pete38890

The album sales are in the US, and so the Prime Minister is a distant also-ran. Always follow the money. The english major in me says rhyme doesn't matter: ancient English poets invented language and pronunciation as they went along, butchering every quatrain to make it fit. It's no different today. The hip-hop poets owe a lot to Keats and Chaucer....

Thanks, dude. You know where it's from, of course, but have you sung it in unison 283 times, in venues from San Diego to Bath and all points in between?

Una pregunta, Edna. Hablas Ingles muy bien. Eres de Espana o un otro pais?

I applaud the talent and the cynicism. And there's this seed: it made me look at myself and want to change. The feeling will pass, but in the brief moments that I consider your song I hate what I am.

So right. I first locked on fm in Idaho Falls in 1969. It was as far removed from KID, AM 590 on your radio dial as "Sugar Sugar" was from "Street Fighting Man." That tiny, wind-powered signal was too much for that reactionary cowboy town, but god bless the owners of that renegade station who broadcast without revenue for 16 months.

Imagine you are 47 and own a radio station. You market Ground Zero Radio as a classic rock venue and hire a program director rather than subscribe to a broadcast agency (good for you). The first album you bought when you were 13 was CCR's "Cosmo's Factory." You grew up with Mountain, BOC, and Montrose. In 1982 you laughed when you overheard a conversation to the effect that "Paul McCartney had a band before Wings." In 2005 you laugh when you discover that your 32 year old program director has never heard of Wings. But she's making your station a profit and you know not to screw up a good bottom line. Still, you wonder why the songs that your daughter listened to are creeping into the playlist.... It's called classic rock because the market target, be they 47 year old grays or 15 year old retros, isn't ready to accept the reality that they're listening to oldies.

Who were influenced by the Doors? Seems to me that every band coming out of Seattle during the grunge era owe a lot to the dark melancholy of Jim Morrison.

Forget about rockers cuts. This song has been covered by many, but you have to check out Charles Maybee's cut (if you can find it). Hard delta blues in a tight package.... btw: I think Roy Acuff wrote it....

That's sad. Not an hour ago I caught a piece of him on Comedy Central: "I don't have a girlfriend. I just know a girl who would be mad if she heard that." A kind, bright soul....

Here's a very real one for me: Every Little Kiss -Bruce Hornsby Way out here, working on the docks Everyone sees the long day through. What would I do without the nights and the phone And the chance just to talk to you? What would I do now... Just to talk to you A thousand miles away.... What I wouldn't give for only one night A little relief in sight Or someday when times weren't so tight. When the day goes down on the water town, When the sun sinks low all around That's when I know I need you now. You're what I miss, Every little kiss.... Everybody here's a number, not a name, But I guess that's all right with me. As I sit alone after a long day In the abscence of company Oh I let my mind wander A thousand miles away.... What I wouldn't give for only one night A little relief in sight Or someday when times weren't so tight. When the day goes down on the water town, When the sun sinks low all around That's the time I know I need you now. You're what I miss, Every little kiss....

Phil Collins? Hasn't he been dead for about 30 years? Last I heard of him he was trying to sell his wares (without much success) to a muzak label....

That's very deep for mainstream. I hear "Tom Sawyer" or "Spirit of Radio" now and then, but for the more eclectic Rush cuts I have to tap into wind powered college radio.

That's way too creepy to consider. How about "2000 miles" by the Pretenders?

whoops....No it ain't.

Just a synopsis: better times? In this vogue you have no better times. You clearly see nothing but desparation and your woman will see it too. You don't want her to see this part of you.

That's a sweet song, better than most that drone manufactured for radio.

Winter has different meanings in the varying latitudes. When I flew into Chicago from Orlando in December of 1985 I knew to wear a coat, but nothing prepared me for the numbing pain of winter on Lake Michigan. A bitter wind that Sandburg never properly described took the breath from my lungs as I stepped out of O'Hare's terminal, facing a long walk to the rental car. Snug in the ample heat of the room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Libertyville, I thought of the day before. In idyllic wander around the Magic Kingdom with the goddess, I smirked at those tourists fresh from the hellish winter that I now endure. Neither midwest upbringing nor scandinavian blood assuaged the suffering of that evil frigid day. I thawed a bit and lit a cigarette, the last one in the pack. Half smoked, the butt reminded me that the crumpled empy pack meant either an ill-prepared quitting or a return to the harsh outdoors. "How bad could it be?" I convinced myself, bundling in layer after layer for a five minute trek to the QuikMart across the highway. The frosted air in my lungs and the constant wind that seared my face made me think that a life smoke free would be a good thing, at least until spring. Still I trudged across packed snow and tricky ice spots, each step an adventure as my toes became increasingly numb. Stinging sleet mixed with snow had started a fresh assault as I made it through the door of the QuikMart. I pulled off my coat and gloves, anticipating a welcome respite in the warmth of that oasis. With a hot cup of coffee soothing tingling fingers, I chatted with Paula, the manager. She smiled patiently as I rambled about the fine weather in Orlando and assured me that this day was no worse than any other for this time of year. Adding that fact to the list of things I despise about December, I picked up my cigarettes and considered life outside the crystal frosty misery outside. The door opened and on the heels of sudden winter chill she bounced in. "Hi, Cindy," greeted Paula, probably relieved to have anyone but this miserable tourist in residence. Rosy from the frigid wind, Cindy smiled warmth. She was a product of the region. Wide boned, blonde and fleshy, she was as prepared for this extreme climate as I was not. Wearing a mid-thigh skirt, fluffy powder blue sweater, and boots, she stopped in the open doorway. With a look of rapture on her face as winter swirled about her she announced the obvious. "It's snowing!" I had never felt so close to homocide in my life.

Gerry Rafferty set the tone. The edge that Dave Grohl put on it made you believe the lonly, desperate life on Baker street.

Quite so preposterously magnificently right. I'd expound more but my ferret is shedding.

The thread is about historical accuracy, not political hysteria.

Aw, nuts. After spending most of my adult lifetime trying to forget that Phil Collins was ever born, I see this.... I'm a compassionate human, filled with Dickens' milk of human kindness, so I'll give you this one: It was from the Mama album, in the post-Peter Gabriel era (hardly a "genesis" but the "Phil doesn't give a crap about you guys" era) and the song was " Just a Job To Do." What's next, ABBA?

My maternal grandfather's people were from Wales. The Welsh language as written is nearly decipherable in modern English terms: the name of the tiny town my people came from contained 12 consonants and one vowel. So small was the town that there was only one family name, Evan. To lend convenience to identification, the function of the family head was appellated, and so my family was called Evan the Cook, the closest neighbor Evan the Mill, and so on. The schoolteacher's name was Evan the Stick....

"Sympathy For the Devil With a Blue Dress On" -Stones n Mitch Ryder

Evening torrents fall. Thunder and lightening offer deep cleansing ions.

There's "Betty Lou's Getting Out Tonight" (Bob Seger) and "Hello, Betty Lou" (CCR).