Not Seinfeld's "Maestro"...But An Inevitable Simulation....

 

 

Bradley Cooper's film, "Maestro" is getting a lot of buzz.

A gentleman named Matthew Behrens posted his point of view this week.

My point of view....regarding his point of view.....follows his point of view....

 

Really disappointed in viewing as a holiday movie, Maestro (apart from the wonderful performance of Carey Mulligan), since the film seemed more about Bradley Cooper (vanity piece, ie, wow, the fake nose, the look, the accent!) than Leonard Bernstein, the composer, conductor and lefty in all his nuance and complexity.

Mostly, I found the film to tell a story completely divorced from the dynamic history of which Bernstein was a part (including what I thought was a missed opportunity to look at his being gay in the context of the soon to emerge LGBTQ liberation movement that was percolating during the 40s and 50s despite the significant risks of being "exposed")

How could this film completely ignore 50 years of history in which Bernstein played a part, from being more or less blacklisted in the early 1950s and having his passport revoked (and then more or less giving in with a loyalty letter) to his support for civil rights and opposition to the war against the people of Vietnam?

Not a single mention of the New York fundraising events for the civil rights movement or for the anti-war movement (“Broadway for Peace”), the latter where a song by Bernstein was premiered with him at the piano accompanying Barbra Streisand. The anti-Semitic Nixon hated Bernstein; the war criminal president requested the rather militaristic “1812 Overture” for his 1973 inauguration; Bernstein and others arranged a counter-concert at Washington’s National Cathedral, scheduled at precisely the same time as Nixon’s, but presented Haydn’s “Mass in Time of War”. Now THAT would be a fine movie moment contrasting the two concerts.

The film also fails to explore the role of Bernstein as an energetic member of a generation of composers (Aaron Copland, Florence Price, Marc Blitzstein, Hugo Friedhofer, among others) who redefined musical theatre and film scoring (when he was at Harvard in 1939, Bernstein organized and led a performance of Marc Blitzstein's controversial working class musical, The Cradle Will Rock.)

It also fails to explore (only mentions) the revolutionary role he played with his educational concert programming; for over 25 years Young People's Concerts comprised the most influential series of music education programs ever produced for prime-time television. As one of his kids wrote: "All over America, families gathered in their living rooms in front of their big, bulky black & white TV sets, and watched Leonard Bernstein tell them all about classical music. I can't tell you how many people come up to me now, everywhere I go in the States, and they say something like: "Oh, I used to watch your father's Young People's Concerts on TV, and I've been a music lover ever since!" And an equally large number of orchestra musicians come up to me and say, "I watched the Young People's Concerts when I was a kid, and that's why I'm a musician today!"

It also would have been fascinating to explore his mixed feelings working on West Side Story and On the Waterfront, among other pieces, alongside snitches who turned in (with often lethal consequences) the names of fellow artists to witch-hunting committees (you know the ones, Kazan, Robbins et al.) The film also ignores the infamous Black Panther fundraiser held at the Bernsteins’ upscale residence (later condemned by Tom Wolfe as “radical chic.” Montealegre sharply condemned the response in a letter to The New York Times, writing: "The frivolous way in which it was reported as a 'fashionable' event is ... offensive to all people who are committed to humanitarian principles of justice.")

Bernstein's FBI file began filling up in the 1940s as he got involved in progressive causes like peace and civil rights, and it continued with his involvement in the civil rights movement, Vietnam War protests, nuclear disarmament and AIDS advocacy.

It also erases the politics of Felicia, who was the first chair of the Women’s Division of the New York Civil Liberties Union, \was arrested at an anti-war protest in Washington in 1972, co-authored a 1974 report to the New York State parole system with Civil Rights leaders including Coretta Scott King, and collaborated with Amnesty International in the wake of Augusto Pinochet’s 1973 coup in Chile, where she was raised. The film makes much of her Chilean background but fails when it most counts.

That said, there are some marvelous moments where you see how Bernstein got caught up in the music he conducted and became one with the score. Maybe Netflix will give Bernstein his proper due one day. IMHO, this film didn't.

 

 

this review of "Maestro" and the comments 'reviewing' the review brings at least one unavoidable 'inevitable' into focus.....

the classic, if blunt, axiom...."opinions are like elbows and assholes....everybody's got em...."

and Cooper's artistic decision (and his prerogative, by the way) to portray, let's call it, a single chapter in the very multi layered life of the larger than life, real life maestro is inevitably going to draw fire from those whose 'go to' is lasering in on what ain't....as opposed to what is....

(oldie but goodie....how many bluegrass musicians does it take to change a light bulb?....two....one to change the bulb...the other to bitch about it being electric....)

Behrens offers an obviously detailed, admittedly articulate personal opinion (again, we must, in fairness, refer back to 'elbows and...') as to the what "ain't" in this movie.

But those in the comment thread who climb aboard either the caring "love it, darling" or classic Costanza "can'tstandya!" trains, especially like those, including Behrens himself, who go to great lengths to praise or condemn in lengthy detail, miss an important, if inconvenient, truth that is easily, and often, missed.

Once again....elbows....

I developed, what in hindsight was, an interesting habit during my last few years of doing talk radio.

Essentially telling listeners who openly criticized my shows to fuck off.

But not for the reason that one might instantly assume having read that last sentence.

Yeah, I can be a cocky little imp, but I never fool myself into thinking, let alone believing, that I'm without flaw, smarter than anyone and/or incapable of gaining from other's points of view.

I leave that mutation of character to clinical narcissists and sociopaths.

And presumptive GOP nominees for President.

But that's redundant.

The 'eff off' response, on my part, was always, and only, triggered not by content....but by attitude.

If a listener chose to engage me in discussion/debate about whatever issue was on the table in the moment, I not only welcomed it, I encouraged it. That is, after all, what healthy, useful, non-masturbatory talk radio is, theoretically, all about.

And doing a talk radio show expecting, even only allowing, to hear solely from people who agree with the host is neither intelligent nor professional.

It's egotistical. Arrogant. Possibly destructive. Even dangerous. And certainly embarrassing.

In other words, makes for lousy radio....a great red cap rally....but lousy radio.

And even if the back and forth got a little hot and bothered, I kept a firm hand on the wheel to insure that we never went off the cliff resulting from allowing that wheel to be yanked too far left...or right.

When and where did Mr. 'hey, thanks for your call...now fuck off' make an appearance.

When the caller decided to use 'the issue' as an excuse to harass, hassle, even try to hang the host.

"you know....your show would be a lot better if......"

Or the more articulate, erudite, always enlightening....

"you suck, man...."

Gotta love the American skill with a Thesaurus, ya know?

And what, one might ask at this point, is the difference between hot and bothered disagreement on an issue and crudely voiced condemnation of a show, and the host, itself?

Inviting callers to call in and speak up on the issues is what the show is for and is (what) I asked for.

The content, approach, style, method and/or skill with which I presented said show?

Hey....who asked ya?

Yeah, yeah, everybody's entitled to their opinion and all that other yada yada blah blah bromide bullshit that has become in 'made great again' America an excuse...a blank check....to suspend the rules of respect and courtesy and ratchet up the asshole-ness to DefDumb1.

You want to go toe to toe, cheek to cheek, mano y mano on the tingly and turbulent topics of our time....call in and let's bat those bitches back and forth.

You don't like me or the way I do what I do?

Flip your 'blowhard bully' switch to off and go get yourself your own fucking talk show.

I'll be both honored, and locked and loaded, to be your first caller.

Bradley Cooper made a movie about Leonard Bernstein.

It tells only a small part of the remarkable life of a very complicated human being.

See it. Don't see it.

Discuss, debate, even argue on the topics Cooper illustrates...bi-sexuality in the 1950's...the impact of 'classical music' on, then, more traditional Broadway productions....the challenges of marriage between two very unique and individual personalities....even the long lost art (malady) of chain smoking.....

You don't like Cooper....or his use of a fake nose....or his choice to focus on one facet of a mucho multi faceted life?

Thought I was gonna say "fuck off", didn't ya?

Not my place.

That's Mr. Cooper's prerogative and/or pleasure.

Me?

Here's my two cents.

Go make your own fucking movie.

 

 

 

The Glass of 2024

 

America is big on conspiracies and mysteries and who dunnits these days.

A case might easily be made that one of the more likely reasons for this surge in solving is the uncontrollable chaos of the political section of the peanut gallery. Mere mortals have a tendency to seek out things they can accomplish or achieve or...wait for it...solve....when other things are beyond their reach...or skill sets.

Most especially when those "other things" include little this and that things like, say, the future of democracy as we know it.

Here's a nuclear Rubic's level puzzle...that first appeared almost a decade ago, popped up again almost four years ago and is slowly but surely rearing its Whack A Mole head once again as the Benny Hill meets Monty Python meets Stephen King shit show that passes for a "Presidential" campaign down shifts into full fast and furious.

To lighten the dark tragedy of it, imagine, for a moment, the next few sentences in the voice of Jerry Seinfeld....

 "....what is the DEAL...with Ted Cruz?...."

"....what has HAPPENED....to Lindsey Graham?..."

and a new fly in the original ointment, buzzing in just in the past few days....

 "....Chris Sununu said WHAT?...."

For those unclear, unsure, confused and/or disconnected from the 'state of the Union' over the past almost decade, here's a Cliff Notes 'splaining that even Ricky Ricardo would comprende'..

Ted Cruz and Lindsey Graham, currently United States "Senators" (Cruz from Texas, Graham from South Carolina) were arguably the most vocal, of dozens, hundreds, of loud vocalists in the, then, Republican Party of 2016 who were convinced, to hear them actually tell it (which you can easily do by some Google of them vocalizing at the time) that Donald Trump (then a joke who became a serious candidate faster than you can say 'we keep the White House in tippy top shape') was not only a joke as a candidate but a clear and present danger to the democracy, the nation, hell, the whole world...if it was 'put in his hands' (the whole, wide world, as a matter of fact) in the form of the keys to 1600 Pennsylvania.

Trump, of course, 'articulately and eruditely' responded with the graciousness, maturity and intelligence that that 'whole world' has to come know and dread.

Give or take 75 million 'Americans' who, to paraphrase Master Yoda, "a fucking clue, they have not".

Trump trash talked Cruz's wife and essentially accused his late father of being directly involved in the removal of John F. Kennedy's skull with a 6.5 caliber cartridge in November of 1963.

Meanwhile, the orange wonder who made "The Apprentice" sure to win a Peabody Award alluded to Graham's 'manhood' in as close as one can get without letting 'fag' slip into the sentence construction.

And, at the time (2016) Trump assessed the lovely Lindsey's mahhvelous medulla.

“He’s one of the dumbest human beings I’ve ever seen,” Trump said.

Fast forward to 2023. (Let alone 2020).

Both Cruz and Graham would throw themselves in front of a bus (campaign or other wise) to give their lives in sacrifice to their king, their monarch, hell, practically their Pope.

Pope Orange Julius the First. Has a certain hip snap to it, don't ya think?

And the newest WTF? in a long,long....very, very, very long...line of those "Republicans" who have not only become loyalists of the first order, but have also, tragically, developed what could prove to be a fatal drinking problem....a seemingly incurable addiction to orange Kool Aid....

...the brand new member of the "Are You Effin Kiddin' Me Club"....the current 'Republican' Governor of New Hampshire, Chris Sununu.

Who, as recently as this past August, was not only being touted as a fresh, clean, mature and intelligent possible candidate for the White House gig himself, but came (comes) from a long line of "traditional" Republicans, not the least being his father John who was New Hampshire's Guv in the 80's and served as George H.W. Bush's chief of staff.

Sununu, when asked this past week who he would vote for in 2024 if that election is a sad and soggy rematch between Joe Biden and the orange wonder who made "The Apprentice" sure to win a Peabody Award, answered as follows....

“I’m a Republican.”

For those who didn't get translation card or a pair of those 3D glasses they give away in the lobby so you can see what the hell is going on, those three words are stunning not for what they say but, rather for what they don't.

They don't say "I will not vote for Donald Trump."

Sununu's side step of the inevitable wave of WTF? consists of his repeated, oft expressed belief that Trump will, in fact, most, even very, likely not actually end up being the candidate next year.

The problem, of course, with words like "most" and "very" is that they leave a lot of room for "oh...yeah....well, what do you know....I was wrong...."

And it does nothing to ease the fears that tens of millions have that the historically skilled used car salesman who wants to "use the military to take care of those who oppose the President" in his second term will actually wake up the morning after Election Day to the hysterical cheers of tens of millions of others who have given him that second term.

"Most" and "very" likely won't be the candidate"...is like assuring the parents of a sixteen year old girl that they shouldn't be too concerned, that their daughter is only "a little bit" pregnant.

Waffles are more common on Capitol Hill than they are at all the IHops on the planet. What makes this particular waffling so dark is that it's not coming from an obvious gutless sycophant "Texan" who would turn in their mother to curry the favor of the king....or their wife who was trash talked...or their father who had absolutely nothing to do with killing JFK.

Or a South Carolina sweet magnolia who screamed so loud and hysterically in 2016 about how the sky would fall if Don Corleorange wasn't stopped by Barzini that Chicken Little, himself, urged the lilting Lindsay to "ah say, ah say, ah say, ya'll calm down a little there, boy...."

The waffling is coming from a guy who has come off, at least up until the last few days, as a fresh, clean, mature and intelligent possible candidate who recognizes what a completely inept, psychologically damaged pile of both flotsam and jetsam the currently presumptive nominee is.

Yet, there he is. Not provably saying that he's "fer" Pope Julius.

But not saying the word "agin'", neither.

Write that one down as "genuinely disappointing".

And, for the time being, qualified for status as "....next....on Unsolved Mysteries"....

As far as gutless sycophant Rafael....and sweet honey Graham cracker are concerned?

Absolutely no mystery "a tall".

It's simply a matter of shattered glass.

Seven years ago, as it became apparent that the "joke" that was the "candidacy" of Trump was, like the most persistent and infuriating weed, starting to take serious root, Cruz and Graham (along with dozens of "good, honest, "for the people" "Republicans) recognized that it was time to stop putzing around and get serious about letting the "we, the people" that enjoy shovelfuls of their particular brand of horseshit that they needed to wake up, smell the Orange and put an end to running along the bandwagon at all, let alone climbing aboard.

And it wasn't because the gutless gang was all that offended, even bothered, by the "straight talk" (read: blunt, crude, offensive, foul mouthed demagoguery) that MAGAboy was spewing out by the Tweet tonnage.

In fact, a lot of the actual 'agenda' underneath the used toilet paper that Trump wrapped it in was the kind of agenda that the Right Wing Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight had dreamed of for decades, if not generations, from the garden variety "tax cuts for the rich and fuck the middle class" and "put Christ not only back in Christmas but in everything else from sea to shining sea"...but also the more insidious, even puritanical, sexist, ageist, racist sewage that had been, ostensibly, put in the bottle and corked by the "advancement" of the 'God fearin' carnival disguised as a 'civilization' known as "America" in the post World War II years.

It's just that Cruz and Graham and their assorted sidekicks modeled after Curly, Moe and Larry knew they dare not pull the cork out of that bottle, fully aware that to do so would result in 'general election' backlashes that would do precisely the opposite of what they hoped and prayed for...and dreamed of.

Not returning things to those thrilling days of narrow minded, tunnel visioned, don't even think about wearing short shorts yesteryear. 

But a forward surge of 'liberalism' that would make (in their eyes) Sodom and Gomorrah look like a backyard BBQ at Joel Osteen's profanely palatial testament to how the Old Testament doused liberally (pun unintended but a chortle, nevertheless) with gullibility was a recipe for riches beyond even the master snake oil sales staffs wildest dreams.

Revelations, it turned out, wasn't just a chapter in the good book.

And one of those revelations that finally found their way into the moist mush medullas of Ted and Lindsay (and Moe, Larry and Curly, oh my) was that they didn't have to pull the cork out.

Donald had already done that.

And it not only wasn't resulting in his being condemned as a charlatan, false prophet, even Anti-Christ.

It ended up resulting in a four year lease on the big white building at 1600...

Banishment from the Garden? 

Hell, he was even celebrated for grabbing Eve's pussy.

How d'ya like them apples?

America is big on conspiracies and mysteries and who dunnits these days.

But "what about", "whatever happened" and "what's the DEAL with" when the "what" is applied to Cruz and Graham and their insufferable ilk?

Eeezy peezy. 

They're now having their cake....and eating it, too.

Courtesy of the orange impeached, indicted 'political war' criminal.

Who pulled the cork out of the bottle, poured the poison into the mainstream

And threw the fake gold brick...through the plate glass window of "Uncle Sam's Bakery".

 

the unwelcome holiday tradition...

November.

The beginning of 'the holiday season'.

A time of traditions.

Warmly welcomed.

With one notable exception.

60 years.  

And while the mind, and heart, call out for some kind of observance.

There really is nothing new to say.   

November.

A time of traditions.

Warmly welcomed.

With one notable exception.

60 years.

 

https://scottedwardphelps.blogspot.com/2009/11/heartbeatsdrumbeatspast-and-future.html

https://scottedwardphelps.blogspot.com/2010/09/septembernovemberand-december.html

https://scottedwardphelps.blogspot.com/2015/11/for-one-brief-shining-momentevery.html

https://sepdaily.blogspot.com/2018/11/whats-past-is-prologue.html

Stuck On You...With, Or Without, The Bacon....

 

 

    There's something a little more than ironic, not to mention ever so slightly disrespectful, about Elvis Presley's somewhat legendary affection for peanut butter and banana and, sometimes, bacon sandwiches still popping up every now and then in conversations about him.   

    More mash on that momentito.

   Hannah Bonner is a poetry editor, author and literary critic whose work has appeared, among other here and theres, in the Cleveland Review of Books and Los Angeles Review of Books 

    Interestingly, she lives in Iowa. Which I mention only by way of observing that time and technology have made it unnecessary to reside in Rome in order to do what Romans do.

    And, truth be told, I mention THAT only by way of indulging my enjoyment of showing off how alliterative I can be if that's my mood of the moment.

    You might call that self-indulgent. I would counter with "witty and urbane".

    Let's meet in the middle and call it whimsical.

    And, admittedly, off point.

    Meanwhile, let's rejoin Hannah Bonner, already in progress.

    Iowa's respected reviewer of others' visions and verses has published, online, an analysis of Sofia Coppola's 2023 film of Priscilla Presley's 1985 memoir entitled, with nary a word wasted, "Elvis and Me"

    Coppola carries on the tradition of word economy, the film entitled...

    "Priscilla".

    Credit where due, neither Ms. Beaulieu Presley nor Ms. Coppola can be accused of verbosity with titles that irrefutably cut to the chase. At the same time, it occurs that Francis Ford's once maligned actress turned respected film maker daughter took either a risk, of sorts, or a leap of faith, so to speak, in naming the film as she did, given that while 'Priscilla' is oh so most familiar and heart embedded in the lifetime members of the Elvis Aaron Association of Adoration, it's not exactly a household name, let alone a "brand" that can count on big sales from the git go. In the tradition of, say, "Cher"....or "Ringo"...or...for the youngers in our studio audience..."Adele".

    Or for the even youngers in our studio audience....

    "Taylor".

    Bonner's review/critique/analysis is admittedly articulate. At the same time, what she articulates is less an overview of the content of the film than a review of the methodology Coppola employs to present it.

    An excerpt:

    Coppola’s acute focus on clothes, makeup, hair, and period specific props distills both the potency of Elvis and Priscilla’s passion, as well as Elvis’s predisposition to violent outbursts and popping Dexedrine. After exiting the theater, I don’t meditate on Elvis’s drug addiction or the sexual politics of women in the 1960s, but I do long for a pink sweater set, a Polaroid camera, or a red Corvair. William Carlos Williams wrote, “no idea but in things.” Beautiful things are Coppola’s métier. The audience is ultimately left with a very pretty film that is as diaphanous and insubstantial as a chiffon scarf. 

    Coppola’s oeuvre post-Lost in Translation (2003) recurrently poses the same problem for spectators: how to contend with these films that are exquisite to look at but decidedly devoid of emotional substance, political intervention, or formal innovation?

       Put less verbosely, Bonner offers that what Coppola is offering is a relatively empty box covered in an eye catching wrapping.

    In fairness, the term "empty box" is arguably an exaggeration. A life as 'star studded' and 'ill-fated' as the life of 'the King' can hardly be correctly labeled as empty.

    And Bonner's take on the movie makes a significant number of points.

    From this seat in the balcony, though, an essential, if not key, point is either overlooked...or dismissed entirely.

    That point being that the box is far from empty. But what's in the box? Well, no one wants to blaspheme a legend, let alone an icon. But if the hard truth must be spoken, then let it be spoken here.

    It comes in the form of two words.

    Old.

    News.

    And before the passionately loyal villagers of the sacred Graceland adorn themselves with their cherished gold "TCB" medallions, lift their eternally flaming torches and hit the streets in search of he who betrays the King (or, surely more practically, hits the Google in search of this writer's IP address to have it seized), grant me a few moments of "hear me out." 

    It's certain that that there is little, if any thing, in the way of Elvis facts, stats and/or minutiae that those most passionate of loyal villagers don't already know. And, understandably, hold near and dear to their hearts.

    And given the tonnage of articles, books (both scholarly and "tell-all"), documentaries and motion pictures (both scholarly and "wow, is that really Forrest Gump playing the Colonel?") that have been published, produced and presented since the mid 1950's (not to mention the tidal wave since his death in 1977...and, what seems to many, the tsunami that has come washing ashore in the last three to five years), it's not outlandish or even gently unreasonable to offer that even the most everyday, average fan of the timeless tunesmith from Tupelo very possibly knows more about him than they ever imagined they might need, or even want, to know.

    All of that taken into consideration, indulge me a fair to middlin' metaphor.

    If, for whatever reason, you were faced with having to gift that special someone in your life, come Christmas morning, with the same gift you gave them last year...and the year before that...and the year before that....you would, of course, be faced with only one way to make that gift "special".

    Wrap it differently.

    For those who need a metaphor "Cliff Notes"....

    Everything there is to know about Elvis, Priscilla, Lisa Marie, Col. Tom, Gladys, Vernon, Jesse Garon and/or the cast of thousands residing in the hard drive folder labled "Presley" is that gift that keeps on giving...and continues to be given.

    That folder...is, at any given time, the latest article, book, documentary and/or motion picture.

    And the wrapping?

    That's the 'take', 'angle', 'style', even 'spin'.

    Scholarly or 'wow'.

    And, at this writing, Priscilla Presley's 1988 memoir gifted to the motion picture audience by Sofia Coppola's 2023 film interpretation.

    Reviewed/critiqued/analyzed by Hannah Bonner.

    Who, tactfully, gently, even lovingly, points out a perspective that, in another context, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sang in their 1970 album title track, "Deja Vu".

    "we have all been here before / we have all been here before"

    Which leaves us with a noticeable stack of  'maybe's.

    Maybe it's worth seriously considering that there is nothing seriously lacking in "Priscilla".

    Maybe it's just that there's nothing new, let alone revelatory, in the story...or the telling of it.

    Maybe it's possible, even likely, that faced with trying to tell a story that has been told and re-told and re-told and....you get the idea....that Sofia Coppola, if only sub-consciously, went to her "go-to" style of presentation resulting, inevitably, in a film "exquisite"...but..."decidedly devoid of emotional substance, political intervention, or formal innovation"   

  Maybe it's time to think about the fact that Elvis died in 1977 and that was, at this writing, forty six years ago and, doing the math, that means that he has been gone four years longer than the entire time he lived on this Earth.

    Maybe it's time to realize that it's entirely possible that the lack of bing, bang, boom, pizzazz or any other zip and zing adjective that comes to mind is simply, respectfully...even poignantly....a symptom of "Elvis fatigue".

    It's not that we don't love a delicious treat.

    It's just that we've had one served to us every couple of days.

    For as long as we can remember.     

    A very special treat, as a matter of fact.

    A peanut butter and banana and, sometimes, bacon sandwich.

    Known in books and recipe collections the world over as....

    The Elvis.

    

    

    

     

     

Is This "Great Country" Or What? (Not As Rhetorical As You Think)

 

 

    Pre-CMA Awards thoughts (and prayers?) on the CMA Awards...

    First, the disclaimer.

    Over the course of twenty odd (both meanings are applicable) years of writing and producing songs in Nashville:

• I saw my name listed as writer or co-writer on a half dozen songs that charted (never higher than fifty or so, but this is the inevitable result when the recording artists pretty much all come from the folder labeled "Hey, Yeah...Actually, Uh, No...."),  
• I was able to claim bragging rights for having co-written the number one country song in Canada, both for several weeks, and at the end of the year, for the whole year in the year 1991. This, of course, has nothing whatsoever to do with the CMA, but, hey, bragging rights, okay?
• There was the "honor of just being nominated" in 1995 for a "Best Bluegrass Album" Grammy, having co-written a song on the Grammy nominated bluegrass album, "Moonlighter" by the Grammy nominated bluegrass artist, Claire Lynch. (When an album is nominated, all the songs are considered part of the nomination and all the writers of all the songs are considered nominated...at least to the point that for the rest of their lives, the writers can all, if only technically, refer to themselves as "Grammy nominated")....and she/they/we didn't win that Grammy that year. It went to "Nashville Bluegrass Band" (and I've always suspected that the name had a lot to do with the choice Grammy voters made....and if the very talented lady who recorded our song had thought to bill herself as "Claire 'Bluegrass' Lynch", all of our lives would have turned out radically different, re' the Grammy nomination.
• And, over that same twenty years, I earned the right to share that I had written, or co-written, songs that were enthusiastically rejected by some of the then-greats of country music... Reba, Randy Travis, George Jones...and my all time proudest moment history of rejection wise...Kenny Rogers. (With a song that his producer played for him in studio, insisting that it was potentially as much a hit as "Coward of the County" or, praise its holy name, "The Gambler", said producer to be rebuffed repeatedly and politely, but firmly, by said Kenny Rogers....I'd share the whole story but this piece, evidence to the contrary, isn't about me...and the movie rights to the whole story are still pending, so.....)
  
• Oh...did I mention that I was Grammy nominated in 1995?

    All of this resume' rambling is by way of qualifying myself for the observations/opinions about to appear regarding this year's CMA's. Call it expert opinion, call it POV from an experienced professional, call it sour grapes from a once upon a time, destined to hit it big time songwriter who has yet, to this day, to figure out what the fark Kenny was thinking.

    And, by the way, the key word in the oft heard phrase "honor just to be nominated" is, despite what you might assume, NOT the word "nominated". 

    It's the word "just".

    Meanwhile...

    The previously teased pre-CMA Awards thoughts on tonight's/this year's CMA Awards.

    Two major categories catch the eye right off the bat.

Entertainer of The Year:

• Luke Combs
• Chris Stapleton
• Carrie Underwood
• Morgan Wallen
• Lainey Wilson

Female Vocalist of the Year:

• Kelsea Ballerini
• Miranda Lambert
• Ashley McBryde
• Carly Pearce
• Lainey Wilson

    Lot of young, diverse talent on display here. Couple of "hmms..."

    First, draw whatever conclusion you will, but only two out of the five nominees for Entertainer of the Year are women. By my Louisiana, 1960's 3rd Grade math skills, that's 40%.

    Hmm.

    If ever there was a moment that the phrase "good ol' boys" showed up in the medulla to no one's surprise, this would be just such a moment. 

    Of course, the next category gives the ladies their full props, five out of five (100%, memory and Cajun classroom skill set serve).

    Of course, the title of the category may have been an influencer among voters, but, that doesn't take a thing away from the estrogenic accomplishment.

    You go, girls.

    The other "hmmm" here?

    The word "token" is both rude and, arguably, inappropriate. But ya cain't help but notice (if only because I'm pointing it out) that in each category, there is one (and only one) nominee, due respect freely offered, whose nomination could be soundtracked with the wonderful, some time ago hit song by Roy Clark....

    "Yesterday, When I Was Young"

    But well earned congrats and "we're not worthy"s to both Carrie and Miranda.

    You go, too, girls.

    And there's no gender oriented "singling out" going on here. The same thing happens in the vocal duo of the year list.

Vocal Duo Of The Year:

• Brooks & Dunn
• Brothers Osborne  
• Dan + Shay
• Maddie & Tae
• The War And Treaty

    As a matter of fact, the combined ages and/or years of country music fame of the aforementioned here actually exceed the current age of Joe Biden.

    So what gets said next may be debatable, but it can't be considered implausible.

    Damn. They been around some kinda long time.

    In fact, memory serves, Kix and Ronnie's first album was released on CD, LP, cassette, 8 track and, pretty sure, one of those Edison cylinder dealios. (bonus tip: laugh all you want, but the sonic quality of those cylinders was easily the equal of those 8 tracks...without that annoying "da-dunk" sound the tape made when it "changed tracks")

    Here's one of my favorites when it comes to the "new" country music.

Song of the Year:

• “Fast Car”; Songwriter: Tracy Chapman
• “Heart Like A Truck”; Songwriters: Trannie Anderson, Dallas Wilson, Lainey Wilson
• “Next Thing You Know”  Songwriters: Jordan Davis, Greylan James, Chase McGill, Josh Osborne
• “Tennessee Orange”; Songwriters: David Fanning, Paul Jenkins, Megan Moroney, Ben Williams
• “Wait In The Truck”; Songwriters: Renee Blair, Michael Hardy, Hunter Phelps, Jordan Schmidt

    "Collaboration" in the art of songwriting is nothing new. In fact, the "solo" songwriter (not counting those songwriters who also sing their own songs, hence the term "singer/songwriter") is arguably the   exception as opposed to the rule, not only in country, but in pop, rock, pick a genre', any genre'.

    And country music? Some pretty powerful partnerships.

    Bobby Braddock and Curly Putnam. Max D. Barnes and Troy Seals. Hank Cochran and Dean Dillon.

    And the songwriting royals if'n ever there was one/some.

    Felice and Boudleaux Bryant.

    Ooh-lah-lah/they wrote/"little Suzie"....

    But there's collaboration. And there's a zebra.

    Defined as "a horse put together by a committee".

    And in the Nashville writers community of the "new Country", the spirit of Harry Nilsson floats gently but surely above.

    One, most surely, is the loneliest number.

    Four.

    The current songwriter model.

    Hell, man. Four ain't a writer's room.

    It's a tailgate party.

    Yes, there are two exceptions in that list of nominees this year.

    Lainey Wilson's "Heart Like A Truck" required only three writers. One of them, of course, Lainey. And, full disclosure, Dallas Wilson is the son of a long time friend and colleague of mine, so there will understandably be no snark or cheap shots regarding this much deserved nomination.

    That said, my satirical sensors are at Def Con One at the wonderful political comedy of a song generated in the aorta of the heart of conservative America, in conservative America's favorite musical genre'...and co written by a talented young lady named Trannie.

    Not that there's anything wrong with that.

    I would also be remiss if I didn't take, at least, a passing swipe at the empirical evidence that motor vehicles continue to be "go-to" song fodder with a frequency not seen since Mel Tillis wrote what Bobby Bare sang about wantin' to go home in "Detroit City". 

    Two "Trucks" and a speedy sedan.

    Jesus, it clearly still takes a wheel.

    And, yes, there is one song in the list of nominees that was written by one and only one writer.

    "Fast Car" Written and recorded, decades ago, by Tracy Chapman.

    And ably, and wisely, recorded by Luke Combs. 

    20% of the 60% of testosterone equipped nominees for Entertainer of the Year.

    Oh...and props where 'propriate....Combs "wisely" recorded/sang/sings "Fast Car" the way Tracy recorded/sang/sings it.

    Proving that Hank, Jr. was right. But not only can a country boy survive, he can spot a "ain't broke, so don't fix it" a country mile away.

    Not to mention the totally unnecessary need to recruit three others to crank out two verses, a chorus and a bridge to a chorus fade out.

    All of the preceding has, of course, been offered in the spirit of good, fun, tongue in cheekiness. From a writer of some modest accomplishment who, truth be told, has absolutely no idea, whatsoever, who any of the nominees for New Artist or Musician of the Year are, freely, therefore, admitting his clear and obvious transition in to the "last box" demographic ( you know....."65 and older"....the. last. box.)

    And just so I can say I got the funny bone out of my throat.....

    ...I'm not sure I want to go on living in world where one of the nominees for the Country Music Association Male Vocalist of the Year is named "Jelly Roll". (I won't testify to it in court, but I'm pretty sure that Mr. Acuff, Mr. Rose, possibly even George and Tammy, are spinning around in their assorted places of peace resting).

    Tonight, at this writing, some nominees will become winners.

    And some nominees....

    Will totally get what I meant a few minutes ago when I highlighted the word "just".

    Oh...and Jelly Roll? I've heard your stuff. Like it a lot. Was just kidding.

    And you've a new fan.

    If only because you didn't share your enthusiasm for being celebrated/honored by posting a thank you vid while sitting on the toilet.

    In a world of country music that went from Hank and Patsy and Loretta and George and Tammy....to a Lil Nas X.

    In the plop of a dump.

   

  

    
    

and...in the end...

 

    The "last" Beatles song is now in the musical mainstream...a coda to their contributions to popular music history.

    And their "swan song". 

   Which would, obviously, be more poetically appropriate were we talking about, say, The Byrds as opposed to the Fab Four.

    But that's a rimshot for another rock and roll reminiscence.

    Let's talk "Now and Then".

    First, I don't want to spoil the party, but it's only fair to offer up a truth...from me to you.

    Opinions about songs...and the singers/songwriters that perform/create them...are second only to politics when it comes to subjectivity, bias, personal preference and passionate support or rejection.

    Put much less ethereally and much more in your face.

    Opinions are like elbows and assholes.

    Everybody's got 'em.

    And somewhere along the way, some well meaning soul started spreading the idea that we are all "entitled" to our own.

    Opinions. The arm joints and rectal orifices come with the knee bones connected to the thigh bones.

    Standard equipment. And pretty much a requirement.

    Like that "Tru-Coat" under the chassis of that new car.

    You may not want it or think you need it.

    But even Jerry Lundegaard knows you just need to suck it up and..let it be.

    The problem with that well meant, inevitably metastasizing 'idea' was that too many of our fellow "we", as in "we, the people" immediately, and to this very day, misinterpret the applicable meaning of the word "entitled".

    It means you can durn sure have an opinion. In fact, you just go on ahead and have all the ding damn opinions you want.

    You're "entitled".

    As to whether or not your opinion(s) turn(s) out to be an insightful,savvy, visionary point of view...or simply a ridiculous declaration of dung....well, determining that is a long and winding road.

    Which brings us back (in the U.S.) to "Now and Then".

    The "last" Beatles song.

    If you're pressed for time and would appreciate a "could we skip the verbose yada yada yammer and just cut to the chase" sum up, well, here comes the sum. (And I promise there's an end in sight to these ba da bum bump 'Beatle puns'....)

    Some people think "Now and Then" is the lamest recording ever issued with the words "The Beatles" on prominent display.

    Some people think "Now and Then" is okay, could go either way.

    And some people....actually, a lot of people....think "Now and Then" is the most important musical composition on the timeline of musical compositions. 

    All of which makes any further discussion/debate/discourse on the matter pretty much a hello...goodbye.

    (Okay...that's it.)

    At this point, it's more than reasonable for you to wonder, aloud or where your mind is wandering, where it will go (it's really hard to stop once started), as to why I'm still writing here, given that I just explained the obvious uselessness of further discussion/debate and/or discourse on the matter.

    Truth told, there are myriad reasons I feel inspired to share the full two cents of my perspective re' "England's Phenomenal Pop Combo" (if that reference draws a blank for you, then you most surely reside in the first two categories of those offering their own two cents on "Now And Then"), but, total truth told, I'm simply in a mood to offer my own opinion.

    After all...I'm entitled.

    Any time at all. 

    (Okay, let's just resign ourselves to the fact that I'm gonna wear out way past my welcome with these feeble Fab fun puns)...

    Not that I need any validation for said opinion (those who know me well are doing hilarious spit takes as we speak), but on "release day" this past week, I actually found a kindred spirit, opine wise.

    Geoff Edgers is a journalist and National Arts Reporter for the Washington Post. He wrote and posted a "review/essay" early in the morning of release day, clearly hours before any of the rest of us had a chance to ingest and/or invest in the recording. Before I even heard the recording, I found myself nodding along with much of what Edgers offered. And once I heard the release, I knew the nods were properly placed.

    Here's some key excerpts from what he offered.

 

This isn’t just a Record Store Day novelty pressed for collectors; this is the final creative collaboration of the most important rock band that ever existed. So listening once more on my headphones, with my deadline approaching, I wish I could somehow approximate how I felt when I heard “In My Life,”  or “We Can Work It Out.”

Is that too much to ask? Of course it is. McCartney and Starr owe us nothing at this point. Yet to just accept it at face value, to put a Beatles stamp on it and not think about that 60-year legacy, feels almost disrespectful.

“Now and Then” is not terrible. It starts slow and picks up a little as the rhythm section kicks in. There is a minor-key melancholy in Lennon’s composition. But ultimately, it’s kind of mundane.

But “Now and Then” exists, and I’ve listened to it about enough, and because it is the Beatles, the bar is high, and expectations are higher. That “Now and Then” will now be included on the reissued “1967-1970,” otherwise known as “The Blue Album,” makes my point. A passable song is simply not good enough when you’re sharing vinyl with “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “A Day in the Life” or “Let It Be.”

Please listen to it. Form your own opinion. Then, when you’re done, put on “The Red Album” or “Blue” or any of the 13 studio records the Beatles made, and you’ll maybe get a tinge of what it feels like to be 7 years old with your dad’s turntable pumping the most glorious music into the living room, perfect songs that simply can’t be matched.

 

      There's not a lot I can add that wouldn't be beating a dead Beatle (not that that's going to end this piece any sooner), but, put simply....

    Yeah, yeah, yeah....what he said.

    And speaking of adding....what I would only add is this.

    In 1996, the late movie critic Roger Ebert wrote a witty intelligent essay on "A Hard Day's Night", the Fab's first film (1964) from the cultural tsunami that was "Beatlemania". Savvy throughout, Ebert parked it over the center field wall with his wrap up.

 

The innocence of the Beatles and "A Hard Day's Night" was of course not to last. Ahead was the crushing pressure of being the most popular musical group of all time, and the dalliance with the mystic east, and the breakup, and the druggy fallout from the '60s, and the death of John Lennon. The Beatles would go through a long summer, a disillusioned fall, a tragic winter. 

But, oh, what a lovely springtime.

 And it's all in a movie.

  

    You might find it odd that writing of the 'now' of "Now and Then" reminded me of an Ebert review of a long ago Beatle movie.

    Allow me.

    I claim 'editorializing rights' because I was there at the outset. That is to say that I was twelve years old the night they appeared on Sullivan, got my first guitar (Sears Silvertone, likely less than twenty bucks) that Christmas, began writing songs from the git go that sounded an awful lot like either She Loves You and/or I'll Follow The Sun, bought every album and single faithfully, pursued a songwriting/song playing (mostly writing) career that lasted from 64 to the mid 1990's (from whence I spent the next twenty in radio where a lot of Beatles crossed my boulevard)...in short, I was a Beatle kid, a Beatle teenager, a Beatle young adult...and a Beatle old guy....and that, if nothing else, gives me license to offer "expert witness" testimony as to who and what they were....what they became....

...and where it has, as of this week, come to a 'conclusion'.

    And rest assured....I won't simply rewrite/restate the POV offered up by Mr. Edgers a few paragraphs ago. I've already made the point that he and I are on the same AM/FM frequency.

    But my gut (heartfelt) feeling about "Now And Then" as grand finale?

    It conjures up the same feeling that kept me from going to open casket wakes/funerals for, so far, all of this life.

    Sensitive, emotionally attuned, artistically delicate flower that I am, I am easily impressed.

    Not like "you can easily impress me", necessarily. My laminated Cynic ID attests to that.

    More like I am easily impressed upon. Affected, touched, swayed, moved by much and many, much and many more than most anyone who knows me might ever suspect. (although I laugh/and I act like/a clown/inside this mask/I tear up every year when George Bailey gets rescued by the good folks in Bedford Falls)

    And when someone in my mind/heart/life shuffles off...I want to remember them alive, in whatever personality that was on display.

    The last thing I want to see is them lying in a box.

   At this writing, all of my faculties are still in relative working order.

   There will, more than likely, come a time before final room checkout, when that won't be the case.

   And I want to remember, through whatever haze settles in on my horizon, those four guys and that band for the cultural tsunami that was Beatlemania, the groundbreaking uniqueness of "We Can Work It Out", the 'wow' of "Paperback Writer", the madness that made sense of "I Am The Walrus", the staggering genius simplicity of "In My Life", the OMG of "Revolver", the splendid time guaranteed me by "Sgt. Pepper"....

...and not the "big" finish of a well intended but average piano "doodling" by a master craftsman who would have very likely have taken no offense had he heard what George Harrison called it thirty years ago when the remaining Fab Three took a shot at "re-imagining" (this time no pun intended) it....

"...rubbish..."

    George was a nice guy. Maybe he was just low on his fiber intake that day. Or maybe he was taking the liberty that he, and only three others in this life, could take.

    Being blunt honest with a Beatle....about a Beatle song.

    Cue Taylor.

    Beatlemaniacal fans are gonna love, love, love, love.

    Less frenzied fans are gonna give it a polite thumbs up, if only 'now and then' (hang in there, it's almost over)

    As for this Beatle kid?

    Thanks again, Roger.

    It absolutely was a lovely springtime.

    That came to a poignant and perfect conclusion in September of 1969.

    With this.....

    "And in the end/ the love you take / is equal to the love/ you make"

    Yeah, yeah.

    (Spared you the third yeah, you're welcome)

    It was primarily a Paul lyric.

    But even John knew a fellow master craftsman when he heard one. And worked with one. And became a brother to one.

    Why, it's even likely that John brings that one up, sitting around trading tales with Elvis and Jimi and Janis and Crosby and Mike and Davy and Peter....

....every now and then.