Verve Pipe
Category: Music
Amazing, Awesome, Incredible
I don’t normally post about shows like The Voice, but trilby-wearing, elf-faced Josh Kaufman blew me away last night. And, no, he’s not hot. He’s just good.
A few notes into George Michael’s “One More Try,” Adam Levine turned his big red chair around in approval. Indiana native Josh was already nailing it. The truth is it’s hard for me to think of any song off that 1988 Faith cassette without picturing the former Wham! frontman in his ripped jeans and scruffy five o’clock shadow, shaking his rump and pretending to be into Asian women. It’s often hard to separate the artist from the song.
It’s kind of like how every December, the radio stations and department stores put George Michael’s “Last Christmas” on high rotation, and I can’t enjoy it as a holiday song, because I keep picturing him in public toilets, soliciting sex from policemen and being foolish enough to get caught. Kind of ruins the whole Christmas spirit.
So for Josh Kaufman to be able to belt the song out in a new and soulful way, devoid of all that Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou baggage, was refreshing. Once you’re sick of a song, you’re usually sick of it forever. I’m talking to you, “Red Red Wine.” But Josh infused this ballad with new life.
As he continued to sing it, I feared he wouldn’t be able to hit the money note, “Hold you, touch YOU-OOOOO,” but he did. In spades.
Adam Levine’s comment to Josh once he finished: “Damn.”
Agreed.
Can Music Save Your Mortal Soul?
You can plainly see why I shared Mr. Fountain with you. I felt like he needed to be in all of your lives. I did not know there was such a thing as a “nationally known clarinetist” (do we have any now?), but he was big enough to play TWO concerts at Arlington High School back in 1963.
Such were the aspirations of these teens with their instruments in the 50s.
Below is a junior high band in 1923, before electric guitars existed.
In the back row, you can see Leonardo DiCaprio during his Growing Pains years.
During the turbulent 60s, girls learned to move to the beat of a different drum. “It’s just like holding chopsticks, Melinda. Don’t try too hard.”
And these nicely-clad songbirds look confident gathered around the piano.
Hey, you wanna see what Mr. Fountain looks like these days? He threw beads out to the crowd in New Orleans last year:
I bet there’s a good chance he was at Mardi Gras this week.
P.S. Music is great, but it can’t save your mortal soul.
I Can Feel St. Elmo’s Fire Burning In Me
No, this isn’t a post about urinary tract infections; it’s about lyrics, because that’s 99% what’s swirling about in my big bullom head. Song lyrics, including cheesey, inspirational soundtrack lyrics.
I’m not saying St. Elmo’s Fire can in any way rival Eye of the Tiger for most motivational song of the 80s (and you KNOW the 80s was full of motivational ditties), but one cannot deny the Tony Robbins-esque “can-do” attitude of the lyrics. So as we near the end of February, casting our New Year’s resolutions to the wind (which is where the dust is, which is what we are), keep John Parr’s words in mind:
Play the game — you know you can’t quit until it’s won.
Soldier on– only you can do what must be done.
Ladies, I know what you’re thinking: No, someone else can do what must be done: dishes, laundry, dinner. But think about it. Could anyone really do it the right way? Or will they just screw it up, forcing you to redo it, reprimanding them with clear-cut words that dissipate upon their ears because they refuse to be teachable?
While we’re at it, did you think you’d be ten pounds lighter by now? I did. I cut my portions, drank more water, drank less soda and wine, and exercised more, even going to an RPM class at the devil’s own Gold’s Gym. But guess what? I didn’t lose a pound. Not a filthy pound. But I can’t give up. You know why?
I can see a new horizon underneath the blazing sky.
I’ll be where the eagles flying higher and higher.
I guess that’s a metaphor because I’m actually still down here on rough terrain. I can’t even afford a plane ticket to see the eagles flying. So maybe it’s a metaphor for rising higher. You can do it!
I can climb the highest mountain, cross the wildest sea.
Who am I kidding? I can barely trudge up that hill near the soccer fields. I can barely cross the YMCA swimming pool.
You broke the boy in me but you won’t break the man.
Oh, okay, this is just for dudes. Now it makes way more sense.
Just once in his life a man has his time.
And my time is now. I’m coming alive.
Yeah, totally for dudes. It’s not a woman in motion.
Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels.
Take me where my future’s lyin’, St. Elmo’s Fire.
What in tarnation does this mean? A man in motion? A pair of wheels? Do you need a bike, sweetie? Did you get caught up in the whole Lance Armstrong thing? Why is your future lying in St. Elmo’s Fire? St. Elmo’s Fire was a bar–is your future in bartending? How’s your Tom Cruise flair?
Sometimes I actually get sick of “not getting it,” so I researched this one because I am sleuthy like that. Per http://www.songfacts.com/, David Foster wrote the song for a Canadian athlete named Rick Hansen, who was paralyzed from the waist down after a car crash. On March 21, 1985 Hansen began his “Man In Motion” tour, putting over 40,000 Kilometers (24,856 miles) on his wheelchair in 34 countries on 4 continents, while raising $26 million for spinal cord research.
If you’re Canadian, you have no excuse not to know that. Being American, I’d never heard of him. But it does make me wonder what the heck it has to do with a Brat Pack coming-of-age film. Oh, and P.S. this movie poster declares “the heat this summer is at Saint Elmo’s Fire.” I’ll tell you why: because it’s SUMMER and they’re wearing coats and scarves and close-toed shoes. I’d be hot, dressed like that in summer, too. Come to think of it, passion can’t even burn deep. Deeply, perhaps. But not deep.
Country Girl, Shake It For Me
Hoop Dreams
Nobody could rock a hoop earring like Jody (“Lookin’ For A New Love) Watley. Rumor has it that she hasn’t shrugged since the mid-80s. Many people tried to copy her style. Some went so far as to marry it with a quilted jacket and hat. Oh, no, you di’n’t…
Even modern-day Watley can’t rock a hoop like 1987 Watley. Sometimes you just need to let the style go gently into that good night. These earrings look about as silly as the albino Unibomber behind them.
And as for quilted jackets, these two guys are doing it right–though they don’t appear too thrilled about it.
Maybe they’re upset because they’re using a generic toilet paper, and their bums are all bristly. They should try this:
Kiss These Angels Good Morning
These gorgeous gals can hardly contain themselves, anticipating the opening number at the Charley Pride concert. They are duded up and ready to get their country music on. What is that, you say? Who is Charley Pride? I can’t hear you over the squeaking of her leather jacket as she shifts uncomfortably against the wallet in her back pocket. Charley Pride is a country music singer who had hits in the 70s and 80s, scoring his 29th No. 1 in 1983 with “Night Games.” Back then, he was a pretty big deal.
Apparently, Charley Pride has been forgotten. I did not know it until I saw this picture. I assumed he was very much remembered, since everyone and their dog wants to call Darius “Don’t Call Me Hootie” Rucker the modern-day Mr. Pride. True, they have the honor of being the only two African-American artists to have solo No. 1 hits in the Country Music genre, but Charley is a traditionalist, and Darius is a crossover artist, writing his own songs as well as scoring hits with covers like “Wagon Wheel,” originally co-written by Bob Dylan.
If you know anything about me by now (aside from the fact that I don’t get it), you know Mama likes her ties, even this silk handkerchief thingy that isn’t really a tie. A man who wears this can never truly be forgotten. Especially since he’s still alive.
Now I’ll tell you who’s really been forgotten. Eddie Rabbitt. God rest his soul, he has been forgotten. Case in point: I waltzed into the local Best Buy nigh on seven years ago, back when people still purchased CDs, looking for a “best of” collection. I grabbed one of the associates, bordering on the edge of adolescence. He had never heard of Mr. Rabbitt, but he went to his trusty keyboard at the end of the aisle, punched in the name, and came up with…nothing. What? Who erased Eddie Rabbitt from existence? Who does Worst Buy think they are? I put a hex on them that day to perish in the manner of Blockbuster Video, and mark my word, they will. As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like an empress above the Serengeti.
I said, “Boy! Go fetch me your most elder statesman, for I wish to speak with him.” Eventually, a schlubbier version of gawky teen made his way over to me, and he could not have yet been thirty. I told him I wanted to hear “I Love A Rainy Night.” This ditty he could not recall.
“What about ‘Driving My Life Away?’ You remember that one about the windshield wipers?”
“No. No, I don’t.” At that point, he sounded just like Robin Gibb on The Barry Gibb Talk Show, but I figured making reference to the Brothers Gibb would get us nowhere.
“Surely you bought the Soft Love Adult Contemporary three cassette collection from a late-night infomercial in the 80s like I did, the one that contained Rabbitt’s hit with Crystal Gayle, ‘You And I.’ “
His eyebrows raised. “The lady with the long-ass hair?”
“Yes, her!” Victory was in sight.
“I know her. But I don’t know that song.”
Exasperated, I explained, “He wrote ‘Kentucky Rain’ for Elvis. Have you heard of Elvis?”
“Elvis, yes. Kentucky, yes. Eddie Rabbitt, no.” And even though he was only saying the words, I knew that he was misspelling Rabbitt in his mind. Curse him.
Ugh. So don’t cry for Charley Pride, Argentina. Cry for Eddie Rabbitt and his smoldering bedroom eyes.
Hungry Eyes
Nobody puts Baby in a corner, unless it’s a corner drug store. After performing the iconic lift scene with Johnny, Baby took a break with a malted down at Cunningham’s Drug Store. Looks like she had the time of her life.
An Image To Warm You On A Winter’s Day
(spoiler alert: this is not the warm image)
Yes, it’s Elvis’s birthday today. It is my intention to brave the blustery polar vortex and go to Chuy’s Tex-Mex to consume an Elvis Presley Memorial Combo in his honor. New Year’s Resolution be damned. It is my obligation as an American citizen.
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This photo of Chuy’s is courtesy of TripAdvisor.
Mercy, that looks delicious! But today’s post is not about The King of Rock n Roll; it’s about The King of Pop. You see, my 12-year-old self would have considered it an epic failure on my part to not have been married to Michael Jackson by this point. That was, after all, my master plan. And probably that of a million billion other adolescent girls. And we all failed. Except ironically, for the daughter of the King of Rock. And Debbie Rowe, but she doesn’t count.
No matter that he no longer walks the earth. My 12-year-old self would be disappointed. He was the reason we hit “play” and “record” simultaneously on our jambox that sat atop the television on the night the Thriller video premiered. No, we didn’t have a VCR yet. He was the reason my best friend and I learned to moonwalk in our Bill Blass socks on my parents’ hardwood floors. He was the reason we wore our red zippered Beat It jackets (not ironically, of course) to school and then promptly retired them out of humiliation because for some reason, sixth grade white girls couldn’t quite carry the look. In our defense, we did weigh 115 lbs at that point, just like he did.
I think it’s safe to say that most current musical artists were influenced by Michael Jackson. I imagine his influence spread into other art genres as well. But I was not aware of the magnitude of this until my friend posted this glorious image on facebook today. Apparently she was googling “exotic flowers,” and this gem appeared:
I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes words can’t express our emotions, our awe, our wonder. In that sense, this artwork is like the Grand Canyon. I was only an Art Major for two years before changing to a legit degree (just kidding, art majors), so I am clearly not the authority on this. But I can say that never has there been such a depiction of the soft femininity of flowers balanced with the rugged machismo of Michael Jackson.
Needless to say, there was an instant barrage of comments, including:
- that’s a pretty young lady
- Why? Why? Tell them that it’s human nature.
- i want this person to be my next family photographer.
- Are those cornrows? Seriously?
- i can give your whole family cornrows after your family photographs if you want that with exotic flowers in your hair…lol
- Is there alcohol in your coffee this morning?
- Looks like an Herbal Esssence commercial!
- Much magical.
- Does anyone else feel compelled to go purchase Summer’s Eve products?
- I like how the photo looks wet…
- Or sweaty
I felt it was my duty to share this beautiful artwork with my readers. You’re welcome. I hope your day is much magical.
Isn’t It Ironic? Yeah, I Really Do Think.
Dear Alanis Morissette,
This is an example of irony. According to the Oxford English Dictionary “irony” is “a figure of speech in which the intended meaning is the opposite of that expressed by the words used.” Granted, the above example does not contain a figure of speech, but it contains visual irony. Out of all the spelling words, only “illiterate” was spelled correctly. And illiterate means “unable to read or write.” Get it?
Your song, “Ironic,” now notorious for not having one actual example of irony, is in itself ironic. I’m fairly certain they teach word meanings in Canada, but maybe you weren’t paying attention.
- Insects in wine? Not ironic.
- Posthumous pardons? Ask their families. Not ironic.
- Rain on your wedding day? Not ironic. Does the humidity cause Diana Ross “Love Hangover” hair? Perhaps. But it’s still not ironic.
So why am I hassling you 18 years later? You’ve gotten enough flak, right? I don’t want to give you any more flack (that spelling actually means “publicity,” which I’m doing right now, so that’s kind of ironic, huh?) I may be tardy to the party but I finally saw this parody of your 1995 ditty.
The video is similar, yet we are spared the braying donkiness of your singing style, as well as your epileptic seizures. I hear you have that under control now.
I think it’s great that you got to have your video played back in the day on MTV before it stopped playing videos. That’s a nice thing to have notched in your lipstick case. But they also used to play ZZ Top videos. The only member of that band without a beard is Frank Beard. That’s ironic.
And get this: the Segway tycoon died riding his Segway. Ironic.
Both Charlie Chaplin and Dolly Parton entered lookalike contests for themselves and did not win. Ironic.
Barry Manilow did not write his hit song, “I Write The Songs.” Ironic.
For more of these, check out: http://www.buzzfeed.com/ailbhemalone/the-19-most-ironic-facts-of-all-time.
So now I hope you’ve grasped the true meaning of the word.
You, you, you oughta know.
Gliddy Gloop Gloopy is not Hang On, Sloopy
Total Yodel Recall
NBC has been advertising its new summer show, The Winner Is, all week, and as much as I enjoy Nick Lachey (and am glad for him that he finally became a daddy after a decade of waiting), I cannot take time out of the second half of my life to watch this. I spent last season cheering for Blake Shelton’s team on The Voice, and frankly, I’m exhausted. I had bristled at the thought of both Usher and Shakira as judges, but they won me over, and now I’d prefer to never see li’l Cee Lo or Diva Aguilera set foot on stage again. But I digress.
One of the clips NBC continues to pimp (while I’m TRYING to get my Hoda and Kathy Lee fix–all Kristen Wiig’s fault) of the new singing competition shows yodelers. Is this a new trend? Really? I was forced to watch Heidi Klum teach Bradley Cooper to yodel on The Tonight Show a couple months ago, and I’m pretty sure she did it again on America’s Got Talent last month. And is it NEWS that Jewel can yodel? Is it news she used to sleep in her car? I thought we all got the memo on that in 1995. I don’t need to hear her yodel again, with or without snaggletooth. I admit it’s preferable to hearing any of her hits, vacillating between her awkward lower register and what I like to refer to as her higher “toddler voice.” Her goo-goo ga-ga voice. Honestly, I’m yodeled out.
I do admit I was mildly amused by Jimmy Fallon and Brad Pitt’s yodeling skit last month, but mainly because they weren’t taking themselves too seriously. For my money, that’s his best acting job since Benjamin Button.
Look, unless you’re a singing cowboy (Roy Rogers or Gene Autry R.I.P.), leave yodeling alone. It’s not like it has lyrics the rest of us can sing along with. It’s not soothing, good to dance to, or helpful during a break-up. It’s like a gussied-up hog call. Don’t do it.
Let it go the way of country singer Slim Whitman, who passed away last month at the age of 90. Never heard of him? He was quite the yodeler. Per the New York Times article, “Michael Jackson named Mr. Whitman one of his 10 favorite vocalists. George Harrison credited him as an early influence. Paul McCartney said Mr. Whitman gave him the idea of playing the guitar left-handed.” And don’t even get me started on his impressive ‘stache.
I Don't Get It 
