Wednesday, October 19, 2022

Life's Phases

 

I've had a lot of interests in my (okay, long) life. Ninety-nine per cent of them involved the creative arts. I think that derived from the fact that I spent most of my time as a young child alone, with nothing but my imagination for company. I was a middle child, with much older and much younger siblings. My mom had her first child at age nineteen, me at thirty, and my youngest sister at thirty-seven. My oldest sister's first-born son is but one year younger than my little sister.

So, in the winter our basement was my playroom. I played teacher to my dolls and even a priest serving Mass. Upstairs in my room I lip-synced to records in my bedroom mirror. Summers were spent walking along country paths or exploring our little grove of trees, most of the time making up songs in my head and singing them to the birds. If anybody ever asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said "teacher" (which I sort of actually became). What I didn't tell them was "singer". That was too preposterous for even a naive little girl to utter.

I grew up and stopped singing. I had a couple of stops along the way ~ a western trio with two of my cousins when I was nine, a one-time reel-to-reel recording of myself singing three-part harmony to Silver Wings, which I admit wasn't bad, but also wasn't the hardest song to tackle. I never sang again, except along to my car radio, until I was forty-five. My songwriter husband said something to the effect that "you can write; why not try to write a song?" I accepted the challenge, wrote my first song and then my husband recorded me singing it. I wasn't terrible, but I wasn't all that good. I did manage to stay on key without any hocus pocus auto-tune, though. It kind of snowballed from there. I wrote songs like crazy, most of them horrible, until I hit my stride and wrote a bunch of good ones. And my voice got better ~ stronger. It's amazing what a shot of confidence can do.

Around nine years ago I quit writing songs. It wasn't a conscious decision. I did FAWM (February Album Writing Month) for four years, which is a songwriting challenge, the goal being to write fourteen songs in twenty-eight days. All fifty-six songs I wrote weren't awful, but they were a labor, and not of love. I think our band actually recorded one of them. The only reason I did FAWM was that I had no new ideas and I was hoping the nudge would spark my creativity. It didn't. That's when I quit. 

I didn't quit because I was a failure, because I wasn't. I simply lost interest. I think some pursuits have a shelf life. Songwriting is not like collecting stamps, or baseball cards, where there's always a new quest to pursue. A songwriter's quest is only what her mind can conjure, and honestly, I'd already said all I had to say.

I've had a few creative pursuits in my life. Photography was a huge one for me for about ten years. I still like it, but I don't walk around looking for subjects to frame. I was a crafter even longer than that. I tried getting back into it a couple of years ago, but again the desire simply wasn't there. Think it's not creative to raise and nurture houseplants? Well, it is, lemme tell ya. I did that for a time and I accumulated quite the collection; maybe fifteen or so. But after a time the thrill of keeping them all alive dissipated. 

So, after I finally abandoned songwriting, I returned to my tried and true ~ writing prose. I wrote a memoir and briefly published it before I realized that I was intruding on others' private lives, so I took it down. But that project led to (so far) three novels and three novellas. 

I now view songwriting as a fork in the road, one that led to mystical, exhilarating sights, yes, but ultimately bumped up against a dead end. I still don't regret the detour, though. Every single thing one does teaches them something.

I think I might hang on to this fiction pursuit for a while. But if I run out of ideas, I'll find something else.

I always do.

 

Friday, October 14, 2022

Reviewing The Top 10 Country Singles From This Week In 1992


 

Ahh, where did the last three decades go? The first Bush was president, the Mall of America opened a few miles away from my home (I've been there once, which was more than enough), Seinfeld was a hit, George Jones was inducted into the Country Music Hall Of Fame, and at the CMA's it was Garth Brooks' year.

I was fully ensconced in country music, and music-wise I remember it as a happy time.

Well, let's see, shall we?? 

I've done a few retrospective chart reviews before, and it's always a fun, and generally surprising exercise. (See this, this, this, this, and this.)

The rules are thus:

  • I review the single as a first-time listener.
  • I must listen to the entire track before offering my critique.  
  • I stick with the top 10, because dang, this takes a long time!
  • I do my best to find music videos. If all else fails, I use a video of the recorded song.

I'm using the American Country Countdown wiki as my reference.

Okie doke! Let's go!

#10 ~ Lord Have Mercy On The Working Man ~ Travis Tritt

The track begins as kind of an homage to Jimmie Rodgers and the Dust Bowl years, with a dobro and a slide guitar, which sets the downcast mood. Then the chorus kicks in with more modern accoutrements to bring us into the singer's present circumstance. This song offers probably the most important component of a memorable composition ~ a singalong chorus. I like the group of background singers punching up the last chorus, signaling that many people are drowning. I can imagine this one going over HUGE at the artist's concerts thirty years in the future.

A- 

 

#9 ~  Cafe On The Corner ~ Sawyer Brown


Honestly, from these first two tracks one would think that 1992 was an awful year. I don't remember it that way. I and my family were doing fine. My career was humming along, my kids had new clothes, I didn't worry about paying the bills. Was I living in some kind of alternate universe?

Anyway...

Despite the rather jaunty instrumentation, this song is a downer. It's well-written, no question, but I question whether anyone will remember it thirty years hence. My impression of this group is that they whirled around from performing goofy little ditties to morose "message" songs in a flash. I do appreciate their foray into serious music, but my optimistic nature prefers one of their earlier hits, The Walk. And songs do need to match the times. Who knows? Thirty years in the future, this might fit right in. Nevertheless, societal realities aside, this ranks a strong...

B

 

#8 ~ The Greatest Man I Never Knew ~ Reba McEntire


I'll just be upfront ~ I don't care for this...at all. Ballads really need to be majestic to succeed. This one isn't. Reba is a great singer, but it sounds like she's straining to hit the high notes on this one. I get that this is about her dad, and I loved my dad, but that love would impel me to write him a better song. Nobody will ever remember this. I've almost forgotten it already.

D

 

#7 ~ Wrong Side Of Memphis ~ Trisha Yearwood

One immediately has to acknowledge the singer's superb instrument. But this song's structure is too repetitive, and has nothing for the listener to latch onto. It seems this is a case of a great singer searching for a style. I hope she finds it. I wouldn't purchase this, and if it were included on a greatest hits CD, I'd skip it.

C-

 

#6 ~ Seminole Wind ~ John Anderson


Few singers are truly original; John Anderson is. One can never mistake him for someone else. The production on the track is outstanding, but a memorable song generally can't be all mood. It would benefit from some change-ups. The track benefits from the singer and from the production.

B-

 

#5 ~ Going Out Of My Mind ~ McBride And The Ride


 

My first thought upon hearing this is Little Texas. The two groups could be interchangeable. I don't know if this one will stand the test of time. It has an unmistakable nineties vibe. That's not to knock it. I like it for what it is. And not to beat this issue to death, but a memorable chorus is key, and this song has one. As a moment stuck in time, this isn't bad.

B

 

#4 ~ Jesus And Mama ~ Confederate Railroad


I have a natural antipathy to songs with Jesus and Mama in the title, unless it's Mama Tried. It seems this group tried to branch out from its rowdy reputation, but sometimes you just gotta stick with what you know. This is certainly not I'm The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised, unfortunately. It's cloying and pandering ~ an automatic letter grade deduction from me.

D

 

#3 ~ In This Life ~ Collin Raye 


This is how a ballad is done. I can't find a single thing to criticize here. What a universal message. Singer, production, song ~ all superb. Instant classic. This makes me not even want to listen to the others remaining on the chart.

A+

 

#2 ~ No One Else On Earth ~ Wynonna

Fans will probably remember this one, but more for the singer than the song. Frankly, there's far too much going on in it. It's like it has to check every box, which in the end turns it into one sloppy mess. Hopefully Wynonna as a singles act will discover her actual sound.

D

 

#1 ~ If I Didn't Have You ~ Randy Travis (official video only watchable on YouTube)


 

I kept looking for something to say that'd boost this one. I really like the singer, but this is by far not his best effort. I guess the chorus is pretty good, but to be frank, only the singer saves it.

C+

 

So, there you have it ~ a snapshot of the top ten singles from thirty years ago today.

 

My report card:

In This Life ~ Collin Raye: A+ 

Lord Have Mercy On The Working Man ~ Travis Tritt: A-

Cafe On The Corner ~ Sawyer Brown: B

Going Out Of My Mind ~ McBride And The Ride: B

Seminole Wind ~ John Anderson: B-

If I Didn't Have You ~ Randy Travis: C+

Wrong Side Of Memphis ~ Trisha Yearwood:  C-

The Greatest Man I Never Knew ~ Reba McEntire: D

Jesus And Mama ~ Confederate Railroad: D

No One Else On Earth ~ Wynonna: D

 

I believe that if you find one gem, all is right with the world.

I definitely found one.

 

 

 



 

 


 



 

 

 

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Jody Miller


"Who's Jody Miller?"

Seriously? And you call yourself a country fan.

If all was right with the world, and had her Capitol producer chose better songs for her, Jody Miller would be enthroned in the annals of country music. 

Here's something -- she could sing like nobody's business.

I've always admired women who could really belt it out -- Connie Smith comes to mind; Patsy Cline definitely, and of course our dearly departed Loretta. Jody Miller could also really belt it out.

Jody first became known for her "answer song" to Roger Miller's King Of The Road, although I don't exactly get how this track answers anything Roger put forward in his hit. The character in Roger's song is a hobo, so unless he's left Jody behind at the bungalow to forge his new lifestyle, describing her life as a housewife isn't exactly the antithesis of a down-and-out vagrant. Nevertheless, the song shot Jody to (short-lived) fame.

(What kind of house was this??)

Jody's next release (that same year, 1965) made the top thirty. This was during my kid rock era (no, not that Kid Rock) and Shindig was my Wednesday night show, but still the dancers doing The Jerk to this seems oddly out of place.


Jody subsequently recorded a string of cover songs, which is unfortunate, because she had so much more to offer.


Although I like her version of this:


When she moved to Epic Records in 1970 Producer Billy Sherrill at last broke the mold (after a couple more covers), and this is my favorite Jody Miller track:


To understand Jody, what could be better than her own words? She had a young life not unlike mine, minus the fame part. 🙄 She became a born-again Christian in 1993, long after a wildly successful string of TV appearances with the likes of The Rolling Stones and The Righteous Brothers, and long after touring with The Beach Boys. Long after her foray into country with Billy Sherrill helming the Epic ship.

In 1972 Jody recorded a duet with Johnny Paycheck of Let's All Go Down To The River. Unfortunately, no live performance video can be found, if there ever was one, but I do chuckle at the pairing. That said, this is another one I like:

Jody left the world on October 6, in Blanchard, Oklahoma; a mom and a grandmom, which is no doubt how she'd want to be remembered.

I will remember her as one helluva singer.

Jody's website



Tuesday, October 11, 2022

Loretta

 

 

 "If you're citing The Pill as an iconic Loretta Lynn song, you're not an actual fan."

---- me 

 

Newspaper obituary writers tend to mold a legendary figure into the imaginary image they wish them to be. Face it, journalists situated in New York and Washington, DC are not country music fans. They're probably twenty-somethings dreaming of journalistic fame and instead they're stuck on the obituary beat. One can't be twenty-three and understand Loretta Lynn.

So I'll describe her as I saw her.

Loretta was more or less of my mother's generation, and no, those women were not "liberated", whatever that means. They were plain-spoken and they worried about everyday life -- their kids, their no-good carousing husbands, how they were going to pay this month's bills. They cooked, mopped, canned vegetables, hung clothes on the line, pulled weeds from the garden. Liberation was something that happened at the end of World War II. These women were pragmatic.

If you've ever seen Coal Miner's Daughter, you know it sure wasn't Loretta's idea to get into show business. If Doolittle hadn't pushed her to do it, she would have carried on as she always had.

Girl singers, as they were called then, weren't exactly setting the country music world on fire. Before Loretta, there was truly only one female country star, Patsy Cline, and Patsy's recordings were defined by silky-smooth production --- Country Lite. Don't get me wrong; her singles were great. They just weren't hard-core country. Sure, there were other female artists who had hits here and there. Kitty Wells was big for her time, but only in country music circles. Jeannie Seely, Dottie West, and Jean Shepard each had at least one number one single, but even I didn't know their names when I first heard Loretta.

I think the first time I heard that voice was on my Uncle Howard's jukebox, when I was temporarily living one door away from his bar with two of my cousins and my own mom and my cousins' mom, who took turns managing my uncle's restaurant. 

During weekend morning hours before the bar opened, we lolled about on swiveling bar stools and breathed in the remnants of stale cigarettes and the pungent aroma of empty beer cans littering his overflowing trash cans. 

Uncle Howard tapped his cash register and handed us "red quarters", quarters with a red stripe painted across them that he used to feed the jukebox. My cousin Karen and I were into rock 'n roll, but the jukebox's selections in that field were limited, so we just pushed buttons and ended up with tracks from Bobby Bare and Roger Miller and mostly Buck Owens -- lots and lots of Buck Owens. I think there was only one female country artist contained within, so I heard this:


And this:


I can't say that nine-year-old me was all that impressed. It wasn't "my deal". I liked Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman and Manfred Mann's Doo Wah Diddy. I will say that her voice really jumped out of the jukebox, though.

But this Loretta kept showing up in my young life, whether I wanted her to or not. That September my sister got married in Fort Worth, Texas, and as part of the week-long celebration my new brother-in-law escorted us to Panther Hall, where guess who was the featured band? Yep, between bites of icky steak and lettuce salad sans dressing (I was a very picky eater) our party was entertained by the likes of Loretta Lynn and her band, which featured her albino-like brother, Jay Lee Webb. Somehow someone (not me!) secured Loretta's autograph and we passed it around at the table. I commented that it appeared to read, "Buffalo Lynn". I think I called her that for a long time afterward.

And that was before she even scored her biggest hits.

I will admit I liked this one:

 

My parents didn't buy records. They owned exactly two LP's and neither of them were by Loretta Lynn. But our local radio station, not country, not rock 'n roll; just a "radio station", sure wore out the grooves of those two singles. In my innocence, I didn't exactly know the subject matter of them, but I secretly kind of did. I certainly understood the "drinkin'" one.



1967 was the year I fully committed to country, solely because I wanted to fit in with my new best friend. Left to my own devices, I would have blithely carried on with The Hollies and The Turtles, but nevertheless, once I committed I never looked back. Granted, I had a lot of catching up to do, but one can never say I didn't know who Loretta Lynn was. I bought her albums, but then, I bought a lot of albums. I remember these two in particular:



These are my favorites from those LP's:



Loretta also recorded a couple of songs that made me cringe a bit, one being Your Squaw Is On The Warpath; and Fist City seemed a bit unladylike, though I would listen to the second one before I'd ever hit "play" on the first.

My mom and I went to see Coal Miner's Daughter together, and I might have henceforth confused cinema with reality. Tommy Lee Jones was a redheaded hunk, whereas Doolittle Lynn was a puny little guy, but Loretta loved him. And Sissy Spacek wasn't a powerful singer like Loretta, but no other actor of that time could have come close to capturing the real woman. As for the title track, I was never in love with it. I found it repetitive, and it was hard to move past the hayseed pronunciations (no offense to hayseeds).

Well, I was borned a coal miner's daughter

Mommy scrubbed our clothes on a warshboard every day 

At night we'd sleep cuz we were tarred

Had it not been for the key change halfway through, the song would have died a merciful death. 

And let's finally address "The Pill". It was pedantic and cringey. Every thought doesn't need to be expressed. But kudos, I guess. Contrary to the dearest wishes of obituary writers everywhere, it will be but a blip in history.

Around 1971 I was sitting in my mom's kitchen when a new duet exploded out of her portable radio. I cocked my ear, confused at first, my trained country ear flummoxed. Soon enough, though, I realized who the singers were. And I knew this was an instant classic.


So here's the deal about Loretta -- she wrote almost every damn song she recorded. She was who she was; and she didn't give a crap whether you approved or didn't. 

She had a voice that bullied its way out of a jukebox or a car radio, and terrorized your phonograph needle.

You will never forget her.

 

Saturday, October 1, 2022

Oh Goodie, A New Scold Weighs In

 

Country music used to be about the human condition, or at least about the things people cared about, or laments for what might have been. Rarely was it aspirational.

There stands the glass

That will ease all my pain


That's what always separated country from pop. Face it, country was rarely happy, because real life isn't always happy. Sometimes it is. I mean, one can let loose on a Saturday night; stomp their heels on a plank dance floor, twirl their partner into their arms to a two-step shuffle, but more often than not, although the music is bouncy, the lyrics are dismal.

Though we both tried, our love still died, and now she's gone from meBack to the only life she's known 

Back where the music's loud, back to that swinging crowdThat's where my baby feels at home


Country fans recognize life for what it is and still press on through, and a thumping bass guitar and a four-four drum beat sure don't hurt.

Probably the biggest difference between liberals and conservatives is that liberals picture things the way they want them to be, while conservatives see life as it really is. The benefit of viewing the actual picture is that one understands people for what they are ~ messy, laden with childhood traumas that seep into everyday life, yet they've plowed through the pain and created a life that's the best they can muster.

Enter someone named Maren Morris. 

I knew nothing about her music, so I pulled up a couple of YouTube videos. I learned that she really likes to drive and that she has a voice that, while not terrible, doesn't resonate like a Tanya Tucker or a Patty Loveless. She's mediocre, like ninety-nine per cent of today's country artists.

Yet, this Maren girl is nothing if not sanctimonious. She relishes picking fights with the wives of fellow artists, schooling them on how to think, then sobbing self-pityingly into her Twitter feed when everybody in the whole wide world doesn't kowtow to her ideology.

Maren, baby, pay your country dues and then maybe we'll talk.

“I hate feeling like I need to be the hall monitor of treating people like human beings in country music,” she mewled recently in an LA Times interview; all the while spewing epithets like "Insurrection Barbie" at her fellow "human beings". 

Apparently Maren's cause de jour is hacking off the breasts of pre-teen girls and loading them up with testosterone in the name of compassion. If Charlie Rich were alive today, he'd set fire to her manifesto and snort with abandon as it went up in flames.

Shawn Fleetwood of The Federalist captured this dystopian tale better than I ever could, but what I do have to back me up is fifty-plus years of studying country music, understanding it, bathing myself in its baptismal waters.

“I think there are people in country music that want it to be niche.“They don’t want it to expand. They don’t care about it becoming more inclusive. It’s theirs, and everyone else is an other, or woke, or whatever.", Maren said in her interview.

Ding! Ding! Ding! 

Yep, country music is mine, Maren! Keep on drivin' that car until you reach utopia.

Hint: Utopia never comes.




 


Thursday, September 29, 2022

Me And The Seventies

 

I'm not sure why I have a love/hate relationship with the decade of the 1970's. Truthfully, it was the most impactful decade of my life. I was young enough to experience every moment; not yet so old that the years ran together like a muddy river.

I came of age in the seventies. I was still a high school girl from '70 to '73; I got married for the first time in 1974, and I became a mother twice over between 1976 and 1978. I also landed my first "real" job and quickly learned that work was something to endure rather than enjoy. It wasn't fulfilling; it was a slog ~ a slog of menial tasks and a morass of neurotic coworkers.

Maybe I've dismissed the 1970's because I didn't particularly like the person I was then. 

If "clueless" was an actual term back then, clueless was my middle name. I was painfully naive about life. Not that it was necessarily my fault. My family wasn't exactly The Cleavers. In fact, my dad, if he worked at all, played at being a part-time bartender. But truth be told, he spent most of his time planted on a stool on the other side of the bar he owned. Thus my mother was perpetually angry. She'd carefully mapped out a way to better their lot in life by abandoning farming and purchasing a business, a motel/bar combo, but she ended up doing all the work while my dad played. Everybody always knew my dad was an alcoholic, but he kept the demons at bay simply by the responsibilities of planting and harvesting the wheat and potato fields. Give him a bar right next door, however, and a woman who could be relied on to shoulder all the work, and he was lured to whiskey like a child offered candy from a pervert in a van. 

Thus my home life consisted of pots and pans slamming and a cold shoulder. I escaped to the quiet of my room and fashioned my own sanctuary. I had one actual friend and a handful of acquaintances I only interacted with in the school hallway or in whatever classes we happened to share. 

My inner life was consumed by the music I let wash over me. I collected albums and cheap electronics, like a JC Penney reel-to-reel tape recorder and a "stereo component set", which set me back an outrageous hundred dollars, which I'd amassed from my many summer hours of cleaning motel rooms. I stayed up 'til three or four in the morning during summer vacations, my ear glued to the radio, the third component of my new stereo setup. I tuned the dial to WHO and WBAP and if the heavens allowed, WSM. I fancied myself a singer and recorded three-part harmonies on my reel-to-reel. (I actually wasn't as bad as I thought at the time.) I typed up music "newsletters" on the manual typewriter I'd somehow claimed from my mom, who'd bought it with the intent of producing motel invoices.

My life was insular.

So, I never learned much of anything except how to swish out a toilet and make hospital corners. I could fry up a grilled cheese sandwich and stir together some Kraft macaroni and cheese, which I did whenever my mom was busy manning the motel desk and Dad was, naturally, indisposed. Nobody at home ever talked to anyone else. I had a little brother and sister, who I think I must have conversed with at some point, but they were little kids, after all. How much could we have in common?

I was on my own, a strange amalgam of independence and naivete. Anything I learned, I discovered through experimentation and failure. My mom never went clothes shopping with me or taught me about makeup. I employed my talent for observation to simulate what the other girls my age were doing and I mimicked them. 

I did learn how to smoke, however, all on my own. Smoking wasn't so much cool, per se, as it was another means of escape. 

The music that dominated my senior year in high school was an incongruent mix of country at home and rock blaring from the car radio of my best friend's beige Buick (No, I hadn't yet learned how to drive, either). Alice and I dragged Main Street on Friday and sometimes Saturday nights, singing along to Stuck In The Middle With You and Drift Away and The Joker.


 

Our tastes in country singles matched, too ~ Ride Me Down Easy, Southern Lovin', Here Comes The World Again. 


 

I met my first husband on one of those Main Street runs. I thought the friend he was with was better looking, but the four of us matched up more or less according to height.

My future husband was older and had lived on his own, so he knew how to cook, whereas I did not. I could man a mean vacuum cleaner, though. We married in 1974 and since no one we knew actually rented an apartment, the thought never even crossed our minds. Instead we trudged down the highway from my parents' motel to a mobile home lot and were bamboozled into paying far too much money for a 12 by 66-foot tin box. I was thrilled. Finally something of my own that didn't require proximity to two crazed ultimate fighters.

We furnished our home with a Sears green and white flowered sofa and a set of K-Mart tables, among other cheap amenities. K-Mart and Woolworth's were my go-to's for curtains and bedspreads and collapsible nightstands. I brought my bed and my TV from my motel hideaway. That first Christmas I plopped a two-foot plastic tree atop a table and decorated it with home-crafted ornaments (it didn't require many). We inherited a console stereo, which claimed one wall of the living room and after work I spun Emmylou Harris's Elite Hotel (loved that album) and one by someone named LaCosta, who it turned out was Tanya Tucker's sister. 


The communal radio at work was tuned to rock, so I still had one foot in that world. Sundown, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and Mockingbird were the order of the day.

(Not to state the obvious, James, but those drugs seem to really be kicking in.)



My first son was born in November of 1976. I worked up until his birth, albeit not at that soul-sucking job I'd landed right out of high school. Truly, that place was yet one more dysfunctional family, but I wasn't tied to them by blood, so I bailed. Where did I go? Well, shoot, back to Mom and Dad. In my defense, however, Dad was newly sober and had become an actual human being, and thus my mom was ninety per cent less frenzied. 

Once I delivered my son, however, I retired. I loved it. Achingly poor, yet happy. I knew it couldn't last, but I was willing to forego a Country Kitchen breakfast and a couple of new LP's if it meant watching my baby grow. Anyway, I still had the radio:



And I hadn't abandoned country completely.

(although this is kind of skirting the country line)

 

                                           (whereas this is definitely country)

In March of '78 when I became pregnant for the second time, we traded up to a fourteen by seventy-eight-foot mobile home with three bedrooms. Those extra two feet wide, boy, felt like a palace, Still a tin palace that sounded like Armageddon during a hailstorm

In December I gave birth to my second son and I knew my mom-time was fast waning.

In rock, nothing much struck me. This track was considered "rock", but come on. It's Roy Orbison dressed up in a new package:


 I dipped my toe back into country music, kind of as a farewell to the decade.


 

In essence, despite all signs to the contrary, I grew up in the seventies. And yes, I did eventually learn how to cook. I also learned how real life works, how to stop apologizing for my talents; how to wrangle two toddlers into a car and motor over to the mall and come out the exit doors sane. How to soothe colic. How to fall in love with an unlovable dog who loved no one but me. How a clothes dryer works so much better if one occasionally cleans the lint filter. How linens dried on a fresh-air clothesline smell so delectable. How to coax houseplants to flourish. 

How a baby's giggle is manna from heaven. 

In ten short years I went from a self-involved, self-pitying victim to an actual grown-up human. 


I was the last person to see that coming.


 

Saturday, September 24, 2022

Seventies Pop


My husband I have a difference of opinion. He loves classic rock; I hate, hate it. I hate Aerosmith, and to me, Rolling Stones tracks sound tinny and weak. Led Zeppelin is okay, but I never bought any of their records. The Who is a complete mystery. Forget any of the heavy metal bands. I'm not a fan of angry music.

I think the disconnect is as simple as AM radio versus FM. In the seventies my spouse was an album guy. I bought no rock records, but I binged on AM radio, mostly because I was surrounded by it, either at work or on my portable transistor. In my small town, FM radio was a niche. Nobody actually tuned into it, probably because the lone classic rock station was lazy and didn't even try. Anybody who was anybody glued their car radio dial to 550, KFYR. KFYR played the hits; not deep album tracks.

Thus, my husband's and my musical experiences were completely divergent.

Like I once denigrated seventies country music until decades later when I learned better, I scoffed at seventies pop ~ cheesy, manufactured, trivial. 

Turns out I was wrong. 

Oh, there were plenty of cheesy hits throughout the decade, including possibly the worst single of all time, "You're Havin' My Baby"; and there were others. You Light Up My Life, My Girl Bill, Muskrat Love, Afternoon Delight, American Pie (😉 ~ maybe that's just me).

And tons of one-hit wonders. But that's what makes the seventies so singular. One top ten hit and never heard from again. Come on, Brownsville Station? Paper Lace? Yet, if you were around then, you've never forgotten those singles.

I currently have 310 tracks on my seventies Spotify playlist, but never fear ~ I'm not going to inundate you with 310 music videos. I'll choose six or seven, tops, ranging from "fun" to "classic" (yes, there were classics!)

 

FUN

1973 ~ The Hues Corporation ~ Rock The Boat


 1974 ~ ABBA ~ Waterloo


Also 1974 ~ The Guess Who ~ Star Baby


1975 ~ America ~ Sister Golden Hair


CLASSICS

1974~ Dave Loggins ~ Please Come To Boston


1973 ~ Elton John ~ Goodbye Yellow Brick Road


1971 ~ Nilsson ~ Without You (sorry for the fake "live" video)


1974 ~ Gordon Lightfoot ~ Sundown


1977 ~ The Bee Gees ~ How Deep Is Your Love


I could go on and on (obviously), but one must know when to stop. Suffice it to say, I now love the seventies. It could be nostalgia, but I believe it's a case of not recognizing the good while it was happening.

By the way, I like cheesy songs as long as they're deliberately corny and not a steaming mound of cow patties masquerading as "super serious" ditties. (I'm lookin' at you, Paul Anka and Debbie Boone.)

Therefore:


And:


I think I just may come back to this topic at a later time.

I like having fun.