ “I’m a Believer” played on my little portable record player.

I was in junior high and high school during the heyday of funk, and that really took the “I’m a Believer” side of me to a new level. They played a lot of great songs at the Friday night dances at the Jaycee Hut.  In case you don’t know what a Jaycee Hut is – the Jaycees, which stands for Junior Chamber of Commerce, is sort of a service club, and they used to call their lodges “huts”.  So our Jaycees used to sponsor Friday night dances at the Hut for local teens during the school year, and they had a swimming pool that we used in the summer.  We’ll talk about the pool later, but for now, let’s take a look at the comedy of errors, or the cluster of sad ironies, that was the Friday Night Jaycee Dance.

The main issue was that only a few of the boys would dance.  This caused a big problem, because for some reason, at that time in Lynyrdskynyrdsville, it was unacceptable for girls to dance together.  So the place would be packed with non-dancing kids, with the boys on one side of the room, and the girls on the other side.  Luckily, I had male friends from the band that would dance the whole time – those were the Weird Al Yankovic-types that just got out there and shook their skinny white butts, usually exaggerating for comedic effect.

But most of the boys just stood there, arms folded, sour expressions on their faces, waiting for a slow dance, at which time, if they felt confident and motivated enough, they might ask a girl to dance.  To tell the truth, I think that even then they would have preferred to stand completely still and just enjoy the full frontal contact thing.  After the slow dance, it was back to standing grouchily against the wall, and the Weird Als would rule the floor once more.  So the bottom line is that this situation deprived the boys of what they wanted more than anything, which was to be close to the girls, and it deprived the girls of the boys’ attention, which is what they wanted more than anything, and for which they had spent hours perfecting their Farrah Faucette ‘dos and blue eye shadow.  All this angst and heartache because of an inability to get down and get funky.

It’s a good thing that this situation resolved itself by college, or the dance clubs would have really sucked.  But it did resolve, and a lot of these non-dancing fellas figured out that having some smooth moves on the dance floor could only be advantageous to them. Finally there were enough males to go around.  The best dance club that I ever went to was in Athens, Greece.  This place could have rivaled the famous Studio 54 – it was massive and absolutely wild. I couldn’t understand anything that anyone was saying, but it didn’t matter – who needs words when you’re dancing?

So what does all of this have to do with exercise?  Well, for most of my adult life, I walked around a huge college campus 500 times a day, but now, I’m teaching mostly online from home, so I need another form of exercise.  One that doesn’t require much athleticism.  One that’s fun.  Happily, thanks to my inner dancing queen, all I have to do is switch on some good funk, and you can’t keep me still.  I’ll be up on the treadmill, or doing an exercise video (muted, of course), or just plain dancing.  It’s also a mood elevator.  You want to feel happy?  Cheerful?  Optimistic?  Try working out to some of the songs below and see what happens.  Here is a list of the 100 greatest funk songs if you want some more ideas.

Okay, so here’s some of my very favorite selections from my long workout playlist, followed by a video countdown of the top three…

“Tell Me Something Good”, Chaka Khan

“Play That Funky Music”, Wild Cherry

“Fire” and “Love Rollercoaster”, Ohio Players

“Lady Marmalade”, Patti LaBelle

“Fight the Power” and “Who’s That Lady”, Isley Brothers

“You Haven’t Done Nothin” and “Superstition”, Stevie Wonder

And now for my top three. In third place…Will it go round in circles? Will it fly high like a bird in the sky? It sure as heck will. By Billy Preston.

In second place…by the great Stevie Wonder…good Lord, this song just sizzles…

Edging out that reggae woman by a slight margin, we have this song that just makes me crazy for some reason. I start every workout with it. I love everything about it, and the way it stops and starts in the middle before the guitar solo just sends me. Here’s the fabulous Isley Brothers, from the outstanding album, Go For Your Guns.

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The Eternal Syd

Syd

Do you think we’ll ever get tired of recounting and re-hearing the tale of the genesis of Pink Floyd and the saga of Syd Barrett?  I’m pretty sure I won’t ever get tired of it, and based on the flurry of Syd-related tweets and whatnot today, on what would have been his 68th birthday, I’m obviously not alone.  It’s a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions – beautiful young genius conceives an idea for music that’s entirely fresh and innovative, blows his mind out on LSD and/or breaks down from some nebulous form of mental illness, and fades away to live out his days in relative obscurity, leaving the rest of the band to figure out how to carry out his vision and continue his legacy.  The band then goes on to become arguably the greatest in the history of rock ‘n roll, while the broken genius shuns any public attention and lives humbly in a small home, whiling away the days drawing and painting and walking to the market and so forth. Just thinking about it now makes me want to shake my head sadly and lower it slowly into my sorrowful hands, if you know what I mean.

Most Floydians know the story of how Syd weirdly showed up out of the blue at Abbey Road Studios during the recording of “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”, a song that was clearly written as a tribute to him.  Here is the story of that event.  Just thinking about it blows my mind. I mean, they hadn’t seen him in years, and on the day that they are completing the final mix on this particular song, he just shows up.  His appearance and behavior was so bizarre that Roger Waters broke down in tears.  And that was the last time they ever saw him.  Life is strange, y’all, and I’m telling ya now, I don’t much believe in coincidences.

Our fellow blogger, MetalGuruMessiah, has created several outstanding Pink Floyd videos, which were subsequently disabled on YouTube, but strangely again, have become available just in time for Syd’s birthday.  Enjoy this amazing video and the beautiful “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”, the full thing, parts 1-9.  I think this is possibly Mr. Messiah’s greatest video masterpiece.  Now take a trip and never leave the farm.

As you know, I generally have a story for every song, or a song for every story, however you want to look at it, and this time’s no exception.  I can’t listen to Wish You Were Here without thinking about the time when a sweet boyfriend of mine, a shy classical guitarist, showed up at my apartment on a Friday afternoon, his old brown mustang packed with camping equipment, and asked me if I wanted to go with him, which I did.  We spent the weekend deep in the woods by a rocky creek, listening to Pink Floyd on a battery-operated boom box.  I remember that he heated some water from the clear creek on the camp stove and washed my long hair for me, very carefully, and combed it out.  And I probably shouldn’t have told that story, because now I wish he was here.

Syd 2

Happy Birthday, Syd, however near or how far you may be.
You shone like the sun.

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The Stevie Ray Vaughan Wars

srv4

I was pretty poor when I was in graduate school in the late eighties-early nineties.  So poor, in fact, that I usually ran out of money for food before the end of the month and I had to make do with beef jerky and Cheetos from the Texaco, since that was the only credit card I had.  My parents paid for my tiny apartment and my tuition, but I had to pay for everything else – gas, food, power, phone, books, entertainment, etc. – out of the five hundred dollars a month I made as a graduate assistant.  Being a graduate assistant basically meant that I sat in the professors’ offices in the afternoons grading papers and pretending to laugh at their jokes. What little time I had left over from classes and this “assisting” was mostly devoted to study.

I developed my own system of study, which involved creating charts and outlines of information on giant art paper, taping them all over the walls, then muting the T.V. when the commercials came on to memorize them.  When the show came back on, I quit the memorization thing until the next commercial break.  At the end of the night, I would lie in bed and test my memory, running back and forth to the living room to review if I couldn’t remember something.  It worked great.  By the time I took whatever exam I was studying for, I would have pretty much memorized everything and could fill up exam booklet after exam booklet with intricately detailed essays.  I was usually one of the last students to finish because of this.  Of course, I realize now that I was probably a big pain in the neck to my professors and they just wanted to get the heck out of there and they would have given me the same grade for half as much work, but there you have it.  That was my modus operandi.

So one night I was lying in bed, just finishing my final review for a big exam the next day, about to go to sleep, and through the gossamer veil that served as a wall between my bedroom and that of the next door tenant, I suddenly heard a lot of loud male-female banter, followed by what sounded like elephants mating on a boardwalk.  Apparently, our headboards were back-to-back.  I waited for a few minutes, thinking that surely I must be mistaken about what I am hearing, but after other sounds convinced me of the truth of the situation, I took my pillow and blanket out to the postage-stamp sized living room to try to sleep on the couch.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a full size couch – it was a just a “love seat”.  I’m kind of a short little thing, but my legs still hung over the armrest, which cut painfully into my calves.  After a few minutes, I gave up and went back to the bedroom, thinking it must be safe by now.

All was quiet when I got back into bed and I settled down for a few hours of sleep before my 8:00 a.m. exam.  Then the real kicker – I started hearing voices again.  But this time, it wasn’t two voices – it was three, possibly four.  Then the elephants on the boardwalk thing again, this time a whole herd.  I was utterly shocked and grossed out, not to mention about to explode with righteous fury.  I picked up one of my thick-heeled cowgirl boots off the floor and banged as hard as I could on the wall with it.  “SHUT UP IN THERE!  YOU’RE DISGUSTING!  DON’T YOU KNOW PEOPLE CAN HEAR YOU?  DECENT PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP AROUND HERE!”

There was a brief interval of silence.  Then the elephants again, but this time it was like they had moved from the boardwalk to the sand and were just tiptoeing around lightly and carefully. But it was enough, with all my fury spent, for me to go to sleep.  Unfortunately, however, it seems that I had angered an elephant, because the next night, Stevie Ray Vaughan was blasted at top volume from the other side of the wall, just as I was about to go to bed.  It sounded like they had placed a speaker right next to the wall.  So I did the same thing.  You just can’t mess with me like that.  I’ll blast you right back, don’t think I won’t.  I dragged one of my giant Pioneer speakers, which was nearly as big as me, up to the wall on my side.  Thus, the Stevie Ray Vaughan wars had begun. You blast me with “Little Wing”; I’m gonna wallop you with “Look at Little Sister”.  You hit me hard with “Pride and Joy”; I’m gonna knock you out with “Texas Flood”.

srv3

The probable reason that SRV was the chosen weapon in this war was because he was scheduled for a concert up in Jackson in a few weeks, so everybody had him on the brain.  I had saved the money for my ticket by eating mostly at the Texaco for several weeks and I was all set with some friends to make the drive up from Hattiesburg to Jackson for the concert.  I was excited, but the SRV wars were wearing me down.  It went on for over a week.  I knew something had to give.  The elephant and I had carefully avoided each other; I listened for his front door to slam in the morning before I walked to my classes, and I guess he was using the same kind of strategy to avoid me.

But of course, this stand-off couldn’t go on forever, and sure enough, one day I was leaving my apartment, probably to walk to the Texaco again, and he was leaving at the same time.  Fortunately, I had my Ray-Bans on, so I could keep my poker face, but he just froze and stared at me.  I walked away as fast as I could, heading in the direction of the mailboxes.  There were other people there and I didn’t want to be in the parking lot alone with him.  I could tell he was following behind me, though, and I surreptitiously monitored his actions through my sunglasses.  I started getting my mail, and he walked right up behind me and said, “Hey, can we talk about this?”.  I said, “I don’t think so, Mr. Nasty” and kept walking, thinking I’m a bad ass with my bold retort.  That night, there was a knock at my door, and it was the elephant man, standing there with flowers.

srv2

He begins to apologize profusely – he’s so embarrassed, he can’t believe he’s acted this way toward a “nice” girl, he was a jerk, etc.  He goes into his level of intoxication on the original night in question and elaborates on the wily ways of barroom sluts that throw themselves at you.  He basically begged my forgiveness for everything, and of course, I granted it.  I told him I was sorry that I had called him disgusting and nasty.  He said that he deserved it and that he was, indeed, disgusting and nasty. Then the coup de gras – he pulled out tickets to the SRV concert and asked me if I would go with him, and he promised it was on the up and up and was a conciliatory gesture of good will.  Yeah, okay.  I was thinking I’d rather eat nothing but Cheetos for the rest of my life than go off alone with this guy, the perv, but I wanted to end the war, so I told him I’d already bought my ticket and offered to let him ride up with me and my friends.

Stevie Ray smoked that night, obviously. I don’t know how the Jackson City Auditorium still stands to this day, or why there wasn’t at least scorch marks left on the stage, because there was most definitely a fire burning all up in that place. What a concert!  As I’ve mentioned before, I was not a big fan of eighties music – didn’t like new wave, despised hair bands – but SRV almost single-handedly redeemed an entire decade of music for me.  True, there were some lesser lights, but no one burned so brightly, and with such power, as Stevie Ray Vaughan.  Me and the elephant man stood next to each other throughout the concert, experiencing a mutual soulgasm that I assure you was far greater than anything that took place on the boardwalk that terrible night.  After that, we were close, naturally – that’s what music does for people.  It bonds you together.  A few years later, when Stevie Ray died, the elephant man called me from the coast, where he was living by then, and we cried hysterically together on the phone.  I was extra heart-broken because I had missed a chance to see SRV just months before – I was supposed to meet my cousins from Houston and San Antonio in Austin for a concert, but I had to back out because of some stupid job-related thing.  Dammit, dammit, dammit.  Now get ready for a one-two punch.

Pow! Right in the kisser with that old bad-ass voodoo…one master honoring another…

Now I’m gonna knock you out…

Well, okay, you know I’m really just a softie. Besides, I can barely tolerate life without Stevie, how could I possibly live without you? Let’s make up with “Life Without You”.

Oo oo now baby….
Tell me how have you been
We all have missed you….
And the way you grin
The day is necessary….
Every now and then
For souls to move on….
Givin’ life back again, and again
Fly on fly on….
Fly on my friend
Go on….
Live again….
Love again

Day after day….
Night after night
Sittin’ here singin’ every minute….
As the years go passing by….
By, by, by
Long look in the mirror….
We’ve come face to face
Wishin’ all the love we took for granted….
Love we have today

Life without you….
All the love you passed my way
The angels have waited for so long….
Now they have their way
Take your place….

srv1

RIP, SRV

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