Red River's Annual Ring In The Old Video

Why so late, you ask? Well, considering all the technical issues I encountered, I'm amazed I managed to produce a semblance of a cohesive video (thanks, Microsoft).

Nevertheless, Happy 2019 from Red River!

Retro Album Review ~ Buenos Noches From A Lonely Room

I returned gently to the country music fold. I don't remember quite how it happened. I vaguely recollect sitting in my car, waiting for the kids to alight from the elementary school door, and apathetically punching the buttons on the car radio. Y93 was my go-to channel, but something boring was playing; maybe a Debbie Gibson song, so I clicked the preset for KQDY and caught something that actually sounded like country music ~ maybe Rosanne Cash or that new guy whose voice I liked but didn't know his name...George somebody.

That was all it took. I began to explore this "new" country. I purchase a cassette tape by the Sweethearts of the Radio and played it in the background while I did my housecleaning. I bought another one ~ it may have been the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ~ and I wore out those two tapes, not yet convinced to plunge full-bore back into the country cosmos. After all, country had betrayed me before.

But I was supremely curious. I began hitting the KQ94 button more regularly, and before long I simply left the car radio tuned to that channel. I found wonders! Yes, some of the old-timers were still around ~ The Oaks and Alabama ~ but there were all these new guys! Randy Travis and Ricky Van Shelton and Highway 101 and Kathy Mattea and Foster and Lloyd...and that new guy, George...

And I heard a song that was revelatory, "Guitars, Cadillacs". It combined everything I'd ever loved about country into a brash, bass-thumping, Telecaster twanging, two-step twirling slice of perfection.

This "Dwight" dude was different but familiar. He was no crooner ~ he had a Kentucky tenor that took a bit of adjustment for my ears to settle on. But I liked it. His songs tore at my heart, the way my mom and dad's country had once stabbed me in the gut, but better in a way I'd once only imagined sublime country could be.

When I finally took the dive and committed to country again, I became omnivorous. Now it was CD's, and I turned into the Musicland pest, scouring the racks every week for new glorious sounds.

Inevitably I stumbled upon "Buenos Noches From A Lonely Room".

Dwight's third album didn't foster many hits, but it set a marker that still stands. Country was always about singles. That changed briefly with Merle in the sixties, but nobody in country set out to make a statement. They only strived to make a dollar. Buenos Noches From A Lonely Room wasn't a concept album, but it became one. I purchased every one of Dwight Yoakam's CD's and this one ranks at the top. I've "liked" his later releases, but when I hear this one, it's fresh. It doesn't spoil with repetition. That's not an easy feat.

No live video, but this is the lead track:

Track 5:

Track 7:

Track 6:

Track 8 (and the number one ~ I heard this by Buck and his Buckaroos, so it wasn't relevatory like it was for others, and not, by any stretch my favorite):

Track 4:

There's not a lot in life that brings joy. 

This album does.

Have Yourself A Merry Little...

I began blogging in 2007 and I have undoubtedly written a Christmas post every year since. In 2007 my band was writing and recording and feeling exhilarated about the musical riches to come. It was all so long ago. After Red River's debut album release, I went on to write far better songs. Until I didn't. Until I stopped writing completely. It wasn't so much a decision to stop writing as it was an exhausted sense of futility. In 2007 there was a community of songwriters on a site called Soundclick. We were virtual friends who shared our latest recordings with one another, but like all families, the forged relationships eventually became dysfunctional. Interlopers bullied their way in and found ways to manipulate the Soundclick charts. Tussles ensued. An unexpected boon resulted ~ in an effort to compete with the cheaters, I learned how to make music videos, a skill I have since perfected. Today Soundclick no longer has a community forum. The friends I made there have scattered; disappeared. I note this simply to demonstrate how my world has changed in eleven years.

What do I do now? Well, this.

I also wrote two novels and one memoir, but you won't find them anywhere, at least not under my name. I started a third novel and then realized that writing is a whole lot of work for zero reward.

My blogging has transformed from simply a silly diversion to documenting music and the times they represent. Write what you know. I know music.

I used to have blog followers, but an unfortunate Google snafu resulted in everyone disappearing. Fortunately, however, my blog was salvaged, but I had to change its name and now nobody knows me. I'm actually okay with that. If someone finds me, awesome. If no one does, I'll still write.

I'm always going to do something creative because that's who I am.

Now it's the end of 2018 and I don't have much to say for myself. I find myself missing my family more and more. Little things, like a corny song, will remind me of my little sister. The envisage of family surrounding me slows my heartbeat and feels like a warm, comfy blanket around my shoulders. Alas, I won't be with them, again, this year.

Dad and Mom are a memory. As the years tumble, I remember the good parts of them ~ the bad are only stories to be recounted; not heavily felt.

So, as I sit here tonight, wistful, have yourself...well, you know.

And Now For Something Different

I have no burning topics tonight, so while I'm listening to my favorite Sirius channels, I thought I would try something different. From among my favorite channels, I will choose a song that is currently streaming and offer my critique. The only rule is that it has to be a song I've heard before. I'm not in the mood to write a review of an obscure Bobby Rydell track.

My favorite channels essentially consist of all the decades from the fifties through the eighties, plus Prime Country, Willie's Roadhouse, The Bakersfield Beat, The Garth Channel (which rarely plays anything good), The Beatles Channel, and a couple of odd ones ~ Red, White and Booze and (currently) Country Christmas, which has been a vast disappointment.

First up:

Carrying Your Love With Me ~ George Strait (Prime Country)


This was released as a single from the album of the same name. George Strait's seventeenth album does not rank among his best. It contains approximately three good songs and seven forgettable ones. What stands out on this track is its chorus's sing-along-ness. The casual radio listener can pretend she actually knows this song just by chiming in on the chorus. As a piece of songwriting, it comes across as an idea that didn't know where it wanted to go. I imagine the writer came up with that first line ("All I've got's this beat-up leather bag") and then added some filler lines that don't exactly ring and don't bother to rhyme. The chord progression is run-of-the-mill. George apparently liked what he heard, however, and found a way to spiff it up with a nice steel guitar riff. I imagine he also liked the images the song conveys. The second verse does improve considerably. I would have advised the writer to polish Verse One before pitching the song.

Everything Is Beautiful ~ Ray Stevens (70's on 7)

This song was a huge hit in 1970. It's one of the few serious songs, unfortunately, that Ray ever recorded. Ray apparently found his niche doing novelty songs and was very successful with them, but they overshadowed his lovely voice and songwriting. This is a song of its time. The sixties had barely slipped away and people were of the notion that peace, love, and flower power would magically prevail. Nevertheless, Ray is a masterful songwriter ~ the song flows perfectly. Like a lot of songs from around that time, this one begins with the chorus, which is impactful. The verses that follow carry more weight once the primary theme has been established. If you want to hear a beautiful voice, search out Ray's "Misty" album (or CD, I guess). Ray's singing has been sorely underestimated over the years, mostly due to his emphasis on comedy. He should have had more confidence in the beauty of his voice.

Hungry Like The Wolf ~ Duran Duran (80's on 8)

I was a major MTV watcher in the eighties, but for unknown reasons, this track did not resonate with me at the time. It was only later, with the volume twirled up on my car radio, that I came to love this song. I don't know much about Duran Duran. I know they had other hits, but this is what they will be remembered for. Most of the lyrics are unintelligible to me, but I do know they rhyme. It actually doesn't matter what the words are ~ this is a "feel" song, as most good songs are. The most memorable lyrics are (and you know it), "Doo doo do dit, do doo dit, do doo dit, doo do dit, doo do".

I also like the "ow-www" that injects itself into the chorus, even though I did read "Small Sacrifices" and realize its significance in the story, but I choose to ignore that and just rock out to the song.

Please Please Me ~ The Beatles (60's on 6)

Please Please Me was released as a single in 1963, about eight months before I ever knew about this band that would change my musical life forever. The song is quite elementary, but delivery, boys, delivery. John wrote the song as a paean to Roy Orbison, which, regrettably fails in its endeavor. I've even written a song more reminiscent of Roy Orbison than this one, but perhaps it's all in the ears of the beholder.

Please Please Me was featured on the Beatles' debut album, which must have been recorded in a great hurry, because if you listen closely, Paul and John are singing completely different lyrics from one another in one of the verses. I don't know why Sir George Martin let that slip by, but maybe he figured this was a lose-lose proposition, so why bother?

The element that makes the song stand out, other than the fact that no one had ever heard anything like this group ever, ever; is John's low register "come on".

Other high points include Paul's bass and Ringo's drumming. The low point is John's harmonica. I would have vetoed that if I were George Martin, but again...The bridge is excellent ~ the staccato lyrics and the renowned falsetto "ooh's" of Harrison and McCartney. As a song that established The Beatles, it passes muster.

I'm Still Standing ~ Elton John (80's on 8)

I'm hard-pressed to find an Elton John song that I don't like. This song was ostensibly written by Elton alone, unlike every other song of his for which Bernie Taupin wrote the lyrics. As much as I've loved Elton John over the decades, there was always a disconnect between the lyrics and the music; or should I say, the lyrics never made any sense. I shouldn't say "never" because sometimes they made sense, but mostly they didn't. It really didn't matter, though, because Elton is another "feel" artist. He could sing practically any nonsense words and listeners would swoon. His voice is warm honey. 

I Got You Babe ~ Sonny and Cher (60's on 6)

Sonny Bono was not the world's best songwriter, but he gets points for tenacity. Cherilyn Sarkisian was sixteen years old and, as the world turned in the sixties, living with Sonny, who was miles older than she. Sonny was a hanger-on at Phil Spector's studio and thus convinced the wall of sound producer to record the duo in '65.

It's really only thanks to Spector (the murderer) and the Wrecking Crew that this track shot to Number One. Cher (as she was now known) did have something; a spark of serendipity. The song itself was a rip-off of Dylan. Bono sang his part as if he was Dylan. Steal from the best, they say. There is no denying that the song is memorable, even if only due to kitsch. 

Dion and The Belmonts ~ Lovers Who Wander (50's on 5)

The fifties are sorely underestimated. Doo-wop is a thing that the world needs more of. Doo-wop is an art. It requires the perfect mix of background guttural noises and a lead singer whose voice can soar. Doo-wop is all about sound. Lyrics actually don't matter. Dion was a doo-wop king. He was adept at doing the fills. It wasn't so much what was said ~ it could have been anything, but mostly it was about romance gone bad. Doo-wop was, like Elton John, all about the "feel". Don't, whatever you do, discount the fifties.

You Didn't Have To Be So Nice ~ Lovin' Spoonful (Oldies Party)

The first time I heard the Lovin' Spoonful was in 1965. "Daydream" fueled my downtown meanders with Cathy, my fifth-grade best friend. I've opined about how "Do You Believe In Magic" is the most glorious rock song ever, thanks to (the late) Zal Yankovsky and his utter musical joy. Zal was a man who consecrated music ~ the lone man I've found whose pure delight makes my heart soar. That doesn't happen. I didn't know it at age eleven, but I do now.

Hours have passed since I began this experiment. I'm rather sleepy now, but I think it was a success.

I'm keen to do it again. As the kids say, it was kinda groovy.

The Only Time I "Saw" A President

I've always been a political geek. You could say that politics is my sports. I follow my squad's standings; I cheer for my "home" team. I peruse the box scores. I never actually got to see a president outside the square box of my TV screen, except for one time.

My big brother had the opportunity to see a president up close, in 1963. I was eight and my brother was seventeen with a driver's license. President Kennedy was going to make an appearance at the Grand Forks Armory and my brother bragged to me that he was going to journey across the river to see him. As I remember it, it was only braggadocio. He never did go. In my brother's defense, it's a pain to try to get up close to a president, even in the innocent age of the early sixties. You gotta fight the crowds. You've got to deal with all that security (apparently not enough back then, alas). Then there's the inevitable traffic jam afterward.

One of the nice things about living in a small town is that politicians single them out for visits.

On April 24, 1989 (I looked it up), President George H.W. Bush was arriving in my town to plant a twelve-foot elm tree on the Capitol grounds, in honor of the state's centennial. It does seem like a president would have more pressing matters than turning over a couple shovels-full of dirt, but politicians have to do lots of corny stuff.

I was working second shift at the hospital and, dang it, I was scheduled to work that Monday. I knew the presidential limo would travel up Airport Road on its way to the State Capitol, and that was only five blocks from my house.

I called in sick.

It was shortly after lunch time and my kids were in school. I had a couple of hours free. I hiked the five blocks and situated myself in a prime spot along the Expressway. Behind me was the local bank building ~ an ugly building, molded like a brown sand pail castle. Aside from that sky-obscuring monstrosity, the sky was clear and blue. About forty other people had happened upon the same idea as me, but the street was long, so my only company was a scattered couple or two....plus the guy behind me, over-dressed for the occasion in a suit and dark glasses. It was a bit disconcerting to glance back, unable to tell if the man behind the glasses was staring back, but I imagine I didn't look like much of a threat.

Before long, a long black limousine sauntered up the street. I think little American flags flapped from the front and back fenders. Clearly, President George Bush was ensconced inside. He had some kind of microphone at his disposal, because, clear as the sky, "Hi, how'ya doin'" and "Good to see 'ya" boomed out into the crisp air. I didn't actually "see" him ~ the windows were tinted grey-black, but I know he was there. I waved my hand like a simpleton and most likely applauded and whooped. I don't know what all transpired on the Capitol grounds, but I preferred my vantage point over a clutch of over-eager zealots. I just wanted to see the president.

Sadly, the twelve-foot elm did not survive the winter. But that's politics, isn't it?

I don't know how I missed the fact that George H.W. Bush was a country music fan. I always viewed him (erroneously) as rather a patrician, but had I known he was down-home like me, his measure would have increased exponentially.

I truthfully didn't know much of anything about President Bush, except that he was my president. He wasn't Ronald Reagan, but he was the next best thing.

But George liked the Oak Ridge Boys!

President George H.W. Bush was a helluva man.

50 Years of Country Albums ~ 1968

I was thirteen in 1968, so you do the math. I was at that desperately awkward stage ~ I'd somehow managed to slither through seventh grade with only a moderate amount of embarrassment, but it was a struggle. Thirteen-year-olds are like alien beings who must learn how to simulate the movements of a human without an instruction manual. It's a wonder most of us survive past our first decade of life.

I bought multiple tubes of Maybelline concealer in an attempt to mask my zits. To complete my look, I slathered green eye shadow on my lids and liberally applied Cover Girl ivory-tone liquid makeup not only to my face, but my neck as well, so I had perpetual grease stains on the collars of all my polyester dresses. I thought I looked neat.

I pulled on pantyhose each morning and a pair of plastic kitten-heel pumps. I hiked up my half-slip to ensure it didn't peek below my thigh-high skirt. My hair was a disaster. I hadn't yet grown it out and thus was yet to endure the nightly torture of brush rollers with plastic pins jabbed into my scalp. I didn't know how to style hair, so I essentially let my mop do whatever it deigned to do. I did have long bangs that unfortunately obscured my carefully-applied lime eye shadow, but had the fortuitous benefit of camouflaging my forehead pimples.

I grabbed my geography and math textbooks and my spiral notebooks and Bic pen and padded out to await the bus. I was never cool and I painfully knew it. All I could pray for was to be was unnoticed. I think I actually prayed for that.

My only savior was music.

Musically, I was still torn between the pop songs played on KFYR AM and the chosen genre of my new best friend, Alice. Alice was unapologetically a country fan and didn't give a damn who knew it. Unlike me. I did my best to cloak my country proclivities by pressing my transistor up against the bus window and flooding the column of cocoa bench seats with Judy In Disguise. I didn't talk to anyone on the bus and certainly no one talked to me, but John Fred and the Playboys conveyed the desired message.

I had dipped my toe into albums in '67 and by 1968 had garnered quite the collection ~ if twenty is a collection. Granted, I had no means of income other than birthday money, and albums cost a whole three dollars and forty-nine cents. But I did my best.

Historically, few of the 1968 albums I owned have made any "best" lists, but you know, it was country. Country albums weren't exactly concept-driven. I feel a need to explain why none of Merle Haggard's '68 LP's made a home in my row of cardboard treasures. I already owned a tri-fold "Best of Merle Haggard" disc that contained all one could wish for, plus I didn't wait for new albums to be released ~ I needed those '45 singles immediately. So if I had a couple of dollars for an album, I wasn't going to waste it on something for which I already owned the prime track.

Critics (and you know how smart they are) will say that "Live At Folsom Prison" by Johnny Cash is one of the very best country albums of all time. Well, I never was a Cash fan. I found his music simplistic and monotonous. Rolling Stone Magazine loves the Johnny Cash mystique; the hell with the actual music. If I never hear Folsom Prison Blues again, my life will be a success.

Here's what I did buy:

How could one go wrong? "Best Of's" were a poor girl's dream. I knew all the songs were good, and as a bonus, the album included "Buckaroo", which was the only song I ever learned how to pick on a guitar.

Okay, this is performed by Marty Stuart and his Fabulous Superlatives, because I can't find a decent video of Don Rich:

Like almost all country albums of that era, this album was filled to the brim with covers. So, I'm just going to go with the big daddy of songs:

This was the second duet album by Porter and Dolly, but not their best. "Porter Wayne and Dolly Rebecca" far outshines it. There was a fascination with this new girl singer in '68 ~ we hadn't seen or heard anyone like her before.

There was not one original song on this album! Not even one hit single. I don't know what the people at RCA records were thinking, but if you're going to release an LP, you might want to have one original song on it. With that in mind, I'm just going to cheat and show a video of one of Pride's actual hits:

I don't think I actually owned this album, but Alice did and we played it at her house over and over. Again, we didn't know what to make of this brash young blonde, but we knew she had something goin' on.

Again, "greatest hits" ~ how can one go wrong? I was always equivocal about Loretta Lynn. She'd been around since I was a tyke and saw her perform at Panther Hall in Fort Worth, Texas. I truthfully still haven't made my mind up about Loretta. I wouldn't go out of my way to play any of her tracks, but she paved the way for other, better female country singers, so...

That about sums up my album purchases from 1968. Not really a "classic" among them, but nobody knows at the time or even gives a damn what will endure. 

I do know, however, that this will:

Bohemian Rhapsody ~ My Review

If you plan to see a movie, don't read any reviews. Bohemian Rhapsody was almost universally ravaged by the critics, and honestly, because of that, I was not anxious to see it. My stepson recommended it, though, so we went. From the opening scene, I was transfixed. I almost forgot about my popcorn...

A word about critics. My husband and I are not avid moviegoers; we're more the "lie in bed and watch Netflix" types. We tend to see more movies in the fall, when the superhero flicks have been usurped by more serious releases. We caught "First Man" a few weeks ago because it had gotten good reviews (unplanted flag notwithstanding). If you are unaware, "First Man" is about the Apollo moon landing, which one would assume was a glorious achievement. (I was around then, but as a teenager, it wasn't exactly the most exciting moment of my life. My entire family, however, had gathered in front of our console television to watch the grainy pictures of Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon's surface, so in deference to my dad, I popped into the living room for a few moments.) When we left the theater after seeing the movie, I felt depressed. The film was, inexplicably, a downer. Even when Neil's wife visited him on the other side of the isolation chamber after he'd returned to earth, she practically chastised him. The couple, if the screenplay is to be believed, had some serious marital issues. Yet most critics gave the film an A+.

My point is, movie critics reek. Yet I fall for it every single time. Before the movie today, we saw a preview for a Steve Carell film in which his character plays with dolls and cries a lot. I bet the critics will laud this one as guaranteed Oscar gold. I turned to my husband and whispered "total flop". This one looks even worse than the last Carell preview we saw only a couple of weeks ago ~ the one where he spends a lot of time praying for his drug-addicted son. Don't get me wrong; I'm not denigrating people with addictions. Lord knows my family is rife with them. But that's not what I go to the multiplex to watch.

So, let me tell you about Bohemian Rhapsody. Rami Malek commands the screen from Scene One. The prosthetic teeth are a bit distracting, but one quickly forgets about them. I had no idea Malek was a brilliant actor. I watched a season and a half of Mr. Robot and pretty much hated it. Rami was clearly wasting his talents.

His portrayal of Freddie Mercury's early career was reminiscent of the swagger of Mick Jagger. Mercury was nothing if not supremely confident. If the screenplay is true (and Brian May was an executive producer, so I'm pretty confident in its accuracy), Freddie was the band member who pushed Queen to soar. He was fearless. He skirted the precipice of danger to create sounds no one had ever dared to conceive. Yet the movie made clear that Queen wasn't solely Mercury. I liked that. Brian May's guitar solo on the Bohemian Rhapsody track is majestic. Freddie clearly understood and respected each band member's unique talents, and knew that Queen was a band...until it wasn't.

Freddie got snookered into believing he could reach higher heights by striking out on his own. A duplicitous hanger-on (played by that nice chauffeur from Downton Abbey) almost destroyed Mercury's life.

The critics' primary condemnation of the film is that Mercury's private life was downplayed. I dissent. We all know Freddie Mercury was gay. Apparently in the critics' eyes, his sexual preference was more important than his creativity and his humanity. Please stop with the virtue signaling.

The fact that Freddie was diagnosed with AIDS is not swept under the rug in the movie. Tears stung my cheeks in the scene where he informed his band mates he had the disease.  

That makes the closing sequence all the more poignant. Queen performs at Live Aid and Freddie knows this is his last...and he kills it.

Rotten Tomatoes:

AUDIENCE SCORE

92% liked it

Average Rating: 4.5/5

User Ratings: 13,146

TOMATOMETER (critics)

62%

Average Rating: 6.1/10

Reviews Counted: 316

Fresh: 197

Rotten: 119

You be the judge.

 

MY SCORE:  A

 

Fun (weird) fact: I saw Mike Myers' name in the opening credits of the movie, but I never saw him. Well, I thought I didn't. Only after seeing the movie and checking IMDB did I learn that Mike played EMI executive Ray Foster, who uttered the immortal line, "No one is going to be head-banging in the car to 'Bohemian Rhapsody!'"