TomFlannery.com

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

(Eulogy delivered for my Father on April 5th, 2010 at Saint Mary’s of Mount Carmel Church, Dunmore PA)

Whenever Pop gave a speech my mother used to get worried that he’d go on too long. We’re Irish after all. The most apt thing the Irish have ever been called….and we’ve been called plenty….is “word hungry”. I like that.

 I’m word hungry. So was Pop.

 But do not fear. My Mom always gave my father the ‘wrap it up’ sign when he got long winded, and I’ve got a perfect view of her from here. However, I can’t see the bishop very well from my location, so if somebody could alert me if he’s giving me the signal, I’d be grateful.

 We’ve all been places where one person starts to yawn and it starts a chain reaction. Tears are like that too, so let’s dry them now, for my sake at least. Pop is at peace, and that’s surely something worth smiling over.

 Laughter would be even better. You want some?

 I’ll tell you things you may not know.

 His belting out endless versions of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” to wake us up each day for school, a moment that made us forever grateful that he chose journalism as a career.

 His staggering ability to get lost every year on our vacation trips, even though every year we went to the same place. Got so bad we actually started recognizing the places that told us we were lost.

 “Dad, isn’t that the same restaurant we stopped in last year to ask directions and the guy said we were ‘way off’”?

 He once dropped us off in front of the FBI building and went to find a place to park. While we enjoyed a chance meeting with Ted Kennedy and his wife, Pop ended up in Virginia. There’s getting lost, and then there’s finding yourself in the wrong state. How the man ever found the stories he covered is a mystery.

 He charmed everyone. From the thief in Camden New Jersey who gave him perfect directions back to the expressway (yes, lost again) before stealing my mother’s necklace, to the big wigs at Disney World, who were so charmed by one of his columns that they gave him what I like to think was their first “fast pass”. He’d flash this thing at every ride and to the front we’d go, like royalty.

 No waiting, as was the case when he drifted off in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Into the arms of his beloved parents, and his brothers, and met by the slobber of the world’s most beautifully ugly dog…Candy. That breeze you feel right now is powered by her tail wagging.

 And of course, Pop’s best friend. Joe Smith is there, anxious to pass along the answer to the perplexing question asked at many of their council meetings.

 Yes, there is vermouth in heaven.

And best of all for a couple of Irishmen who could pinch nickels with the best of them…it’s on the house.

 Old school. That’s what he was. Found something that worked and he stuck with it. He never changed for change’s sake. Worked the same hairstyle for 82 years. Over the last few days Brylcreem stock has plummeted. The same Royal manual typewriter that sounded like sleet hitting the roof of a tin shed. Electric typewriters frustrated him, and computers made him speak in tongues. He never quite grasped the “save file” concept, and “lost” as many columns as he “wrote” on the computer. But he adored deadlines. Once told me they were his favorite part of the business, so I half expected he was doing it on purpose just to have a bit of fun with the editors.

 But the ultimate old school?

 His first kiss? My mom. His last kiss? My mom. Every kiss in between? My mom. For over 60 years he was a teenager in love. Theirs was a love story increasingly rare in a world grown cynical. Today, career changes and divorces are as common as rising gas prices. But my father loved every day as a newsman…..a love only surpassed by who was waiting for him when he got home.

 And always…without a paper. The man worked at a newspaper and came home and bought one everyday. So, if the Lynott’s are here, know that you got an even bigger bargain than you know. Those nickels and dimes and quarters would have added up. If you’d like to reimburse him, a check made out to the National Alzheimer’s Association would certainly suffice.

 He found large stories in small, quiet places, and he was always on the side of the angels. From his genuine love of a special needs kid named Bobby Walsh to his willingness to inform his readers of the horrors of war as seen through the eyes of a scared Jessup kid in Viet Nam…at a time when such frankness wasn’t always welcomed….or even tolerated. Pop’s moral courage was exceeded only by his inherent decency.

 And for every good deed he did publicly through his writings, there were 100 that nobody knew about. Even this week my family got calls and letters from people we never knew, thanking us for things Pop did for them that we never knew about. We surely took him for granted. To us, he was just “Dad”….the guy who’d let us sit on his lap and “drive” the car up the driveway.

 I am one of 6. Flannery and Loftus blood. An interesting combination to say the least. At times, we can try the patience of a roomful of stoned saints. We put the “function” in “dysfunction”. Our vices require a calculator to keep track of. Yet Pop never once gave up on any of us. He’s given us so much more than we’ve ever given him. Instead of this reflecting badly on us, I prefer to think it illuminates his own grace. Gets us off the hook too. Useful, that.

 Pat, Maureen, Erin, Timmy, Beeny…and Mom. It’s been a rough road. We’ve bent, sometimes at right angles to each other, but we’ve never broken. I love you all.

 My father never accepted injustice. In his quiet way he railed against it his entire life. Alzheimer’s Disease is the ultimate injustice, and he raged against that too for 5 long years. He never gave up. He never gave in. He simply ran out of time.  So now it’s up to us to shake our fist at this dreaded disease. The way he did. Sometimes, quite literally. It would have awed you too.

 There is no stigma attached to Alzheimer’s Disease. There is no shame. Me and my family want it front and center. It took away Pop away from us. It has become our enemy. Our fight has not ended with my Dad’s passing. It merely continues. We ask for your help.

 A final thought. The night Pop died we all gathered at my Mother’s. We stayed with her. It was still dark when we went to bed, but just barely. I heard the birds chirping. Certainly not the first time I’d stumbled to bed to that soundtrack, but this one time I knew exactly who they were singing for.

My guitar rests in its case, leaning up against the back of my office door. Every time I look at it I feel guilty, because I haven’t touched it in nearly 2 months. Haven’t stayed away from 6 strings ever, and I’m probably in for some serious finger-tip bleeding when the fast ends. But, like religious fanatics who flog themselves, I’ll feel I’ve earned the pain.

Sitting here now listening to Martin Sexton and wondering what could have been if the cards had been shuffled a different way. There’s so many things I’ve wanted to do but couldn’t, and so many things I should have done but didn’t. And now I’ve reached mid-life with graying hair on my head and face and a huge mortgage and driving a Toyota.

As my father’s illness progresses, it both saps my strength and forces me to become stronger…..which is an interesting scenario that I don’t wish on anyone but thought it worth passing on regardless. Alzheimer’s is the second most feared disease in America after cancer, and the fucking thing earns its high ranking.

Eventually, I’ll return to music, and surely with a vengeance. If only for my own peace of mind. I want to scrap everything I’ve done and start from scratch. I want to write different songs, not just new ones. If I can’t get out to play live shows I’ll schedule live streaming performances using a webcam. I’ll invite you all into my lair. How’d that be? Things are changing. Change or be changed.

Is this really me talking about change?

I guess so. And why not? Fear of the unknown has ruined all kinds of potential fun in this world. Tip your glass to what the Blues Brother’s called “ramming speed”.

In a bit…

–tf

I’ve become a haphazard diarist at best. Sometimes what you want to say does not jibe with what you’re willing to say….so you fight that battle by turning tail and running like hell.

But here comes a wall, so what the hell. My father is suffering from the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease, and as his memories are slowly (and not so slowly) erased, I’m warmed by the fact that he still knows me. He still can see my face, and recall my name. He allows for the touch of my hand…something he won’t grant to just anybody mind you. Take too many liberties and he may show you the back of his. Such are the types of things this horrifying disease can do…..turning the most gentle of men into something not easily recognizable at times. But he’s still Pop. I don’t care how much the disease steals…..it can’t take that away. He’ll fight to his last days for moments of clarity…..and when they come he can force my normally grumpy face into twitching. Something like a smile some might call it.

I can’t pretend I’m doing well with all of this. But I also can’t pretend that I’m alone. Alzheimer’s is an unchecked epidemic, and myself and my family now have a ringside seat to a fight we never wanted. Our situation is worse than some, and better than others. We’re stuck right in the middle, trying to balance the pain with the good fortune we’ve had to be raised by a man with the most agile mind I’ve ever known.

Time doesn’t heal a fucking thing. But it allows calluses to spread over wounds so you’re not so reminded of them all the time. Our long goodbye has begun, but nobody is ready to put their coats on yet. Pop will eventually revert back to a child….and then an infant. But there is still a delightful, devilish quality to him that pulls us like moths to flame. He can still fix me with a frightfully clear gaze and zing the shit out of me….leaving me muttering to myself….”ok, I walked right into that one.”

I’m not sure how much he’s aware. Awareness is not always something to wish for. I can admit to breathing sighs of relief when I see him sleeping, and I’m pretty certain this doesn’t reflect too well on me. But then I’ve had no preparations for Alzheimer’s. Outwardly I get better every day. The insides continue to churn though. Not sure they’ll ever stop. Myself and my mother and my sister’s and my brother’s learn more and more, and knowledge gives one courage. We laugh with each other and we scream at one another and we cry on each others shoulders and we assuredly all cope in different ways when we’re alone. But we get up in the morning and face this fucking thing all in one piece, so we’re thankful for each other….even though we may be loathe to admit it sometimes.

Soon the songs and the words will come again, either leaking or pouring forth. My schedule will return to relative normalcy. My family will learn to live in a different way. With Pop, I trust.

In a bit…

–tf

No details required, let’s just say I haven’t been having the greatest time lately. Certainly nothing inside the whirlwind has me reaching for my guitar. Yet. That’s the beauty of music. I know it’s gonna be there when the need for solace replaces the need to be in 14 places at once.

And I need it more than ever now.

On the plus side, just procured the new release from the Len Price 3, a band that sounds like the reincarnated Who circa the ‘Sell Out’ period. It’s positively glorious noise, right down to the ‘Can’t Explain-ish’ backing vocals. Comfort comes from the most bewildering places.

In a bit…

–tf

The other day my garage door broke. I’m not very useful when things break, and even less so when somebody asks me for specifics, like why or how it broke. All I know is that I used to hit a button and the door would open. I hit the button now and it won’t. And the manual override doesn’t work either, apparently because when I break something I really break it.

So I’m locked in. Not a bad thing considering that my car is a….wait for it…a Toyota. This is what I get for not buying American I suppose. Depending on who you listen to, if I take my car out of the driveway I’ll either mangle myself or make the head of the department of transportation look bad. I just bought the car a year ago, and now if I open her up on the highway I may never be able to slow her down. Kinda like riding a wild horse. All in all, better to be stuck on the side of the road in an American car than shaped like an accordion in a foreign one.

I don’t mind house arrest actually. There’s no place I really want to go. I have my books here and my guitar and my legal pads and plenty of pens and I have a nice TV and it’s college basketball season so it ain’t like I’m being tempted by anything. And of course my girls are here. All 4 of them.

Recently discovered 2 great bands. You Me at Six and The Wonder Years. The music continues to fall down like hail. IPOD at 7000 songs and counting.

At least I don’t have to get up to go work for Toyota tomorrow. That would suck.

Not that I’d have a way to get there.

In a bit…

–tf