My daughter pried the computer from my hands and promised, as she accessed Brandi Carlile’s live version of “The Story”, I would thank her. Not only did I thank her, if it hadn’t been after midnight, I would have gone immediately to buy the CD.
My other daughter was in the car the first time she heard Brandi Carlile on the radio and had the same impulse; if not pressed for time, she would have gone then to buy the CD. My best friend and my grandson watched the video and wanted the CD. My granddaughters evicted me from the computer so they could watch the video.
This twenty-six-year-old singer, musician, sage, and poet crosses generations and connects to her audience in a mutually heartfelt trance. She delivers the gut-level emotion of Janis Joplin, with the crystal-clear voice of K.D. Lang, inducing authentic, physical wrenches in the heart of the listener. Her unique genre encompasses folk, rock, blues, and pop, with a natural yodel adding a hint of an ethnic or country sound.
After spending one full day with my Brandi Carlile CD, I felt guilty. I transferred $9.98 to SonyMusicStore.com. If Sony had sent nothing more than the insert of poetic lyrics, I would be pleased with the bargain and only slightly disappointed that she is treading on the place in my heart that until now belonged to Kris Kristofferson and Gary Morris.
But the lyrics were only the beginning. In addition, I received Brandi Carlile’s heart, soul, energy, genius, magnificence, and some of the purest talent I have heard in my fifty-three years of devouring music. She enriched my life with indelible pleasure.
This tribute is the best I can offer to settle the difference. It hardly seems fair.
Brandi wrote eight of the songs on this CD and co-wrote three others. Phil and Tim Hanseroth, who provide background vocals and musical accompaniment, wrote the others. All are inspirational. The pleasing intensity of the passion in her delivery, which is smooth even though at times sounds as if it erupts from an overflowing well of emotion, authenticates the contradiction between her youth and the wisdom of the lyrics.
Brandi Carlile’s natural talent and beauty are refreshing in this culture where superficial is often packaged and sold ahead of talent. She is a true musician, using her voice as an instrument instead of a means with which to trade minutes for dollars or fame, and therefore someone to whom I vow my deepest respect and gratitude.
Listen, concert info
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Let It Be
My big mistake was in expecting a twenty-mile drive to erase the thirty years I had been away. I set myself up for the unwarranted sense of betrayal that came when I saw a flat lot with a beer garden standing where I remembered rows of curbside-service speakers, covered by orange awnings. Otherwise, the outside of the stone and glass building appeared untouched except for the new name.
While I was growing up, my family ate out most Friday nights. We hit the church fish fries, Sizzler and Pizza Hut after they came around, and Frisch's on occasion. Once in a great while, we donned good clothes and manners and visited an upscale restaurant. The one place we all enjoyed, and therefore frequented most often, was Hunt's, a family-owned, neighborhood bar-restaurant combination with one small and one large dining room, a banquet room, and servers who delivered food outdoors, on trays that attached to the car windows. Hunt's original salad dressing made them famous. Individual jukebox connections on each table made the dining room our favorite spot to eat. For a quarter, each of us could choose a song. A dollar entertained us through the whole meal.
Last week, my daughters and I went back to Hunt's, now Rubbie's, where an eerie combination of old and new greeted me. Everything and nothing had changed. Hunt's family had taken the salad dressing but left the bar, standing across from the same row of booths, seating what looked like some of the same people, in the same clothes and hairstyles. A stage replaced the jukeboxes, and open mic meant we could still eat to music and choose a few of our own songs.
Before I registered the significance of the glass-encased antique coke bottles I might have emptied in the past, or absorbed the nostalgia of the coconut face on the wall, I spotted my uncle standing at the bar. A few pounds heavier, much shinier on top, same brandy in hand, he looked past my pounds and gray and recognized my daughters. Hours and hugs later, I wondered if his mist over partying with great nieces came from the bottle, the years passed, or realizing how few we might have left. Maybe he thought, as I did, that I should be my daughter's age and he should not be the only male left in the only generation ahead of me.
Harmonious discord wasn't exclusive to our table, nor did familial concern end there. When the red head in the out-of-season, cardboard New Year's Eve tiara draped her arms around my daughter's shoulders and smiled at me, my heart sank. How could I have forgotten her name when she was so obviously overjoyed to see us? I mentally removed the tiara and a few lines from her face, and tried on the name of every second and third cousin I could remember. Nothing fit, except the warmth she radiated and the smile my daughter wore.
As the tiara bobbed and the stories poured, I narrowed the prospects. Laughter accompanied her complaints about the pawing she had received from the old fart by the pool table; she had to be from Mom's side. I would either remember her name by the time she finished the rundown of safe, arms-length, and stay-the-hell-away men present, or I would ask my uncle when he found his way back from the bar.
Her name was Bonnie. I didn't remember because I had never known. She was a regular, not related on either side, but already vested in my family by the time we found out. Bonnie stayed with us the first hour and then took off to pull a good-natured, stay-the-hell-away guy to a back corner for a dance.
Later, Bonnie hugged her way to a back table of arm's-length listeners and my uncle grew roots beside a blonde barfly. One daughter went off to reserve her ten minutes on the sign-up sheet, while the other huddled close to hear a friend yell over the heavy metal group on stage.
A lone dancer hypnotized me with her routine – five steps to the right, raise the beer bottle overhead, bow, five steps to the left, flip the hair off the face, turn a complete circle, and repeat.
Although disturbed by the obvious role of long-term chemical use in this dazed ritual, I respected the dancer's disregard of public opinion. As if willing to enhance my appreciation, an ageless, gender-undisclosed clogger unfolded from a lotus position beside the stage and tapped passionately to the last thirty seconds of a poor rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock You".
Possible explanations flooded my mind: flashbacks, nightmare, Twilight Zone, time warp. Flashbacks seemed unlikely since I had refused even the drugs prescribed to me, and I'd never heard of contact flashbacks. The Twilight Zone was fictional and I knew I was awake. A mullet head conversing with a tube top supported the time warp, until I looked past my daughter's nose ring and focused on the table behind her. Three men stared back at me, one fiftyish with waist-length hair poking out a bandana scarf, a thirty-something, clean-cut yuppie, and a sixty-something, toothless biker in a leather vest. I would surely have warped to one era and there was no way these people all belonged in the same one.
Sometime after the clogger (who turned out to be male) sang "Let It Be", and before seventies rock, they called my daughter to the stage to introduce ancient country. While she tested the mic and whispered to the bass player, a ghost from my past climbed on stage beside her. Not quite the guitar player her father had been, and not knowing he was standing next to an old friend's daughter, a worn man plugged in and accompanied her on a song her father had sung twenty years before.
I watched his tired eyes travel with the music, maybe wishing he could recapture the same thirty years I had wanted the trip to erase for me. He stared into space, the middle-aged bass player watched the back of my daughter's head, the young drummer kept his eyes closed, and my daughter's eyes never left mine. My uncle and Bonnie left their fans and came to stand beside the mix-matched crew behind us. The lone dancer repeated her routine and the clogger remained in lotus position.
The magic of this unique little world hit me as I watched young-and-hopeful stand two feet and a world away from holding-on-to-what's-left on the stage. Everyone had come to share common space and individual passions and paths. Some were young. Some were old. Some were sober and others hadn't been in decades. No one laughed and pointed at the clogger or the lone dancer. No one booed when the band changed, or when the music was horrible. The stay-the-hell-away guys didn't shun Bonnie when she pawed them and turned the story around.
I hadn't been anywhere so accepting in years, and couldn't remember when being unaccepting had come into vogue.
Twenty miles got closer. We're anxious to go back, where people remember how to let it be.
While I was growing up, my family ate out most Friday nights. We hit the church fish fries, Sizzler and Pizza Hut after they came around, and Frisch's on occasion. Once in a great while, we donned good clothes and manners and visited an upscale restaurant. The one place we all enjoyed, and therefore frequented most often, was Hunt's, a family-owned, neighborhood bar-restaurant combination with one small and one large dining room, a banquet room, and servers who delivered food outdoors, on trays that attached to the car windows. Hunt's original salad dressing made them famous. Individual jukebox connections on each table made the dining room our favorite spot to eat. For a quarter, each of us could choose a song. A dollar entertained us through the whole meal.
Last week, my daughters and I went back to Hunt's, now Rubbie's, where an eerie combination of old and new greeted me. Everything and nothing had changed. Hunt's family had taken the salad dressing but left the bar, standing across from the same row of booths, seating what looked like some of the same people, in the same clothes and hairstyles. A stage replaced the jukeboxes, and open mic meant we could still eat to music and choose a few of our own songs.
Before I registered the significance of the glass-encased antique coke bottles I might have emptied in the past, or absorbed the nostalgia of the coconut face on the wall, I spotted my uncle standing at the bar. A few pounds heavier, much shinier on top, same brandy in hand, he looked past my pounds and gray and recognized my daughters. Hours and hugs later, I wondered if his mist over partying with great nieces came from the bottle, the years passed, or realizing how few we might have left. Maybe he thought, as I did, that I should be my daughter's age and he should not be the only male left in the only generation ahead of me.
Harmonious discord wasn't exclusive to our table, nor did familial concern end there. When the red head in the out-of-season, cardboard New Year's Eve tiara draped her arms around my daughter's shoulders and smiled at me, my heart sank. How could I have forgotten her name when she was so obviously overjoyed to see us? I mentally removed the tiara and a few lines from her face, and tried on the name of every second and third cousin I could remember. Nothing fit, except the warmth she radiated and the smile my daughter wore.
As the tiara bobbed and the stories poured, I narrowed the prospects. Laughter accompanied her complaints about the pawing she had received from the old fart by the pool table; she had to be from Mom's side. I would either remember her name by the time she finished the rundown of safe, arms-length, and stay-the-hell-away men present, or I would ask my uncle when he found his way back from the bar.
Her name was Bonnie. I didn't remember because I had never known. She was a regular, not related on either side, but already vested in my family by the time we found out. Bonnie stayed with us the first hour and then took off to pull a good-natured, stay-the-hell-away guy to a back corner for a dance.
Later, Bonnie hugged her way to a back table of arm's-length listeners and my uncle grew roots beside a blonde barfly. One daughter went off to reserve her ten minutes on the sign-up sheet, while the other huddled close to hear a friend yell over the heavy metal group on stage.
A lone dancer hypnotized me with her routine – five steps to the right, raise the beer bottle overhead, bow, five steps to the left, flip the hair off the face, turn a complete circle, and repeat.
Although disturbed by the obvious role of long-term chemical use in this dazed ritual, I respected the dancer's disregard of public opinion. As if willing to enhance my appreciation, an ageless, gender-undisclosed clogger unfolded from a lotus position beside the stage and tapped passionately to the last thirty seconds of a poor rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock You".
Possible explanations flooded my mind: flashbacks, nightmare, Twilight Zone, time warp. Flashbacks seemed unlikely since I had refused even the drugs prescribed to me, and I'd never heard of contact flashbacks. The Twilight Zone was fictional and I knew I was awake. A mullet head conversing with a tube top supported the time warp, until I looked past my daughter's nose ring and focused on the table behind her. Three men stared back at me, one fiftyish with waist-length hair poking out a bandana scarf, a thirty-something, clean-cut yuppie, and a sixty-something, toothless biker in a leather vest. I would surely have warped to one era and there was no way these people all belonged in the same one.
Sometime after the clogger (who turned out to be male) sang "Let It Be", and before seventies rock, they called my daughter to the stage to introduce ancient country. While she tested the mic and whispered to the bass player, a ghost from my past climbed on stage beside her. Not quite the guitar player her father had been, and not knowing he was standing next to an old friend's daughter, a worn man plugged in and accompanied her on a song her father had sung twenty years before.
I watched his tired eyes travel with the music, maybe wishing he could recapture the same thirty years I had wanted the trip to erase for me. He stared into space, the middle-aged bass player watched the back of my daughter's head, the young drummer kept his eyes closed, and my daughter's eyes never left mine. My uncle and Bonnie left their fans and came to stand beside the mix-matched crew behind us. The lone dancer repeated her routine and the clogger remained in lotus position.
The magic of this unique little world hit me as I watched young-and-hopeful stand two feet and a world away from holding-on-to-what's-left on the stage. Everyone had come to share common space and individual passions and paths. Some were young. Some were old. Some were sober and others hadn't been in decades. No one laughed and pointed at the clogger or the lone dancer. No one booed when the band changed, or when the music was horrible. The stay-the-hell-away guys didn't shun Bonnie when she pawed them and turned the story around.
I hadn't been anywhere so accepting in years, and couldn't remember when being unaccepting had come into vogue.
Twenty miles got closer. We're anxious to go back, where people remember how to let it be.
Let It Be - Revisited
Our eyes locked. Her grin confirmed the shared memory, enhancing the pleasure for me.
"I wasn't crazy about the song before," I said as the last notes played, sure she knew before what. "But I'll always smile when I hear it now."
She laughed. "I guess so. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen."
Funny? My cheeks ached from smiling through the song but I didn't consider hilarity the key motivation behind my smile.
I replayed the original experience. Several times that night, I had noticed the wiry little guy in the corner, legs hugged tightly under the chin that propped his forlorn expression atop his knees. More impressive than his agility was his apparent ability to shut out the screaming music and hubbub of the crowd around him. He might have been grieving, contemplating the most serious decision in his life, stoned out of his mind, or so utterly comfortable with his own company that nothing else mattered.
As if sneezed into a fresh cosmos, he suddenly landed--arms flailing and feet stomping—in the aisle, where he danced something similar to a jig/clog blend, to a less-than-jiggy rendition of "We Will Rock You". Blown away by this opportunity to experience a transformation before my eyes, I laughed with him, and enjoyed his dance as much as if I had been his partner.
"Seriously," I returned to the present and my daughter. "I will never forget this guy, and I'll smile every time I think of him. Don't you appreciate what he has given you? "
"I guess." Her expression lost a little of the here-goes-my-crazy-mom look. "Remember the first time we met Jeff and Christine? That's the song I'll never be able to hear without losing it." When able to control her laughter, she wiped her eyes and sang Jeff's line. "If you don't blow me right now –"
I did Christine's part with a straight face--"I will never never never-"--and become conscious of the impact the many single moments of pleasure people, often strangers, have given me.
"Don't you hope you've given others moments they will never forget?" I asked. "That people you don't even know smile every time they think of you?"
Her smile faded. "I'm not sure I want to be remembered because I made a fool of myself."
I thought about the time my boot hit a slick spot in the middle of a busy intersection and tossed my legs over my head. Six lanes of stopped traffic and the four co-workers crossing with me watched as I untangled my skirt from around my face and scrambled to my feet before the light changed. I don't begrudge any of the people who still smile when passing that corner.
"What about the Mambo Kings picture?" I asked.
She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Shut up, Mother."
"You know some of those people still tell friends about the crazy girl who flipped through her pictures and drew a crowd when she fell on the floor laughing." I gave her an encouraging nudge.
"Come on. Admit it isn't such a bad thing to make so many people laugh."
She wasn't admitting any such thing.
"How about the time you wouldn't let go of Duncan's leash, and he pulled you between my legs and knocked Bill and me off the porch?" I asked. "It doesn't make you the least bit happy to know your grandmother will always have that memory?"
"Let's go back to other people making us laugh," she suggested. "Remember when Tim asked for a tampon, thinking it was a popsicle? And when the bird perched on Mike's glasses?"
Later, as we held our sides and wiped our eyes, my thoughts returned to the shared memory that had started this laugh fest. "The dancer makes me smile for a different reason. He made me happy."
We decided it didn't matter how we leave good impressions, as long as we give others a reason to smile when they remember us. I might learn to clog, but I think she's looking for something different.
"I wasn't crazy about the song before," I said as the last notes played, sure she knew before what. "But I'll always smile when I hear it now."
She laughed. "I guess so. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen."
Funny? My cheeks ached from smiling through the song but I didn't consider hilarity the key motivation behind my smile.
I replayed the original experience. Several times that night, I had noticed the wiry little guy in the corner, legs hugged tightly under the chin that propped his forlorn expression atop his knees. More impressive than his agility was his apparent ability to shut out the screaming music and hubbub of the crowd around him. He might have been grieving, contemplating the most serious decision in his life, stoned out of his mind, or so utterly comfortable with his own company that nothing else mattered.
As if sneezed into a fresh cosmos, he suddenly landed--arms flailing and feet stomping—in the aisle, where he danced something similar to a jig/clog blend, to a less-than-jiggy rendition of "We Will Rock You". Blown away by this opportunity to experience a transformation before my eyes, I laughed with him, and enjoyed his dance as much as if I had been his partner.
"Seriously," I returned to the present and my daughter. "I will never forget this guy, and I'll smile every time I think of him. Don't you appreciate what he has given you? "
"I guess." Her expression lost a little of the here-goes-my-crazy-mom look. "Remember the first time we met Jeff and Christine? That's the song I'll never be able to hear without losing it." When able to control her laughter, she wiped her eyes and sang Jeff's line. "If you don't blow me right now –"
I did Christine's part with a straight face--"I will never never never-"--and become conscious of the impact the many single moments of pleasure people, often strangers, have given me.
"Don't you hope you've given others moments they will never forget?" I asked. "That people you don't even know smile every time they think of you?"
Her smile faded. "I'm not sure I want to be remembered because I made a fool of myself."
I thought about the time my boot hit a slick spot in the middle of a busy intersection and tossed my legs over my head. Six lanes of stopped traffic and the four co-workers crossing with me watched as I untangled my skirt from around my face and scrambled to my feet before the light changed. I don't begrudge any of the people who still smile when passing that corner.
"What about the Mambo Kings picture?" I asked.
She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Shut up, Mother."
"You know some of those people still tell friends about the crazy girl who flipped through her pictures and drew a crowd when she fell on the floor laughing." I gave her an encouraging nudge.
"Come on. Admit it isn't such a bad thing to make so many people laugh."
She wasn't admitting any such thing.
"How about the time you wouldn't let go of Duncan's leash, and he pulled you between my legs and knocked Bill and me off the porch?" I asked. "It doesn't make you the least bit happy to know your grandmother will always have that memory?"
"Let's go back to other people making us laugh," she suggested. "Remember when Tim asked for a tampon, thinking it was a popsicle? And when the bird perched on Mike's glasses?"
Later, as we held our sides and wiped our eyes, my thoughts returned to the shared memory that had started this laugh fest. "The dancer makes me smile for a different reason. He made me happy."
We decided it didn't matter how we leave good impressions, as long as we give others a reason to smile when they remember us. I might learn to clog, but I think she's looking for something different.
I Hope You Choose Golf, Willie
When asked about retirement, seventy-three-year old Willie Nelson says, "All I do is play music and golf – which one do you want me to give up?"
With over 2500 published songs, 8 Grammy awards, a Presidential Merit Award, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Gene Weed Special Achievement Award for unprecedented and genre-defying contributions to popular music over a fifty-year career under his belt, braids to his waist, wise eyes, and a deceptively youthful bounce in his step, the living legend, singer, songwriter, actor, activist, and author took the stage at Whitney Hall on July 12 and proved he still has what it takes to please a packed house. A few things had changed since the first time I saw him perform. The first time, I paid to park and the show was free. This time tickets ranged from $35.50 to $65.50. The first time I knew jeans and tee shirts were appropriate; this time I didn't know whether to dress for the Kentucky Center, or Willie. I chose Willie.
The most impressive difference this time was Willie's son, Lucas. Either of them would have been worth the price of the ticket alone. What they delivered together was priceless. Lucas not only has the music in him, he is the music. In contrast to his father's gentle pull at the heartstrings through his trademark acoustic sound, the son shows no mercy as he attacks the blues on his electric guitar with the passion of a young Stevie Ray or B.B.
The connection between the two men found its way to my nosebleed seat. I felt privileged to witness what looked like a passing of the torch; Willie shared all he had with his son, and Lucas eagerly and skillfully soaked it up and poured it back to the audience.
The two things that had not changed over the years were Willie's voice and sincerity. If he ever does decides to retire, I hope he gives up golf.
With over 2500 published songs, 8 Grammy awards, a Presidential Merit Award, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Gene Weed Special Achievement Award for unprecedented and genre-defying contributions to popular music over a fifty-year career under his belt, braids to his waist, wise eyes, and a deceptively youthful bounce in his step, the living legend, singer, songwriter, actor, activist, and author took the stage at Whitney Hall on July 12 and proved he still has what it takes to please a packed house. A few things had changed since the first time I saw him perform. The first time, I paid to park and the show was free. This time tickets ranged from $35.50 to $65.50. The first time I knew jeans and tee shirts were appropriate; this time I didn't know whether to dress for the Kentucky Center, or Willie. I chose Willie.
The most impressive difference this time was Willie's son, Lucas. Either of them would have been worth the price of the ticket alone. What they delivered together was priceless. Lucas not only has the music in him, he is the music. In contrast to his father's gentle pull at the heartstrings through his trademark acoustic sound, the son shows no mercy as he attacks the blues on his electric guitar with the passion of a young Stevie Ray or B.B.
The connection between the two men found its way to my nosebleed seat. I felt privileged to witness what looked like a passing of the torch; Willie shared all he had with his son, and Lucas eagerly and skillfully soaked it up and poured it back to the audience.
The two things that had not changed over the years were Willie's voice and sincerity. If he ever does decides to retire, I hope he gives up golf.
John Fogerty - The Long Road Home
With Viet Nam and the draft hanging over our heads like a bad moon rising, we feared and partied with equal fervor, sometimes doing one to avoid the other. We depended on our music to transport us through both. In 1970, John Fogerty, the fortunate son, stopped the rain and provided much needed respites with his music. We stood down on the corner, wished our brothers did not have to run through the jungle or panic on swift boats, but could instead be rolling down the river on Proud Mary.
Like déjà vu all over again, Fogerty brings his music to offer a break from the storm of another war thirty years later.
In his The Long Road Home concert, sixty-one-year-old Fogerty defies era and age with a timeless performance. He opens the show proclaiming, "What I'm about is plain rock and roll," and then proceeds to deliver everything but plain. With swift guitar changes between each song, few words to fill space, and even fewer flashes or gimmicks, he performs a veritable guitar-feast and thread of the top-ten songs he wrote and performed during his time with Creedence Clearwater Revival, as well as an assortment of newer material. Erasing decades from himself and his music, he bridges the gap between young and once-young fans, and crams twenty-five soulful rock songs into ninety-eight minutes of high-energy, top-notch entertainment.
Born in 1945, in Berkeley, California, Fogerty started performing in the late fifties with his brother, Tom. In 1968, with the band Creedence Clearwater Revival, he produced his first hit with "Susie Q." Between 1969 and 1972, the band released a number of hit singles, including "Bad Moon Rising", "Born on the Bayou", "Down On the Corner", "Fortunate Son", "Green River", "Lookin' Out My Backdoor", "Proud Mary", "Run Through the Jungle", "Travelin' Band", "Up Around the Bend", and "Who'll Stop the Rain". Nine of these became top-ten songs; many have become standards.
In 1973, Fogerty left Creedence Clearwater Revival and began a solo career, originally playing all instruments and calling himself Blue Ridge Rangers. He produced two hits during this period: "Rockin' All Over the World" and "Almost Saturday Night," both songs covered by other artists later.
Even during his low profile years, Fogerty went on to earn a number of awards and recognitions. Rolling Stone named him the 40th greatest guitarist of all time, and the group Creedence Clearwater Revival was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. After a period of retirement, Fogerty returned in 1997 with "Blue Moon Swamp," which won a Grammy for the best rock album of 1998. In 2004, he released "Déjà Vu (All Over Again), as his denunciation of the Iraq war as another Vietnam, and appeared with Bruce Springsteen on MoveOn.org's Vote For Change tour as part of the John Kerry presidential campaign tour.
In 2005, Fogerty was inducted into the Songwriters' Hall of Fame, returned to Fantasy Records, and released "The Long Road Home, a compilation of his Creedence and solo hits, and in 2006, he released a DVD version of "The Long Road Home – In Concert." This high-quality disk delivers Fogerty's strong-as-ever, well-seasoned voice and showmanship with such clarity I caught myself jumping off the couch to cheer with the audience several times.
Recently, John completed a European tour and is currently performing dates throughout the United States with Willie Nelson. His latest CD, Déjà vu (All Over Again) is available in record stores, as is the DVD The Long Road Home – In Concert (arranged and produced by John Fogerty, through Concord Records. He will tour in Australia starting November 2006.
I urge everyone to invite John Fogerty into their homes through The Long Road Home - In Concert DVD. It's an evening you won't forget soon, and will want to repeat often.
Like déjà vu all over again, Fogerty brings his music to offer a break from the storm of another war thirty years later.
In his The Long Road Home concert, sixty-one-year-old Fogerty defies era and age with a timeless performance. He opens the show proclaiming, "What I'm about is plain rock and roll," and then proceeds to deliver everything but plain. With swift guitar changes between each song, few words to fill space, and even fewer flashes or gimmicks, he performs a veritable guitar-feast and thread of the top-ten songs he wrote and performed during his time with Creedence Clearwater Revival, as well as an assortment of newer material. Erasing decades from himself and his music, he bridges the gap between young and once-young fans, and crams twenty-five soulful rock songs into ninety-eight minutes of high-energy, top-notch entertainment.
Born in 1945, in Berkeley, California, Fogerty started performing in the late fifties with his brother, Tom. In 1968, with the band Creedence Clearwater Revival, he produced his first hit with "Susie Q." Between 1969 and 1972, the band released a number of hit singles, including "Bad Moon Rising", "Born on the Bayou", "Down On the Corner", "Fortunate Son", "Green River", "Lookin' Out My Backdoor", "Proud Mary", "Run Through the Jungle", "Travelin' Band", "Up Around the Bend", and "Who'll Stop the Rain". Nine of these became top-ten songs; many have become standards.
In 1973, Fogerty left Creedence Clearwater Revival and began a solo career, originally playing all instruments and calling himself Blue Ridge Rangers. He produced two hits during this period: "Rockin' All Over the World" and "Almost Saturday Night," both songs covered by other artists later.
Even during his low profile years, Fogerty went on to earn a number of awards and recognitions. Rolling Stone named him the 40th greatest guitarist of all time, and the group Creedence Clearwater Revival was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. After a period of retirement, Fogerty returned in 1997 with "Blue Moon Swamp," which won a Grammy for the best rock album of 1998. In 2004, he released "Déjà Vu (All Over Again), as his denunciation of the Iraq war as another Vietnam, and appeared with Bruce Springsteen on MoveOn.org's Vote For Change tour as part of the John Kerry presidential campaign tour.
In 2005, Fogerty was inducted into the Songwriters' Hall of Fame, returned to Fantasy Records, and released "The Long Road Home, a compilation of his Creedence and solo hits, and in 2006, he released a DVD version of "The Long Road Home – In Concert." This high-quality disk delivers Fogerty's strong-as-ever, well-seasoned voice and showmanship with such clarity I caught myself jumping off the couch to cheer with the audience several times.
Recently, John completed a European tour and is currently performing dates throughout the United States with Willie Nelson. His latest CD, Déjà vu (All Over Again) is available in record stores, as is the DVD The Long Road Home – In Concert (arranged and produced by John Fogerty, through Concord Records. He will tour in Australia starting November 2006.
I urge everyone to invite John Fogerty into their homes through The Long Road Home - In Concert DVD. It's an evening you won't forget soon, and will want to repeat often.
I Forgot To Be Betty
Everyone left the small table by the mirrored pole for Betty, no table tent announcing reserved for necessary. Employees and regulars honored the icon who remembered their names, birthdays, recent illnesses, habits, and accomplishments as though each of them were her personal charge by leaving this space for her, six nights a week, fifty-two weeks a year, open-to-close, no questions asked. Drop-ins must have sensed either the good-natured cussing the feisty redhead would deliver should she find anyone in her seat, or censure from others if they ventured near her table.
Her slender, athletic frame and high-fashion clothes masked the fact that Betty was usually the oldest person in the club. When caught in the bright lights near the stage or the DJ booth, the lines on her face broke through heavy layers of make-up, suggesting she might fit better at the bingo down the road, or maybe a nursing home across town. Otherwise, she appeared to have more energy and spirit than the rest of the crowd combined.
She danced every song, most of them alone. Her smile welcomed the first note of music and remained faithful through the last. The band dedicated her favorite songs without request and she waved her arms overhead until the song ended and it was time to blow each musician a kiss of gratitude. Waitresses delivered her drinks without orders. Betty characterized routine.
Years of speculation shrouded this woman's tenure. She knew the owners. The cook was her sister. She wanted to find a younger man. She was a retired dance instructor, insane, lonely, a rich old lady with nothing better to do, good for a blow job in the backroom or parking lot, an alcoholic, a lost soul. Projection circulated like folklore, without verification or malice. Betty became everyone's eccentric aunt. Annoying succumbed to permanent and accepted.
With the same permanence, "Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain" lingered on the song list years after falling off the hit charts. A Betty favorite, it never failed to pack the dance floor. Although the song was also high on my list, I dodged the dance floor when it started to take advantage of the vacant ladies room. Deviating from routine, Betty followed.
I took a stall; she stopped in front of the mirror. A honking blow, loud enough for me to hear over the flushing toilet and background music, convinced me illness must explain Betty's uncharacteristic silence.
I buttoned my jeans and stepped out into a changed world. Betty raised shaking hands in an attempt to hide the tear washed mascara streaming into the crevices on her face. "That song," she said, stepping away from the sink.
I switched my gaze to the water running over my hands. "It always gets to me, too. Such a sad song."
She opened a stall door, pulled off a new strip of toilet paper, blew her nose again, and let loose a new stream of tears. Relieved the song had ended, I dried my hands and turned, expecting Betty to return to normal. She snuffled behind her hands. Her head and shoulders shook. I locked the outside door as laughter, cheerful voices, and undue humiliation neared.
"That was his song," she explained as I wet a paper towel and wiped the streaks off her face. "Don't know why it got to me tonight."
"Maybe you needed a good cry," I said. "Funny how these things hit at the worst possible times."
"We danced every weekend for fifty-two years. He made me promise I wouldn't stop when he was gone."
"And you haven't." I spoke around my own mascara-threatening torrent.
"Hell no. Long as I'm dancing, I feel like he's with me." Her smile returned.
I unlocked the door, years of speculation lighter and hoping, with all my heart, I would be just like Betty one day.
Her slender, athletic frame and high-fashion clothes masked the fact that Betty was usually the oldest person in the club. When caught in the bright lights near the stage or the DJ booth, the lines on her face broke through heavy layers of make-up, suggesting she might fit better at the bingo down the road, or maybe a nursing home across town. Otherwise, she appeared to have more energy and spirit than the rest of the crowd combined.
She danced every song, most of them alone. Her smile welcomed the first note of music and remained faithful through the last. The band dedicated her favorite songs without request and she waved her arms overhead until the song ended and it was time to blow each musician a kiss of gratitude. Waitresses delivered her drinks without orders. Betty characterized routine.
Years of speculation shrouded this woman's tenure. She knew the owners. The cook was her sister. She wanted to find a younger man. She was a retired dance instructor, insane, lonely, a rich old lady with nothing better to do, good for a blow job in the backroom or parking lot, an alcoholic, a lost soul. Projection circulated like folklore, without verification or malice. Betty became everyone's eccentric aunt. Annoying succumbed to permanent and accepted.
With the same permanence, "Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain" lingered on the song list years after falling off the hit charts. A Betty favorite, it never failed to pack the dance floor. Although the song was also high on my list, I dodged the dance floor when it started to take advantage of the vacant ladies room. Deviating from routine, Betty followed.
I took a stall; she stopped in front of the mirror. A honking blow, loud enough for me to hear over the flushing toilet and background music, convinced me illness must explain Betty's uncharacteristic silence.
I buttoned my jeans and stepped out into a changed world. Betty raised shaking hands in an attempt to hide the tear washed mascara streaming into the crevices on her face. "That song," she said, stepping away from the sink.
I switched my gaze to the water running over my hands. "It always gets to me, too. Such a sad song."
She opened a stall door, pulled off a new strip of toilet paper, blew her nose again, and let loose a new stream of tears. Relieved the song had ended, I dried my hands and turned, expecting Betty to return to normal. She snuffled behind her hands. Her head and shoulders shook. I locked the outside door as laughter, cheerful voices, and undue humiliation neared.
"That was his song," she explained as I wet a paper towel and wiped the streaks off her face. "Don't know why it got to me tonight."
"Maybe you needed a good cry," I said. "Funny how these things hit at the worst possible times."
"We danced every weekend for fifty-two years. He made me promise I wouldn't stop when he was gone."
"And you haven't." I spoke around my own mascara-threatening torrent.
"Hell no. Long as I'm dancing, I feel like he's with me." Her smile returned.
I unlocked the door, years of speculation lighter and hoping, with all my heart, I would be just like Betty one day.
Guitar Christmas
I had unusual children. They wanted to stay at home and hand out candy on Halloween, and provided lists of their favorite charities when asked what they wanted for their birthdays. They seldom asked for anything and never made Christmas lists. They made gift buying almost impossible.
So, when my youngest sat on Santa's lap long enough to repeat her life story and share her endless list of perceived injustices in the world, an internal alarm went off. When he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, my heart sank.
I had dealt with her questions and wishes for two months and still had a hard time controlling my sorrow; she had blindsided this poor man and his emotions. Santa looked around his elves and caught my eye. I shrugged, shallow, but the best I had to offer at the time. He hugged her close, kissed the top of her head, and sent her back to me.
"Did you see him kiss me?" She sounded relieved, maybe excited. "I told him I want him to bring my dad back, and he kissed me."
"What else did you tell him?" I hoped for a list of toys and a new conversation. "You were up there a long time."
She turned her eyes away. "I just told him about my dad so he'll find the right one." Her light, confident tone assured me she still believed a man in red could deliver anything she wanted. This would surely be the last year. I wished she could have wanted something possible.
As we walked through the mall, I asked more specific questions. What had she told Santa about her dad? Did she ask for anything else?
"I told him my dad had a beard and played guitar, and he liked Chucky Cheese. And he's dead."
"Santa can't bring your dad back," I said. "Nobody can. But maybe he could bring you a guitar." I waited out her labored sigh and defiant repositioning. "Did you ask for a guitar?"
"No way. He'd bring a toy one, like he did with the piano."
"Maybe not. You're older now."
"Santa only brings toy stuff. I want a real guitar."
I suggested we shop awhile before leaving and switched directions when her eyes lit up. "Choose a store. Anything except pets."
"Toys," she said, but changed her mind as we neared the organ music. "Can we go in the music store and look at microphones?"
"Look," I said, grateful for the microphone clue. "No touching and don't ask for anything because I don't have money for a microphone tonight."
Three frazzled clerks juggled impatient customers in the crowded store. My instinct said escape as I squeezed between the pre-teen male torturing a display drum set and a couple, obviously his parents, arguing over the length of time the noisemakers would hold his interest. By the time I cleared myself from the area and my head of the banging, my daughter had made her way to the other side of the store.
When I caught up with her, she had bypassed microphones and found a three-quarter acoustic hanging on the wall above the electric guitars. She stared, eyes glazed and lip pulled between her teeth, ignoring my presence, if it even registered with her. I stepped back to allow a frazzled employee through.
He started past her, stopped, and caught her eye. "Want me to get that for you?"
She shot me a glare. "I can't touch anything."
Without waiting for my response, he climbed a stepladder and handed the guitar down to her. "Okay, Mom?" He asked.
Saying no would have been like letting the air out of her arm floaties or denying the child another breath. She held the instrument and stared as though it might disappear if she looked away.
"Try it out," the defrazzling clerk urged.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and strummed, gently at first. As she grew comfortable and retreated into her own world, she warmed up her voice and let go. "Daddy's Hands," she sang, and played louder, her voice on key even if her chords weren't. Her song lured a gathering of customers to our corner of the store.
Still oblivious to everything around her, she stopped playing, traced the row of butterflies circling the sound hole, and said the magic words. "It was meant to be. I love butterflies."
"She wants it, Mom," the unfrazzled clerk said.
She climbed to her feet and handed the guitar back to him. "My mom doesn't have enough money."
I believe I heard gasps from the crowd and for a minute thought some of them were reaching for their wallets. "You can go back and tell Santa," I said. The clerk supported that idea, but she sighed and explained the problem with Santa and toy instruments.
"Maybe you can hold it?" I asked. "And we can tell Santa to come here and see what she wants?"
The too-freaking-excited-to-contain-himself clerk led the crowd in a series of cheers. "I'll take it down there myself and show it to him, after the store closes," he said. "And make sure he sees this exact guitar."
I pulled out my checkbook. "If you're sure, I guess we need to buy a strap and some guitar picks, so she'll be prepared."
"Positive. Santa's my buddy," the clerk said, walking behind the counter. He processed the transaction--with a twinkle in his eye--and handed the receipt to me.
My daughter received the butterfly guitar on Christmas that year. I got the real Santa.
So, when my youngest sat on Santa's lap long enough to repeat her life story and share her endless list of perceived injustices in the world, an internal alarm went off. When he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, my heart sank.
I had dealt with her questions and wishes for two months and still had a hard time controlling my sorrow; she had blindsided this poor man and his emotions. Santa looked around his elves and caught my eye. I shrugged, shallow, but the best I had to offer at the time. He hugged her close, kissed the top of her head, and sent her back to me.
"Did you see him kiss me?" She sounded relieved, maybe excited. "I told him I want him to bring my dad back, and he kissed me."
"What else did you tell him?" I hoped for a list of toys and a new conversation. "You were up there a long time."
She turned her eyes away. "I just told him about my dad so he'll find the right one." Her light, confident tone assured me she still believed a man in red could deliver anything she wanted. This would surely be the last year. I wished she could have wanted something possible.
As we walked through the mall, I asked more specific questions. What had she told Santa about her dad? Did she ask for anything else?
"I told him my dad had a beard and played guitar, and he liked Chucky Cheese. And he's dead."
"Santa can't bring your dad back," I said. "Nobody can. But maybe he could bring you a guitar." I waited out her labored sigh and defiant repositioning. "Did you ask for a guitar?"
"No way. He'd bring a toy one, like he did with the piano."
"Maybe not. You're older now."
"Santa only brings toy stuff. I want a real guitar."
I suggested we shop awhile before leaving and switched directions when her eyes lit up. "Choose a store. Anything except pets."
"Toys," she said, but changed her mind as we neared the organ music. "Can we go in the music store and look at microphones?"
"Look," I said, grateful for the microphone clue. "No touching and don't ask for anything because I don't have money for a microphone tonight."
Three frazzled clerks juggled impatient customers in the crowded store. My instinct said escape as I squeezed between the pre-teen male torturing a display drum set and a couple, obviously his parents, arguing over the length of time the noisemakers would hold his interest. By the time I cleared myself from the area and my head of the banging, my daughter had made her way to the other side of the store.
When I caught up with her, she had bypassed microphones and found a three-quarter acoustic hanging on the wall above the electric guitars. She stared, eyes glazed and lip pulled between her teeth, ignoring my presence, if it even registered with her. I stepped back to allow a frazzled employee through.
He started past her, stopped, and caught her eye. "Want me to get that for you?"
She shot me a glare. "I can't touch anything."
Without waiting for my response, he climbed a stepladder and handed the guitar down to her. "Okay, Mom?" He asked.
Saying no would have been like letting the air out of her arm floaties or denying the child another breath. She held the instrument and stared as though it might disappear if she looked away.
"Try it out," the defrazzling clerk urged.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and strummed, gently at first. As she grew comfortable and retreated into her own world, she warmed up her voice and let go. "Daddy's Hands," she sang, and played louder, her voice on key even if her chords weren't. Her song lured a gathering of customers to our corner of the store.
Still oblivious to everything around her, she stopped playing, traced the row of butterflies circling the sound hole, and said the magic words. "It was meant to be. I love butterflies."
"She wants it, Mom," the unfrazzled clerk said.
She climbed to her feet and handed the guitar back to him. "My mom doesn't have enough money."
I believe I heard gasps from the crowd and for a minute thought some of them were reaching for their wallets. "You can go back and tell Santa," I said. The clerk supported that idea, but she sighed and explained the problem with Santa and toy instruments.
"Maybe you can hold it?" I asked. "And we can tell Santa to come here and see what she wants?"
The too-freaking-excited-to-contain-himself clerk led the crowd in a series of cheers. "I'll take it down there myself and show it to him, after the store closes," he said. "And make sure he sees this exact guitar."
"Positive. Santa's my buddy," the clerk said, walking behind the counter. He processed the transaction--with a twinkle in his eye--and handed the receipt to me.
My daughter received the butterfly guitar on Christmas that year. I got the real Santa.
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