Metallica, Don't Tread on Me
Rascals, People Got to Be Free
Tom Petty, I Won't Back Down
Johnny Cash, I Won't Back Down
Merle Haggard, The Fightin' Side of Me
The Who, Going Mobile
Richie Havens, Freedom
Cream, I Feel Free
Joan Baez, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down
Arlo Guthrie, City of New Orleans
Chill out toilet paper hoarders. Pour yourself a sizable shot of tequila and chase it with a Corona. You gotta die some time, WuFlu or no WuFlu. No day without political incorrectness. And no day without cultural appropriation, including the transpecies variety:
Peggy Lee, Fever
The Band, Chest Fever
Johnny Rivers, Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu
Bobby Blue Bland, St. James Infirmary
Bobby Blue Bland, Goin' Down Slow. This ought to be Joe Biden's theme song.
Hank Williams, Lovesick Blues
Dr. Feelgood, Down at the Doctors
Dire Straits, Industrial Disease
Son House, Death Letter Blues
Blind Willie McTell, You Was Born to Die
Bob Dylan, In My Time of Dying
Bob Dylan, Fixin' to Die
Bob Dylan, See that My Grave is Kept Clean. "Did you ever hear that coughin'/coffin sound? Means another poor boy is under ground."
Bob Dylan with Eric Clapton, Not Dark Yet
Bob Dylan, Knockin' on Heaven's Door
One of the very best is marriage.
Infatuation is a form of idolatry that cannot last long in a marriage. Marriage cures it. That's an argument for marriage. There was no cure for Don Quixote's romantic fantasies because their object, the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, existed only in his imagination.*
But while infatuation lasts, it is blissful. One is made silly, often harmlessly so. One walks on air and can think of nothing but the beloved. The moon hits your eye like a bigga pizza pie. The world starts to shine like you've had too much wine. So smitten was I in the early days of my relationship to the woman I married that I sat in my carrel at the university one day and just thought about her for eight hours straight when I was supposed to be finishing an article on Frege. Life is both love and logic. But sometimes hot love trumps cold logic.
The best marriages begin with the romantic transports of infatuation, but a marriage lasts only if the Rousseauian transports are undergirded by good solid reasons of the big head without interference from the heart or the little head. The love then matures. Real love replaces illusory idealization. The big head ought to be the ruling element in a man.
It takes an Italian to capture the aforementioned romantic transports, and Dean Martin (Dino Crocetti) does the job well in the schmaltzy That's Amore.
Il Mio Mondo is a good expression of the idolatry of infatuation. Cilla Black's 1964 rendition of the Italian song is You're My World.
But whence the idealization, the infatuation, the idolatry? And why the perennial popularity of silly love songs? What we really want in the deepest depths of the heart no man or woman can provide. That is known to all who know their own hearts and have seen through the idols. What we want is an infinite and eternal love. This infinite desire may have no object in reality. Arguments from desire are not rationally compelling.
But given the fact of the desire, a fact that does not entail the reality of its object, we have what we need to explain the idealization, the infatuation, and the idolatry of the sexual other. We substitute an immanent object for Transcendence inaccessible.
_____________________________
*The great novel of Miguel Cervantes is a work of fiction. And so both Don Quixote/Quijote and Dulcinea are fictional characters. But the first is posited as real within the fiction while the other is posited as imaginary, as Don Quixote's fiction, even if based upon the posited-in-the-fiction real Aldonza Lorenzo. Herewith a bit of grist for the mill of the philosophy of fiction. The real-imaginary distinction operates within an imaginary construct.
Merry Christmas everybody. Pour yourself a drink, and enjoy. Me, I'm nursing a Boulevardier. It's a Negroni with cojones: swap out the gin for bourbon. One ounce bourbon, one ounce sweet vermouth, one ounce Campari, straight up or on the rocks, with a twist of orange. A serious libation. It'll melt a snowflake for sure. The vermouth rosso contests the harshness of the bourbon, but then the Campari joins the fight on the side of the bourbon.
Or you can think of it as a Manhattan wherein the Campari substitutes for the angostura bitters. That there are people who don't like Campari shows that there is no hope for humanity.
Cheech and Chong, Santa Claus and His Old Lady
Canned Heat, Christmas Boogie
Leon Redbone and Dr. John, Frosty the Snowman
Beach Boys, Little St. Nick. A rarely heard alternate version.
Ronettes, Sleigh Ride
Elvis Presley, Blue Christmas. This one goes out to Barack and Michelle as their legacy continues to wither away.
Jeff Dunham, Jingle Bombs by Achmed the Terrorist. TRIGGER WARNING! Not for the p.c.-whipped. No day without political incorrectness!
Porky Pig, Blue Christmas
Captain Beefheart, There Ain't No Santa Claus on the Evening Stage
Charles Brown, Please Come Home for Christmas
Wanda Jackson and the Continentals, Merry Christmas Baby
Chuck Berry, Run Rudolph Run
Eric Clapton, Cryin' Christmas Tears
Judy Collins, Silver Bells
Ry Cooder, Christmas in Southgate
Bob Dylan, Must Be Santa
Is this the same guy who sang Desolation Row back in '65?
Bob Dylan, Red Cadillac and a Black Moustache. Not Christmasy, but a good tune. Remember Bob Luman? His version. Luman's signature number.
Who could possibly follow Dylan's growl except
Tom Waits, Silent Night. Give it a chance.
A surprising number of Christmas songs were written by Jews.
Jack Kerouac in a letter from 17 January 1962: "Everybody is making money off my ideas, like those "Route 66" TV producers, everybody except me . . . ." (Selected Letters 1957-1969, ed. Charters, Viking 1999, p. 326; see also p. 461 and pp. 301-302.)
Here is the Nelson Riddle theme music from the TV series. And here is part of an episode from the series which ran from 1960-1964. George Maharis bears a striking resemblance to Jack, wouldn't you say? And notice Maharis is riding shotgun. Kerouac wasn't a driver. Neal Cassady was the driver.
Now dig Bobby Troup. Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones, Dr. Feelgood, and others have covered the tune. The version by Asleep at the Wheel is especially good.
From time to time it is perhaps appropriate that we should relax a little the bonds that tether us to the straight and narrow. A fitting apologia for a bit of indulgence and even overindulgence is found in Seneca, On Tranquillity of Mind, XVII, 8-9, tr. Basore:
At times we ought to reach even the point of intoxication, not drowning ourselves in drink, yet succumbing to it; for it washes away troubles, and stirs the mind from its very depths and heals its sorrow just as it does certain ills of the body; and the inventor of wine is not called the Releaser [Liber, Bacchus] on account of the license it gives to the tongue, but because it frees the mind from bondage to cares and emancipates it and gives it new life and makes it bolder in all that it attempts. But, as in freedom, so in wine there is a wholesome moderation.
Sed ut libertatis ita vini salubris moderatio est.
. . .
Yet we ought not to do this often, for fear that the mind may contract an evil habit; nevertheless there are times when it must be drawn into rejoicing and freedom, and gloomy sobriety must be banished for a while.
Amos Milburn, One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer
The Champs, Tequila. Arguably unique in that its lyrics consist of exactly one trisyllabic word.
Electric Flag, Wine. Great video of the late Mike Bloomfield and his Gibson Les Paul in their prime, at the Monterey Pop Festival, 1967. Definitive proof that a Jew can play the blues. Cultural appropriation at its finest. We all could profit from more cultural appropriation, blacks especially. Think what they could learn from the kike, the chink, and the honkey, not to mention the dago, the guinea, the greaseball, and the wop.
Canned Heat, Whisky-Headed Woman.
Tommy McClennan, Whisky-Headed Woman, 1939
Doors, Whisky Bar
Buck Owens, Cigarettes, Whisky, and Wild, Wild Women
Cigarettes are a blot on the whole human race
A man is a monkey with one in his face
So gather 'round friends and listen to your brother
A fire on one end, a fool on the other.
Ramblin' Jack Elliot's version
What are you drinking? I'm having me a Whisky Highball, classic, and simplicity itself: ginger ale and your favorite whisky. Mine tonight is Canada Dry ginger ale and Jim Beam bourbon.
Addendum 9/16
David G. writes,
Back when I was working for Google and making crap loads of money, I started sampling high-end bourbon and scotch. Maybe I'm just not a connoisseur, but in my judgement, although some of the 12-year-old Glen's were marginally better than Jack Daniels, none of the bourbons were, and there were several high-end whiskeys that were noticeably worse than Jack, so now that I'm poor, I really don't mind going back to my old friend Jack.
Also, as I'm sure you are aware, you can't post a list of songs on the internet and not have someone tell you you missed some. One you probably know:
EmmyLou Harris, Two More Bottles of Wine
and one you probably don't, unless you follow local Arizona bands:
Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, Jack vs. Jose.
Jack is good enough for me, too, and so is Jose Cuervo Gold, and if you are mixing these bad boys, not with each other mind you, but with, say, ginger ale or tonic water respectively, then there is no call to shell out for the top-shelf hooch which is outrageously overpriced. You don't always get what you pay for. If a snob challlenges your judgment, Dave, arrange a blind taste test.
Fratello Pepito recommends The Four Deuces, White Port Lemon Juice, 1956.
Remember Fred Neil? One of the luminaries of the '60s folk scene, he didn't do much musically thereafter. Neil is probably best remembered for having penned 'Everybody's Talkin' which was made famous by Harry Nilsson as the theme of Midnight Cowboy. Here is Neil's version. Nilsson's rendition.
Another of my Fred Neil favorites is "Other Side of This Life." Here is Peter, Paul, and Mary's version.
And it's been a long long time since I last enjoyed That's the Bag I'm In.
I've Got a Secret. YouTuber comment: "Why were the sixties so special and important? Fred Neil, for one." But why were they so special to us and not others? In part because we were raw, open to experience, and full of the painful & passionate intensity of youth.
The reclusive Neil died in 2001 at the age of 64. Biography here.
He has been called "rock's greatest songwriter." A better description is "America's greatest writer of popular songs." Bar none. We can discuss the criteria later, and consider counterexamples. His earliest four or five albums are not in the rock genre. I'll permit quibbling about #5, Bringing It All Back Home (1965), but Bob Dylan (1962), The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan (1963) , The Time's They Are A'Changin' (1964), and Another Side of Bob Dylan (1964) are better classified as folk, not that they sit all that comfortably in this niche.
These early albums are studded with lasting contributions to Americana. This is music with meaning that speaks to the mind and the heart. No Rat Pack crooner Las Vegas lounge lizard stuff here. Two lesser-known compositions both from The Times They Are a'Changin' (1964):
The Ballad of Hollis Brown Performed by Stephen Stills.
North Country Blues. Written from the point of view of a woman and so appropriately sung by the angel-throated Joan Baez.
D. A. Pennebaker on the making of Don't Look Back. I saw it in '67 when it first came out. I just had to see it, just as I just had to have all of Dylan's albums, all of his sheet music, and every article and book about him. I was a Dylan fanatic. No longer a fanatic, I remain a fan.
May he die with his boots on. It ain't dark yet, but it's gettin' there. When his 30th album Time Out of Mind came out in 1997, over twenty years ago now, I was amazed to discover that Dylan could still tap back into that magic mood he achieved in the mid-60s.
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.I was born here and I'll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' stillEvery nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.
Sinatra is supposed to have said that a pro is one who can play it the same way twice. (Where?) Dylan rarely plays it the same way twice. Here is a version of "Just Like a Woman" which is lyrically and in other minor ways different from the Blonde on Blonde version.
Dave Bagwill recommends this outstanding extended version (Freewheelin' outake 2, 1962) of "The Ballad of Hollis Brown." Move over, Stephen Stills! The harp fills don't quite make it, however, in this minor-keyed tune.
Calexico, Alone Again Or
A great cover of Love's version from '67.
Ry Cooder, Paris, Texas
Ry Cooder, He'll Have to Go
A curiously satisfying Tex-Mex re-do of the old Jim Reeves crossover hit
Ry Cooder, Yellow Roses
Spade Cooley, Detour
'Spade Cooley' has got to be one of the most politically incorrect names of all time. I remember seeing his Western swing show on KTLA, Channel 5, in the late '50s, early '60s' at my Uncle Ray's place. Cooley was a real piece of work.
Above, a view of the Arizona open road from the cockpit of my 2013 Jeep Wrangler.
Old Crow Medicine Show, Sweet Amarillo. Dylan wrote it.
Marty Robbins messes with the wicked Felina in El Paso and comes to an untimely end.
Dean Martin is down and out in Houston.
A lonely soldier cleans his gun and dreams of Galveston.
A slacker standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona spies a girl in a flatbed Ford.
Johnny Rivers heads East via Phoenix and Albuquerque.
From Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah, this sojourner of the American night has driven every kind of rig that's ever been made.
Ed Farrell writes, "The Little Feat version of I'm Willin is a good one. But my favorite version will probably remain the one done by Seatrain circa 1970--which was the standard road song for Sierra climbing trips in late high school/college. Seatrain never really took off as a band but their musicianship was quite good though their style was difficult to pigeonhole."
That is a good version, indeed better than Little Feat's. There were a lot of great bands back in the day that never really made it. Another is Fever Tree. I remember hearing them circa '68 live at a club called The Kaleidoscope in Hollywood or West L. A. Give a careful listen to The Sun Also Rises.
Ed also recommends Seatrain's version of the Carole King composition, Creepin' Midnight. Produced by George Martin.
Finally, please take a look at Ed's spectacular photography.
Joan Baez, There but for Fortune. Ochs' best song in its best rendition.
Phil Ochs, Changes
YouTuber comment, good except for the exaggeration in the last sentence:
Somewhere, in a parallel universe, in another dimension, where there's musical justice, Phil Ochs wasn't just Bob Dylan's sidekick in the early 60's, who released a bunch of albums that are long out of print, failed to gain international recognition, got choked by muggers and lost his ability to sing, disappeared into alcoholism and severe depression, and hanged himself on his birthday, and is remembered only thanks to documentaries about Greenwich Village and the Folk Revival. No, in some other reality he's remembered as one of the absolutely greatest songwriters, guitarist, and singers in the history of popular music . . . .
Phil Ochs, Pleasures of the Harbor. Brings back memories of '67 and shows that Ochs could break out of the protest/topical rut.
Christopher Hitchens on Phil Ochs and those days.
Ochs' protest songs were too obvious and bound to the events of the day. Dylan's best protest songs avoided these defects to float free of the specific and enter the ethereal. This is part of the reason why Ochs is tied to his time and place and remembered only by the aficionados but Dylan has a permanent place in the pantheon of Americana. For example, these great Dylan anthems lay it between the lines and have stood the test of time:
Clancy Bros., When the Ship Comes In
Alanis Morissette, Blowin' in the Wind
Joan Baez, A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall
And now some great tunes from the ill-starred Tim Hardin. I discovered him in '67 when I bought his Tim Hardin 2 LP. Still have it in mint condition. Do I hear $10,000? At the time, I thought that Hardin might displace Dylan in my adolescent affections or else become a sort of second Dylan. But of course that did not happen since Dylan is on 'a whole other level' despite Hardin's being a very fine songwriter and performer.
Tim Hardin, Lady Came from Baltimore
Tim Hardin, Reason to Believe
Small Faces, Red Balloon. Great version! I prefer it to Hardin's original. But then, I don't know. Both good. Hardin died of a heroin overdose in 1980. 'Red Balloon' is a heroin reference. See here:
"Red Balloon" is a confessional song about Tim's mixed feelings toward heroin and its effects upon him. Heroin is often sold in balloons, so the "bought myself a red balloon" line refers to buying and taking heroin. The "blue surprise" is the adverse effects of heroin. One such effect is the loss of libido or sexual desire - "took the lovelight from my eyes." (or possibly mistreating your loved ones) "The pinning of my eyes" is probably some adverse physical effect. In the song he is addressing heroin (according to the magazine's interpretation) when he states "you were so easy to get to know, but will we see one another again...I hope so." The Troubadour version seems to confirm this, talking about running around on the lower East Side, much like in the old Cocaine song talking about going down to Beale and Main looking for the man who sells Cocaine. So though on the surface it appears to be a childlike song about balloons and children, it's actually quite the opposite.
Don't mess with the stuff, muchachos. I speak from experience. It can very easily kill you. This is part of the reason why I have such utter contempt for those obstructionist crapweasels, Nancy the Knucklehead Pelosi, the Botox-ed-up face of the Democrat (Demon Rat?) party, and her sidekick Chucky the Scumbag Schumer who in effect promote open borders and the flow of drugs into the country.
Tim Hardin, Black Sheep Boy
If you love, let me live in peace/Please understand/ That the black sheep can wear the golden fleece and hold a winning hand.
Tim Hardin, If I Were a Carpenter
Merry Christmas everybody. Pour yourself a drink, and enjoy. Me, I'm nursing a Boulevardier. It's a Negroni with cojones: swap out the gin for bourbon. One ounce bourbon, one ounce sweet vermouth, one ounce Campari, straight up or on the rocks, with a twist of orange. A serious libation. It'll melt a snowflake for sure. The vermouth rosso contests the harshness of the bourbon, but then the Campari joins the fight on the side of the bourbon.
Or you can think of it as a Manhattan wherein the Campari substitutes for the angostura bitters. That there are people who don't like Campari shows that there is no hope for humanity.
Cheech and Chong, Santa Claus and His Old Lady
Canned Heat, Christmas Boogie
Leon Redbone and Dr. John, Frosty the Snowman
Beach Boys, Little St. Nick. A rarely heard alternate version.
Ronettes, Sleigh Ride
Elvis Presley, Blue Christmas. This one goes out to Barack and Michelle as their legacy continues to wither away.
Jeff Dunham, Jingle Bombs by Achmed the Terrorist. TRIGGER WARNING! Not for the p.c.-whipped.
Porky Pig, Blue Christmas
Captain Beefheart, There Ain't No Santa Claus on the Evening Stage
Charles Brown, Please Come Home for Christmas
Wanda Jackson and the Continentals, Merry Christmas Baby
Chuck Berry, Run Rudolph Run
Eric Clapton, Cryin' Christmas Tears
Judy Collins, Silver Bells
Ry Cooder, Christmas in Southgate
Bob Dylan, Must Be Santa
Is this the same guy who sang Desolation Row back in '65?
Bob Dylan, Red Cadillac and a Black Moustache. Not Christmasy, but a good tune. Remember Bob Luman? His version. Luman's signature number.
Who could possibly follow Dylan's growl except
Tom Waits, Silent Night. Give it a chance.
A surprising number of Christmas songs were written by Jews.
Phil Upchurch Combo, You Can't Sit Down, 1961
Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, The Lonely Bull, 1962
Booker T. and the M. G. s, Green Onions
The Tornados, Telstar, 1962. About the first telecommunications satellite.
Mason Williams, Classical Gas, 1968
Michael Bloomfield, Carmelita's Skiffle, 1969
Dick Dale. Let's Go Trippin,' 1961. Not about drugs; pre-psychedelic.
Dave Brubeck, Take Five
The Shadows, Apache, 1960
Lonnie Mack, Memphis, 1963
Ventures, Penetration, 1963. Cheesy version. Much better 1981 version. Still boring.
Ventures, Walk Don't Run, 1960.
Jorma Kaukonen's Embryonic Journey from The Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow LP, 1967.
Bent Fabric, Alley Cat, 1962.
The Village Stompers, Washington Square, 1963.
Kenny Ball, Midnight in Moscow, 1962.
David Rose, The Stripper, 1962.
Acker Bilk, Stranger on the Shore, 1962.
Dick Dale and the Deltones, Misirlou, 1963. If surf music had a father, Dick Dale was the man.
The Chantays, Pipeline, 1963. A nice college boy effort, but the definitive version is the Dick Dale and Stevie Ray Vaughan cover.
Floyd Cramer, Last Date, 1960. She was the world to you, but your love went unrequited. You've just seen her for the last time. But she'll haunt your dreams for the rest of your life. You stumble back to your apartment, fighting back the tears, pour yourself a stiff one, and cue up Floyd Cramer. But time passes, and soon with Floyd's help, you are
On the Rebound, 1961.
Al Kooper and Michael Bloomfield, Albert's Shuffle, 1968. Two Jews play the blues. A fine example of cultural appropriation. We need more cultural appropriation.
Duane Eddy, Raunchy, 1963
The Champs, Tequila, pre-'60s, 1958, to be exact. And not entirely instrumental. The lyrics consist of one word-type 'Tequila' tokened three times. Tequila is what I am drinking right now and what my 1966 self is playing below at a high school talent show. I'm wearing a Bob Dylan-type cap.
From a long-time reader:
Your 'Sat nite oldies' this evening was a great head-trip for me; you hit a lot of buttons, reminded me of a few girls, and some easy days of summer with Booker T. and Bent Fabric; also at that time,"Midnight in Moscow" just flat ruined me for other music for a year or so - it produced in me a heady mix of scandal, sin, sex, high excitement, I was ready to go to any place that resembled that music. I'd never seen a strip show, but 'The Stripper' - just the music - at that time made me think I'd maybe been missing a good time. I missed too many, as an aside.Yeah, once wept in my beer to good ol' Floyd too: some dame? (I was going to say 'some girl' but 'dame' seems to fit better with beer and weeping. Hmmm....'broad' even better? Must think deeply on this.)I would toast 'Tequila' with you but there's none of the noble drop about. I hope you are enjoying yours, and thinking fondly about that talent show - great pic!To avoid a longish ramble, upon which I am on the verge (intentionally mangled verbiage there :-)) - I'll say goodnight. Goodnight, Mate! Thanks for a good 'Oldies.'
