SOMETIMES, SOMETHING IS JUST NICE TO LISTEN TO…BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T TEACH YOU SOMETHING, TOO (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #118)

Rock and rollers have always killed the Gershwin signature tune “Summertime.”

Sam Cooke killed it. Janis Joplin absolutely killed it. Billy Preston killed it.

Every one of them got more out of it than any pre-rock pop singer I’ve heard.

Glenn Frey and the Eagles went even further and wrote “Lyin’ Eyes,” (a better song) about the same girl.

But until this week, I never realized that the version which perhaps went the furthest didn’t even use the words. I can’t really convey what it was like to hear it drifting in from the other room, backing up “Hip Hug-Her” on Time is Tight, the super-fine box set Stax’s reissue label put out on Booker T and the MGs a generation back. Suffice it to say the Memphis boys conceded nothing to either Tin Pan Alley or Charlie Parker and from now on it will always be one of those records I reference spiritually when I catch myself wondering what all the dread and beauty felt like, just before the fall.

From ’66…And you can imagine it matching the mood at anything from a backyard barbecue to a flag-draped funeral.

 

THE BOSS REMINDS (Segue of the Day: 1/23/16)

I don’t write much about Bruce Springsteen because, though I like a lot of his music, I’m not close enough to it to say much of anything that hasn’t already been said. But careening around YouTube in the wee hours last night, I found his tributes (at separate shows) to David Bowie and Glenn Frey. Then I started asking myself if anyone else could have really done justice to both. After sleeping on it, I decided the answer was decidedly “no.”

Of the aging rockers on the road who offered tributes that have made it to YouTube so far, Jackson Browne did “Take It Easy” (which he co-wrote) and it’s beautiful. Madonna embarrassed herself on “Rebel, Rebel” but you could tell her heart was in it.

The thing is, it’s hard to imagine either being able to so much as wave a hand at the one who is outside their lane (Bowie in Browne’s case, Frey in Madonna’s), even if they cared to try.

I wouldn’t have bet either Frey or Bowie were exactly in Springsteen’s lane either. And, really, they weren’t. Until he showed, as I suppose he often has, just how wide his lane really is.

I’ll just add that the common narrative has always been that David Bowie fans and Eagles’ fans never had much, if anything, to say to each other.

I wonder if that might just have been  wishful thinking on the part of those who mean us harm and have now come so very close to bringing their dream to pass. Assuming a new David Bowie or a new Glenn Frey were to emerge tomorrow, what chance would there be that some contemporary who wanted to honor their passing forty years down the road would be able to sing their songs to crowds filled with people who knew every word?

Same chance that the future will be at least as good as the present, I suppose.

I’ll stay tuned. But I ain’t holding my breath.

 

COWBOY (Glenn Frey, R.I.P.)

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In the days when harmony ruled, there was apparently a legal requirement that any harmony group aspiring to royalty have a resident asshole. In the Everlys, it was Don. In Simon & Garfunkel, it was Simon. In the Beach Boys, it was Mike Love. In the Beatles, it was John Lennon. In the Byrds it was David Crosby.

By most accounts, the Eagles, arriving late and assigned by history to close down the party, doubled down. In Glenn Frey and Don Henley, they offered two holes for the price of one. In a western, they’d have been the outliers, the surly cowpokes who would do the right thing or the wrong thing or simply ride away, depending on what was in it for them.

Like somebody from the actual west, I suppose.

It’s possible this is precisely what allowed them to embody some weird contradictions and, having aimed squarely for the middle of the road, where they dug a permanent groove in the asphalt right where the yellow stripe was supposed to be, elicit far stranger and more disruptive responses than most bands who craved disruption for its own sake.

Crosby repeatedly professed to find them boring, which, given the projects he’s proudly participated in since he left the Byrds, took more than mere chutzpah. Robert Christgau professed to find them misogynistic, which, given his life-long devotion to the Rolling Stones (not really waved away, I think, by his recently arrived at suspicion that Mick and Keith really aren’t the nicest people…and, get this, may never have been!), is a real knee-slapper.  I’m guessing they would have both enjoyed having a beer with the weekend softball warrior I once heard saying he didn’t want his wife to drive if she was “just gonna play that goddam Eagles crap.”

Or maybe not.

On the occasion of Frey’s death, one website, reliably standing in for the rest, declared the Eagles “about as polarizing as any band in rock history,” before also declaring, de rigeuer, their personal indifference.

So it goes. So it’s gone for forty years.

From the interviews I heard on television last night, it seems Frey was the hard-driving perfectionist in a band that was often criticized, not without some justification, for prizing perfection above all else. If that kept the Eagles from being, say, the Byrds–imposed a certain set of limitations that meant there were few of the surprises that preclude indifference–then I guess he’ll have something to answer for at the next stage.

But that’s just one way of looking at it.

I can’t pretend the Eagles were ever my favorite band (happens the Byrds were/are, and have been since the first moment I heard them, which was also the first moment I realized indifference could be banished in such matters, and, coming in the spring of 1978, was long after I’d not only heard but absorbed the Eagles).

Like a lot of artists I’ve championed here, though, it seems like most of flak Frey’s band caught was really for appealing to the wrong people.

And, in my experience, mostly those people were/are women.

Anybody surprised?

Also like a lot of artists I’ve championed here, I’ll take them, and their “misguided” fans, over most of those representing the alternative.

And while the half-dozen to a dozen of their records that I really love might be somewhat, or even completely, different than the same number the next casual Eagles fan you meet feels the same way about, I don’t gainsay anyone who loves it all. I lived through the seventies. Believe me, anyone who could pursue perfection to a useful end in that chaotic moment had real value, even if some fools were bound to mistake it for “boredom” or worse.

Glenn Frey was a solid guitar player, a first class singer/songwriter, and a harmony singer extraordinaire, never more sublime than when he was breath-to-breath between screaming matches with his asshole buddy Don Henley. And if their best records really were oh-so-perfect, nobody ever doubted it was the kind of perfection that only rests on the other side of hardcore professionalism. That means different things to different people, but all it ever meant in the suburbs and trailer parks where copies of the Eagles Greatest Hits became as ubiquitous as Budweiser and the Bible was that it was bought and paid for the hard way.

Nothing wrong with that.

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