August 1: Fire And Rain

JT is much maligned, and unfairly I think. Dude was a hardcore heroin addict before heroin addiction was cool. Plus he inspired the Beatles to do their best work as they were on the verge of breakup. Think of that next time you hear “You’ve Got A Friend”, and then realize that the song was actually written by a nebbish Jewish girl with a questionable voice (but the best songwriting chops this side of the Raritan Bay).

“Fire and Rain”, the previously mentioned song notwithstanding, is surely the man’s signature work. Its place in popular culture was cemented when the artist appeared on “The Simpsons”, serenading Homer and his astronaut crew while they faced certain death about “sweet dreams and flying machines flying safely through the air”.

In the time since that Simpsons reference, my thoughts upon hearing “Fire and Rain” have gone to a girl I knew in college named Suzanne, whose name is mentioned as the subject of the song. She was a fetching lass from Long Island in my freshman German class (and subsequent Deutsche klassen). We never made any plans together, but I certainly made many in my own head. Years later I was informed by my girlfriend in grad school that Suzanne had had a kid with a local boy (they were coincidentally childhood friends).

Recently though, I was driving with a sibling of mine and when this song came on SiriusXM’s The Blend, she told me a story of the time she found out that our father had died. After hearing the news, this song came on the radio and it touched her, as if our deceased Dad was sending her a message from beyond the grave. Now I can’t hear the song without that being my first thought, and it’s on my Amazon Prime mix so I hear it quite often.

Our dad died almost exactly 30 years ago. We miss you.

February 23: So Far Away

Here’s a band I hope to make a regular feature, as surely as Billy Joel and Supertramp’s “Breakfast In America” will inevitably become despite my best efforts of self-restraint.

Dire Straits. Just think about the name for a second. OK, back now? When I first heard it in 1985, I had no clue what it meant (I was 6 or 7). But could there be a more perfect name for a rock band? 99.9% of people/groups who set out to make it in popular music never succeed.

But succeed Dire Straits did, and left a legacy of fantastic music to show for it. (But you’ll never see me blogging about “Romeo and Juliet”. Forget it.) Of course my introduction to the band was “Money For Nothing”, which I instantly recognized as catchy but had no worldly experience to realize what was being insinuated. Plus those computer graphics were really friggin sweet.

Around the same time the “Walk Of Life” video (American version) was getting heavy MTV airplay, and it was full of footage of the Dallas Cowboys, so automatic win. Again, I was too tender to realize that these follies were indicative of the ineptitude of my favorite football team, but the tune was catchy!

Years later, in high school, a girlfriend extolled the virtues of the band and I eye-rollingly agreed, expecting that I’d already heard their two best songs. (Insert “Romeo and Juliet” here.) Later still during college, I heard “Sultan of Swing” on the radio and tried to guess the band; my best guess was Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. Learning the truth was an eye-opening experience.



And so we’ve ended up at this song, a gorgeous ode to the longing felt when a vital part of one’s life is missing. I’m sure it was written from the perspective of a touring rocker missing his significant other, but sanitize the lyrics a bit and it applies to the feeling that what you love most in life is missing, no matter what that may be.

And Dire Straits seriously owes some royalties to Carole King. 'Cause she wrote "So Far Away" first, and killed it. I guess Dire Straits deserves credit for writing a song of the same name that's just as good. (Well, almost as good.)

February 20: I'm Your Captain

I heard this song on the radio tonight on the way home, and it was glorious. I also heard "Captain Of Her Heart" by Double the other day, and it was also pretty nice, but I felt less inclined to share about that.

I love a good, multi-sectioned epic rock and roll song. This one certainly qualifies. After a clean electric riff, a driving baseline thrusts us into a bad trip. A grandly funky bad trip, though not on a railroad but apparently on an ocean. The narrator seems to be clinging desperately to sanity, pleading with his crew to get him back on steady ground. A formless stranger attempts to strangle him.

Then suddenly, the pleading stops, the danger dissipates, and the narrator is gently sailing towards home. Or is he? Could it be that he's finally broken and all he's left with is the delusion that he's on his way to where he wishes he could be, but can never go? Grand Funk most artistically leaves the interpretation up to the listener, and the result is a most uplifting hymn to optimism. Or delusion. Your mileage may vary.

February 13: We're In This Love Together

Are we? Are we really?

And is it OK to post a tribute to a deceased musical legend? Since last year that became unacceptable after a certain point?

Imma let Al speak for himself.



Plus Moonlighting. I worked for Glenn Gordon Caron, the creator of Moonlighting, in my first real Hollywood gig. I can’t imagine him and Al in a recording booth discussing how the song should be sung. Well, I can. It’s pretty awkward.

February 10: Our Love Is Here To Stay

Tonight PBS aired the Gershwin Prize ceremony of its latest recipient, Smokey Robinson. This is notable for many reasons, not the least of which being that this may be the last vestige of non-white culture that will ever appear on American public television.

After sitting through a questionable selection of artists plow through a selection of the greatness that is the musical catalog he helped establish, Smokey took no time in honoring the great Jewish songwriters who are the namesakes of the lifetime achievement award presented by the Library of Congress (yes, the United States Congress, as hard as it is to believe).

His selection was “Our Love Is Here To Stay”, and it was heartbreakingly epic. Smokey was eager to honor the roots of his groundbreaking Motown greatness, and he did not disappoint. It was refreshing to see him pay tribute to the forebears of his success, even as his own success was being immortalized.

Unfortunately, I can’t post that performance, but here is a timeless rendition presented by two of the all time great interpreters of song. And just in time for Valentine's Day.



And here is a 1980s new wave band paying tribute to Smokey in a last gasp of relevance. (Sorry, ABC fans.)

February 2: Waiting For A Girl Like You

God damn, this is a smooth song.

This is probably the best recorded example of the vocal talents of the Roc’s own Louis Grammatico. A ballad that combines early ‘80s atmospheric synth with soulful romance, the song was a revelation, one that eschewed the hard rock flavor the band had hitherto been associated with, and doomed its commercial futures to Adult Contemporary purgatory.

I associate this song with a day spent in Western New York not long after my sister, mother and I had returned from our own purgatory in the panhandle of Florida. It was a gloomy day fraught with rain, and we paid a visit to the Canandaigua grave of my grandfather and grandmother, who had died during our exile. The moody minor key latched onto my consciousness and I can’t separate it from the feeling of mourning something I was unable to comprehend.

This is one of the earliest memories I have of music affecting me so deeply, and there is not a day that goes by where, whether new or old, at least one piece of music speaks directly to my heart every day.

January 31: Selling The Drama

I don’t know why, but I can't stop listening to this song.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t heard it since just after it came out. I barely remember having heard it before at all.

I’m sure that the bulk of the times I heard it were either in Studio Art with Mr. Day, which I took as a senior instead of a freshman like most normal people did; or in Brent “The Diesel” Williamson’s physics class that same year; or some other indiscriminate and inappropriate time during my last year of high school.

I’m convinced it has something to do with the fact that I couldn’t appreciate it at the time. The lyrics were so obscure, and made me feel like I was walking in on the middle of a conversation I would never be able to understand.

Maybe it’s the riddle of the unabashed reverence my classmates had for this album, and its prescient attempt at armchair hipster philosophy. So familiar with it were they that they referred to the lead singer by his first name as if he were their close personal friend. “Ed.”

Maybe it’s because after so many years of listening to Los Angeles radio and not hearing it even once, it randomly played on a Sunday in the car in Florida with my mother after church when I was not feeling very good about life or myself.

Or maybe it’s because it just fucking rocks.



Naw, it’s probably just that I was able to download it to my phone for free as a member of Amazon Prime.