My Random Number Generator Gave Me....

1985 in country music!

I'm not thrilled with my generator's random number, because 1985 was not a banner year for country. Country music was in that awkward stage -- between utter crap and greatness. There were some glimmers of hope, though. If one wants music that's really bad, they could pick basically any year between the late seventies and...well, 1985.

As the picture above denotes, however, ooh yes, there were glimmers.

I could waste yours and my time doing a corny countdown, but let's just start with the number one single of the year, shall we?

The deep, complicated reason why I love this song:  IT'S COUNTRY.

"Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind" is essentially the perfect country song. But, oh, it's not just the song -- it's the sublime performance, from the tiny yodel in George's delivery to the heart-thumping twin fiddles to the four-four shuffle beat to the just-right steel guitar riff.

Readers of this blog know how I feel about George Strait. George, along with Randy Travis and Dwight Yoakam, saved country music. It was almost dead and mercifully begging to be buried, and then George came along, like a vision.

I've told the story before of how I'd given up on country music; switched the dial on my radio in disgust; became enamored with MTV and real true (not facsimile) music. Then I happened to take the kids over to Mom and Dad's one evening and Mom popped in a VHS tape (yep!) of some hillbilly singer performing live somewhere in Texas. I thought, "What's this crap?" I didn't know any of the songs (they weren't being played on MTV). The singer was a "pretty boy" in a big cowboy hat -- no doubt another imposter trying to grab Merle Haggard's mantle. I went home that night more puzzled than impressed. But though I was loathe to admit it, this guy had something. And gradually, I began alternating between the rock station and the country station that I had to reprogram into my car radio.

So, yes and thank you, George Strait. Even hard-headed goofballs like me can learn something.

I wish I could say 1985 turned out to be a great year for my rediscovery of country music, but alas, it wasn't.

There was this girl singer that I'd first noticed a few years before. She wasn't hitting it big, but I liked her. I actually talked my mom into going to an indoor rodeo with me because I'd heard this gal would be performing...I guess in between the bulldogging and the steer wrestling competitions. (In a small town, we took our entertainment where we could find it.) Mom was about as impressed with Reba McEntire as I was the first time I saw George Strait. I, though, liked her because she was authentically country. That would sadly change later. Some musical lifespans are short.

Here is how she once was:

I am perplexed that the next song was released in 1985. It seems to me to be a latter Judds hit, because once again, the Judds I first discovered were singing "Mama He's Crazy", but maybe I just have time muddled in my brain. I apologize for not being able to find a better video -- I would love to know what happened to all the eighties music videos that were played on CMT, because they sure are nigh impossible to find. So, here's the best I could find:

Ricky Skaggs was a bluegrass artist who wanted to become a country star. And he did. But he's still a bluegrass artist. Be proud of who you are! I like bluegrass. 1985 could stand an infusion of bluegrass. Here's some:

Here's something good. Good. I love Rosanne Cash's voice; not crazy about her politics, but that's neither here nor there in the music realm. Rosanne Cash is how would-be singers would like to sound. That's damn high praise.

I really dislike Marie Osmond. I suppose it's not her fault, per se, but she signed on to do those weight loss commercials, where she poses in her deceptively slimming dress and looks down her nose at us, because she lost fifty pounds, because some big company gave her their program for free. Nevertheless, this is a good song -- mostly because of Dan Seals:

Not to be redundant, but c'mon. This, again, is a perfect country song. If you've ever spent a night out at a honky tonk and you hear the opening strains of this song, you're gonna go out on the dance floor and two-step -- it's decreed. Yep, this is George again:

I do believe that Alabama is the act I've seen live more times than any other. It's not that I'm a great Alabama fan; it's just that they toured incessantly and they kept showing up in my town. Again, we grabbed our entertainment where we could find it. I like them -- they're okay -- they certainly were a staple of my local country music station for about a decade. So, here they are:

It's a myth that The Highwaymen were a big phenomenon in 1985. But myths are okay. As long as we know the truth. And face it, here are some country music giants.

I love Ronnie Milsap -- is he still performing? I'm thinking 1975 was the first time I heard him, so he had a great run.  There are those artists you just want to tuck inside your pocket and reach for them when you need a musical lift. You don't necessarily think about them very often, but they're there.

Woefully, I didn't see many of these artists live. I saw Ronnie, Alabama (three frickin' thousand times), Reba; and it was an unbelievable quest, traveling all the way to Montana only to find that the artist's bus got mired in a snowstorm in Wyoming and his Montana show was canceled; then a few months later, to a city much closer to home -- Fargo, North Dakota -- to finally, FINALLY! see George Strait in concert. I have no regrets -- I can at least say I saw George Strait live. 

1985 wasn't that bad. One great song can make up for a year's worth of crap. And there was more than one good song that year.

It's kind of unreasonable to expect more than that.

Music That's Delicious

We were watching a pretty bad HBO show last weekend that shall remain nameless, but my better half bought the DVD, so now we kind of have to continue watching or else watch our pennies dribble down the drain. The show is about rock and roll (sort of, but sadly, not enough about rock and roll), so we both thought, how could we go wrong? The storyline is crappy, but the show does contain snippets of actors re-enacting classic rock performances, as various characters have some kind of nervous breakdown (it's hard to explain) and conjure these images up subconsciously. (One scene has a facsimile of Karen Carpenter riding in the passenger seat of a car, singing...I forget...one of the Carpenters' hits. But you get my drift.)

One scene that caught my attention as I was drifting off to sleep out of utter boredom was an actor doing a pale impression of Jerry Lee Lewis performing "Breathless". This roused me out of my near-slumber.

My immediate thought was, this is delicious music. Delicious music differs from other music types. Delicious music is difficult to explain. Heavenly music is Roy Orbison. Stab-you-in-the-gut music is Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Tipsy, fuck-you-if-you-don't-get-it-and-ask-me-if-I-care music is Dwight Yoakam.

Delicious music? It's a little bit dangerous, but we don't know exactly why. It's dangerous even though it was performed almost sixty years ago and we're so much more sophisticated now. It's dangerous like Elvis was supposedly dangerous, but maybe you had to be there, because Elvis, to me, is a guy singing about how he wants to be my teddy bear. That's akin to Richard Simmons asking me if he can be my ice cream cone.

Watch and tell me if this is not dangerous:

I may need to rethink the 1950's. Apparently it wasn't all Perry Como. There was something going on, something subversive. I should ask my older sister about that.

I wanted to include something else that was dangerous (i.e., delicious) to round out this post, but I can't come up with anything comparable to Jerry Lee. I don't think there is anyone comparable.

Even when Jerry Lee transitioned to country music, he had "attitude". That isn't fake-able Either you have it in you or you don't.

Instead, I thought I'd feature a bit more of HIM:

 

Some people are welded to the times they grew up in. I'm like that, mostly. I idolize John Lennon -- I mostly think there is no one better. My husband will barely acknowledge anyone who appeared on the scene prior to 1966.

That's just plain wrong.

My dad liked Perry; my mom thought certain singers were "handsome". My older sisters probably assumed Elvis originated "Blue Suede Shoes".

I'm not a child of the fifties, but credit is due where it's due. I can't say that I remember Jerry Lee when his locks were golden -- I was barely a toddler then -- but I kind of wish I did.

Because hindsight isn't near as much fun.

We Now Pause For This Commerical Announcement

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You can download your free copy here

A review would be very much appreciated, whether you like it or don't like it (I would be too embarrassed to read my reviews anyway.) But I think you'll like it.

If you're a country music fan, this novel will be right up your alley. If you're not a country music fan, what are you doing reading this blog, silly?


P.S. If you miss the promotion and would still like to receive a free copy, I'll make sure you get one.

More 1984!

I'm old enough to remember a time when we just listened to music. That method had its downside, though. For several years I thought the best Beatles songs were sung by Paul McCartney, because he was the cute Beatle. I was woefully wrong.

Thus, when MTV came along in the eighties, it was manna from heaven. Who needed a radio? And we actually knew what the guys and girls singing the songs looked like! This was a concept, like personal computers, that we didn't even know we needed -- until we discovered we did. Maybe I like eighties music so much because of MTV or maybe the music was just that good. I'm going with "that good".

There are one-hit wonders whose song we like; there are fads that now seem cheesy and what-the-hell-was-I-thinking; and then there is Hall and Oates:

 
Before the nineteen eighties, Tina Turner, to me, was Ike and Tina Turner -- you know, "rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river" and a gaggle of gals in sequined, tasseled dresses doing the frug...or some other sixties dance.

Surprisingly, Tina popped up again just when MTV came along. "What's Love Got To Do With It" put Tina back in the spotlight. Luckily. Because I heard her follow-up single on the radio a few days ago, and damn! It's bad! Here's how it goes (in its entirety):

I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money
I'll do what you want me to do
I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money
And any old music will do

And that's it! As a songwriter, I think that's cheating. You can't just repeat the same four lines over and over!  Yet it worked for Tina, so there's that.


That doesn't take away from her seminal hit. Let's listen (and watch):

I like this one better. I think it must be from a movie, and I'm going to Google that and find out right now. In the meantime, watch John Waite:

Well, according to my research, the song was featured in the movie "Selena" and also in Miami Vice, which I never watched, so I guess I only imagined that it was included in a John Hughes flick. I'm going to go out on a limb and say it should have been.

Whatever happened to Deniece Williams? She had a hit single from one of those movies I never actually saw, Footloose. Which doesn't explain why I know the song so well, except for endless plays on MTV. I saw the non-existent fore-mentioned John Hughes movie featuring John Waite's song more times than I saw Footloose. That doesn't take away from the giddy poppishness that was "Let's Hear It For The Boy":

You know you remember this next track. You probably didn't get it -- it is in German (?) after all -- but that didn't stop you and everyone else from turning it into a hit. Number twenty-eight of the year is the incomprehensible hit by Nena -- I don't know whether that's the girl's name of the name of the band, but what does it matter, really?

Apparently in the eighties there was this band called "Journey" (which is a really cheesy name, when you think about it).  I'm guessing they hit it big right before MTV came into existence, because I had absolutely no knowledge of them. Of course I know about Journey now. But I'm not (too) ashamed to admit that I had no clue who they were in 1984. All I knew was there was this great track by a guy named Steve Perry. I figured he was just a single act; a one-hit wonder. Hell of a singer, though. If someone handed me a list of pop songs and said, pick the best ones, I would pick this. I love this song:

Contrary to what Jack Black's character utters in High Fidelity, this is not the worst song ever recorded. Let's cut Stevie some slack, okay? I like it. I'll admit, though, that line in the movie made me feel supremely uncool. However, I'm okay with uncool. Uncool is the new cool. Number twenty-five!

Remember that list of pop songs someone gave me? Well, here's another one I'd pluck from it. My oldies station cued up this song as I was pulling into the Target parking lot, and I refused to kill the motor until I sat and listened to it all the way through. Elton John is a treasure and this song proves why:

Okay, I know I never saw the movie, Streets of Fire. I had to Google it to even know what it was. Nope, never ever saw it. Rick Moranis? Seriously? He was great on SCTV, and I loved him in Parenthood, but...nah....no clue. Nevertheless, I know this song, which again proves the power of music videos. This is Dan Hartman...who resides somewhere near Deniece Williams, I'm guessing; and they're both living off the royalties of their singular hit songs. I still like this one, though:

Confession:  For years I hated, detested! Billy Joel. I think it was subliminal. I remember as a pre-teen listening to a radio show on KFYR on Sunday nights called Padre's Platters. It was hosted by a real-life priest. Seriously. Well, Padre (I don't remember his actual name) went on a tear one night about how sacrilegious Billy Joel's song, Only The Good Die Young, was. I guess because it blasphemed Catholic girls.  Good Catholic girl that I was, in my subconscious I determined that listening to Billy Joel was akin to committing a mortal sin. That, plus I never liked how he yelled so much in his songs. I've come around a bit since then. I actually like some of Billy's tracks now and I'm ready to confess that I do. This one I really liked, mostly because I really liked the Four Seasons and this is a tribute to them:

Purists will say that Chicago ceased being Chicago when Peter Cetera joined the group. Poppists will say, there was a Chicago before Peter Cetera joined the group? Sorry, but hop off that high horse, guys. There wouldn't even be a nineteen eighties movie industry if it wasn't for Peter Cetera. Peter Cetera will easily duel with Kenny Loggins for the most tracks featured in hit eighties movies. Maybe he's an acquired taste -- I never had that problem. I always liked Peter's voice. Trust me, if it was just Saturday In The Park, I never would have purchased the "Best of Chicago". What screams the eighties more than Peter Cetera and Chicago? I bet the other Chicago guys, much as they disdain Peter, are living pretty high off their royalties.

This might be a good spot to bid adieu to 1984.

All in all, it was an excellent year for music.

I truly miss good years in music.

Happy...

I don't think about home much anymore, and yet I always do. The pictures are faded, but they show up somehow almost every day, like a flashbulb that snaps, leaving a warm amber glow that lingers, then disappears.

I think about home most of all at this time of the year. It's most likely age, but holidays are just "days" now; time off from work. Those questions people like to ask when they don't know what to ask -- what's your favorite color? Favorite TV show? I don't know; ask me tomorrow and I'll most likely have a different answer.

What's your favorite holiday?

Fourth of July.

The Fourth of July is when I miss Mom and Dad the most. It's not as if our family had some written script we followed on Independence Day, but we had traditions. We would gather the kids and drive to Mom and Dad's place early that morning. Mom would be in the kitchen, slicing boiled potatoes into a big bowl for her potato salad, jangling baking pans from out of the low cupboard, tipping open the oven door to check on her cherry pie; Dad would be in his recliner sipping black coffee, jazzed and waiting for everyone to arrive so we could drive over to Mandan and stake out a prime viewing spot for the parade. Kids of varying sizes would tumble about, antsy for the real fun that would come later -- firing up those punks so they could sizzle off their fountain cones and bottle rockets in the middle of the street. Mom never attended the parade, but the rest of us did -- we locals and whichever far-flung sisters happened to travel home to enjoy the holiday that year.

Our prime spot was the Mandan McDonald's -- my sister-in-law worked there and we'd all pile in and push our way through the throng to buy a ham and cheese biscuit that we didn't really want, but we figured we needed to eat something. All the tables were long occupied, so we hovered and waited, and then sat down for approximately five minutes before heading outdoors to sit on the curb, everyone excited, yet playing it cool, waiting for the parade to start.

Mandan has an absurdly long Main Street, ripe for marching bands and cheesy floats -- a polka band riding by, pumping out a German tune on their accordions and snare drum, their butts parked precariously atop metal folding chairs. The Viet Nam Veterans of America marched past in a ragged formation and we all stood up and silently saluted. A clown whose makeup was melting in the hot sun paced down our side of the street and hefted candy out of a plastic pail, and the little kids darted out and scooped up as much as their hands could hold, while my sister and I tried to herd them back before the horse cavalry clomped them. The Mandan High School marching band with their uniforms of black and white came by, and I stood up and hooted and clapped -- my alma mater after all. The farm implements. Dad would be standing with my brothers behind my sister and me and would invariably say, "I had one of those." It became our running joke. "How about that one, Dad? Did you have one of those, too?" My sister and I snapped pictures of anything that struck our fancy, and of each other.

When the parade ended, we'd hike the mile or so over to where Dad's Lincoln was parked (last open spot!) and then wait our requisite half hour behind all the other cars revving up to go home.

Back at Mom and Dad's, Mom was cool as a cucumber in her air-conditioned living room, while the rest of us were dripping sweat and dying for a cool drink. Mom was no fool.

The guys would invariably stretch out on the couch or floor or whatever was available and snooze. Men seem to have some sort of switch that allows them to float into semi-consciousness anytime the mood strikes. We, on the other hand, were busy corralling our kids away from their most recent dangerous bright idea (ours was a family of boys).

Mom's potato salad and macaroni salad and hamburgers freshly sizzled off the grill were excellent, and we went back for seconds and thirds and topped it all off with a slice of cherry lattice pie.

As darkness fell, we settled on the concrete stoop with cups of coffee and watched the kids dart in and out of the street, setting off their booty of fireworks; the grown men unable to resist the lure; bounding out to "supervise".

The air was warm. Sometimes lightning would flash in the west, but it was far away and it only added a light touch of danger to an already electric night.

When all that was left was the soft scent of sulfur in the night air, we'd start to gather our things and linger for a final goodnight. 

On the drive home, the kids fell asleep stretched across the back seat, their breath puffing like sated kittens.

We'd carry them off to their beds and I'd settle outside on the step for one final smoke.

I didn't know that feeling wouldn't last forever. I never gave it one solitary thought.  

Now I do, when July rolls around. Remembering makes my heart hurt; makes me miss them more.

My favorite holiday?

Well, let me tell you...

Ahhh, 1984

The eighties. Some people love 'em, some hate 'em. I loved them. In music, that is. And life in general was pretty good. We had a good president, a more or less unified country. People were essentially happy.

There are times in music that reflect people's state of consciousness. The late sixties were angry, raucous; and thus was the music. The seventies lulled everyone into a quiet catatonia, which gave rise to artists like John Denver and the Carpenters. Times were bad. People had to wait in line to fill their cars with gas. While Jimmy Carter quietly read his Bible in the White House, everyday folk were clawing to put food on the table for their kids and bemoaning that the world was going to hell. The soft strums of Denver's twelve-string helped to quell the bitter bile that rose in people's throats.

The nineties were a blur. No one stood for anything. The nineties were a static line. Not bad; not necessarily good. They just existed.

I am a firm believer that the mood of the populace at any given time can be gleaned from its music. We are reflections of the life we live.

I hadn't yet turned thirty by 1984, so life was alive with possibilities and new wonders. I had two boys who were turning out quite nicely; I never had much money -- I had a little credit union account at the hospital where I worked, in which I would deposit a little money from each paycheck to save for our summer vacation, which invariably took place in the Black Hills of South Dakota -- camping in a pop-up trailer. Camping beneath the tall pines. Granted, I've always been a creature of habit, but if you find a place you love, why only visit it once? The blacktop on the way there was hot and dusty, our car had air conditioning that worked "sometimes" -- at least until it froze up and then we'd roll down the windows and let the hot breath of July whisk the sweat from our sunburned faces. We played Mad Libs, the boys tried their best to annoy one another; we joked and bantered.

And we had the music.

I expected this song to be the number one hit of 1984, as much as we heard it. I mean, as much as we heard it. Over and over and over again. But surprisingly, it was only number six. I eventually formed a raw hate for the song, but that happens anytime one is forced to listen to something ad nauseum. We didn't have choices; no iPods and certainly no cell phones. What? A phone one can take with you? When our camper blew a tire along Highway 83, we couldn't punch up a highway helper. Instead we limped along to the first town on the map; thumped rubber for eighteen miles 'til we got to a truck stop that, mercifully, had a tire in stock that fit. If Van Halen was playing on the radio somewhere along that eighteen-mile chug, I'm sure I punched a tiny fist-sized dent in the car speaker.

I loved Huey Lewis & The News. Huey always seemed to me like the accountant who got pulled onto the stage on karaoke night and was mortified, but decided to just go with it. And he knocked everybody out and found himself the talk of the office come Monday morning. "Who knew?" Good old Hugh from down the hall. The guy with the pocket protector!"

I don't get it, but this song was only number forty-four:

When I first saw this next video, I thought, "what a quirky girl!". Cyndi Lauper was definitely different. She wasn't Madonna (that's a good thing). She was her own self, and nobody was complaining (#15 on the year). Totally the vibe of the eighties:

Culture Club was certainly different, but that was a-okay. Boy George was a pretty girl; soft, feminine. It didn't even cross my mind to make any judgments. I liked their music. This song was number ten for the year:

Confession:  I never saw this movie. I may have seen a part of this movie, but never the whole thing. And that's just not like me. I'm all about guys dancing -- from Saturday Night Fever to Dirty Dancing to Grease. Men won't understand this, but women love to see a guy dancing. It's sexy, maybe because it's so rare. It takes an elegant confidence for a man to get out there and do it. John Travolta did it (twice), Patrick Swayze did it with awesomeness. And Kenny Loggins also did it (in the guise of Kevin Bacon):

And then there is this:

An aside -- practically every movie soundtrack from the eighties featured Kenny Loggins. It was decreed.

Ghostbusters:  Had to buy the t-shirts; my kids demanded them. The red circle crossing out the ghost in the middle. Ghostbusters was a touchstone of the eighties. I didn't get it then; later I watched the movie and still didn't get it. I love Bill Murray, but this movie is essentially lame. It has...count 'em...two laughs in its entirety. It was an eighties thing, which requires no explanation. It just was:

There are two artists who essentially dominated the eighties. Like 'em or loathe them; it's how it was. There are tons of hits from 1984 and I'm just scratching the surface, but let's give credit where it's due. And it's due here:

Courtney Cox was just some girl in a music video who was pulled onstage by Bruce Springsteen. Who knew she would later become mega-rich and would live on in reruns forever. Nevertheless, this video is about Bruce, not Courtney. And Bruce was, only after Lionel (sorry) almost the biggest name of the eighties:

Yep, somebody's sorely missing. Trouble is, he was pathologically private about sharing his music online. Sad for many reasons, but primarily because he had the biggest hit of 1984. I'll try next time around to find something of his to post. Or, failing that, maybe I'll just post his picture.

Nineteen eighty-four:  happiness.

It's gonna be a hard year to beat.

Hello!

Well, hello spammers! I'm curious -- do you get paid to spam blogs with comments? Or are you doing it for free? If you're not making some moolah for doing it, then shoot, that's just sad. Or are you not even a real live person?

I love comments, but I don't write in the hope that somebody's going to even read my posts, much less remark upon them. I honestly write for me. I used to get comments now and then, but Google has changed something -- in some mysterious way. Now the only comments I receive are from "Christy Blndrmoux" or someone with another made-up name; telling me how her cousin, twice-removed, made ten bazillion dollars by posting nonsensical comments on the net.

Or comments like:

"Entity, look within and empower yourself. How should you navigate this heroic grid? The quantum cycle is calling to you via molecular structures. Can you hear it?"

Well...thanks?

I'm guessing these "people" don't claim English as their first language. Or else they're Scientologists. I could go either way on that.

You robots or other-type aliens obviously don't care that you're pissing people off, who at first glance think, "Hey, I have a comment!" and then read it and realize it's someone who thinks they know English but who, for obvious reasons, got a failing grade in class. And then we have to go to the bother of marking it as spam and wistfully wishing a real live person would write something once that actually made sense.

I'm good with no comments....really. However, if you (and by "you", I mean a breathing human being) would like to say something, I'm on board! But if you're a badly-programmed automaton, can you please go bother someone else? Cuz I'm old and I am easily aggravated.

Thank you.