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Mad Props to Open Culture

June 12, 2013 By Leave a Comment

In the past week, I’ve seen links to not one, but two amazing clips.

I want to give all the credit to Open Culture, so please visit them for the stories behind each, so go HERE.

First, the isolated guitar playing of Eric Clapton on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

A lot of people may not even realize it was “God”, not George, cranking out those tasty solos. Once you get it, it makes all the sense in the world.

But you need to hear it, and you have to read the whole story. Do so, HERE!

Likewise, you MUST check out the story behind Queen’s collaboration with David Bowie.

“Under Pressure” sounds like the inevitable result of a mutual, positive meeting of the artistic minds. It was, in many regards, anything but. Again, I won’t steal any thunder. Check it all out HERE!

(Hearing this the first time, this is what I scribbled down: Starting at 1.58: we are in the presence of gods. If your heart doesn’t race and chills don’t thrill through your back you are not, in fact, alive. I’ll stand by that sentiment.)

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Pink Floyd: The Prog Rock Archetype

May 31, 2013 By Leave a Comment

It isn’t that Pink Floyd made some of the best albums of the ‘70s (they did), or that Pink Floyd moved the art form forward (they did); it’s that Pink Floyd did the impossible: they made music that can’t be marginalized, and more than any other band, brought progressive rock into the mainstream. This, along with the unparalleled streak of top tier albums they created, elevates them above all others as the prototypical and most significant prog band.

As much praise as the group rightly receives, they may not be fully appreciated for the ways they changed the future of music. The Dark Side of the Moon did for progressive music what Sgt. Pepper did for rock ‘n’ roll: elevating it from pop to art, and through one indelible and irrevocable triumph, granted authenticity—for all time—to an entire genre. It simply cannot be overstated how meaningful it was, and remains, that one of the best-selling and influential albums in history happens to be the apotheosis of prog rock’s canon. In short, Pink Floyd made it not only possible, but inevitable that other bands would attract more—and more serious—scrutiny, however much many of them suffered by comparison. (My album-by-album analysis of the band’s output can be found at “All Things Reconsidered: Why Not Pink Floyd?”, PopMatters, 11 November 2011.)

Needless to say, The Dark Side of the Moon did not arrive as an abrupt burst of brilliance (great art seldom does) so much as the end result of a long and at times excruciating process, a sort of prog rock apprenticeship. Casual fans may be unaware that Pink Floyd made as many albums before The Dark Side of the Moon as they did after. Even more casual fans may be unaware that Pink Floyd made any albums before The Dark Side of the Moon. Of course, before there was prog rock, there was psychedelic rock. Pink Floyd’s debut, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn (1967) was, in its way, a Sgt. Pepper for the underground, and it remains the most fully realized expression of lysergic-laced pop whimsy: deeply surreal songs you can sing along with.

The initial high from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn proved short-lived as the band’s principal songwriter, troubled genius Syd Barrett, suffered a drug-induced breakdown. (Much more on Syd HERE.) His mate David Gilmour was hastily recruited and, at least at first, did his best Barrett impression. Suffice it to say, no one could—or would—have predicted Pink Floyd’s eventual breakthrough based on their early struggles. As a result of Barrett’s departure two crucial changes occurred: Waters gradually assumed chief lyrical responsibilities and Gilmour became the primary vocalist.

Getting from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn to The Dark Side of the Moon required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each release, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the prism in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn), “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” (from A Saucerful of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma), “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother) and “Echoes” (from Meddle).

Perhaps the single-most important song Floyd produced during the earliest stages of their extended transitional period is the title track from their second album. The ways in which “A Saucerful of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section from Ummagumma, as well as the definitive version, recorded for their movie Live at Pompeii. Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as a major musical force within the group, forging—along with keyboardist Rick Wright- – an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound.

This performance, recorded just before the sessions for The Dark Side of the Moon commenced, is very much the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort. The pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”, the song that officially ended their transition and prepared them to make their masterpiece.

But if “Echoes”, combined with the shorter, snappier (and raw, earthy) tunes from 1972’s Obscured By Clouds provides a blueprint for the sensibility they would sharpen in the service of The Dark Side of the Moon, it’s 1970’s “Atom Heart Mother Suite” that epitomizes the extremes and excesses prog rock would embrace, for better or worse. Where King Crimson can, and should, be credited with creating prog rock’s first unfettered proclamation, In The Court of the Crimson King (1969), Pink Floyd can, and should, be credited—or rebuked—for dropping the first truly progressive side-long “suite” on Atom Heart Mother (1970).

After this one, all bets were off and for the better part of a decade, many bands—including Pink Floyd—attempted to refine and improve upon this opus. Their most ambitious (and uneven/inscrutable/unlistenable, according to seemingly everyone who has written a review) work to that point, clocking in at over 23 minutes, it remains the most blatantly uncommercial track from an album that reached number 1 in the UK.

Making use of a chorus, an orchestra, the band’s growing facility for studio slicing and dicing and an inimitable élan concerning the art of the segue, Pink Floyd created a very odd, endearing and English work. And that’s just the first few minutes. It remains an intriguing question whether or not “Atom Heart Mother” (the suite and the album) would enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if the band has stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”, quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.

It’s not just that Pink Floyd did everything first, it’s just that they often did things bigger, and more convincingly. However much Emerson, Lake and Palmer was admired/eviscerated for their audacity, typified by the insufferably titled Works, wherein each player had his own “solo” side, Pink Floyd did the same thing (sort of) on Ummagumma. They were not the first, and certainly not the last band to lie down tracks occupying entire album sides, but they made it acceptable, even inevitable.

Back when Pink Floyd was the first band in space, they remained mysterious, and cool, by keeping invisible. For being one of the biggest rock groups in the world all through the ‘70s, the average fan would not have recognized any of them in an airport. With few exceptions, their faces weren’t on the album covers, and as the resulting records prove, they always put the music first.

Although they became hugely successful, Pink Floyd championed a type of integrity that seems uniquely associated with progressive rock: they never imitated anyone else or copied their own previous efforts. For Pink Floyd it was always about feeling and the evocation of a particular mood (the altered states in sound of “Quicksilver”; the solidarity of human voices, literally via the chanting football crowd in “Fearless”; the frenzy of modern travel/life  in “On the Run”; the almost inexpressible sorrow of loss and remembrance in “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”).

It’s interesting: although a “faceless” band celebrated for their inimitable blend of complexity and precision, Pink Floyd endures as one of the more soulful bands of the ‘70s. For this we can thank Roger Waters, whose development as a lyricist is responsible for a body of work that holds its own against anyone else’s. With the possible exception of Peter Gabriel (with and without Genesis) no songwriter composed more sensitive yet compelling statements concerning the human condition.

From “If” to “Echoes”, then “Free Four” to everything through The Final Cut, Waters was rock music’s consummate psychologist, turning a keen (and increasingly wary) eye on Western culture. His calling card became a series of trenchant takes on the intersection between the personal and the political as they relate to a society turned sideways. His insights on the forces governing our affairs, be they corporate, military, nationalistic or religious, were fodder for some of the most engaging artistic reflections of our time.

Perhaps, when measuring the true scope of their import, it’s most instructive to consider the way Pink Floyd handled their post-The Dark Side of the Moon career. With the exception of “Money” there were no obvious or intentional attempts at a crossover song that might receive airplay. As phenomenal as they remain, it seems certain that “Wish You Were Here”, “Have a Cigar” and “Welcome to the Machine” all became classic rock staples once Pink Floyd was already Pink Floyd. Or, these were the last three songs until The Wall sufficiently short to even get played on the radio.

Beginning with The Dark Side of the Moon and stretching through The Wall, Pink Floyd at once exemplified prog rock while transcending it. Every album was a perfect calculation; from the album art to the sequence of the songs, each entirely convincing on its own but an irreplaceable part of the whole. Again, considerable credit must be given to Waters who, through a tense combination of talent, ego and will, claimed ultimate control of the band’s direction. His acerbic personality and control freak tendencies took their toll, inexorably leading to his departure and one of rock music’s most bitter, protracted soap operas. But attention must be paid: his drive and vision demanded indelible work that may otherwise have been merely excellent.

A well-documented instance would be the two songs that served as prototypes for later masterpieces. “Raving and Drooling” and “You Gotta Be Crazy” were road-tested contenders for inclusion on The Dark Side of the Moon‘s follow-up. If the rest of the band had had their way, they would have comprised one side of the new album while “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” would have run, uninterrupted, on the other. Waters was not satisfied and, judging from the fascinating but far from flawless live versions, he was correct.

As a result, he busied himself on a set of new songs that became “Welcome to the Machine”, “Have a Cigar” and “Wish You Were Here”—a triptych of disenchantment, alienation and bereavement that are crown jewels in the Pink Floyd canon. As important, the temporarily sidelined songs were refined and reworked into Waters’ most cohesive concept album, Animals. With major contributions from Wright and Gilmour, “Sheep” and especially “Dogs” represent some of the best work the band ever did.

It’s not, in sum, that Pink Floyd became the most visible and best band to carry the progressive rock banner (they were). It’s not that they sold the most albums (they did) and had the best album art (they did—R.I.P. Storm Thorgerson!). It’s that they provided cover, through their influence and example, for smaller, equally brave bands who sought to push past the tedious Top 40 boundaries. By the time 1977 rolled around, space rock seemed as prehistoric as hippies and Johnny Rotten became the punk rock poet laureate, insolently scribbling “I Hate” above his Pink Floyd t-shirt. How much street cred would he have had sporting similar sentiment on a Gentle Giant or Jethro Tull t-shirt?

To this day any band, whether it’s The Flaming Lips, Bjork or Radiohead, who emphasize sound and feeling over accessibility, are in some way emulating the standard Pink Floyd set. The key to understanding Pink Floyd’s magnitude is that they made consistently challenging, progressive music, and still found an audience. Indeed, they did not find an audience so much as their audience found them. Pink Floyd was the first truly underground band to cultivate a sound too remarkable to remain obscured by clouds. They willed themselves to be consequential, and their eminence is undiminished today.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/column/171044-pink-floyd-the-prog-rock-archetype/

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Five Songs for April 15

April 15, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Happy Tax Day!

The Beatles:

Pink Floyd:

Jethro Tull:

Jimi Hendrix:

Spinal Tap:

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For You Blue: The Beatles’ ‘Blue Album’, 40 Years Later

April 2, 2013 By 2 Comments

It was forty years ago, today.

No, really. Check it out:

Let us not forget, it’s the “Blue Album”. Before it was the cassette, the eight-track, CD or digital download, it was a record, played on things called record players. And those records came inside of environmentally unfriendly covers that, for the most part, served the purpose later appropriated by magazines, music videos and online lyrics searches.

Talking about listening to music on antiquated machines probably sounds as old fashioned, today, as the idea of people watching silent movies with sub-titles did to kids like me, almost exactly 30 years ago. Of course, when I first put my impressionable paws on this artifact (a used copy procured from a classmate’s older brother who sold it to me for five bucks, a deal only slightly less spectacular, in my eyes, than the Louisiana Purchase), the Beatles had been broken up for less than ten years. Put another way, I got this album into my life at a time when many people still held out hope that the Fab Four might one day reunite. This quixotic fantasy got permanently put to rest when John Lennon was murdered in December of 1980.

Look at it. Even now, that cover shot is revelatory, poignant, perfect. That is the best band of all time at the very height of their superhuman powers (even if, unbeknownst to the outside world the group was already in the accelerated process of imploding). That image is a picture worth a thousand—or a million—words if ever there was one: a passage of time (artistically, creatively, personally) that covered epochs as opposed to years. Even a nine year old could see, clearly, how much had changed. The music bears this out, naturally, in ways that words and images can scarcely begin to convey.

Still, the fact that the mop-tops caused controversy in the early ‘60s (look at the back cover) indicates how much fashion, and the world, had changed by the late ‘60s (look at the front cover). At the beginning and toward the end, the Beatles did many things first and more often than not, they did them best. Even when things didn’t go according to plan, the stars always aligned in unbelievable ways for this band. Consider the cover: that picture was intended to be used for the work-in-progress called Get Back; by the time it was finally finished (and renamed Let It Be) another set of images were utilized. This had particular resonance for fans in the U.S., since the band’s first album Please Please Me was not released stateside until its reincarnation as a compact disc in 1987. Therefore, the cover image “borrowed” for the Red Album was always the proper choice, and it was oddly disappointing to discover the correct chronology. (In hindsight it would have been remarkable to have the same pose at the same location bookending the beginning and end of the Beatles’ career, but that’s what the Red and Blue albums were for!)

And, it should be pointed out that, strictly speaking, there is no Blue Album (or Red Album) just as there is no White Album: in fact, each of the releases is entitled The Beatles with the red one signifying the years 1962-1966 and the blue one 1967-1970. But these monikers had less to do with the album covers and more to do with the fact that the actual LPs were blue and red, respectively. And that, my friends, was about as cool as it got for burgeoning Beatles fanatics. Suffice it to say, we had a lot of time on our hands during those pre-MTV and Internet days.

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Listen to it. The first thing you might notice is that it’s not a flawless selection of songs, all things considered. But therein lies the difficulty masterminding a compilation that dares to represent the Beatles. Everyone who hears this album will quickly point out songs inexplicably left off (“You Never Give Me Your Money”!) or ones improbably included (“Octopus’s Garden”?), but in the final analysis, the Blue Album (along with the Red Album) remains difficult to criticize. In terms of turning on casual fans to the myriad riches recorded at Abbey Road, these documents deliver the goods, and entice the intrigued to seek out the source material. Also, these albums first came out in 1973, so they were essentially the first official crack at a “greatest hits” type compilation. Covering the hits and the songs that were important and/or influential is the most reasonable way to go. Besides, part of being a fan is thinking up (and ceaselessly revising) your own selections of essential tracks.

1967-1970. That’s it. That’s all the time it took for the Beatles to not merely change music, but create art that remains, in many ways, incomparable. The ocean they crossed in between “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “Tomorrow Never Knows” is difficult to describe; the universe they travelled from “Strawberry Fields Forever” to “Her Majesty” remains one of the creative miracles of the 20th Century. Taken as a single document presenting this evolution, the Blue Album is a holy grail of sorts.

The Beatles took a quantum leap with Rubber Soul (1965) and then doubled down with the sublime innovation of Revolver (1966). Quite simply, the biggest band in the world was recreating the world in its image and they were untouchable. And then Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys dropped Pet Sounds. Paul McCartney, steadily asserting himself as the group’s prime mover, was equal parts impressed and intimidated. Everyone knows what happened next. But before Sgt. Pepper helped define the Summer of Love and introduce the mixed blessing also known as the concept album, the Beatles released what is arguably the most transcendent single of all time.

Not only did “Strawberry Fields Forever/Penny Lane” signify (yet another) giant step for the band, it crystallized the principle strengths of its primary songwriters. Lennon agonized over the acoustic-based (!) snapshot of youth seen through the glass surreally that “Strawberry Fields Forever” mutated into (with considerable assistance from the ever-underrated George Martin). McCartney, as always, makes it sound easy. “Penny Lane”, while being neither as oblique nor unsettling as “Strawberry Fields Forever”, is disarmingly rich in detail and the product of a songwriter firing on all cylinders. In a move that reveals McCartney’s inspired and indefatigable mind, he asked George Martin to approximate the piccolo trumpet featured in a movement from Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto, granting his whimsical reminiscence an almost regal air.

That these two songs commence the proceedings is appropriate and symbolic. From there it’s an obligatory round-up of Sgt. Pepper highlights and tracks found on Magical Mystery Tour. Then, the three singles released prior to The White Album: McCartney’s delightful Fats Domino-inspired “Lady Madonna”, and the band’s blistering take on Lennon’s “Revolution” (which, of course, would resurface in mellow and riotous incarnations on the next album). And then there is that little song called “Hey Jude”. Taken in context, as merely another masterpiece, it is easier (and perhaps more intimidating) to consider how incredible the Beatles were circa 1968. “I Am the Walrus”, “Hello Goodbye”, “Hey Jude”, “Revolution”… just another day at the office.

Going forward, even as John and Paul’s working relationship grew increasingly strained, the two were always able to improve one another’s work. After a few relatively “safe” (or accessible) songs from The White Album there is another block of transitional singles. “Don’t Let Me Down”, which never made it onto Let It Be (but did make the cut for 2003’s Let It Be… Naked release) and “The Ballad of John and Yoko”, the group’s last number one single in the UK (two songs that were available only on the Blue Album or the Hey Jude singles collection until the 1987 release of the CD Past Masters Volume 2). Both of these songs are very personal compositions written entirely by Lennon, but they each feature significant contributions from McCartney. Mac’s harmonizing (and screeches toward the end) on “Don’t Let Me Down” manage to augment the urgency and elevate it to the level what amounts to a desperate celebration—or a celebratory desperation if you like. “The Ballad of John and Yoko” is a song that would be witty, hilarious and moving (i.e., a typical Lennon song), but is kicked up several notches thanks to McCartney’s contributions. In addition to harmony vocals and his usual bass duties, Mac turns in a more than respectable performance on drums, and his ebullient piano flourishes practically turn the song into the equivalent of a smile. That the two estranged superstars, in a flash of inspiration recorded a hit single (about Yoko Ono!) as a duo on a random afternoon is just one excellent example of what truly sets this band above and beyond.

Even the so-called “quiet Beatle” gets his props courtesy of four songs on sides three and four. Needless to say, this representation of George Harrison’s work echoes his escalating confidence as a composer (and subsequent frustration regarding his unshakable secondary status—another important factor that helped hasten the band’s inevitable dissolution). The rest of the album features familiar tracks from the final two albums (and since Let It Be was released after Abbey Road there is a certain symmetry in putting those songs last—and hearing the then-unreleased single versions of “Let It Be” and “Get Back” helps one appreciate the unsterilized versions even more). Then, all of a sudden, it’s 1970.

The Blue Album then, was never intended to supplant or steal thunder from the band’s amazing catalog. It was—and remains?—an ideal introduction to the most productive four-year span in pop music history. It is remembered—and appreciated—as a sacred relic from a less complicated time. Its front and back signify the before and after shots of ancient history and an unimaginable future. It is a reminder that the mysterious, magical tour might not have lasted forever, but the music will.

(For those arriving late to the party, a LOT more on the Beatles HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE, and HERE.)

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1967 and the Prog-Rock Progenitors*

March 7, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Progressive rock reached its full potential in the ‘70s, but its roots trace back to the previous decade. While an attempt to determine when and with whom prog-rock formally originated is impossible (not to mention pointless), it is instructive to consider which artists pointed the way.

The official or at least easiest story is that when they released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles ushered in a new era wherein rock music could be appreciated—and appraised—as Art. Of course there is considerable truth to this account, but there were plenty of other bands, circa 1967, edging things in a direction that was at once more evolved, complicated and unclassifiable.

For starters, The Beatles themselves had already made significant strides: Rubber Soul and especially Revolver showcased a facility for experimentation (sitar, string quartets, enriched lyrical import) and restlessness with regard to convention. “Tomorrow Never Knows” could be considered the true opening salvo that foresaw the future; after this song nothing was off the table, and opportunistic acts followed suit.

If 1967 characterizes a high point (famously, if a bit unfairly exemplified solely by Sgt. Pepper), it also initiated an explicit realignment of what was possible in rock music—for better or worse. Two albums that, in their way, illustrate where the art form would go are The Who’s The Who Sell Out and Love’s Forever Changes. In fact, if you combine the various concepts and approaches of both, a rough formula can be gleaned, previewing much of what was to come.

Indeed, both Love and The Who (led by Arthur Lee and Pete Townshend, respectively) had already made advancements on previous albums. The Who’s cheeky mini-opera, “A Quick One, While He’s Away” provided a template that Townshend—and many subsequent imitators—would utilize to greater effect. Love is notable for creating, alongside Dylan, Zappa and The Rolling Stones, one of the first songs to fill an entire album side. Love is not extolled nearly enough for the subtle ways they augmented the possibilities of a standard pop song: incorporating strings, flutes and harpsichords are all elements that make Side One of Da Capo a ceaselessly colorful and engaging listening experience.

Neil Young, not long for Buffalo Springfield, employed strings (with Jack Nitzsche’s supervision) for his elaborate miniature epics “Broken Arrow” and “Expecting to Fly”. The Moody Blues took a definitive leap forward, collaborating with Decca’s house orchestra to embellish their conceptual song-cycle Days of Future Passed. The Moody Blues were also one of the first bands to make prominent use of the mellotron (courtesy of Mike Pinder who, incidentally, is credited with turning John Lennon, pre “Strawberry Fields Forever”, onto the instrument), which would become a fixture in the prog-rock sound.

Traffic’s “Dear Mr. Fantasy” and Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” remain ubiquitous psychedelic anthems from 1967, but it was arguably two lesser known and celebrated (at the time) acts that provided crucial direction for more ambitious artists. The Velvet Underground and Captain Beefheart dropped albums that inspired and influenced the way modern music could connect. By turns surreal and cynical, Lou Reed and Don Van Vliet turned a mordant eye upon society and extended the lyrical possibilities Bob Dylan pioneered. Tracks like “Venus in Furs”, “Heroin”, “Drop Out Boogie” and “Electricity” (theremin!) are uncanny blueprints of a kitchen sink sensibility that quickly became commonplace.

Special mention must be made of the inimitable Brian Wilson. Even though his magnum opus SMiLE never saw the light of day (much more on that, here, “The Once and Future King: ‘SMiLE’ and Brian Wilson’s Very American Dream”) he can be—and has been, by none other than Paul McCartney—credited with inspiring if not intimidating the Fab Four to raise their game. Although the world would not hear the ideas and innovations Wilson began to assemble in 1966(!), enough material was salvaged to ultimately surface on 1967’s Smiley Smile, and “Heroes and Villains” could be considered the yin to “A Day in the Life’s” yang.

Two other debuts, both released prior to Sgt. Pepper, contain multiple elements that would be mined throughout the ensuing decade. We will never know what direction(s) Jimi Hendrix may have headed in, but the sources of a very different rock sound are sprinkled liberally throughout Are You Experienced?. His virtuosity alone served notice and opened the floodgates of imitation and indulgence; arguably no one has yet caught up to what Hendrix was achieving between 1967 and 1970. Whatever his merits as a lyricist (never mind poet), there is no question that Jim Morrison introduced a modus operandi that was at once more literate and dark than most of the rock albums that preceded The Doors.

Morrison’s two extended album closers, “The End” and “When The Music’s Over” (from Strange Days, also released in 1967) brought a dramatic, cathartic aspect to songwriting that translated to more theatric live performances: every arena act learned a trick or two from the Lizard King. However effectively (or farcically, depending upon your preference) the organ and guitar solos on “Light My Fire” approximate jazz improvisation, Robbie Krieger and Ray Manzarek did the near-impossible (or unthinkable, depending upon your preference) on the song that helped define the Summer of Love: they turned attention from the singer’s looks (and vocals) to the band mates’ sounds, if even for a few minutes.

Finally, enough can never be said (and much more will be said, before long) about Pink Floyd. Another 1967 debut, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, recorded at the same time in the same studio as Sgt. Pepper, is a fully realized burst of sui generis psychedelic perfection. Lyrically, it ranges from the obligatory astral imagery of the era (“Astronomy Domine”) to the obligatory shout-out to I Ching (“Chapter 24”) to the brain salad surgery of “Bike”, revealing the unique and astonishing mind of a 21-year-old Syd Barrett.

Captivating as Barrett’s words (and voice) is throughout; the real revelation is his songwriting. The tunes, with one notable exception (“Interstellar Overdrive”), are exercises in precision, packing maximal sound and feeling into bite-sized bits. Eccentric, erudite and ebullient, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn is a happy explosion of creative potential, a template Floyd would expand upon in a stretch of possibly unrivaled masterpieces throughout the ‘70s.

By 1968 it was apparent many artists were paying attention, and a trio of songs signifies some of the ways the prog-rock aesthetic was already in full effect. Perhaps most notoriously, Iron Butterfly went all in, crafting a side-long song that strained for profundity, intensity and inscrutability. “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” (In The Garden of Eden?) super-sized the instrumental passages from “Light My Fire” (including a drum solo!), and incorporated earnest if overbearing explorations that drew from Country Joe and the Fish’s acid-drenched “Section 43”: over the course of 18 minutes it is psychedelia unbound or pretentious noodling personified (perhaps both).

Eric Burdon, who had found fame mining blues motifs with The Animals, threw his hat into the ring and crafted one of the more successful anti-war ballads, “Sky Pilot”. The band is focused and at just over seven minutes the song still seems just right: neither noodling (musically) or preaching (lyrically), the inclusion of sound effects and bagpipes are novel strategies, albeit ones that would become familiar—and somewhat stale in the next decade.

Lastly, another overlooked artist who deserves more, Arthur Brown, reached incisively into the recent past and did much to predict the future. The Crazy World of Arthur Brown is an early concept album, incorporating mythology, religion and astute sociological insight. Best known for the one-and-done hit single “Fire”, the rest of Brown’s debut holds up well even as it’s unmistakably of its time.

His flair for the dramatic (bounding onto the stage with his metal helmet aflame) and painted face anticipated acts as diverse as Kiss, Alice Cooper and Peter Gabriel. The remarkable “Spontaneous Apple Creation”, which sounds like a mash-up of Sun Ra and Ennio Morricone, with vocals (and lyrics) that undeniably influenced Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson, remains a signpost of how far rock music had come in only a couple of years.

*Second installment of new monthly PopMatters column, “The Amazing Pudding” (First installment HERE).

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Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine: Part Two

December 27, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Picking up where we left off yesterday (which, in case you missed it, is HERE) and continuing the celebration (of the lizard), let’s pick five more vintage vinyls.

If your parents didn’t have a copy of this one, we now know why you turned out the way you did (just kidding…sort of). Too many slices of perfection to pick from, but I have to go with my go-to anthem: when all else fails, I have my books and my poetry to protect me. Preach it, Paul!

Ah, Yes. (Much more on them in THIS series.) This is another one from my grade school boy’s old man, bless his soul. I snatched this one up for the FM staple “Roundabout” but was quickly converted to the greater glories of prog-rock masterpieces “South Side of the Sky” (Wakeman!) and “Long Distance Run Around” (Wakeman!), but the one that does it best, to this day, is “Heart of the Sunrise”. Not for nothing was Fragile one of the first CDs I acquired. I still have it; I still listen to it. A lot.

The Runt! This is one salvaged from my friend’s attic. Here is one I wish I had been “of age” in the 70s to properly enjoy. Having this one, on vinyl, back in the day? The only thing slightly less satisfying is having it on vinyl, today. And no way I can only choose one from this double-LP, so one from each record (sides one and four for anyone keeping score at home). Two slices of pop perfection: BAM!

“I Saw The Light”:

“Hello, It’s Me”:

I originally acquired their fourth album for “Stairway To Heaven” and eventually understood that it was the eighth best song on the album (just kidding…sort of). I saved up my money for Physical Graffiti (I still remember the day I got that: during the first quarter break in 8th grade, at the Waxie Maxies in Sterling, next to the double-decker McDonalds…I KNOW!) so I could have “Kashmir” to listen to and enjoy anytime I wanted. I eventually understood that it was the best song they ever did (not kidding…maybe). Pound for pound, and there is tonnage on this baby, this gives me as much joy as practically any album I’ve ever owned. It’s so wonderful to know I still have the original in my milk crate. One from each record:

“Houses of the Holy”:

“In The Light” (which kicks off one of most sublime sides of any album from any era by anyone):

Okay. Now we are getting into the belly of the beast. This was what I wanted for Christmas in 1978 (3rd grade) and this is what I got. Kiss was my first love, and I will always praise my parents for indulging me. By 4th grade I had moved on to The Beatles and in 5th grade the trifecta of Zeppelin, Hendrix and The Doors put me off (or on?) the grid forever. But the gateway to more meaningful music (yeah, you read that right) began with a bunch of New Yorkers who wore make-up. Kiss was arguably the biggest (or at least hottest, as in, YOU WANTED THE BEST AND YOU GOT THE BEST: THE HOTTEST BAND IN THE WORLD, KISS!) band going, so it was an embarrassment of riches when they dropped solo albums. The audacity! The ambition! The…horror. Other than Gene’s, which was tolerable, Peter’s (unsurprisingly) sort of sucked, and Paul’s (surprisingly) really sucked. But Ace’s was a revelation. It sounded incredibly, unbelievably good, then. It still does, today. I’d go toe-to-toe with anyone who wanted to debate the merits of this semi-masterpiece. Even if he was already greasing his own skids into drug-induced oblivion, Ace never sang or played more clearly or convincingly. Indeed, the entire album is a clinic of dexterity, pop-craft smarts and irresistible sing-along anthems. It’s a gem that still sparkles, shamelessly, in my collection. Sidenote: I still hear the epic solo in the first track with a jarring pause, because my original copy had an unfortunate skip (something we must acknowledge even as we extoll the glories of wax: sometimes brand new copies came defective). I listened to it so many times back in the day that even when I eventually upgraded to CD, I did –and do– still hear it the wrong way, and if that’s wrong I don’t wanna be right! Sidenote two: I’m inclined, on principle, to embed every single song from this fucka, but I intend to eventually do a proper assessment of this album, so be warned!

Bonus album: long live the inside cover gatefold, ’60s style!

“Summer’s Almost Gone” (7th grade and Susie Willess…yes, I’ll name names. Oh my God. OH MY GOD.)

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Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine*: Part One

December 26, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Merry Christmas to me.

So, a year or so ago I did something I’d been meaning –and promising– to do for ages: I acquired a turntable.

I knew it was inevitable. I still had that blue milk crate in my old man’s basement. I still had about one quarter of the albums I used to own; the ones I had not given away, lost or sold for (literal) pennies on the dollar back when I, like everyone else under the age of 30, was convinced that albums were irrelevant and traded them in, cheap, to acquire more compact discs. The story has a happy ending, sort of: I still have all the CDs I bought, going back to 1986 (ask anyone who has been to my place), and I tended to keep the LPs that meant the most to me, either for sentimental or aesthetic reasons. As a result I typically sold albums of more recent vintage, invariably by more forgettable acts. Since LPs did not have nearly the street cred, or value they would gradually accrue after a couple of decades, it was the “hit” albums that had a better chance of being sold at used record stores circa 1988.

Sidenote: it’s important for younger people to know, if impossible for them to understand, how different the world used to be. By the time the mid-’80s rolled around, some of us embraced digital technology like it was the Holy Grail. The act of purchasing an album meant immediately making a recording of it on a thing called a cassette (ask your parents): the reason for this was that from the first time you played a new album it would never sound that good again. Things like dust, time and repeated listens invariably caused skips and old-fashioned wear and tear. So in essence, you made a “pristine” copy on a demonstrably lower-fidelity solution (cassettes, which gave birth to thing called mixed tapes, of which more, HERE), in order to preserve that unsullied sound. Thus, when compact discs arrived, the notion of hearing it for the first time, every time was about as inconceivable, and magical as time travel (much more on that phenomenon and all it entailed, HERE). Listening to a compact disc was, for old-timers, what seeing Blu-ray was like for today’s lucky punks, only ten-fold (hundred-fold? million-fold?); it was like listening to the voice of God. And, if like me, the musicians you listened to were worshipped like gods, it all made a sick, wonderful sort of sense.

Of course, in recent times, turntables have assumed a new life, in part inevitable hipster bandwagon jumping, understandable nostalgia and the ceaselessly cyclical imperatives of trends and fashion. As such, people have increasingly asked me: Do you rock old school vinyl? I had to answer, no, but not for lack of trying. Not anymore. And in the meantime, I’ve had the opportunity to raid a good friend’s attic, I’ve had a colleague with a thing for estate sales scoping out the stacks, and above all, the aforementioned milk crate. With the turntable fully functional, and being home for the holiday, I made the sentimental journey down those wooden steps and there it sat, resilient yet filthy after about a quarter-century of neglect. I poked through, holding my nose as the dust flew in every direction. I also held my breath, figuratively: I had little recollection of what I’d saved and what I’d consigned, unwittingly, in the full flowering of arrogant youth, to the dustbin of history. Almost miraculously, so many of the wonderful memories were staring back up at me, wise eyes that had been abandoned for too long, ready to forgive, forget and air it out on the wheels of steel. There they were, the ones I’d bought, the ones I’d received as gifts, the ones my best friend’s father, a rehabilitated hippie, gave me in the early ’80s, and the handful my old man (not an aficionado, but not without a little game, of which more HERE) held over from the great old days.

It was information and memory load, in a good way. To think that my 7th grade nephew helped me lug the heavy crate to my car was, if not full circle, at least semi-full and not without its own unforced poetry.

What follows is a celebration, in two parts, of some of the finds that have provided the most delight and joy. To be certain, all of these are available in my digital library, and some receive repeated airplay. But the tactile sensation of seeing them, touching them, and then listening to them…let’s put it this way: when’s the last time you heard a needle easing down onto an LP? That impossible-to-replicate crackle, and then the warmth of that sound? For me it had been at least since high school and that is entirely too long. Hosting good friends for cocktails the other night I was struck by one thing above all else: how often I had to keep getting up to put a new record on. In a world of discs, iPods and shuffling playlists, it is arresting to recall that, at most, albums typically lasted 20 minutes per side. During the course of a lubricated evening, that is a lot of 20 minute intervals (and a lot less depending on how old the album in question is). That will inexorably lead to sobering thoughts: how old we are, how young we were, how much slower everything seemed, and mostly the irretrievable reality that we used to spend a great deal of time with analog sounds and hard-cover books because there were no other alternatives. It’s, as always, better to have more options and enjoy the best of all worlds. But it’s nice to take that long, strange trip down the yellow-brick road and remember all the things you realize, as you listen, you never really forgot.

*Incidentally, this milk crate was a gold mine of sorts, but the title comes from a great song full of inscrutable (if evocative) images and lines, by one of my all-time favorite bands. (Much more on them, HERE.) That line provided the title for a double LP collection that figured prominently in young Murph’s musical evolution. That’s it in the front row, peaking out at my old man’s original pressing of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Respect!

So, in chronological order, let’s take a look at ten original album covers, and feature a personal favorite from each album.

(Rescued/redeemed from a box in an attic. To have some original Beatles vinyl is like finding dinosaur bones. Sound quality: tolerable!) “Think For Yourself”:

(From my boy’s old man, handed over like an heirloom from another family; you can still smeel the skunk weed in the grooves. Figuratively.) “White Room”:

(This is actually a pretty medicore effort from Jim’s “Fat Elvis” period, but appreciate the misleading original cover, and the fact that it does not exist with this cover, even on CD.) “Universal Mind”:

(From the Jack R. Murphy archives; he was appreciating Creedence when The Big Lebowski was still a pup.) “Ramble Tamble”:

(Another one from my 5th grade best friend’s father, an original with the actual zipper on the cover. Believe that shit.) “Moonlight Mile”:

To be continued…

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Back To Bach

December 20, 2012 By Leave a Comment

It’s that time of the year, prompting reflection, peace and positive vibes. At least if you’re smart and do most of your holiday shopping online.

I doubt it’s just me, but there is something about Christmas approaching that rekindles a lifelong obsession with classical music.

(This is music I enjoy throughout the year, but there are certain works, at certain times, that lend themselves to certain occasions.)

And during a time of the year that can (should?) be equal parts somber and celebratory, it is only appropriate to invoke the old masters.

And if we want to talk about the masters, we must begin with the master, the only man both Mozart and Beethoven must bow before: Johann Sebastian Bach.

(What’s the big deal about Bach? Here’s some advice for the uninitiated.)

Bach, perhaps more so than Mozart of Beethoven (though I prefer the other two) presents the ultimate good news/bad news scenario for beginners. On one hand, you can dive into virtually any of his works and come away educated, inspired, awed. On the other hand, to say he was prolific is like saying Mitt Romney had a proclivity for stretching the truth. Bach’s canon is unwieldy, astonishing, intimidating. You could spend the rest of a lifetime trying to get your ears around it, which seems only fair since he spent virtually his entire life creating it.

Even if you’ve never heard Bach (impossible) or don’t care for him (improbable), you’ve heard his direct and enduring influence via other artists. Two quick, easy examples, below.

Brandenburg Concerto No. 2:

The Beatles: “Penny Lane” (yet another instance of how indispensable George Martin was: Mac was listening to –and enjoying– the Brandenburg and told Martin he’d love to incorporate the piccolo trumpet; a crucial moment on one of the all-time great singles in rock history followed):

Bourrée in E minor (Suite in E minor for Lute, BWV 996):

Jethro Tull, “Bouree”:

You can google (and then YouTube) his more popular works, ones you will realize, after hearing, “oh, that’s Bach”. (Ones like this and this.) And eventually you will also realize: woah, he covered all types of sound, feeling and expression. That’s why he’s the master.

Here are five of my personal favorites:

It’s hard to argue with perfection and pretty much the entirety of his Brandenburg Concertos is just that, perfection:

Violin concerto (BWV 1041: II, Andante)

Incidentally, my personal favorite recording of that movement is on this disc, featuring the excellent Viktoria Mullova (get a cheap, used copy at Amazon).

Concerto No. 3 in D Minor (Vivace) (I prefer the appropriately slowed down versions; when it’s too quick it loses the “voice of God” authority it requires):

Oboe Concerto in G Minor

Last and most definitely far from least, if you’ve never spent some time with Bach’s cello suites, you are depriving yourself of the greatest glories:

This is just a cursory sampling of low-hanging (however brilliant) fruit, and even these handful of pieces must leave one overriding impression: the variety and virtuosity is staggering. Of course it’s impressive enough to master both performance and composition of a single instrument; to conceive, and perfect, entire works for full orchestras must remain an example of the greatest heights we are capable of attaining as human beings. Bach did it first and, arguably, he did it best.

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‘Magical Mystery Tour’ Is Not as Bad as Everyone Says…

November 8, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Having never had the opportunity to view Magical Mystery Tour all the way through, I looked forward to this DVD with a mixture of anticipation and a sense of settling unfinished business. Of course, I’d seen various clips (some good, some not) but mostly I’d heard the oft-repeated assessment from those who had watched the film in its entirety. It was, of course, considered a disaster and signaled the first unadulterated flop of the Fab Four’s career. An ill-advised caper gone not so magically off the rails, the only mystery being how and why it got made in the first place. The fact that it has never been properly released, all these years later, suggested that the band was not especially eager for it to see the light of day.

Perceptions can –and should—change, and certainly the way people received this venture almost half a century ago might not be applicable to today’s tastes. Would considerable time and distance eliminate (or add) baggage, knowing this was, after all, The Beatles? Or, would knowing it was almost universally panned, then, soften one’s expectations? Could we, in short, be surprised by how bad it wasn’t, after all?

The most direct answer to all of these questions is that Magical Mystery Tour is not as bad as everyone says. It’s worse.

Well, judged by virtually any criteria, the movie fails in virtually every regard. It’s sloppy, unfocused, and manages to be one thing The Beatles never were before or after: boring. Considering the band was fresh off the artistic and cultural touchstone that Sgt. Pepper was –and remains—it’s almost impossible to imagine how poorly they acquit themselves here. Or is it? Looking back on how productive the lads were all through the ‘60s, churning out a string of albums that continued to set the bar (for themselves; for everyone else) higher, some sort of letdown was inevitable.

Magical Mystery Tour remains worthwhile as a period piece, and a cautionary tale. It isn’t calculated enough to be a proper vanity project, but it’s not nearly daring or adventurous enough to be a true piece of experimentation, either. It’s an occasionally awesome mess full of odds and sods and in some regards an appropriate artistic hangover from the Summer of Love.

The concept, a trip following the Fabs around the countryside, could (or, should) have either been a forthright documentary, or else a full-blown lark. What results is a bit of both, which is fine, but too much of the material is plodding or uninspired.

Needless to say, the sequences featuring the band performing are never less than satisfying. Some of the segments, like the performance art for “I Am The Walrus”, are remarkable. Indeed, this installment practically justifies the entire ordeal, serving as the first truly successful combination of avant-garde and old school music video. The renderings of “Blue Jay Way” and “Your Mother Should Know” endure as straightforward opportunities to see the lads doing their thing with a minimum of pretense—at least by the standards of 1967. The footage of them, in Sgt. Pepper regalia, miming “Hello Goodbye” for “Top of the Pops” is equal parts embarrassing and exhilarating.

In terms of “plot”, the sequences following the “action” range from tedious to painful. The forced silliness has not aged well, and while some of the low budget set pieces show initial promise, they too often feel like Monty Python skits, without the humor. Seeing the lads (particularly Paul and Ringo) appearing unguarded amongst their fans is a reminder of why the band was—and is—so likeable.

Listening to McCartney, who was at this time asserting himself as the dominant force within the collective, fondly recall his vision of filming a psychedelic charabanc ride, one can appreciate what might have been. If there had been more time, or energy, or discipline, Mac may have been on to something. Interestingly and more than a little ironically, the end result gives short shrift to the psychedelia, and it mars the proceedings. More moments, such as Lennon as a waiter shoveling spaghetti onto a woman’s plate (appropriately lifted directly from a dream) would have been welcome.

Then again, the music itself (“Flying”, “Blue Jay Way”, “The Fool on the Hill”) accomplishes what the best music—Beatles’ and otherwise-often manages to be: miniature movies for the mind. Nothing the band could film is capable of surpassing the images the songs conjure up on their own.

Magical Mystery Tour, then, is the soundtrack to many things: excess ambition, insufficient attention, whimsical self-deprecation, experimental folly, and semi-choreographed skylarking from the biggest band in the universe. It is, ultimately, a reminder that these geniuses were human. We would see this play out literally as the cameras recorded the tension during the Let It Be sessions. This project showcases the band’s ambition while exposing their aesthetic limitations.

Bottom line: the dramatically improved sound of this Blu-ray edition validates its acquisition, and a careful listen to songs you’ve heard a thousand times before is sufficient evidence that when The Beatles focused on making music, no one did it better.

The bonus/special features certainly make an already appealing purchase even more so. Surely, any extra footage featuring reminiscence from Paul and Ringo is most welcome. There is a 20 minute “Making Of” feature that has additional commentary and perspective from both Ringo and Paul, and there is also a brief “Meet the Supporting Cast” addendum. Neither of these will warrant repeat viewings, but they add value and will be appreciated by aficionados.

Perhaps the ultimate selling point (for those not already sold) is the Director’s Commentary by Paul McCartney. As always, Macca is honest, humble and amiable. For us die-hard Beatlemaniacs, any opportunity to hear one of the original members looking through the onion, glassily, is golden.

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Adaptation*

October 4, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Remembering.

Everything changes after a baby is born. This is what everyone told her. Her mother had told her everything, but—she would come to understand—there is nothing that can be said to fully prepare a woman for the ways her existence is altered. It wasn’t until you left the hospital and realized you were alone that the surprising pleasure wore off and the fear set in.

It was, of course, more than the physical (and easily identifiable, easily explainable) symptoms contributing to the lethargy that led, at times, to despondency. Even during the times when she wasn’t fearing the uncertain future, or lamenting an irretrievable past, she grappled with the reality that motherhood—being alone each day with a child—was capable of inducing frustration and anxiety she had never previously felt.  She understood, and accepted that her husband had to leave early each morning for the job that provided the immutable necessities of shelter, sustenance, and security. She was nevertheless unable to entirely suppress resentment at being alone so much.

Housewife. The term too often uttered by men (and unwed women) with denigration, and ignorance. So what? Well, to acknowledge that the routine of feeding, cleaning and tending to a baby could occasionally be tiresome to the point of exasperation was to, in effect, admit negligence, or defeat. It was all but impossible for a woman to express how terribly afraid, and even angry, she could become as she looked down helplessly at a child, unable to determine why it was screeching. The ceaseless concern for the welfare of the baby (who depended entirely upon you for its innocent life) was capable of provoking an agitation that seemed uncomfortably close to hysteria. Nothing could prepare a woman for this, and even a mother who was experiencing the dread and despair—and feelings of inadequacy—was usually at a loss to articulate her consternation. This is what she read. This is what she lived.

Postpartum depression. Her mother had experienced similar symptoms after the birth of her first child.  It’s very common:  this is what the doctor told her.  This is what her husband constantly reminded her.  It was what she repeatedly said to herself.  Unfortunately, to her way of thinking, this knowledge only amplified her distress.  If she was back east, with familiar faces, with family, she was sure all of this would be more tolerable. Being housebound, or in the slow process of physical recovery, would have been different propositions if she had her parents to take care of her, even as she tended to her newborn daughter. As it was, she was largely alone with her thoughts and feelings.  And that she occasionally caught herself entertaining irrational thoughts in her solitude that left her terrified.  She was loath to admit, even to herself, that in flashes of frustration she visualized drastic and awful acts:  she sometimes had to force away the maddening impulse to take her own life, or do harm to the tiny, trusting baby that lay before her.  That she was even able to think such thoughts intensified her feelings of guilt and culpability.  She began gradually to suspect the worst possible conclusion: that she was not a suitable wife, or mother.

***

I don’t know if I can do it, she’d say to herself on the worst days. How did this happen? How did I get here? Where am I going?

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she said to her mother, again. Feeling guilty, again. Guilty about how she felt. Guilty about the long distance charges. Guilty because she felt guilty.

“Of course you can,” her mother said, again. “You’re already doing it.”

Her mother reminded her, again, how much help she had provided, being the oldest of seven. Her mother reminded her that every mother thinks similar thoughts, and that only the ones who genuinely questioned their abilities were fully engaged with what they were doing. Her mother reminded her it would get easier. It would get better. It would get enjoyable. Her mother told her that one day her own daughter would have kids and she would tell her the same things. Her mother promised her that they would laugh about this, often, as they each adjusted to their new roles once they added grand and great to the names their children’s children called them.

***

Eventually, she no longer woke up crying each morning, and she made the gradual transition into comfortable—and confident— motherhood. It was during this time—the first year of her daughter’s life—that she underwent the transfiguration from young lady to woman. She recognized and learned to celebrate this identity, her destiny.  She was—and would be—a  housewife, and after a while, even that once unbecoming designation was one she embraced, and endeavored to contend with, without reservation. It was, she realized, her house, the dinners prepared were her meals, and the personality that the apartment was to take on would be the reflection of her personality.

During these initial years of dedication and resolution, it never occurred to her in any direct or pressing fashion that a time would one day come when she’d cease to be a mother (at least in the same way she had been for the first two decades of her children’s lives). This was not unnatural: her focus was not unlike her husband’s, whose reality was in large part informed by his career. But just as an employee eventually becomes cognizant—on some level—that retirement is inevitable, if desired, a mother is understandably less inclined to envision how her primary role will one day be irrevocably altered.

***

And then, one day, your children have grown up and moved out of the house. Just as you can’t imagine your life—and the ways it will change—before you have them, it’s impossible to adequately prepare for how it will feel once they are gone. Of course they aren’t gone, you remind yourself, even as you deal with your parents’ mortality and your own, accepting that nothing lasts forever.

Of course she was happy: for them, for herself. She was also sad. She was even, if she could bring herself to admit it (and she could, on occasion), more than a little jealous. She could admit it; she wanted to admit it. She needed someone—besides her husband—to talk to, a role her mother, and increasingly, her children, had served. Someone to talk to about the things she could never talk to anyone else about. Of course they are still around, she reminded herself, but she needed to let them go just as she had once let them cry themselves to sleep. It was the ultimate act of love, allowing children to learn ways they can take care of themselves.

There were three pictures above the fireplace: her wedding, her daughter’s wedding and her son’s high school graduation. So many of her friends’ marriages had ended in divorce, even the marriages she had admired and envied. So many of her friends’ children required separate sets of photographs for special occasions. They had done it, she reminded herself. They lived up to every reasonable expectation, for their children, for themselves. This was a comfort, even if it also caused an indescribable sorrow at times. Nothing lasts forever.

There was a new question, now that all the old questions had more or less been answered, she could not help asking, even if she was uncertain how to answer it: Now what?

*excerpted from a memoir entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone.

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