I long had a love-hate relationship with Alabama. My hometown was relatively small and while we were initially visited by country stars (who traveled everywhere), by the nineteen seventies our concert options were paltry. We had a brand new venue and nothing to see there. Residents of big cities in the nineteen seventies wouldn't understand why someone would venture out to see Barry Manilow or Jay Leno. I saw them both. I saw lots of acts I wouldn't ordinarily choose because they were my only options for live entertainment. But God bless Alabama. Alabama showed up a couple times a year. They must be more traveled than even Bob Dylan. That might be why I dismissed them -- they were so prevalent. It became a joke -- "Are you going to see Alabama...again?" I never saw Alabama up close. I was always high up in the bleachers and I didn't fuss with binoculars. The band consisted of tiny claymation figures with big amps. But the Civic Center was packed to capacity. Alabama was a new strain of country -- not really country; not rock. I really liked some of their tracks and I really hated others.I was still buying singles and "The Closer You Get" was one I plucked from the Woolworth bin:
Oh, play me....I liked this one, too. although this video edit would not be my choice :
Like all of us, Alabama matured. Once their initial flame began to flicker, they produced their best work: They'd become arrogant after winning all those CMA awards, and pretty much unbearable.It's not that they hadn't worked awfully hard for their success, but nobody likes a braggart. There are some artists who stick around so long, one takes them for granted. Most stars burn out relatively quickly. Even those you think had a years' long string of stardom in actuality simply had several mega-hits clustered together. And frankly, few artists are able to maintain a label contract for more than a few years, especially now. In the so-called modern era of country music, those enduring artists include Alan Jackson, Merle Haggard, George Strait, and surprise! Alabama. While Merle kept recording hits into the eighties, after a time one did not jump with excitement at a new Haggard release. The same can be said for Jackson. George Strait remained the exception well into the 2000's. Then there was Alabama. I don't recall ever buying an Alabama album, and after the seventies I no longer spent money on singles. In the eighties and even the nineties, radio was the means by which most people caught new songs. I heard Alabama on my car radio throughout those decades and their songs barely registered beyond background music. It really wasn't until I was able to revisit some of their tracks via SiriusXM that I realized some of them were quite good. Admittedly, I like this one because it has a classic country vibe, but there's nothing wrong with that:
I can't find a performance video of this song that I like, so look at the pretty pictures instead. This might be my favorite Alabama track:
The cool thing about the next track, to me, is the subtle background vocals that add a touch of spice to the recording:
For many years the band personified the southern rock aura; the Lynyrd Skynyrd, Hank Williams, Jr. mien. Many people worship that. I'm not one of those people. That may have been why I casually tossed off their live performances. I wouldn't mind seeing the more mature Alabama, though. I chuckled when in my research I learned that Alabama performed their final show in October, 2004 in Bismarck, North Dakota. That's about thirty years after I first saw them live -- in Bismarck, North Dakota. I wonder how many class of '73 country-hating gray hairs were in the audience that night. Maybe they went because there weren't any other entertainment options in town. Or maybe they went to show appreciation for a thirty-plus year career.
Today is the first day of May. 2020, in case you forgot what year we're in. It seems like forever that I've been working from home, and it feels like a day. I don't know what happened to April, other than that I've gained more weight than I care to acknowledge. Let's call April the "forgotten month". I do know that I've had more meetings while at home than I ever had in the office -- and I hate meetings. Just when I'm getting into a work groove, I need to stop for a meeting. Meetings are a means of tricking the initiator into feeling a sense of accomplishment, but they are in actuality useless. I have to admit, I do like the personal connection, albeit via video chat. Left to my own devices, I would become a ragged hermit. Speaking of meetings, today was our quarterly all-staff meeting, held via Microsoft Teams. Naturally, we employees had tons of questions, so this was one all-staff I was actually interested in attending. I learned that our return-to-office date is "sometime after Memorial Day". Keep movin' it boys, and I will never actually return. I've begun making a list of personal items I will need to retrieve, which will occur on a Saturday, to avoid human contact. My retirement date is tentatively June 12, so I'm thinkin' I'll never actually go back. It's okay. Not really, but I try to accept the things I cannot change. I have a month and a half to finish out my work life. This is not how I imagined it. How did my week go otherwise? I, for whatever reason, am not sleeping. I've dealt with the problem, intermittently, my whole life, so I don't obsess over it, although it is annoying. On the plus side, I don't interact much with people, so it doesn't matter. I was a bit testy during another endless meeting, but that was due more to "what the hell?" than to my physical exhaustion. A funny thing happens when one is nearing the end of their career -- they realize how much useless crap they are subjected to and rebel against it. I briefly connected with my boss via phone this afternoon, and she asked me if I had plans for the weekend. I said, "Every day is the same". It's not that I'm a gadfly, but knowing that I can't go anywhere scrapes against my nerves.I would kill to simply browse the aisles at Target. Things I've done this week:
Laid awake and asked God to please let me fall asleep
Half-listened to talk radio.
Rearranged my chair configuration fifty-three times
Watched cable news and furiously stitched my current cross-stitch project
Ordered a face mask from Etsy.
Things I've learned this week:
SiriusXM has some new limited-time stations: George Strait, The Eagles, and Prince among them; although the Prince channel seems to only play "Manic Monday" by The Bangles. George, however, has enough hits to fill a full week without any repeats.
I miss my personal computer. I miss my bookmarks and I miss my in-progress novel. I'm sick of jerry-rigging this office computer to access my usual sites.
Week 8 is going to be awesome (yea). Stay tune. I know I will.
My bright idea this week was to go through my house and snap photos of ordinary objects. It was a good -- nay, great -- idea, but I didn't execute it as well as I'd hoped. In my defense, I spent five minutes on the project before I collapsed into bed, spent from physical exertion. The project will continue and will expand to the outdoors, as much as is allowed. I am hereby issuing a quarantine challenge -- take pictures of things around your house and post them in response.
The object is not to be obvious. I like my belongings, too, but this isn't Architectural Digest. Look at things in a different way. Zoom in. Choose a different angle. Create questions in the viewer's mind. Here are a few I like:
I'd intended to write a different post tonight, but I just heard on Willie's Roadhouse that Harold Reid has passed away. The news brought a tear to my eye. The Statler Brothers have been with me as long as I've been listening to country music, and that's a damn long time. In fact, even before I began listening to country, when I was just a little kid, one couldn't miss this song on the radio:
In the sixties, in addition to performing as part of the Johnny Cash retinue and being featured weekly on Cash's ABC variety show, The Statlers had hits of their own, mostly novelty songs. It wasn't until the group emerged from Johnny's shadow that they came into their own, and boy, did they. The seventies was the Statlers' decade. I was thirteen in 1970 when I heard this song on the radio and my best friend Alice and I agreed that it was fine:
Don, Harold, Phil, and Lew was the order in which they were billed. Harold was the bass singer with a mile-long personality. Don, the lead singer, and Harold were the only actual brothers of the group. Phil Balsley sang baritone and Lew DeWitt had the high tenor voice. Naturally they began their career in gospel, but gospel couldn't hold them. For Christmas in 1972, Alice and I exchanged gifts as we did every year, always record albums. Our rule was two LP's. I loved those surprises, because I got to hear music I'd never heard before. My paltry motel maid earnings allowed me to purchase only a few albums a year, and I gravitated toward "greatest hits" because that gave me the most bang for my four bucks. I unwrapped one titled, "Country Music Then And Now". It was an odd album -- side one consisted of old standards sung to perfection, but side two was something wild. A band called Lester "Roadhog" Moran and the Cadillac Cowboys had commandeered the flip side of the Statler Brothers' album.
The video doesn't do the Cowboys justice. Let's' just say the record was one of a kind. But Roadhog was a short-lived sideline. The very best Statler Brothers album is one called Country Symphonies In E Major. The group's singing was superb. In 1980, this track was released, featuring Jimmy Fortune, who'd replaced Lew after his retirement for health reasons:
I don't know why I love this version of an old song, but I do. Every time Sirius queues it up, I flip up the volume, and it features Harold at his best:
The Statlers biggest hit came courtesy of Jimmy Fortune.
I never saw the Statlers in concert. I saw practically every country artist of the sixties, and I would have gone, given the opportunity, but it never came. A shame. They were part of my life forever, and I loved Harold most of all. I didn't know that the group officially retired in 2002. Time runs together. Harold was eighty and lived a good long life. God's smiling on him, no doubt. Everyone deserves a giggle.
Has it really been six weeks? The days all seem to run together.The five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I hit the stages somewhat out of order, but I think I'm definitely in stage five now. Acceptance. Home is my new workplace. It's akin to starting a new job -- one has to learn the lay of the land, get to know one's "co-workers" and their foibles. Remember where to find coffee. Feed the cat -- oh, I guess that only happens in this workplace. I've saved money on gas, now that gas is at its 1973 price (naturally). I haven't saved money on anything else; in fact, I've spent into oblivion and I don't even care. And that's just on groceries and vices. Clearly I don't buy anything else. But groceries are very, very important. My husband is retired and I used to shake my head at the minutia he obsessed about. I understand now. This week I ordered two tomatoes from Instacart - two. I got a whole bag of tomatoes delivered. A bag of tomatoes is not like a bag of Lay's chips. Eat 'em now or lose 'em. I despaired at first, but actually, tomato sandwiches are pretty good. My entire life now revolves around the grocery lotto. The weather is finally turning nice. When I last left the office, a scuttle of snow covered the ground and the wind was biting. Today it's 66 degrees and sunny and I'm cloistered indoors.Seasons come and seasons go, and no virus will change that. Working remotely poses challenges -- the remote connection is temperamental. This week was worse than most, but I have chosen to go with the flow rather than pound my keyboard. At least I am employed. Things I've done this week:
I walked down to the mailbox every day.
Things I've learned this week:
I'm still fiddling with my radio choices. I hit upon a local talk show that's preferable to the drone of the syndicated radio host I was listening to before. The personalities laugh a bit too much, but they have local coronavirus news and some good song parodies.
My only bit of entertainment is watching the first half of Tucker Carlson before I get sleepy and turn it off; then lie awake for another hour. I could just as well watch the entire show.
I really need to submit my official retirement date to HR, but I haven't quite accepted it yet, nor do I want to go out this way.
There's lots of music I don't like -- there's more I do like. It's not that I'm superior to Steven Tyler or Crosby, Stills or Nash. Their music simply doesn't resound brightly with me. Musical taste is impossible to define. Being a thirteen-year-old who liked country music taught me about snobbery. "Country music? Like Johnny Cash?" kids would snicker. Those same kids are now sixty-five years old and cherishing their newly minted thirty-dollar vinyl copy of "Live At San Quentin".(I never was a Cash fan, by the way.) I didn't dare point out that Mama Tried was a far superior track to Snoopy Versus The Red Baron. Mostly no one outside my family and my best friend even knew that I listened to country. My theory is those who sniff at any kind of music truly don't like music; they're just haughty prigs. I had my phases, too, but my prejudices were generally aimed at artists who tried to change country into something it wasn't. For a time I hated John Denver and Kenny Rogers. In the late sixties I detested Glen Campbell. Happily, I now like both Denver and Rogers; and I cherish Glen. My favorite (really, my only) country music site sometimes reflexively denigrates artists of the past, while enshrining obscure musicians few have even heard of.There is a certain songwriter who recently passed away who is being (implausibly) touted on the site as a candidate for the Country Music Hall of Fame. While I knew the man's name, I had to Google his songs, and I am here to report that I've never heard of any of them. And I've been enveloped in music for a good sixty years.But he's cool. This blog is non-judgmental. Music is music, and if you like a track, cool. Joy is what music is supposed to bring to our lives. It should be apolitical; it can be nonsensical.Sometimes it just has a good beat and you find yourself dancing in your chair when you hear it. Music can be dissected, but boy, that takes the fun out of it. Listening to SiriusXM on my weekend nights, I hear recordings I used to dismiss, but suddenly I'm hearing them with fresh ears. And I don't solely listen to country music. It depends upon my mood. My bookmarked channels range from the 50's to the 80's to Yacht Rock, with a smattering of seventies and eighties country and, of course, Willie's Roadhouse. (Why is there no nineties country channel, Sirius? Hit me up -- I can help you out.) People can revel in their hipness. I'm just going to derive joy in whatever music hits me. In the mid-seventies, I was caught in a chasm between country and rock, and I mostly leaned toward rock. AM radio was still the king of the car, and certain tracks were predominant. I remember my brother driving me somewhere and hearing "Heard It In A Love Song' and thinking for the longest time that the title was "Pretty Little Love Song". Not that I necessarily liked the song, but it was played incessantly. That reminded me of this one, that I summarily dismissed, but I really kinda like it now:
Enjoy your weekend. Avoid people. Snack a lot and good luck finding something decent to watch on Netflix. Better yet, crank up some tunes. I won't tell anyone.
Now I can't say I didn't do anything during my spring vacation quarantine. This piece has been complete for a couple of months, but I had too much other junk going on (can't imagine what) to frame it. But now it's done! And scheduled to be hung in a place of honor. Not bad for taking a twenty-year sojourn from crafting.
