Jackie Gleason “Lonesome Echo”

There is some crazy string shit going on—which should say it all—but for a more eloquent variation of that assessment, I’ll quote the liner notes on back: “…an exotic string combination: mandolins, ’cellos, and domras (richer, deeper mandolins), augmented by guitars and marimba.” Seeing how ol’ Salvador Dali is involved in this escapade, and I never heard of domras, I figured they might be imaginary—but I looked ’em up, nonetheless, on Emerac, and naturally it is an instrument. But this next part must be from the surreal dreamscape: it claims that throughout the record the featured solo instrument is “the rare oboe d’amour…” That’s got to be rich. But, no, that’s a real thing too—a slightly larger oboe—“whose melancholy tone is hauntingly displayed in each of these favorite selections.” By none less than Romeo Penque—believe it or else. The entire album flows together like a night of haunted dreams, but there’s some standout tracks, as well. Just the ones I immediately recognize include: “I Don’t Know Why,” “Deep Purple” (my very favorite on the record), “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “How Deep is the Ocean,” “A Garden in the Rain,” and “Dancing on the Ceiling” (a song featured in my upcoming dystopian novel). As with all the “Jackie Gleason presents…” mood music LPs, this one is long—no less than eight tracks per side. You may even be able to get to third base before having to flip the record.

Besides the striking concoction of stringed and woodwind oddities, the unique collaboration on this 1955 record is the endorsement of, as I mentioned above, artist Salvador Dali, who has provided the album cover. This is absolutely one of those records you’d buy for the cover alone, if that is something you do. I’ve been guilty of it myself, though I don’t normally endorse the idea—plus, I listen to everything, at least once. The nice thing here is that the cover matches the music exquisitely. It’s probably a well-known one, and you can spot it a mile away (or from across the Goodwill). It’s a barren landscape with a butterfly (or moth) on the end of a cane (or spear) in the foreground, which casts a long shadow on a stone ruin (or a Taco Bell). There is a seashell in the foreground, indicating that we’re near the seashore (or else a desert that used to be the sea, eons ago). Then far-off, there’s a woman wearing an exotic red robe, leaving us (already far enough away, possibly, to be but a memory). And then, beyond her, a mandolin (or is it a lute? I don’t think it’s a domra). If the perspective is to be believed (and why should it be, this is surrealism), the instrument is the size of a small boat. We should not overlook, as well, the shadow sneaking up behind us, on the left, which I might guess is of the artist himself, except there is no telltale Dali moustache in shadow, which leads me to believe it’s Jackie Gleason (though rather thin—but then it is a shadow). The photo of the two of them on back reminds me that I’d love to see a TV show where they drive around the country (or the world) in an open-roof roadster, stopping off at hamburger drive-ins and root beer stands (or local variations). If they unearth those reels from the vaults, I’ll never miss an episode.

1.20.23

Wilson Pickett “The Sound of Wilson Pickett”

I’ve heard a lot of Wilson Pickett music over the years for not having any of his records—well, maybe I did when I was younger—I know I had some compilations with him on them. Anyway, I know his distinctive voice, his singing style, of course—everyone does. I was listening to some of his stuff online awhile back, and I was finding it pretty unsatisfying—so I was trying to figure out why. I concluded that it was too energetic (for me, at this moment in time, I guess) and too chaotic—really busy arrangements—and too loud, too dense—the horn arrangements dominated—well, almost—his singing still dominated, of course—but it was like he and the horns were fighting for domination. Am I wrong about this? It occurred to me that the difference might be the musical format—I mean digital/streaming vs vinyl. Or maybe it was just me having a bad day. Anyway, today is a good day, because this record sounds great.

But it’s not a good day, it’s just another day—in fact, I feel like shit—at least I did until I started listening to this record—and now I feel good—so I’m trying to figure out what I like about this record better than some other Wilson Pickett I’ve listened to recently. This one’s called The Sound of Wilson Pickett, and it’s from 1967. I think it starts with the lack of (prevalence of) horns—how busy the horns are or aren’t—how upfront in the recording, or how jaunty the horn playing, generally. There are horns here, of course, but they’re not as much in your face. Wilson Pickett’s signing is always in your face, of course, there’s no other way. But on this record, it’s all him.

Then, maybe, it’s the songs. The record starts off perfectly with “Soul Dance Number Three”—which I particularly like because it’s really minimal—mostly guitar, bass, drums—the organ and horns are subtle and minimal—it’s a slow and really deep, repetitious groove. It’s my favorite on the record. Then there’s “Funky Broadway,” which is a little more up-tempo, but the same things apply. This side also has “I Found a Love”—one of my favorite WP songs—here there’s Part I and Part II, A and B side of the single, I guess, two and half and three minutes long. And then the last song on the side is “You Can’t Stand Alone” which is a pretty energetic love song, up-tempo and happy—but the best part is the brief organ solo which sounds just pretty crazy—it jumps right off the record. You could hear a lot more of that, but it’s kind of cool that it’s so brief.

The second side could go ahead and not exist—since the first was fully satisfying—but it’s all really good too. “Mojo Mamma” is my favorite—a killer song (written by Jerry Wexler and the great songwriter, Bert Berns).  Then there’s three Bobby Womack songs in a row, and they’re all excellent. The album cover is that weird shade of orange that I can never see without thinking of the Richard Hell record that looks similar to this one. Wilson Pickett is in front, from the waist up, wearing a sharp blue suit—he’s got an emotional expression on his face like he’s pleading with someone, and his right hand is raised in a way that matches the expression. I suppose what it is—he’s singing, expressing the emotions of the songs from the bottom of his heart—though there’s no microphone in sight—so you don’t immediately think “singing.” But who needs a microphone. And on back, some pretty extensive liner notes by someone named Paul Ackerman—actually very interesting—kind of making the points I did, above, though with more knowledge of the situation. He says the production on this record is particularly good, in part because the musicians are from the deep South—and what is avoided is “excessive instrumentation and chaotic sound.” And then the song selection is varied and good, and the WP written tunes (“Soul Dance,” “I Found a Love”) are very strong. So… I’m agreeing with this dude, partly because he’s agreeing with me—that’s often how it works.

1.13.23

Rockin’ R’s “Live at the Rusty Rail”

This one gets five stars out of five without even putting the needle on it, the cover is so excellent—a full-size black and white photo of who one might assume are the Rockin’ R’s—five white guys, three with bangs, 2 receding a bit—wearing their matching costumes. White pants and metallic, glimmering jackets that most resemble space alien garb from Lost in Space. Also, each guy has a neck scarf (can’t tell the color, could be red) knotted tightly on the right side. The middle guy is sitting behind a snare drum, three have electric guitars and bass (Gibson and Fenders)—and the big guy with glasses has a tambourine. The album title is just below in rocket orange. On back there are four small headshots (three women, one guy) that look like they could be for the chamber of commerce, along with the 14 song titles and who takes the vocals on each—some which match up to the photos. There’s a booking address and phone number. And then liner notes by Rosemary Ellis—which I hope will explain some of this. It’s a pretty thorough rundown of who does what, more or less, down to the songwriting (on the originals), booking, answering the phone (437-1886), wardrobe, bowling, and horse shoes. It sounds like a collective, a club, a group of friends, a band, a business venture, a cult, a very small town, a sailing ship—I’ll go with band. This is a follow-up to a previous live album. They played in Northern Minnesota (a lot in Austin) and made their way into Iowa, as well.

The record is very well-recorded (by the immortal Johnny Durham) (I don’t know if he’s immortal, but his name is the most prominent one on the cover)—crystal clear and immediate—like they’re right here in the room with me, half a century later. The crowd is polite and not overdone. There are a few instrumentals, but mostly it’s country songs with the vocals so upfront you can almost tell what aftershave they’re wearing (or brand of chewing gum, with the women). I believe there are seven different people taking the vocals, including two women—and there are some duets. The playing is top-notch, the band is tight, and they don’t get in each other’s way. The singing is all over the place, from pretty competent to emanating from the neighbor’s shower to cracking bar glasses and rendering mirrors askew. I hope I don’t sound mean—as I’m sure some people would be—I love the heartfelt styles here—and there are a lot of them. I have nothing against singing that wouldn’t make it past the first round of the Gong Show tryouts—I’m a singer myself and can’t stay in key to save my life. The one song sung by “Fritz” (pic on back) is a particular varnish-melter—fantastic. The monologue at the end of the Hank Thompson number, “I Came Awful Close,” sung by “Harold,” is pretty inspired: “You guys stick around here, maybe we’ll get some snakes out later on, and we’ll open some of that good old Christian Brothers brandy from the Alpine liquors in Austin and have a really good time down here at the Rusty Rail.” Another real standout is “Jane” singing “One’s On the Way”—a hilarious song—I probably should have known it—which was a hit for Loretta Lynn around this time. Jane isn’t Loretta, but then no one is—but Loretta. Interesting, that song was written by Shel Silverstein—weird, because I just, yesterday (I’m not kidding) looked him up on the Big Board to see a list of the songs he wrote—because I had been talking about him to someone (OK, to myself—I do a lot of talking to myself). But yeah—odd coincidence—and odd coincidences keep the world spinning.

1.6.23

Big Change On This Page

I lost enthusiasm for writing about random songs on this page, so for now on it’s going to be where I post review of vinyl records. I’m leaving up the song reviews that I feel may still be worth reading, below this post.

“Mariners Apartment Complex” by Lana Del Rey

I found Lana Del Rey’s songs to be perfect to listen to while trying to write at 4 a.m.—that time of day when you’re most afraid of death. Somehow I came upon this song, and it took me a while to connect the song (which had entered my subconscious) with the title (which is something right up my alley). I woke up one morning from an extended dream about this song in which I decided I would write an entire novel based on it. So caught up in this dream was I, it wasn’t until I sat down and started typing a new document with notes on the project that I came to my senses. It’s a quiet, beautiful song, and I really like the arrangement—acoustic piano and guitar, subtle drums, and some kind of string synth, it sounds like, that really works. It feels epic, yet it’s only four minutes long. Some of the vocals are almost spoken, which is effective, but can be annoying. The first thing I noticed was the part where she says, “My, my, my”—dropped in, in contrast to her singing voice. I found it so off-putting to be almost repulsed by it—but, as you know, attraction and repulsion are two sides of the same coin—so I kept going back. What is this “Mariners Apartment Complex”—it sounds like an old Los Angeles motor hotel that’s been renovated into overpriced apartments. Only very desperate fuckers by the pool, and there’s at least one person living out the fantasy of oceangoing transient worker turned failed actor turned mid-level drug dealer. (That’s not in the song, but just imagined from the title!) It’s a great backdrop for nautical imagery. The lyrics are so good they work as straight text, as a poem—but even better as a song. The “Venice bitch” pun, while overused (even by LDR, on a single album!), still, is perfect. “Jesus” is invoked twice—the first time with reverence—the second time as an expletive. One of the most perfect pop song choruses I’ve ever heard, so I’m going to paraphrase. “You lose your way, just take my hand/You’re lost at sea, then I’ll command your boat to me again/Don’t look too far, right where you are, that’s where I am/I’m your man.” It gives me goose bumps just to type those words. And it’s much better—I shouldn’t need to add—to hear it—in the context of the song. And it’s even better because I don’t fully understand it—and the most powerful things are those things that are just beyond your ability to fully take in. The “Lana Del Rey” who is singing it seems both wise and confused—a sign of maturity—the more you’ve been around, the wiser you are—and the more confused you get. She’s speaking to a lover who’s at an entirely different level of consciousness. She’s trying to explain, to make it work, and it’s heartbreaking. “Catch a wave and take in the sweetness/Think about it, the darkness, the deepness/All the things that make me who I am.” When you have to go to such lengths, in a relationship, to explain, it’s most likely that you’re already doomed before you’ve left the port. But at least you’re left with—as you sink beneath the waves—a lovely artifact.

“I Bet My Life” by Imagine Dragons

I found a public space where I happen to be on many days where there is what seems to be pretty random music source piped in from unseen speakers. It's a good place to try to identify a random song that I can then delve into. I'm not sure how random, maybe it's some version of the current “Top 40.” Anyway, the other day a song came up called “I Bet My Life,” by a band called “Imagine Dragons.” At first, I thought “Imagine Dragons” was the name of the song—since I couldn't imagine calling a band that name. I suppose it is catchy, but trying to imagine various band members sitting around in a bar going over possibilities for band names—which is how all bands are named—I could not picture this one coming up. “The Terminators? No, there is one. Straight Flush? There is one... plus, no. Imagine Dragons? Hey... yeah!” My research tells me that they are quite popular, very successful. They have a lot of fans. At this point they seem to be four guys in their thirties—so a relatively new band—though, I suppose, as people in their thirties do—they feel like they are as old as the hills. Being “from” Las Vegas, the gambling reference here makes sense—but this song seems to be a heartfelt confessional, a love letter to “you.” It's anchored by a rousing chorus that sounds influenced by gospel music—you could imagine hearing this in one of those new churches that embraces rock music. Hearing only this, I'd guess they are a Christian Rock band, despite the pagan name. But I don't think they are—though at least of a couple of members are, or were, Mormons. I don't think I'll ever come around to this song, so I listen to a few more from the album it's on, called “Smoke + Mirrors”—and I wonder if that's somewhat confessional, as well? A lot of one word song titles. A lot of songs sound quite reflective, about life, and love, and such. Most songs have a really quiet part, and then a really loud part. The sound is very dense—you don't really pick out individual instruments. Even though, on paper, they're a guitar, bass, drums “rock” band—the overall sound is more of an electronic wave of complex noises—I guess this is pretty common for contemporary music. It is very much not my thing, but I can tell there is a pop element in there, so I keep listening until I find a song I like—and it's called, “It Comes Back To You”—a pretty straight-ahead pop song with a nice groove. Maybe this is their “retro” song—I don't know—it's probably fairly revealing to my tastes that I picked out this one. Anyway, one more tiny notch in the infinite impossibility of understanding popular culture—but I'm trying.

“Sentimental Journey” by Pere Ubu

Not to be confused with the American popular song that Doris Day had a hit with, this is a song from Pere Ubu's 1978 album The Modern Dance, which is arguably the greatest rock record ever recorded. This is the second to last song, the longest and most formless, and in some ways the best song on an album in which every track is an art-rock masterpiece. I bought a Pere Ubu bootleg around 1980 that also had this song—but the song titles were all in “secret code”—this one was titled “Doris Day Sings.” That record claimed to be a Christmas concert at a mall—and you can hear people nervously laughing, no doubt thinking the end is near—and you can maybe imagine a drunken Santa and some little kids whose minds were warped for the better. It's a pretty minimal, quiet-ish song, and starts out sounding a lot like (in movie terms) a very leisurely space alien attack. There is repetitious guitar, bass, clarinet, amazing, bizarre synthesizer, and pretty freeform drums. Breaking bottles (and possibly other breaking things) is also a highlight. And of course, there is one of about a million solid gold David Thomas vocal performances. Even though the lyrics make no literal sense, they somehow burn themselves in your brain like a trauma. I suppose you could say this is an alternate universe version of the Doris Day hit—both songs are steeped in nostalgia, both weirdly sugar-coated, both are intoxicating boat-rides through some kind of blacklight-lit, dry-iced, tunnel of love, followed by egg foo young and zombies at the Golden House. Practically the same song. I tried listening to both songs simultaneously through headphones—not for the faint-of-heart, but if I could come up with the right movie scene to accompany this unholy union, I think I might have something that will get me through the music video dark ages.

Return to Songs

Since I failed to keep up with writing about songs, from this point I’m going to take a new approach. I’m going to alternate between songs that I’m obsessed with and songs picked at random. Songs that I’m obsessed with might include: Songs that I hate so much I feel like I have to say something; Songs in nightmares: Earworms: Or more likely, songs that I love so much, I can listen to over and over more than is healthy. For random songs, I might do something like make a note of the first song I hear on that day, and then write about that. These songs could be something I hear in a public place, at work, when I turn on the radio or watch a movie. Or I might pick a song using some random system, from my collection of albums, 45s, CDs, cassette tapes, digital files on the computer. I am going to alternate between the random category and the obsession category, but I won’t necessary indicate which is which—as it will likely be obvious, and if it’s not, it doesn’t really matter, anyway.

Randy Russell 4.12.21

Alicia Keys "If I Ain't Got You" and The Ronettes "Be My Baby"

I'm certainly one to look for signs the Universe is sending our way, and if there aren't any I'm certainly one to make them up! That's a joke, but I wonder if it isn't always that way, really—there is no meaning, higher power, or master plan—it's just all part of the narrative we make up ourselves in order to deal with mortality. An imaginative person and good story-teller will see a lot more signs, because it's all there—you just have to connect the dots. Anyway, on this Random Song Sunday, the sign that I saw was the one that said “Open” at the Blooming Lotus Bakery, an establishment I have, in the past, complained about not being open on Sunday. So apparently they have special summer Sunday hours to serve their special Sunday summer homemade vegan ice cream. On this day, however, I had already eaten breakfast, at Ma Fischer's, followed by what has been the most classic tasting, New York style (my own designation) diner Rice Pudding. Not one to eat two desserts in one morning, I opted for a cup of coffee (excellent coffee at Blooming Lotus, I think it's Valentine), but then, naturally, I saw that they had gluten-free doughnuts, so I had to get a doughnut. Dragonfruit, which means nothing to me, except that it was pink frosting on a dark brown cake doughnut—quite beautiful, and delicious, and of course, in my mind, another sign.

I have recently made the decision (as in, what to do with my life) to go back to working on the revision of my novel, The Doughnuts, for better or worse, poorer or destitute, because I want to finish it, once and for all. Once I got into it, like last week, I realized it was the right decision, because I love it, and I love my characters, and I love the world I created there. But it's pretty clear to me at this point that the story of one man's search for gluten-free doughnuts is necessarily a period piece, in that gluten-free doughnuts are everywhere now. And it is: a period best referred to, probably, as post 911. That time, which feels like yesterday to me, but is decidedly not yesterday anymore. It's also not really one man's search for gluten-free doughnuts—that's just my misleading but tasty tag-line—it's really about much more, and then even more, and ultimately, more than that. So where the songs come in today, after I ate my doughnut, was drinking coffee, and writing in my notebook, a song came on. There was music playing all along, but this song stopped me in my tracks. (Or, some would say, chicken scratch.)

The song was “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes, from 1963, and if you only remember it in you mind, stop reading right now and listen to it again, because your mind tends to engage the mundane filter on everything, but the song is actually anything but mundane—it has one of the most audacious sounds in rock'n'roll history. But better yet, look on YouTube for “opening credits to Mean Streets,” and watch that, because I think those credits, to that 1973 Martin Scorsese movie, is the best use of a song in opening credits in any movie ever. Also, unforgettable, to me—that song and that movie will always be linked in my mind. One thing I do always forget is that the movie doesn't start with the song—first there is Harvey Keitel's character waking up in bed, like from a nightmare, and he's barely audible, says: “You don't make up for your sins in the church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit, and you know it.” He is clearly tormented. Then the song starts, and then we see an old movie projector showing home movies of the characters in the movie, in what proves to be happier times. I think it is because of the association with this movie that this song remains so powerful to me. I mean, it's a great sounding song, just that sound! The lyrics are pretty nothing special though. But that movie—the first time I saw it, at the New Mayfield Theater in Cleveland's Little Italy, there was something so visceral about it (I've told this story a million times) that it almost made me throw up.

So then, right in the middle of enjoying this flashback, finishing my coffee, and writing in my notebook, the song stops! I look around, what happened? I couldn't tell if it was an employee or a patron, but someone changed the channel! I mean, it was on some music service, and they were fishing around a bit, and then finally came up with something with a contemporary sound. So me, being no fool, realized this was a golden opportunity for a random song review double header. I asked my phone, which told me the song was called “If I Ain't Got You” and was written and performed by Alicia Keys. I was ready to rip into this song, you know, due to the context, but it's actually a very catchy pop song, and now after listening to it few times at home, it's probably there, in the happy part of my brain. The lyrics seem to be a lot about criticizing people who are into material things, because for her, nothing means nothing without the presence, and I suppose love, of someone addressed to as “you.” I can tell she feels pretty strongly about these lyrics, this message, because they don't exactly fit real well, but she makes them fit, which I think might ultimately contribute to the song's charm and appeal.

I guess I can understand a young person taking off “Be My Baby”—obviously not having the same context as I have—and maybe to them it's just some rock around the sock hop Happy Days bullshit. What's interesting is that the Alicia Keys song came out in 2003, which is roughly the time period of my novel, The Doughnuts—and while it feels like yesterday to me, it is actually over 15 years ago, and for much of the original audience of this song, probably now feels like an “oldie” itself. Crazy. Another thing that struck me was that both songs are addressed to “you”—I know that is common as dirt, but I wonder if someone's done some kind of study of that phenomenon. In either case, “you” could be quite specific, one person, out there, at the time it was written—but once the song goes public, beyond the ears of the original “you,” “you” then becomes the listener, and in that case, right now, it's me. And I do feel it, from both songs. I'm thinking of calling either Alicia Keys or Ronnie Spector on the phone, if I can get their number on the internet—I'm not going to call both of them, though—that's kind of a reprehensible dick move. I've got to choose. Alicia is quite a bit younger than me, and Veronica is quite a bit older, but really, that doesn't matter so much as the fact that they are both famous and wealthy, and I'm some schmoe from Kokomo, holed up in a leaky basement apartment, nothing to my name but an old guitar and an empty bottle of booze. And sure, a woman once wrote a song about me, but it wasn't addressed to “you”—rather it was written from my perspective and called: “Bugs Are Crawling All Over Me.” What a world. What a world.

“The Middle” Zedd, Maren Morris, Grey

Sometimes I'll be eating somewhere and there is music in the air—I guess it's usually coming through invisible speakers, from a radio station or music service—presumably to make the dining experience more enjoyable—or maybe just because it's expected? Naturally, the person making music decisions wants the most inoffensive option possible—or maybe just to not have to think about it. If you played the Sex Pistols, some people would complain. I don't want to listen to the Sex Pistols while dining, either, but I wouldn't complain—but then I wouldn't complain in general. This music playing at this restaurant offends me and irritates me, but I'm not going to complain—at least not to people working at the restaurant. But song after song of similar music eventually makes me want to stick a fork in my ears (but I generally eat with only one fork) so sometimes, I'll use my phone to identify a song, then come back to it later for a more fair assessment. This one strikes me as particularly odd because it was a hit, apparently, and not by a band, but a producer (Zedd), a singer (Maren Morris), and an electronic music duo (Grey)—so there is not so much a band identity, which is a concept I find attractive, or at least intriguing. But then it's about the song, which is something I feel strongly about—music being song oriented. But in this case, the song is just terrible, both lyrically and musically. The singing is manipulated digitally to such an extent that it sounds like a commuter-generated voice, while still feeling trained and boring. The music is minimal, nothing too interesting or offensive except for the percussion, which sounds very similar to the ratchet-wrench style I dislike so much, but less hi-hat oriented, more drum, but sped up faster than a human can play, so it's necessarily robot-like and mechanical. That leaves you with the lyrics, which are about a fight between two people in a relationship, with the singer's plea for meeting “in the middle”—which is just so bland and weak and lifeless—the best part is some imagery about a kitchen in disarray after a fight. At least there's a kitchen! But overall, this is the most soulless, annoying, and dull song I've ever focused on. I'm kind of sad I spent the time, but at least now I can get a little laugh of recognition if I hear it again, amidst the ocean of similar irritating contemporary soundscape.

“FRIENDS” Marshmello & Anne-Marie

The best way to pick a random song, if I'm not in the “field,” is to look at my “Shazam” app to reveal the most recent song it detected—indicating either a song I really liked or didn't like or was just curious about. In this case it's “FRIENDS” (all caps), by someone named Marshmello & Anne-Marie, and I'm assuming Marshmello spells his/her name like that as a kind of play on “mellow"—as in “chill”—rather than the confection that is often toasted over an open flame—though the most cursory glance at the internet to locate proper spelling shows me images of a person with a white cylindrical head—which curiously does resemble the Kraft variety—performing some computer generated music. The singer, apparently, is named Anne-Marie, a woman who manages to sound black, Hispanic, white, etc. as well as nightclub, strip bar, church, and Saturday morning cartoon. The crossover potential is immense. This is also the song that uses a spinning ratchet wrench as percussion, in place of one of those ridged, wooden fish. It may not be the only one, but if there are too many, I imagine them all accusing each other of stealing the innovation. This song seems to be sung from the point of view of the woman—with a great deal of both plain-spokenness and sex-appeal. She's insisting to an unknown third party that they are merely friends, and any overtures to the contrary are highly inappropriate. She repeats this in every way possible for five minutes until they finally have sex at the end of the song. Some joke. Though I do admire the spirit, and I was even inspired to imagine a movie, mini-series, or TV show about the same subject, with the running joke that a survival skill instinct to be “picked up” next season is the only thing preventing these beautiful, sexy, and caffeinated people from conceding to a flat-out orgy.

“These Foolish Things” Thelonious Monk

As soon as I woke up this morning (October 10, 2018) at five-something, I turned on the radio—I mean via my computer, New York radio station WKCR—because today is my favorite holiday of the year, Thelonious Monk's birthday, and they are playing his music all day, non-stop (as they do with a lot of jazz artists). If this was “Name That Tune” I would have gotten it within maybe five notes on the piano, the song “These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)”—one of my favorite standards, and this Monk solo piano rendition is one of my favorite versions. Since I have no idea who wrote this song, I looked it up—it's Eric Maschwitz (lyrics) and Jack Strachey (music)—not names I'm familiar with—I guess I never looked this up before. The copyright is 1936. It's been recorded by everyone—from Billie Holiday to Bob Dylan—but I first became a big fan of the song because of the Frank Sinatra version that was on one of the albums my parents had that I listened to a lot, which I later recorded on a cassette tape and carried around with me through life. I'm not even going to look up how many versions Thelonious Monk recorded, but this one (that I believe was on his record Solo Monk (1965)) is really nice. I don't know if he's feeling it or not—if he's thinking about the lyrics, if he's missing someone—or if he's just feeling the music, or if it's a math problem, or if he's faking it and he's he's thinking about the sandwich he's going to get at the deli after the session—you kind of think he had to be putting something into it, emotionally—but then he's a magician to some extent—and a mysterious human being—and I guess what really counts is that I hear it now and it sounds alive.

“My Own Worst Enemy” Lit

I heard this song recently at a restaurant—notable because it was the loudest I've ever hard a song played at a restaurant. All of the music was too loud for dining, but then this one was, for some odd reason, twice as loud. Maybe the staff liked it, or who knows. I asked my phone what it was, and made a note of it, and then it occurred to me to check a decibel meter app for how loud it was—almost 90 dB—which the internet tells me is the volume of a lawnmower—and as you know, professional lawnmowers now wear hearing protection. The song is from 1999, which makes it ancient. The weird thing is that it sounds to me like a song that could have come out last week—which either shows you how much I know about popular music, or says something about popular music, or both. It was the band's biggest hit—according to the internet—it was a hit song. The band is called Lit, and they've been around for a couple of decades, and this is the first time I've heard of them! This is probably not the first time I've heard the song—I just hear music like this all the time and ignore it. It's loud, energetic, driving, slick, aggressive, post-punk, grunge influenced, metal influenced pop, guitar oriented, chorus and verse—and I'm not going to bother with the lyrics because I'd have to look them up and I'm sure it's about love problems. I feel like this is music that's just always going to be around, for the rest of my life. Could I—if I tried really hard—learn to like it? No, I could not.

“Copper Kettle (The Pale Moonlight)” Bob Dylan

This is an old folk song about making whiskey in a still, written by Albert Frank Beddoe, recorded by a few people (Joan Baez, Chet Atkins)—a pretty, sentimental song that frankly makes me want to set up a still out in the woods and make whiskey—just that image of the whole process—the miracle of fermentation, the science of distillation—in the great outdoors under the cover of darkness, with just the moon as your guide. Then you drink. This recording is from Bob Dylan's 1970 Self Portrait album that everyone hated because he continued singing with that Jim Nabors voice, and it was a double album, half the songs by other people. I like the record—it's got one of my favorite ever Dylan recordings, plus, why not? I made a stovetop still in high school, once I learned how in chemistry class and was able to bend glass tubes for the tube part. It worked—it's a simple process—and now, your hipster has rediscovered it—and for all of the aboveboard, artisanal, craft distillers, you've got scores of kids out in the woods, innocently making their own hootch with the realization that it's easy, good, and fun, and once you cut out the government's cut, you can make a hefty profit and potentially make a living doing what you love and not having to work for the man. Unfortunately, whenever the powers that be—whether they be organized crime, the neighborhood bully, or the government (very little, if any, difference between those three)—discover that they are not getting their cut, things can get very, very ugly.

"Custard Pie" Led Zeppelin

All Led Zeppelin songs are about either sex, heroin, or wizards—not one of them about dessert, sorry—so don't expect a fluffy, eggy treat. The first and last words of the song are “drop down”—a mournfully pleaded request to a nameless woman, or “mama.” The image I get is Robert Plant walking through the countryside, looking like, you know, Robert Plant, his shirt open and all, and then he comes to a house and is greeted by this woman whose husband, a hard worker and good provider, has just gone to work all day in the fields. He will be too tired come evening to satisfy his wife in bed, so our hero provides that service. I do not like the wanky sounding electric clavinet, which sounds great in, say, a Stevie Wonder song, but here is annoying. What I focus on in this song, as with a lot of Led Zeppelin songs, are the drums, which sound like no other drums, and are my favorite drums in all of rock music. I love some Led Zeppelin songs, can't stand others, and then there're ones like this where I just listen to the drums and think about how much happier I'd be eating some actual custard pie at a country diner than getting chased pants-less through a field by an angry brute with a pitchfork.

“You Still Believe in Me” The Beach Boys

The reason I love random song selection (by whatever means) is because I would never have focused on the second song off Pet Sounds. As much as I try, I'm not a huge fan of the record, though I do appreciate it, like, intellectually. This song is by Brian Wilson, with co-writer Tony Asher—a collaboration that strikes me as weird, at least as far as lyrics go on this song, since it's pretty raw and personal. It's one of those songs that addresses “you”—and if “you” is a lover, this one is kind of pathetic—like asking forgiveness for neglect or abuse. Though if the “you” is God, it's actually kind of beautiful. Odd how that makes such a difference. While I love how a song this short manages to end like three times, I will never, and I don't think ever, come around to the harpsichord. That's just me. The internet says Paul McCartney loved this song—not surprising since it sounds like it could be a Beatles song. I'm sure I could read about this for the rest of my Saturday, but why didn't Paul McCartney and Brian Wilson ever get together—I mean in a big way? Hey, maybe it's still possible, they're only in their seventies—it's crazy, I never knew this, they were born within two days of each other! Both still out there on some kind of tour—I don't know how they do it. I guess that's how they pay the big bills, but being on tour sounds like not being in the studio, not being in your own kitchen, not being in your own bed. I couldn't even imagine it when I was in my twenties.

“Naïve” The Kooks

I was having breakfast in a local establishment that was playing music way too loud, so I asked Siri to identify a random song, this one, and she said, “That piece of holy crap is Naïve, by The Kooks. (You can change your Siri settings, and mine is an Australian woman, which I like because she's very sassy.) Excitingly enough, I've never heard of The Kooks, which isn't a bad band name. It's almost a palindrome, and Kooks spelled backwards is Skøøk! The word “kook” always seems like it's spelled wrong, but if you spell it with a “C” it's cook, totally different pronunciation and meaning. The band is an all guys English pop band, and this song is from their first record in 2006—long enough ago for them to have gone from boyishly cute to plain gnarly, especially in the livin' hard English boy pop world. It's a jaunty, hi-energy, catchy, soulless pop song with some odd lyrics I'm trying to make out. Well, the extended, repeated outro goes: “Hold on Teal, tight, just don't let me down,” which means, “Don't stop doing what you're doing until I'm 'satisfied'”—totally standard boy pop sentiments—but the earlier lyrics are much more cryptic. It's sounds like, “Not seein' is your thing/your'e so naïve,” etc., and then the really confusing chorus: “I know she knows I'm not from The Rasta, true or false it may be, she's still out to get me.” I'm not sure who, in this case, is “The Rasta” or what this reference means (specifically a person called “The Rasta,” or something more universal?), but it's not your typical whiny love song, and has more of a noir element, I guess. Until that extended coda, I mean, but you gotta sell records!

“Trumpet Medley” The Jack D'Johns

I have a secret method using both playing cards and dice to pick a random song from my two shelves of LPs, and this time it landed on the “Trumpet Medley” from this live Jack D'Johns album I had no idea I even had, called Happiness Is The Jack D'Johns. I have no clue from what year, though the cover looks old as hell, but maybe it lived with a smoker before spending an eternity in the thrift store. I've given it a home, and now it has made its way into my random system. The songs in the medley are “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,” “Java,” Sugar Blues,” “Taste of Honey,” and “Circiribin,” (the last of which, a Harry James number, might have multiple spellings over the years, I think... I was curious about it, but the Rabbit Hole Alarm went off, and I saved myself). At any rate, these are all songs made immensely more charming by their lyrics, which are absent here, as this is instrumental music, anchored by accordion, and highlighting the trumpet—which is so out front it could be considered assault with a deadly weapon. This guy really puts the “Trump” in trumpet. If there was one word to describe the performance here, it would have to be “jaunty,” as it sounds like guys who have to do the same exact live show 12 times a day and are therefore forced to rely on abusing some heinous drug, like Diet Coke. The album cover, however, is surprisingly compelling—a photo taken at the Wisconsin State Fair, in which the front-man (presumably Jack D'Johns) seems to be levitating.

“Let This Fool Dream On” Keith Stewart Band

The easiest way to come up with a random song is to set the song selection thing on my computer on “shuffle,” which then picks out a song, supposedly at random, without any kind of prejudice. The dangerous thing is that among the 4000 or so songs I have (somehow) there are a lot where I think, “how did that get on my computer?” So it's nice when there's a pleasant surprise like this one, from the Keith Stewart Band's album, Epic Hits. I'm not sure of the year. You won't find a lot about this one on the internet, folks. When the song started, from the into, I thought it was Tom Petty at first. Pretty much a guitar, bass, and drums band, but there's a nice, Casio-sounding keyboard. Keith is taking on his slightly British sounding singing voice (not obnoxiously so)—and there's a little bridge with the altered vocal that sounds like it's pushed through an old AM radio, for a kind of Spinal Tap touch. Right before that, there's an immensely compelling, simple guitar break that's a real bonus on multiple listenings. Epic Hits was a limited release CD, and I happen to have it, and know something about it, because Keith Stewart is the stage name of my brother, Jeff Russell. They used to play, for years, out of Sandusky, Ohio, mostly doing cover songs at local taverns, though he is quite a good songwriter.

"Hey Now" The Regrettes

Another interesting method of random song selection is to pick the last song I wrote about and find it on the “YouTube” and then just let the YouTube play continuously (perhaps with the volume down)—it will continuously choose songs based on some mysterious algorithm based on that song, and also stuff that it remembers you played in the past—and music that gets preference is based on either popularity, or direct monetary influence (what used to be called “Payola”), or some combination of those—and finally, perhaps, pure, dumb randomness. I set my timer for an hour, and whatever is playing when it goes off, that's the song. This time it landed on a song called “Hey Now” by a band I'm hearing of for the first time, “The Regrettes”—along with a mini-movie kind of video. I'm trying to focus on the music only, but I couldn't help looking at the video—the band is three women (two guitars and bass) and a guy drummer, and they're all singing, and they're all dressed like it's the Fifties—so I didn't know if this was a real band, so I had to ask Internet, who said they are a punk band from LA. This sounds like energetic pop music, not punk—so I felt obligated to look a little more and I found an actual live version of this song—just someone holding a camera in front of the stage at a daytime show. It's really pretty great. It would not have been fair of me to judge them by this fairly over-produced video, so I'm glad I kind of cheated here and at least got a more accurate—I think—idea of what they're about. Of course, they look so young, they might be one thing today and something else tomorrow—that's part of being young. Anyway, I hope they hold onto that name. It can't be possible they are the first band called “The Regrettes”—that's too good of a name—but offhand, I don't remember another one.