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Today’s music is feline inspired. I swear I could hear my cat singing this when I went through my morning rituals. As I went from room to room and activity to activity, he tagged along. Sometimes he would lean against my leg when I stopped, but he also sat on my foot, or stopped and peeked around the corner. When I moved, he moved, following me around.
Here it is, courtesy of Tucker’s inspiration, Little Peggy March (which I had to look up) with “I Will Follow Him” from 1963.
Today’s theme music comes by way of yesterday’s choir performance. The Rogue Valley Peace Choir performed as part of an afternoon called one voice. Participating with RVPC were four peace choirs from Portland and Eugene, Oregon, and California. It was an enjoyable afternoon. One of the songs presented is the well-known “La Bamba.”
An old Mexican folk song, I learned of it from Ritchie Valens release. It came out two years after I was born. He was dead by then, so part of my maturing process was hearing about this song (and his other music), learning about why Richie Valens didn’t perform any more, and learning about the plane crash in which Valens, Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson, and the pilot, Roger Peterson, were killed.
Though Valens died two years into my life, a movie of his life, “La Bamba,” starring Lou Diamond Philips, was released in 1987. Los Lobos performed “La Bamba” for the movie, sparking a new appreciation for the song and Richie Valens.
Turn it up and sing along. Happy Monday.
Many of you know this song because it’s one of those ubiquitous tunes that started during one era, and gets pulled out and employed to make a point.
The song is “The Beat Goes On,” originally by Sonny and Cher. Sung in a flat, almost monotonous style, it features words and stanzas that reflect superficial changes even as certain defining trends of an era continue. “Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain.” “Cars keep going faster all the time. Bums keep asking, hey, buddy, do you have a dime?”
Yes, cars are getting faster. We don’t call them bums, hobos, or panhandlers any longer, but there are still people out there asking for money, usually more than a dime, because a dime just doesn’t buy much in these times.
Here it is, from 1967.
I’ve always enjoyed the domestic image this song, “Our House,” produces. Whoever wrote it was looking back on a working class household. The song was released in 1982. Hearing the lyrics, I wonder how much of it would be written differently. Would Dad still put on his Sunday best? Does Mother still iron his shirt before he goes to work?
Something to think about.
Do you ever catch yourself doing something that prompts you to ask yourself, “What is wrong with you?”
Yeah, it happened to me yesterday. I was in Costco, and as I walked along, I started singing Christmas carols to myself. That’s right, Christmas carols, on February 8.
I hope it’s not some harbinger of Christmas starting in February. I mean, what the hell?
I’ve always like the elemental approach of this song. This was one of those songs that Mom said, “What are they singing?” She also disparaged the singing. “That’s not singing. That’s…I don’t know what that is.”
No, it’s not very smooth. One generation always struggles with the next generation’s interpretation of what they’re passing. But when the band sing, “I’ve been waiting so long,” I can relate. Seems like I’m always waiting so long, somewhere, sometime, to check in, check out, get in, get out, get on, get by, although yesterday’s shopping went very fast. We only waited to check out in one line out of three.
Here’s Cream with “Sunshine of Your Love,”
In 1971, I was fifteen years old, and entering high school. Richard Nixon was president. The Vietnam War continued, and the Pentagon Papers were printed while the U.S and U.S.S.R. continued their arms race. Protesters marched against the war and the bomb. Although it was a new decade, we hadn’t turned the page socially. The summer of love, Watts riots, and Chicago ’68, among many events, all still resonated through our awareness.
Peace was a major topic. From it came songs, like this one, “Peace Train.” Cat Stevens wrote and released it. He’d soon add to the national conversation by becoming a Muslim and changing his name to Yusuf Islam after almost drowning.
He’s an interesting, talented person.
I’m sure I posted about this song before. I’ve always found it compelling, as it expresses the behavior of a person struggling with love, self-confidence, addiction, and the inability to express themselves. Yes, that’s a lot for a rock song to carry. The same lines return to me: “She gets mad and she starts to cry. She takes a swing but she can’t hit. She don’t mean no harm. She just don’t know what do to about it.”
Here’s Jane’s Addiction with “Jane Says” from 1987.
I first heard this song as a version by the Byrds in 1969. Then it sorted faded away, but resurfaced a few years later, by the Doobie Brothers. I’ve found that many others have covered it. It’s just one of those songs.
“Jesus Is Just Alright” has interesting (but not numerous lyrics). Upbeat, with changing tempos, it has religious overtones but remains light and reflective, and a simple statement. “I don’t care what they may say, I don’t care what they may do.” I love that firm belief, this is what I believe, believe what you want.
I feel obliged to mention that it’s about faith, not facts. You can have firm beliefs in your faith; that’s cool. If you’re a fiction writer, you can create your own facts within the structure of fiction. But when it comes to reality, you can’t just declare, this is what I believe, I don’t care what your facts say.
Challenging to hold this apparently contradictory processes and directions in your head. Messy, innit?
Something to think about on a Tuesday.
Ah, folk rock.
Today’s song comes to me via “Frankie & Grace.” Robert surprises Sol with tickets to a folk rock cruise. Sol gets on Internet message boards and exclaims, “There’s a rumor Dan Fogelberg is going to be the special guest.” Robert replies, “I think Dan Fogelberg is dead.”
I looked it up on Wikipedia. Robert was right. Fogelberg died in the last decade when he was fifty-one years old. Thoughts of Fogelberg triggered memories of the folk rock music of the late sixties and early seventies, and Fogelberg’s work. It’s all “Part of the Plan.”
I have these moments
All steady and strong
I’m feeling so holy and humble
The next thing I know
I’m all worried and weak
And I feel myself
Starting to crumble
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