Tubb: Flat but fantastic....

"Driftwood on the River"

Under the unfluence of Budweiser and struggling to grade Catcher in the Rye essay exams, I was caught short by Ernest Tubb's '40s honky-tonk classic, "Driftwood on the River." I'd programmed about 30 Tubb songs for Nicole and me so we could concentrate on edumacational stuff yet still enjoy toonage, and, though I'd heard this song several times, I was frankly amazed at how it dovetailed with my general life-state. Tubb had one of those early country vocal styles where you say, "Hell, I could sing that," then you try and fail (to hear a successful attempt, listen to Merle Haggard's autumnal The Way I Am). His best stuff is warm and real--where in today's country music can you hear a regular guy's voice just soulfully putting across home truths of life? Here's the complete lyrics:

DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER

I'M JUST DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER FLOWING DOWN THE TIDE
I DON'T CARE WHERE THIS OLD RIVER CARRIES ME
I KEEP DRIFTING JUST BECAUSE MY HEART IS BROKEN INSIDE
AND I'M TIRED OF WISHING FOR WHAT CANNOT BE.

I MAY MEET A BIT OF DRIFTWOOD LOST THE SAME AS I
SHARE A HANDSHAKE AND A TENDER TEAR OR TWO
BUT IT'S JUST GOOD LUCK, PAL, WE'VE GOT TO SAY GOODBYE
I MUST WANDER ON TO KEEP MY RENDEZVOUS.

THOUGH I DRIFT THROUGH TOWN AND CITY, I CAN NEVER STAY
'TIL I FIND A PLACE TO CALL MY HOME SWEET HOME
I DON'T ASK FOR HELP OR PITY, I JUST GO MY WAY
I JUST PRAY FOR PEACE TO DRIFT AND DREAM ALONE.

I'M JUST DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER AND I'M DRIFTIN ON
'TIL THE WEARY RIVER MEETS THE DEEP BLUE SEA
WHERE THE DEEP BLUE SEA MAY HELP ME TO FORGET SOMEONE
JUST THE CARELESS ONE WHO HAS FORGOTTEN ME.

IN MY HEART I DON'T FEEL BITTER OVER WHAT HAS BEEN
I FEEL SORRY FOR THE ONE I MUST FORGET
AND INSTEAD OF BEING SOMEONE WITH THE WORLD TO WIN
I'M JUST DRIFTWOOD ON THE RIVER OF REGRET.

Deep, or what?

"The Velvet Fog" Can Envelope Your Family

The Parents

It's always a challenge when I'm on a trip with my parents and I want us all to enjoy music along the way. I met the challenge this weekend on a drive to Hannibal, Missouri with Mom, Dad, and my wife Nicole. With the possible exception of the post-'65 model George Jones, has a squarer-looking individual ever been blessed with more euphonious pipes than Mel Torme? I found myself totally riveted--to the extent that I wasn't even hearing conversation or really seeing the road (and I was driving!) by Torme's versions of "Born to Be Blue," "A Stranger in Town," "'Round Midnight," and "Blue and Sentimental," from Verve's Compact Jazz comp. The man wasn't nicknamed "The Velvet Fog" for nothing! "Born to Be Blue" in particular is a performance where Torme seems to be able to add the audio version of soft focus to his interpretation to add a deeper layer of meaning to the fairly corny lyrics; it's hard to imagine even Sinatra topping it. Another highlight of the trip was the second disc of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Duke Ellington Songbook (also on Verve), on which Ella's vocals ride the tricky rhythmic ripples of Ellington's compositions like a state-of-the art kayak, with Stuff Smith's sedutive violin and Ben Webster's breathy, lusty tenor sax following every contour and shift. She also duets with guitarist Barney Kessel on stark versions of "Solitude," "In a Sentimental Mood," and "Azure" that are brief sand-bar respites under a shining--but very blue--moon. On the return trip, I managed to squeeze in the recent budget-priced 2-Lps-on-1-disc reissue of Willie Nelson's early-'80s duet albums with soon-to-be-departed legends Webb Pierce and Hank Snow (In the Jailhouse Now and Brand on My Heart, respectively, on Sony Music Digital Compact Classics). Not a single merely good track out of 20, and "In the Jailhouse Now," "I Don't Care," "Heebie Jeebie Blues" (with Pierce), "I've Been Everywhere, "Carribean," "Golden Rocket," and "Brand on My Heart (with Snow) surpass the original versions. It's simply miraculous to hear three cagey old singers with very little in the natural gifts department think their way through these old chestnuts. I was gratified repeatedly throughout the trip when Dad was moved to pick up the cases of all three of these discs and peruse them carefully. Anybody else have some sure-fires to recommend for parent weekends?

And another thing....

My buddy Mark Anthony (former webmaster of Nashville's The Rawk and bassmaster of the Creeping Cruds) has a theory that the shittier the political times, the better the music produced by those times. Thinking about CCR's best work, which articulated the joys, sorrows, and frustrations of the regular guy (not to say the poor man, really), you'd think there'd be current artists articulating the same now, but the most recent slab o' music coming over the musical horizon, The Future Soundtrack of America, just voices the, uh, semi-elite upper middle class (Bright Eyes, Fountains of Wayne, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Death Cab for Cutie) whining--nice as it sometimes is--about the stumblin' state of the union. After hearing it, and basically enjoying it, I got to thinking, is this what the ideal alternative is? Nah. So...anybody want to weigh in and prove Mr. Anthony's theory by selecting undeniable platters from 2000-2004? I'm betting you can't.

John Fogerty--What happened?

Cranked up CCR's Willy and the Poorboys today (more fallout from the Cobain book--one of the photos shows a messy ol' rockpad of Kurt's with a Creedence record sticking out of a crate), having programmed its great lost threesome ("It Came Out of the Sky," "Don't Look Now," and "Effigy"), I began musing on the great Fogerty quandary: where did that lyrical edge go? A few decent toons came after Willy, but his first two solo albums of the '70s were almost all covers (not badly rendered at all, especially the Charms' "Hearts of Stone"), and since the overrated "comeback" of Centerfield he's really been good for, well, nothing...other than cannibalizing his old group's inimitable musical style. Fogerty's writing genius seemed so uncomplicated that, as long as regular guys kept getting screwed, he could last for ever--especially with that voice. And with the resurgence of roots-rock over the past 20 years or so, you'd think he would have been inspired, regenerated, nay, compelled into relevant action. Haven't heard the ominously titled Deja Vu All Over Again yet, but the man ranks up there with Sly Stone, Rod Stewart, and Johnny Rotten as guys with prodigious gifts who just...lost 'em. Maybe getting disconnected from the band rattled him out of his rhythm, or maybe the band contributed the special fuse that made the machine really hum. Or maybe (excepting Johnny Boy) there was something about '72-'73 that took it out of these guys. Any theories out there?

"Time held me green and dying...." (the blogger at 20, under the influence of wine, Black Flag, the Razorbacks, and the tutelage of Mark Anthony)

In easier days....

Nirvana Fixation

Just finished Charles Cross' Heavier than Heaven. Initially asked myself, "How much do I need to know about Kurt Cobain?" Had already read Mike Azerrad's Come as You Are and tons of articles and such, but came across a review of the Cross bio that made it seem pretty tantalizing. Finished it in about a week (365 pages--I teach during the day and plan and read school stuff at night, so that's tells you how compelled I was), and I'd say it's the literary version of Cobain's scarifying howl through "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" on Unplugged. You come away wondering how many little kids are as deeply psychologically wounded like Cobain, how long they carry it, and how in hell they cope. Not to say the author explains it all away that way; it's just as likely, I suppose, that the guy was fatally self-involved. But you'll be hurt yourself when you follow the story arc of a kid who wouldn't go to bed because he had so much fun being with Mom and Dad who grew up to so desperately court death in his final weeks you're afraid to turn the next page. Also, if you're like me, you may come away with a new appreciation (and almost certainly a different perspective) on Courtney Love. I'm convinced she didn't have anything to do at all, even psychologically, with his death. In fact, if it hadn't been for her, he'd have kicked the bucket after the first SNL gig. The ultimate compliment I can extend to Cross is the book literally drove me into a Nirvana listening fixation that has just gotten deeper since I finished the book last night. It's hard to believe we're already 15 years past their big moment, but, I'm telling you, the shit holds up--naw, it's grown. As I've listened from Bleach through a bunch of rarities and outtakes I cadged from the Internet, I've found myself constructing Robert Johnson analogies. Driven, tortured, naked yet fascinatingly allusive in their writing, frighteningly intense in their singing, and possessed of a self-effacing gallows sense of humor, they most certainly must be fellow travellers now. I hope some of my student rockers will read this book, because there's a bit of a Nirvana backlash snaking through the ranks ("shitty guitar player," "lyrics are stupid," "self-involved junkie," and "sell-out" are the common--and, for three of the four, ignant--complaints). I'm not sure reading this will change their minds. But it will enlighten them regarding the man's complexity.