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For reasons too byzantine to relate without sounding really really strange, I’ve spent much of the day listening to Prince’s 1987 “Sign ‘O’ the Times”….a sprawling mixture of pop, soul, funk, and hip-hop that serves as a reminder of how much better Prince is than just about anybody else when he decides to use his talents instead of taunting us with them. “Purple Rain” was of course his commercial peak, but Sign ‘O’ the Times”, which came 3 years later, is undeniably his artistic masterpiece, even if it sold only a fraction and has largely been forgotten.

It’s easy to focus on how weird Prince is instead of how disgustingly and indeed insanely talented the man is. Plays guitar like Hendrix. A peerless bandleader like James Brown. Can out-funk Rick James. Make women forget Marvin Gaye. Can dance Michael Jackson under the rug. A fearless innovator like Stevie Wonder. In the 80s Prince set the bar so high that when he was merely a little better than everybody else critics got mad at him and haven’t really forgiven him since. It took a recent sighting of him playing an incandescent solo on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony (Prince made it in his first year of eligibility) to remind everyone that the guy was still around. Lurking. Who knows what he might do next. He’s still a freak.

Prince music is not generally the sound booming out of my car speakers. Indeed, when I picked up my daughter tonight with “Housequake” playing so loud that the parked car was still moving, she seemed appalled. She then said it sounded like “Michael Jackson really really drunk”, which I thought was pretty cool. She then told me she never heard of Prince. Not cool. I tried to get her into it….but when she asked how old he was and I told her (52), she groaned and said listening to someone that old was “really really creepy”. Frankly, after a few minutes I think she was sorta digging it but would never let on because that would be really really creepy.

Music is the ultimate gift that keeps on giving. You can never reach the bottom of the well. A lifetime is not nearly enough to sample the treasures out there, no matter how big your Ipod is. I largely missed this record the first time around because music was a diversion at the time. Now it’s air…..and I’m determined to gulp all the good stuff I can before I’m poisoned to death by the radio. No more putting things in neat little boxes. There’s a record store in Houston that refuses to segregate records by “style”. It simply throws everything in one huge alphabetical lump, with Prince and the Pixies and Pavarotti and Planxty all within an arms length of each other. It seems such a simple concept. It’s all music. Tying yourself down to one sub-section is like wearing the same clothes everyday. Eventually, you’re gonna start to attract attention for the wrong reasons.

Anyway, I’m rambling a bit now. But you get the idea. Give Peace a Chance and all that, you know? Try something a bit different. Turn down that side-street even if you’re not sure where it’s gonna take you. With a good soundtrack at our fingertips, we’ll always find our way home again.

In a bit…

–tf

Love can break your heart. But music can rip the heart out of your chest and leave it lying on the ground just out of reach, where you can still seeing it bouncing around like a decapitated chicken. It’s very much a one on one thing. There’s a handful of artists I always wait on….expecting to be uplifted and to approach something as close to spiritual healing as an aging agnostic can handle. That may be asking a bit much of some guys bashing away on guitars and singing songs about girls. But if in my eyes you’ve reached a certain plateau, failure is not an option. I don’t just expect to be lightly entertained by these people. I want my life changed.

Martin Sexton is one who must deliver. To hear his solo verion of “Purple Rain” is one of those monents that gets stamped behind the eyes. If Prince were white and weighed about 100 more pounds and sported some double v-neck sideburns, he’d be Martin Sexton and wouldn’t have to wear his high heeled boots anymore. He might get laid way less, but he might learn how to live and love by bus. And be less of a weirdo.

Anyway, it’s late and I can’t sleep, which is becoming increasingly normal. I should stop now before I start sounding even more incoherent.

In a bit..

–tf

Moving around lots lately. Lots of nights alone in hotel rooms and mornings surrounded by desperate looking airport junkies dragging bags way too big to fit in the overhead compartments.

Writing whenever possible, and what’s possible is never enough. Listening and reading just about anything I can get my shaky hands on. Everything from Buddy and Julie Miller to Jason and the Scorchers and the Jim Carroll Band. “People Who Died”…one of the all-time great rock and roll songs that manages to rock your balls off and totally creep you out at the same time. When you’re spending lots of time alone songs like “People Who Died” are damn near indispensible. They’re like intravenous caffeine injections and when you sing along to them with your Ipod on people generally stay out of your way.

In the Jim Carroll vein, for reasons known to insomniacs only I sat up until 3:30 am last night watching Leonardo DiCaprio portray a drooling junkie in “The Basketball Diaries” and didn’t turn it off until it was over. Like most New York City artists who can afford to live in Manhattan, Carroll was a bit of a pretentious wanker but was smart enough to make a decent living being a heroin addict and Rimbaud wannabe….no small feat in a town swarming with both. But he had that little bit of Keith Richards in him that made junk seem fashionable….plus he screwed Patti Smith, which in NYC buys you a lifetime of credibility. So he gets to write a book about jabbing himself with needles and knocking over old ladies for drug money….and gets the Hollywood treatment to boot. “People Who Died” said in 4 minutes what the movie tried to say in 110, which is sorta why rock will always be cooler than celluloid. If you don’t believe me imagine “Tommy” without the songs.

Anyway, that’s the way it is. I’m going to try to check in more often. Got many songs in various forms, and always reaching for more. Sleep won’t come, so what else can a poor boy do?

In a bit…

–tf

Still writing. Jotting down lyrics whenever I get the chance. If an idea comes I’m reaching for the legal pad.

All songs in some way about my father. But that’s just to me. Looking from the outside, they could be about anything. Love gone wrong, yearning for what you can’t have. The usual staples of popular song. Trying to avoid the pitfalls of mawkishness, and I may be overcompensating, but better to bite than to kiss somebody’s ass. That’s my take on it anyway.

Got 7 songs now. Need 3 more, 10 being my magic number for a release. Nine seems like you just said “ah sod it all” and packed up the guitars ’cause you’d rather be doing something else. Eleven seems like you had some bit you weren’t sure of and just tacked it on to the end that hardly anybody ever gets to anyway. So, 3 more.

One song is 3 pages long with crazy rhymes and a fucked up meter, and of course it all makes perfect sense to me but will surely baffle everybody else, which is fine by me. If Dylan can make a career out of it surely I can rave on for 5 or 6 minutes playing musical word/mind games. It’s fun to peek inside and find things that make sense in a way that you never intended them to. That’s why 45 years on a song like “Visions of Johanna” is still forcing dudes to turn to pharmaceuticals. I knew a guy one time who knew all the lyrics to that song…and could sing the whole thing day or night. He was kinda creepy. Not sure where he is now. He must be dead.

Anyway, that’s the latest update for those of you interested in my shenanigans. My boys from “Slobberbone” are working on a new record this year, so all is not lost.

In a bit…

–tf

Traveling for a few days. That means taking to the not-so-friendly-skies, where for some reason I’m always treated like a shoe-bomber in-waiting. I travel alone with one bag and Ipod earphones jammed in my ears and a book held about 6 inches from my nose, the perfect way to let the yahoo sitting next to you that you don’t wish to communicate at all. Like most people I despise the entire process of going anywhere by plane, where people are instantly transformed into sheep lest some government contractor making $8 an hour decides to pull you into a side room and taser you all in the name of national security. So I suppose I may look a bit sinister. And since I’m a raging insomniac with horrible allergies the circles around my eyes are generally the color of anthracite coal dipped in blood. So maybe that has something with what was once called my “vaguely middle-eastern” look by this guy I used to know who lived on nothing but drugs, Miller Beer, and cornflakes. I do miss my old friends. I wonder if they’re still alive?

Sorry. Off on a bit of a tangent there I suppose. Last time I flew the East Coast got hit with a biblical blizzard and I was stranded for 3 days with not very much to do except complain and drink endless Diet-Cokes. I’m hoping to keep to more of a schedule this time. Actually, there are parts of hotel life that suit a shut-in like myself. I really like the multiple locks on the doors and the fact that nobody is yelling at me for not doing stuff. I like room service, especially when it’s on somebody else’s tab, although I do feel a bit pretentious when the guy comes up my cheeseburger and fries on the tray and lays it down on the room table like it’s something reverential. I’d be just as happy if he wrapped it up in a paper bag and tossed it to me like a football. I like how you can feel like some big shit executive and get a wake-up call even in the shittiest of hotels although for some reason I never take advantage ’cause there’s a perfectly decent alarm clock right next to the damn phone. I like that feeling of being done for the day and entering a room that’s all made up and being able to use about 14 towels to dry yourself just to spite them when they put up those “safe the environment by using dirty towels” signs. I like being able to make the room ice cold ’cause I love to sleep when those gargantuan (and garish) hotel bedspreads are put to good use. 

But the best part about leaving home is that feeling you get when your plane is preparing to touch down to bring you back….home. You just feel good….even if, when you really think about it, “home” isn’t all that great of a place really. But it’s not about the physical location. It’s where your loved ones are….and that can lift up a sad and mostly depressed place into one that can still make you smile.

Safe journeys. And get back home.

In a bit…

–tf

Just read an 800 page book on John Lennon, and wanting to be fair, picked up a 900 page book on Paul McCartney. You’ve got to be damn interesting to carry books as thick as the Bible, and sometines even Beatles leave me wavering over 1700+ pages. There’s only so much you can read about John climbing into bags with Yoko or Paul pissing off the rest of the group with his arrogance during the Let it Be session. But still, it does get you back into the music, which is still a relevation all these years later. There’s never been a better straight ahead rock and roll band, that is when the Beatles were a straight ahead rock and roll band. It was the simple things really. John and Paul had 2 of the greatest rock and roll voices of all time. And when their voices blended, it was bliss. Had they never written a single song, their cover versions alone would have made them legends. Nobody could out Chuck Berry Chuck Berry….except the Beatles. Nobody could out-do Little Richard, except the Beatles. Nobody could out Isley the Isley Brothers. Except the Beatles. Not bad for 4 scruffs from an English shithole. The fact that together Lennon and McCartney were perhaps the greatest pop songwriters of the 20th century, to me, is almost incidental. It’s the sound they made that grabbed me as a 11 and 12 year old.

But let’s face it. John was pretty fucked up. Yoko really put the zap on his head, and had he lived he might not be the secular saint he’s subsequently become. His final record, “Double Fantasy”, became iconic not because it was any good, but because John was killed shortly after it’s release. Paul, with a few glorious exceptions, has largely spent the last 40 years releasing unmitigated drivel. The men needed each other to be great. Alone, they were merely above average, like musicians who might live in Lake Woebegone and have nice middle class homes and manicured lawns.

Easy to blame the chicks though eh? Hard to decide who was the least tuneful. Yoko was so odd and intimidating that nobody really had the nerve to tell her to shut the fuck up when she started shreiking into any live microphone she came across. And Paul’s wife Linda sang so horribly that Paul’s soundmen started to simply turn her down so far in the mix onstage that nobody could hear her. But to her credit, at least Linda never insisted on following Paul into the bathroom.

It’s hard to believe it’s been 30 years since Lennon was shot. And nearly 10 since George Harrison died of cancer. “Taxman” has always been my favorite Beatles song. Everybody always held out that thin hope that maybe…if the stars aligned the right way….that we could see them again. The four of them. Somebody would surely throw such a ridiculous amount of money at them that it was bound to happen. I’m so glad it didn’t. There’s nothing to dilute the Beatles. From “Love Me Do” to “Abbey Road”…..as close to a perfect catalog as a rock band could or would achieve. No “comeback album” during the disco era. No out of tune wank-fast at Live Aid. No insufferable Bono walk-ons.

They blazed a trail. Then they flew away….and every person who ever hummed a melody was the better for it.

How in the world have I survived this long without a steady supply of “The Bottle Rockets”, perhaps America’s greatest unknown band? The mind reels. Such genius is rare these days. Hilarious, biting, poignant songs filled with slashing guitars and enough balls to make Woody Guthrie proud. Veering from rockers that make the Clash seem tame, to country laments, to outrageous stomps like “The Bar’s on Fire, Somebody Save the Beer” that alone should secure their place in at least a broom closet of the rock and roll hall of fame. I am absolutely giddy over my discovery. I dare say I haven’t felt this smug since I stumbled upon “The Gourds” and first heard their song “Promenade”, which is every bit as good as “The Weight” by the Band….and I say that with a completely straight face.

Music is forever surprising. It takes the place of drugs for me. Well, mostly anyway.

Someday we’ll look back at all the pissing and moaning about rock and roll being “dead” these days and it will all seem funny, because it’s better than it ever was. A great song not played on the radio is still a great song, and a pile of mindless, soulless dreck played ever hour on every corporate-owned FM station in the country is still a mindless, soulless pile of dreck. I hate to break it to you, but it’s time to accept the facts and move on. Rock and Roll never went anywhere. It’s alive in garages and barrooms and dingy little clubs that make you feel the need to move your wallet from your back pocket to your front pocket almost instinctively. It’s loud and raw and might stumble around a bit like a drunken sailor with a 24 hour pass, but it gets asses moving and blows cones out of amps and turns musicians into roadies and roadies into musicians because they’re one in the same. That van in the alley at the back door of the club can fit 4 comfortably but there are 5 guys in the band, and the guy at the used car lot never took into consideration that a drum set, guitars, and a PA have to fit in there too…somehow. So there’s lots of sleeping in shifts and 3 guys sitting in the front talking turns driving to the next show, which is only 6 hours away in some town nobody has ever heard of because nobody who lives there really wants to admit such a shitty place exists. But enough will come out so that the bands just about breaks even…..as long as they don’t worry about things such as eating and laundry.

I wish Iwas young again. I wish my liver was in better shape. I wish I had the DNA that made me bored staying in one place for more than a few days. I wish I met some kindreds spirits years ago who were willing to toss normalcy out with the plastic dishes and empty beer cans and were allergic to becoming discouraged by the intrusion of reality.

I do wish.

But I can watch from here. And I can listen. And the Bottle Rockets can keep me company.

In a bit…

–tf

Writing songs again.

I like the sound of that. Just writing the words makes me feel better.

Writing songs again.

This is what I do and have been doing for 20 some years. But six months between songs? Never been that long. Maybe six days.

But I’m not going to stop and analyze anything. The words are tumbling out onto my trusty legal pads, and I’m writing in all sorts of places….the most interesting no doubt being the various parking lots of my daughter’s school functions. I admit that it’s not a very social thing to do…..sitting in my car with furrowed brow searching for rhymes while other parents are conversing like normal people. But I’m not a normal person. I write songs. Acting normal would ruin everything.

The words come first. They always do. Maybe a title. “That Ring it Don’t Fit Your Finger Anymore”. I thought of that. When Pop was sick he lost so much weight his rings were sliding off. Open the spigot and a billion stories could tumble from that line. “So Far So Gone”. I like that play on words. And so I was off again.

So far so gone
sleeping on the floor
this hearing my own breathing
don’t suit me anymore

I want to write rock and roll. And blues. And folk. I want to write songs that mean something but can still be danced or fucked to or used in partnership with various pharmaceuticals. I want to sing and play just for the sheer bang of it. So in other words, I’m doing this for all the right reasons, which I trust will bring me some decent karma. I want my guitar to be all scratched up when I’m done with these songs.

So how are you by the way? If you haven’t already (and judging by sales figures, you haven’t), you should download a copy of my latest record “Pete Townshend’s Ghost”, which I’m very proud of in a reckless, warts-all-over-it sort of way. The songs were written for a band….and what I recorded were one-take guides to teach the other musicians. But I didn’t so much run out of money as realize that I didn’t have any money to start with, so I just decided to release the songs as they were…..mostly brand new and some still searching for where they wanted to go. Some near train wrecks but I got away ok. Minor cuts and bruises…..and a somewhat coherent song-cycle methinks. It’s always fun to write about 17 year olds…especially as you’re trying to be one yourself.

So any final thoughts?

Well, not really.

But then again…

Sitting here listening to “The Pines”….an acoustic duo who’s latest record “Sparrows in the Bell” has been in frequent Ipod rotation lately. They make a distinctly American sound….a sort of eerie, understated brand of mountain music that is easily accessible at the bottom of the hill. You listen to the Pines, and you think, “I can do that”…but the beauty of them is that you probably can’t. It’s so tantalizingly simple….on the surface. But there’s a lot of living under the 3 chords….and a lot of heartbreak in the vocals as they veer to and fro….never perfect but always in tune.

That’s sorta what I want.

Tomorrow, maybe something different. But for now at least….

In a bit..

–tf

Snap out of it boy.

I shall try. I promise.

My guitar sits in the corner collecting mountains of dust, which makes me feel very neglectful. I’ve got a million ideas swirling around in my head, but I can’t focus on a single one of them long enough make it worth anyone’s while. It’s like trying to grab a fistful of water.

Loss is not good for creativity, nor is lack of creativity good when dealing with loss. I speak only for myself of course. If I’m not creating something I feel like a giant sloth, as opposed to only feeling like a tiny sloth when I’m waist deep in new words or melodies. It’s not like digging ditches all day after all….although come to think of it, based on previous record sales at least, that might be too close a metaphor for comfort.

So why not just merge things….and write about him?

Now there’s an idea. Actually, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Surely he’s worthy of a song or ten. As long as I don’t come across sounding like Dan fucking Fogelberg, putting the “mawk” in mawkish. Pop’s life. His loves. And his struggle with Alzheimer’s. Surely this is toe-tapping stuff right? Well, maybe not that last bit, but stranger things have happened with a boy and his guitar, especially this boy and that guitar. Sadness is only part of all this for me. Rage is right up there….along with incomprehension and a peculiar lack of what others call faith. I witnessed an astonishing fight against no odds whatsoever….and nobody can tell me he didn’t decide to move on when he was good and ready. So yea, there’s some truly inspiring stuff there too…..the kind of thing you witness with your mouth wide open and your eyes bugging out of your head. And of course all the people, places, and things that are left behind, which includes me.

“The healing has begun”. So said Van Morrison one time….which is easy for him to say with pipes like that. Van may just be the most miserable git on the planet, but he knows that music is sometimes all there is when the blues overtakes you and drags you to the ground. Sure it can disappoint. All you need to do is listen to Van’s last dozen or so records to feel that sting. But I can always turn to “Sweet Thing” or “Gloria” or “Caravan” for a steroidian lift. How many things can you say that about that aren’t…you know….steroids? Or otherwise illegal? It’s impossible to listen to those songs and not feel something good. To not feel lifted in some way.  Spiritual. Or just plain hornier than usual. I spoke of odds back yonder. How ’bout a sure thing? You tell me what compares to a great song? Sex maybe, but sometimes mre mortals manage to muck that up too. You can’t muck up “Gloria”, although countless bar bands (and the Doors) have tried.

So there ’tis. A bit of a pep talk. For me-self.

In a bit…

–tf

‘Tis a tricky thing, this healing business. Sometimes memories are not enough, and you long for things more tangible. A voice. A touch. A whisper in the ear. Or just being able to ask….”what should I do?” Even if, to my detriment, I’ve never taken his advice as much as I should have.

Time heals they say….which is a crock of shit. It does no such thing of course. It may act as a shoe over a just-broken foot…but the foot is still broken. When an irreplaceable part of you is taken away, by definition that hole can never be filled. All you can do is get used to the wind as it blows a little colder. Perhaps one day you can treat it as Hershey, PA residents treat the smell of chocolate….or Homer Simpson treats the always iminent threat of irradiation (with the help of Moe’s tavern. Just thinking of that. Mmm. I could use a belt right now.)

But no….self-medication is not the answer….although I am sorely tempted to hear somebody ask the question at times. No angel am I….but remaining dry seems the best course of action right now.

Through this ordeal I’ve been left speechless by both generosity and indifference. I’ve hit things it’s not a good idea to hit, and spent much of my time alone, trying to gather thoughts and feelings and laughter and tears…most of the time with Ipod ear-buds inserted. Irish music has been a great comfort. The Bothy Band. Matt Molloy. Tommy Peoples. I’ve worn my Ireland pin everyday, along with my green converse sneakers and my celtic cross on a 50 cent rope that my daughter pulled out of some gumball machine. I find a certain refuge in my heritage….as if being Irish itself gives me a leg up in the grieving process (bastard brits starving us out and all). Maybe it does. I’m proud of my green blood in any event, so I like to think I wear it well.

Christ….this happens to people every second of every day. What the hell makes this so different?

Because it happened to me, that’s why. And us. And him. Intellectually we know the rules apply to all, but that doesn’t stop us from sauntering to and fro pretending otherwise. We’re inherently selfish when it comes to our own. Don’t you realize that? If you don’t, you will. Dying sucks, and Alzheimer’s is worse ’cause it kills you twice.

I find it hard to focus on one thing anymore. The mind wanders….races….or acts like it just touched a hot stove. Maybe this is my way of raging against Alzheimer’s. Don’t look back, ’cause someone or something is likely gaining on you. So said the great Satchel Paige, who coincidently never let anybody know how old he was. That’s one way to avoid aging.

Jigs. Reels. Airs. They’ll be with me as I drift off to sleep again tonight, my way of warding off seeing things in the dark that aren’t there in the light. I don’t much like dreams, ’cause one way or another they always leave you disappointed.

In a bit…

–tf