Imagine knowing your platform was a playground for predators, fueling teen depression, eating disorders, and suicide and deciding the best course of action was… absolutely nothing. Meta didn’t just “miss” anything.
There have been only a handful of musical geniuses in rock and roll (Dylan, the Beatles, Bowie, Marley, Pete Townshend, the Glimmer Twins, and a few others), and sadly, we lost one of them today in Brian Wilson. Co-founder of the Beach Boys (perhaps the most all-American band ever), Wilson's genius in the studio (it's said he made the studio into an instrument), as well as his creation of the California sound and ability to write songs that are among the most memorable ever are just some of the legacies he leaves behind.
After a nervous breakdown in 1964, Wilson began to concentrate more on his studio work, and man, did it pay off. In 1966 the Beach Boys released Pet Sounds, which was an instant classic, and is widely regarded as one of the ten greatest albums ever. Sadly, Wilson fought mental illness much of his life (probably not helped by his substance abuse), and a good portion of it was during what should have been his most productive years. He did rebound in the 1990's to some acclaim, and won a couple of Grammys.
Wilson's last years were marked by his suffering from dementia, but he did continue to tour until 2022.
There are many tributes pouring in today (as well there should be) by people much more knowledgeable about Wilson, the Beach Boys, and rock and roll than I, so I'll just leave it at though Brian Wilson may be gone, his music will be with us forever--and what a joy that is for all of us.
I wrote about "God Only Knows" in Vol. CLXXXII, and as it's my favorite Beach Boys song (and probably in my top ten tunes of all-time), I'll close with one of the most beautiful (and intricate) pop songs ever written--a stunning and majestic piece of pop pie:
I spent a good deal of time today just getting a good look around me--the walls at work, our roof as I walked up the driveway, the people I passed as I pushed my cart around the store (not very many happy looking people, surprisingly enough). I did this because in seventy-five days it will not be the same. America, at least the one we've known for the last 249 years, will no longer exist.
I would suppose most people don't know this, or even if they did, wouldn't care. But once fascism takes root--and I guarantee you it will, and much sooner than you think--America will never be the same. And it will never return to what it was. American exceptionalism? Gone. The beacon on the hill? Gone. Even if at some point we do defeat fascism (not expecting it in my lifetime but hoping at least my youngest gets to see an American democracy again), we will never again be anything more than just another run of the mill nation.
Just ask Germany.
And all of it will be the fault of the forty percent of Americans who couldn't be bothered to vote, and the approximately thirty-one percent who voted for hate. There's no excuse--these cretins know exactly who Trump is and they voted for cruelty to save a nickel on fucking Frosted Flakes (a nickel which billionaire Trump is never going to stop billion-dollar corporations from losing). When the history of this era is written, it will be they who killed the grandest dream that man ever dreamed (even if we never lived up to it, we tried, goddamnit).
But just so you know, I'm stocking up on popcorn. Yeah, lots of it. Because even though I'll be suffering financially, too, at least I'll have the joy of watching you suffer for your despicable vote when dipshit Trump's tariffs send inflation skyrocketing so high that you'll fucking wish it was like Biden's. Or when you're paying nine dollars for a fucking tomato because of the mass deportations--and they're paying your six-year-old pennies to pick them. And when he lets dumbass Elon Musk destroy the economy by slashing the budget I'm going to be grinning from ear to ear when you're unemployed and getting zero in the way of unemployment. Hey, those billionaires need their tax cuts!
And for those Latino Trump voters who "accidentally" get scooped up and shipped to camps and eventually end up back in Mexico--you reap what you sow!
Sadly, I probably won't live long enough to see polio paralyze your kids thanks to wormhead Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., (note that I won't have to worry about my family--they've all been vaccinated) and his anti-vax bullshit or smallpox scars your children's faces (if they're lucky enough to survive) which you won't be able to have fixed because--owning President Obama!--Obamacare has been repealed. Amazingly, your $7.25 an hour job without medical benefits at Wal-Mart is going to leave you around, oh, $25,000 to $35,000 short of being able to pay for the plastic surgery that allows your kid to live a normal life. Don't sweat it, though--having other kids call your son or daughter "Pizza face!" builds character, amirite?
In case you haven't noticed, I'm all out of fucks left to give for you people.
But soon enough you'll realize why Russians are among the most miserable people in the world--the only difference being that they see life through the bottom of a vodka bottle, while you'll be seeing it through the bottom of a stanky ass beer bottle.
Alas, I'm not one of the cool people who discovered this week's artist before the Volkswagen Cabrio commercial in 1999 that features this week's tune (apparently to his fans this is an egregious transgression). No matter--my citizenship in Coolsville was revoked many, many years ago....
Nick Drake was born in Rangoon, Burma (his father was an engineer, and eventually his family returned to their native U.K.) in 1948 and spent the first twenty years of his life bouncing around public and private schools. He bought his first guitar in 1965, began practicing regularly in 1966, and by 1969 had a record contract. Drake would release three studio albums over the course of his career, none of which sold very well, partly because of his aversion to interviews and performing live. Sadly, Drake suffered from acute depression and at the very young age of 26 died from either suicide or an accidental overdose of anti-depressants. Like Vincent Van Gogh (though obviously not nearly as successfully), Drake's legacy would grow greatly after his death, both commercially (all of his albums eventually went gold in the U.K) and critically. Artists as varied as Kate Bush, REM, the Cure, Iron and Wine, Radiohead, and Paul Weller have cited him as an influence. Drake has been inducted into the Folk Hall of Fame, and all three of his albums have been included on Rolling Stone's list of the 500 Greatest Albums of All-Time.
Fun Fact #1: Way back in Friday Night Jukebox #247 I noted that the Dream Academy had written, and dedicated to him, that week's post ("Life in a Northern Town"), and that eventually Nick Drake would be featured in his own post--and voila! here it is....
"Pink Moon" was not released as a single but was the lead song on his ever so inventively named third album Pink Moon, which came out in 1972. The album did not chart in its initial release, nor after the success of the Volkswagen commercial (though sales did increase substantially).
Fun Fact #2: A pink moon occurs every April and is not named for a reddish tint (though it can occur on occasion) but for the floral growth that is beginning in the Northern Hemisphere in the spring. Contrary to some Drake fan posts, a pink moon is not foreboding, but rather is considered a sign of rebirth after the long cold winter.
"Pink Moon" lasts just a hair over two minutes. Lyrically, Drake uses less than twenty-five words, with two repeated stanzas and a simple "chorus." Instrumentally, it features Drake on acoustic guitar (Drake used numerous different tunings with his music), and about halfway through Drake adds in a stark piano (which he plays). Vocally, Drake's baritone is nothing short of haunting. Yet despite its brevity and simplicity, the song speaks volumes. What it says, exactly, I have no idea, but every time I hear it "Pink Moon" sounds better and more consequential that it did the time before. And while we rightfully mourn his all too early death, we can also give thanks that in his time here he shared such a wondrous and intoxicating song with us.
Lyric Sheet: "I saw it written and I saw it say/Pink moon is on its way/And none of you stand so tall/Pink moon gonna get you all..."
Another episode of so much music, so little time...
A number of years back one of my two older kids passed along this week's tune, which I happened to mention to my oldest son that I really liked, and he proceeded to go to the trouble of burning me a CD of the album which it was released on...and somehow, lo these many years down the road, I've never listened to it (and just like that, my chances at Father of the Year have disappeared). That will change soon, as it's now next in line on my drive to work playlist, but it would sure be appreciated if someone out there could find a way to get a couple more than just 24 hours in a day so I could get a little more time to get to all the music I've missed....
Thanks to a Wikipedia entry that had one of the weakest band histories I've ever seen (and in fairness, maybe there just isn't that much history to Rilo Kiley), this will be mercifully short. Rilo Kiley formed in 1998 in Los Angeles, released their debut album in 1999, released four more albums over the next eight years, took a hiatus in 2007 that they never returned from, and released their final LP (total of six) in 2013, though the last one was little more than the obligatory b-sides and unreleased fodder bands are wont to release on occasion. Depending on which story is true, the band's name either came from a character in a one of two dreams founding member Blake Sennett had, or was a name pulled out of a book about Scottish soccer players. While the band had virtually no commercial success, they did attract a small but devoted following, much like many other indie bands.
Fun Fact: Lead singer and songwriter (with Sennett) Jenny Lewis would go on to be in a band called Nice as Fuck. I don't know how important of a fact this is, but it makes me chuckle to think there's a band out there called Nice as Fuck.
Released on their The Execution of All ThingsLP in 2002, "A Better Son/Daughter" was not released as a single, and it what has become a theme of sorts over the past couple of months, we have no shout out for Billboard magazine this week. The album itself went on to sell 66,000 copies, which doesn't sound like much until you realize even if it had only sold one copy, it'd be one more than you ever sold.
"A Better Son/Daughter" is a song about depression (though through my half-assed research I found a few people who thought it was about bi-polar disorder), and as one who's been there, does a pretty good job of capturing the paralysis, doubt, fear, and guilt that go with it. It also does well in showing the (sometimes in vain) hope that you can beat it and become whole again. The song sounds anthemic in nature to me, though I've seen some describe it as more like a battle march (which could be somewhat the same). Lewis' vocals begin as if she's singing through a bullhorn before coming in strongly as the character tries to tell herself how she's going to get better and what a better person she'll be. In the end, it's one of those brilliant, small masterpieces that not nearly enough people will ever get to hear (though it was featured on Orange Is the New Black), and is another in a long line of reminders of why I've devoted so much of my time to pop music.
Lyric Sheet: "And sometimes when you're on/You're really fucking on/And your friends they sing along/And they love you..."
So I'm browsing the headlines in AOL News this morning and come across a piece about Bruce Springsteen and his battle with depression. Having suffered from depression at one time in my life, I usually take a peek at such pieces to get a fellow sufferer's take on an absolutely soul crushing illness. As I get to the end I scroll a little too far and end up at the comments section of the piece (which was also a plug for his upcoming memoir, entitled appropriately enough, Born to Run), which I don't usually read because the world is full of far too many deliriously dumb people and it turns out that republicans can't even let a puff piece hawking a book go by without turning it into a racist hatefest because Springsteen exercised his right as an American and supported Barack Obama not once, but twice, for the Presidency.
For fuck's sake, Francis, these people really need to get a fucking life--anybody paying attention knows that Springsteen has made his political affiliations very public at least since his NebraskaLP which Springsteen himself said was a reaction to the damage he saw Ronald Reagan doing to America's working class (and was also inspired by A People's History of the United States by the democratic socialist historian Howard Zinn).
Besides, it's not as if republicans don't have their own celebrities to turn to. Don't like Springsteen's politics? You can always listen to "Wango Tango" by Ted Nugent or watch reruns of Scott Baio's Charles in Charge.
And don't be pissed at Democrats because our celebrities are American icons and yours are such herorrhoidal lame-asses.
The average American gets paid just enough so he doesn't quit his job, and works just hard enough so he doesn't get fired.
"When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross." Source unknown
Uncle emaycee Wants You For the Coming Class War! Enlist today....
Capitalism: Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you can exploit his labor, become filthy rich, and keep the poor bastard living paycheck to paycheck for the rest of his life.
