I used to write my column every Sunday night, but now that both football and the Sopranos are back on TV, I'm finding that not only has the going gotten tough, but I have not gotten going.
At this point, on Sunday I frequently watch two football games, the Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm (which is a great new find, a half hour comedy starring Larry Gilbert, who wrote Seinfeld; he's very annoying, and it's very hilarious, and it comes on HBO right after the Sopranos, before I can get up), then, the rest of another football game; at this point, I find myself ready for one thing and one thing only: Sportscenter on ESPN. Sunday has become the day that I watch television until my eyes implode.
After all that, I'm supposed to write a column that's all erudite and stuff? Fat chance!
I'm starting to think I might be better off making it into an advice column where you all write in about your deepest, most personal embarrassing sexual problems and I reply with glib answers and ridicule. Or, if you prefer, I'll be sensitive and caring -what the hell! It'll be a sort of "Dear Thurston" thing... yeah! This is a great idea!
Write me some damn questions about something you shouldn't have done to your girlfriend and I'll agree you probably shouldn't have done it -but gently, without completely crucifying you, usually, unless you seem to need a good kick in the pants, in which case my answer will really cut to the chase, and I'll be quite disarming in my candor and directness. C'mon, write me some questions! It'll be fun!
OK, don't, then.
DATELINE: WEST HARWICH! Noted musician Bruce Maclean (aka Link Montana) has moved there, and his band the Maplewoods (who will play at the Claddagh on Rt. 28 every Saturday starting October 12) have apparently changed from a trio of forty-ish males to a trio of teenage girls, on the evidence of the cover photo on a live CD they have in limited release. Actually, they still sound like guys, though -perhaps there was some mistake at the printer's...
Bruce was also involved in the recording of the new Greg Johnson CD, "Songs for Space", which you may start seeing some signs of (inquiries may be addressed to Greg at 266 Tonset Rd., Orleans, MA. 02653.)
Bruce said he'd also been spending some time at the Olde Inn at West Dennis, which he's always spoken highly of; he said both Dave Hickey (who plays there on Friday and Saturday) and Patsy Whelan (who plays Tuesdays) were well worth hearing, even though they play Irish music. (I've always been frightened of Irish music.)
DATELINE: ORLEANS! Noted soundman/entrepenuer/big time record executive Chris Blood reports that he just had a baby, eventually adding that wife Susan was also involved; the happy result is Lucy Amelia Blood, who is very, very small but already sports a winning smile; suitors may apply at the Trout Towers Casino.
DATELINE: EASTHAM! In desperate attempt to recover from suddenly liking James Taylor again, noted journalist Me listened to a Flaming Lips compilation of older material on Rykodisc called "The Symbolic Birth and Early Life of the Flaming Lips" (itself a compilation of material from two other Flaming Lips compilations covering the years 1983 to 1991.) They're strange, they're hip, they're young, -I always like them. It was boring as hell.
The identity problem continues...
Friday, October 4, 2002
Friday, September 27, 2002
James Taylor Rectal Exam
When we last met, I was having a bit of an identity crisis because I had suddenly started to like James Taylor again. Of course, my hope was that I probably just needed to give it some time to subside, but now, a week has gone by, and I still kind of like him.
It wouldn’t be a problem if I was a girl. For a girl, it’s normal to like James Taylor; but for a guy, well, it’s just not accepted. Usually, if a guy likes James Taylor, it’s either because he’s at the point where he’ll do absolutely anything to get any girl to hang around with him, or because he has lost all self-respect for himself as a man, and he knows that if other men discover his secret, they may descend on him like a pack of lions on an antelope and rip him to shreds. Basically, it’s a sign of helplessness.
A couple of years ago, I turned fifty, and a musician friend told me that at that age, it’s a good idea to get a rectal exam, because a lot of guys get cancer of the colon. In retrospect, he may have just been enjoying a bit of harmful fun at my expense, but at the time I did take him seriously, and (in a relative explosion of responsibility) I voluntarily submitted to an inspection of my nether area.
As you might imagine, I was nervous, and made a bit of a joke to the doctor as he was putting on his rubber gloves that I had really not been looking forward to this event that much. Unfortunately, not only did I not get a laugh -I barely got a reaction of any kind, and at the time I thought, well, the least a guy should be able to do at a time like this is laugh at your jokes!
Later on, though, I decided that not laughing at all might be better than laughing too much -after all, it’s not really a time for frivolity, and heaven forbid he come out with a whole bunch of funny lines of his own. I started to realize that a doctor in this situation is really in a rather precarious situation, audience response-wise. Eventually, I realized that when I volunteer to be put in a situation like this, liking James Taylor doesn’t seem half so bad.
Thinking back, I probably haven’t checked out his last few releases all that closely, though I do have a friend who played me some highlights, which (luckily for whatever minor esteem I have left as a rocker) sounded pretty boring. The last things I remembered liking were in 1975 on an album called “Gorilla”, a cut called “Mexico” and a beautiful ballad called “Sarah Maria.” However, that album also contained the dreaded “How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You”, so I ran like hell, and my past never caught up with me until now, when I find myself once again sheepishly admitting, oops! I like James Taylor.
Listening to his latest, “October Road” (Columbia), was surprisingly satisfying in a comfort food, meatloaf kind of way. He hasn’t changed, and none of the songs are startling or showy, but they still have lots of wonderful voicings and details and great acoustic guitar playing and the modest virtues of great songcrafting. It seemed to me to have more interesting songwriting than I’ve heard from him in a long time, like he’s doing more than going through the motions, though he still has the wisdom to always make it sound like he’s coasting.
The opening “September Grace”, “Carry Me On My Way”, “Baby Buffalo”, “Caroline I See You” -all have classic grace, depth, beauty, and thoroughbred lines; there’s even a much-needed change-up or two, in the funny, Cole Porter-ish “”Mean Old Man” or the anti-war screed “Belfast to Boston” (the latter surprisingly features cameo appearances from Kay Hanley and Michael Eisenstein of Letters to Cleo.) And there’s no age problem at all, seeing as he always seemed like he was about fifty anyway. )I’ll bet his doctor laughs like hell at all his jokes.)
All in all, I actually like the whole album very much.
I must be losing my damn mind.
It wouldn’t be a problem if I was a girl. For a girl, it’s normal to like James Taylor; but for a guy, well, it’s just not accepted. Usually, if a guy likes James Taylor, it’s either because he’s at the point where he’ll do absolutely anything to get any girl to hang around with him, or because he has lost all self-respect for himself as a man, and he knows that if other men discover his secret, they may descend on him like a pack of lions on an antelope and rip him to shreds. Basically, it’s a sign of helplessness.
A couple of years ago, I turned fifty, and a musician friend told me that at that age, it’s a good idea to get a rectal exam, because a lot of guys get cancer of the colon. In retrospect, he may have just been enjoying a bit of harmful fun at my expense, but at the time I did take him seriously, and (in a relative explosion of responsibility) I voluntarily submitted to an inspection of my nether area.
As you might imagine, I was nervous, and made a bit of a joke to the doctor as he was putting on his rubber gloves that I had really not been looking forward to this event that much. Unfortunately, not only did I not get a laugh -I barely got a reaction of any kind, and at the time I thought, well, the least a guy should be able to do at a time like this is laugh at your jokes!
Later on, though, I decided that not laughing at all might be better than laughing too much -after all, it’s not really a time for frivolity, and heaven forbid he come out with a whole bunch of funny lines of his own. I started to realize that a doctor in this situation is really in a rather precarious situation, audience response-wise. Eventually, I realized that when I volunteer to be put in a situation like this, liking James Taylor doesn’t seem half so bad.
Thinking back, I probably haven’t checked out his last few releases all that closely, though I do have a friend who played me some highlights, which (luckily for whatever minor esteem I have left as a rocker) sounded pretty boring. The last things I remembered liking were in 1975 on an album called “Gorilla”, a cut called “Mexico” and a beautiful ballad called “Sarah Maria.” However, that album also contained the dreaded “How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You”, so I ran like hell, and my past never caught up with me until now, when I find myself once again sheepishly admitting, oops! I like James Taylor.
Listening to his latest, “October Road” (Columbia), was surprisingly satisfying in a comfort food, meatloaf kind of way. He hasn’t changed, and none of the songs are startling or showy, but they still have lots of wonderful voicings and details and great acoustic guitar playing and the modest virtues of great songcrafting. It seemed to me to have more interesting songwriting than I’ve heard from him in a long time, like he’s doing more than going through the motions, though he still has the wisdom to always make it sound like he’s coasting.
The opening “September Grace”, “Carry Me On My Way”, “Baby Buffalo”, “Caroline I See You” -all have classic grace, depth, beauty, and thoroughbred lines; there’s even a much-needed change-up or two, in the funny, Cole Porter-ish “”Mean Old Man” or the anti-war screed “Belfast to Boston” (the latter surprisingly features cameo appearances from Kay Hanley and Michael Eisenstein of Letters to Cleo.) And there’s no age problem at all, seeing as he always seemed like he was about fifty anyway. )I’ll bet his doctor laughs like hell at all his jokes.)
All in all, I actually like the whole album very much.
I must be losing my damn mind.
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