David Crosby

I just finished my blog post about musician deaths and totally blanked out on David Crosby. I'm not sure how that happened. I am a little to tired right now to write about Croz, but will try in the next day or so.

Talking about sad demises: Jeff Beck, Lisa Marie Presley, Van Conner, and the Buffalo Bills

It's an ever-so-slightly snowy Sunday afternoon here in Michigan and I'm watching the National Football League playoffs, Buffalo Bills vs. Cincinnati Bengals. The Bengals are currently ahead 24-10 in grey, gloomy, snowing suburban Buffalo, New York and all I can think of is how goddamned depressing it will be for those Bills fans if their team loses. I suppose at this point, they are used to it. Between the punishing weather and the sports teams that always break your heart, you have to be a hearty person to live in Buffalo.

I have only been to Buffalo in the summer, and it's a perfectly nice place--in the summer. Seriously, Buffalo has a good art museum (Albright-Knox Art Museum) and an equally good history museum (Buffalo History Museum).

We have had a spate of musician deaths in the last few weeks. Jeff Beck departed to that great concert in the sky on January 10. Though I appreciate Beck's contributions to music, I can't say I was a big fan. I think I might be a generation too young to have immersed myself in his music. I do enjoy the Yardbirds, though--particularly the trippy psychedelic explorations after Eric Clapton left and it was pretty much Jeff Beck's band. Also, the Yardbirds' scene in the film Blow-Up is an all-time classic. If you've never seen it, check it out--it's on YouTube. The Yardbirds perform in this oh-so-chic London club in front of an indifferent crowd. Jeff Beck becomes increasingly frustrated by his amplifier and finally pummels it with his guitar. The spectacle excites the crowd. Future Led Zeppelin superstar Jimmy Page is also in the scene, as this was during his brief stint with the Yardbirds. (By the way, I might have the specific details of the scene slightly wrong, so I apologize in advance).

Two days later, Lisa Marie Presley died. She was about the same age as me, so this was a tough one to take. I do not approve of people dying in their fifties. For all Presley family's fame, that is a family that has dealt with its share of tragedy. Lisa Marie never asked for the fame and constant media attention as Elvis's daughter, and she certainly had her struggles. She seemed to deal with it as best she could. I imagine the suicide death of her son was something she could not overcome (what parent could?) and I also wonder if the intense emotion of the Golden Globe ceremony (in which Austin Butler won an award for his portrayal of Lisa Marie's father) might have exacerbated the health issues she was experiencing.

On a side note, I actually owned Lisa Marie's first album To Whom It May Concern. If I remember correctly, I got the CD as a promo at Schuler Books & Music. It's actually a pretty good record, but I must have dumped it at some point (garage sale maybe?). Of course, now all of Lisa Marie's albums are going for big bucks on eBay, Discogs, etc. If only I'd known, I'd have hung on to it--though I'm not sure I'd want to be part of the ghoulish feeding frenzy taking place now.

The next musical death was somebody not nearly as well known as Jeff Beck or Lisa Marie Presley. Van Conner was the bass player of the criminally underrated band Screaming Trees. Conner was only 55, so there's another person dying in their fifties. Not cool. 

Why weren't Screaming Trees as popular as fellow Seattle bands Nirvana, Pearl Jam, or Soundgarden? It may have to do with them not being as photogenic. Screaming Trees looked like a band comprised of a lumberjack and three gas station attendants. Lead vocalist Mark Lanegan was the only "Tree" remotely handsome, and even Lanegan looked a little too terrifying for MTV. The band name fit them perfectly: trees evoking the wilds of the Pacific Northwest, and the music was often "screaming." That said, Screaming Trees were capable of writing achingly emotional and melodic tunes.

Sadly, the Buffalo Bills ARE about to lose this football game, so I shall bid you farewell so I may pass on my condolences to my Bills comrades.

Golden Globes, doctors, and Talk Talk

I am watching The Golden Globes tonight because I need to "veg out" a little bit and, believe it or not, am actually interested in who wins these awards. I think I've seen enough of the movies and TV shows that I have a stake in who the winners are. For example, as I write this Quinta Brunson is accepting the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Comedy Television Show, and I am very happy for her. She deserves it, as Abbott Elementary is one of the best shows on TV and one of the few decent offerings from the Big Three major networks.

It's been a long day. I started it out by going to the doctor--no big deal, just reestablishing being a patient with the GP I had sort of lost contact with over the last few years. I really liked her, but Covid sort of threw everything out of whack and I hadn't had an appointment with her in at least six years. I had tried another doctor, but the "chemistry" wasn't there and I didn't care for this other doctor's personality. I was so thrilled to be able to, once again, become a patient of my "old" doctor. 

Even though the doctor's appointment wasn't long and not terribly stressful, there was plenty of paperwork to fill out and I had to drive to work after it was over. (I know, boo-hoo). 

Oh, guess what? We had yet another fire alarm at work today. Probably somebody "smoking in the boys' room." Our "loud enough to wake the dead" alarm blared again and, as usual, just about gave everyone a heart attack. We trudged outside only to return inside about ten minutes later.

My most recent music jag is the band Talk Talk. I recently bought a three-album set that includes the band's first three albums. Mark Hollis was the mastermind of Talk Talk and he was a visionary. Talk Talk evolved from a synth-heavy new wave band (nothing wrong with that, by the way) similar to contemporaries Tears For Fears, New Order, Depeche Mode, and Duran Duran but morphed into a jazzy, spacey, otherwordly collective. Their album Spirit of Eden, which I have only recently heard in its entirety, is one of the most amazing albums I have ever encountered. No hyperbole, I swear. 

The Banshees of Inisherin

Sorry folks, I missed filing a blog post yesterday, so the streak is over. I suppose I could have written something this morning and simply backdated it to January 7, but that would be just a little dishonest.

After dropping older son off at the airport and returning home on Friday, we decided to watch a movie: The Banshees of Inisherin on HBO Max. It's a movie that has been getting considerable Oscar buzz, and as it turns out, it is deserving of the praise. I'm not sure it's a great film, but is certainly good, and might get better with age and repeat viewings. It's the sort of movie you watch and are not exactly sure what to think in the immediate aftermath but find yourself thinking about hours later or--in my case--the very next morning.  

The Banshees of Inisherin takes place in 1923 on a sparsely populated but stunningly beautiful (fictional) island off the coast of Ireland. It could really almost be any small town or sparsely populated locale, a place where everyone knows your business and it's impossible to have any privacy. The movie also captures the sense of sadness, depression, aimlessness, ennui that can set in if you live in a remote area. In addition, it's just a good movie about aging and regret. It posits the question of what matters the most: being a good, friendly person enjoying the simple pleasures of life, or a driven person trying to leave a legacy, even if it hurts others' feelings in the here and now? It allows the viewer to come to their own conclusion.

All of this makes The Banshees... sound depressing, but it's also quite funny, darkly funny and often laugh-out-loud funny. The four lead characters, played by Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson, Barry Keoghan, and Kerry Condon, all get great dialogue. This might be the best performance of Farrell's already excellent career, and Kerry Condon is--at least to me--a revelation in her role as Farrell's intelligent, misunderstood, and yearning sister. 

If it's not obvious already, I recommend it. You might scratch your head after the credits roll and wonder what the hell you just watched, but you just might also find yourself thinking about it for days afterwards and looking forward to when you can rewatch it.

Ten years ago today...

I'll tell you what, nothing like "Facebook memories" to remind you of the passing of time and just add a little bit more to the melancholy I'm already experiencing today.

Ten years ago today--January 6, 2013--I took the boys to the small hill behind their elementary school for some sledding. It was the day before they had to go back to school. They were eleven and seven years old. I had forgotten that in the chaos of getting their snow pants, coats, and boots on as well as gathering up the sleds, discs, and various snow hill sliding devices, I locked my keys in the house. That meant we had to walk to the hill, which is about 3/4 mile from the house. That is not an unmanageable distance, but with two kids in snow gear and several sleds, it was much less convenient than throwing everything in the car and driving there. (As for how we got back in the house after we were finished sledding--I can't remember. Maybe L. arrived home from work or wherever she was and let us in).

This is a picture I took of the boys from the top of the hill. It's not much of a hill, but still pretty thrilling if you are a child. I always enjoyed just standing there and watching them slide down the hill, whooping and hollering in excitement. That made whatever discomfort I was feeling from the cold just a bit more bearable. I would occasionally slide down the hill myself and for a few seconds feel the old thrill of being a kid again.

Today is our last partial day with older son before we drive him to the airport, where he will fly back to Germany. The cyclical nature of life--the accidental coincidental cyclical nature of life--can be stunning sometimes.

 

The Last Day

Today was our last day with older son before he returns to Germany. We had Qdoba for dinner and caught up with the last few episodes of The Mosquito Coast. (I'm not sure if it's a great show, but it is definitely addictive).

I am feeling the same melancholy about him leaving. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but that is still not the case.

The Death Star and Fairlane Town Center

As a kid in 1977, seeing Star Wars for the first time, I though the interior of the Death Star looked like the interior of the recently completed (1976) Fairlane Town Center in Dearborn, Michigan. I even imagined the Death Star smelling like the inside of Fairlane (I suppose that would be the smell of brand new clothes and Cinabon? I'm not exactly sure, but it certainly would be a new and fresh smell). In retrospect, maybe Fairlane looks a little more like the world created in the movie Logan's Run. In any case, judge for yourselves.

 

All Quiet on the Western Front and other stuff

We had our final family get-together of the holiday season, rescheduled from the disastrous Christmas Eve. I do like seeing my parents, but I'm relieved that the holiday season is over. Yet, at the same time, I'm bracing myself for the next few months of cold, gray, depressing winter. (I'm sure this isn't the first time I have expressed this sentiment in this blog).

Last night, older son had two of his friends over to watch the latest version (released in 2022) of All Quiet on the Western Front. They were nice enough to let the "old people" watch it with them. There is little in the world quite as amusing as three 21-year-olds watching a movie together. The banter was pretty damned funny. However, when it became clear that this movie was not going to be a joyride, they got serious and somber. All Quiet on the Western Front is an unsparing, visceral, and violent movie that wastes no time in demonstrating that war is hell. As a viewer, you can't help but feet cold, damp, and scared throughout the viewing and in constant anxiety over the fates of the young German soldiers. This will likely end up in my top ten movies of 2022.

As for my personal top ten movie list, I am not yet prepared to compile it because there are still movies I have yet to see and want to see before I make any list. I still haven't seen The Banshees of Inisherin, which is receiving tremendous accolades. That is one movie that I really feel the need to see before deciding on a top ten of 2022.

First movie experiences (part two)

I'm not even sure how this happened, but somehow in late 1976, I decided that I really wanted to see Rocky.  In the mid-'70s, boxing was still a massively popular sport, with Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, and George Foreman all in the prime of their careers. I was certainly aware of the sport, as ABC's Wide World of Sports often broadcast heavyweight (and middleweight, welterweight, etc.) fights on Saturday afternoons. So, like many other kids my age, I was a fan of Muhammad Ali because of how frequently he and his bouts were on television. I'm not sure that my mother was terribly thrilled about taking me to see a boxing movie, but she dutifully took me to see Rocky during Christmas vacation of '76. Though Rocky pales compared to movies like The French Connection, Dog Day Afternoon, or Serpico (to name a few), it was my introduction to that subgenre now known as the "gritty '70s drama." As an eight-year-old, I was thrown off by the movie's opening scene, which features the down on his luck club fighter Rocky Balboa sloppily slugging his way through a low-level bout in a dirty, dingy gym. Most shocking of all, however, was the fact that--spoiler alert--Rocky loses the climactic fight against heavyweight champion Apollo Creed. I was too young to realize that the point of the film was Rocky overcoming his fears and maximizing his potential in "going the distance" against the superior boxer Apollo. 

The Rocky filmgoing experience led me to request the Rocky soundtrack album, which I must have acquired sometime on or near my birthday in March 1977. I still have the album (though I haven't listened to it in decades).

Summer 1977 brought the most monumental film release ever. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that. A little movie you may have heard of called Star Wars was unleashed and seemed to become an instant phenomenon. I first saw in with a large continent including my parents, my aunt and uncle, and I'm pretty sure all three of my cousins. My oldest cousin, Joe, was 17 in the summer of 1977 and had just graduated high school. He was already an enormous science fiction fan and was thrilled to see Star Wars. I distinctly remember that he purchased a special movie program that was sold at the theater concession stand. It was a glossy softcover book full of color stills from the movie and text describing the movie. I recently asked him if he still had the program, but he wasn't sure. I found examples of it on eBay, so there is proof that it actually exists and I'm not imagining it.

Image, taken from eBay, of Star Wars 1977 movie program

It's impossible to underestimate the impact that Star Wars had. Nobody had seen anything like it. By today's standards, the special effects seem primitive, but in 1977 they were groundbreaking. Also, the world that George Lucas created captured the imagination of the United States and, presumably, most of the world. Count me in among the teeming mass that was enraptured by Star Wars.

To be continued...

Happy New Year!

I am currently at a family get-together drinking a beer and watching the Detroit Lions demolish the Chicago Bears. We will soon be eating dinner.

The last few days, I have read Patti Smith's A Book of Days, which was a Christmas gift from my niece. It is an excellent collection of photos and accompanying captions that Patti Smith posted on Instagram the last few years. The book will make you want to investigate and or read the works of the many artists, poets, novelists, and musicians that she celebrates within the pages of the book. 

Patti Smith writes with the flare and floridness of a poet. It's not always a style that I gravitate towards, but I never doubt her sincerity. She is a deep thinker and clearly someone who has completely dedicated and immersed herself into the life of an artist and seeker of knowledge and truth. I admire her for this. If you like Patti Smith, or have any interest in the arts, I recommend seeking out this book.