Deserved or not, Human Beings have been firmly sequestered at the top of the food chain on this planet for the past 4 or 5 thousand years.
As far as planets go, out of the Gazillion or so that zip through space in their little orbits around almost as many stars, we lucked out and got one you can honestly label as a Paradise.
Continue readingNo electricity here again today until 5:00 pm …but my Get Back Review and thoughts will be published here on DBAWIS sometime between 8pm and 10pm tonight, unless more craptastic unforeseen drama occurs. Then, we’re back with Chef Tom and the rest of the writers starting on Saturday. As far as my column tonight …Cross your fingers and hope for the best. Here’s a tease ….
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If you had told me, twenty years ago, that this last decade would be one of the most terrifying/interesting/instructive/growth inducing periods of my entire life to date, I’d have laughed uproariously, and then kicked you out of the room.
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It’s hard to fathom a world where any imaginable sight, sound, or moving image of your fave rave pop star isn’t a mere mouse of a click away. But back in that Gold Age when the roll was still an essential part of rock, families instead gathered ’round their communal box every Sunday evening at eight to turn on and tune completely into the beauty, the splendor, the downright wonder which was The Ed Sullivan Show. And then, only if you were pubescent and/or lucky enough, at the top of any such given hour ringmaster Ed might just include in his introductory announcement, “And for all the youngsters out there…” before intoning – and quite often mispronouncing – none other than the name off the label of your latest, most current constantly-played 45.
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Throughout that wild and wacky A.D. 2020, one disc seemed to somehow find itself repeatedly, and most happily so, upon the ol’ Pig Player. A disc which via a mere 21 tracks in under 69 minutes presents an ideal, not to mention idyllic picture of two musical careers which, cannily overlapping more often than not, displays all that was/is unfailingly, musically sound; all that’s, in actual fact, proper with Pop.
In recent weeks I’ve seen many artists on social media whining for the millionth time about how to sell their wares/songs/nubile posteriors up the music industry food chain in the guise of a record deal or publishing deal or both. It’s not unexpected given the recent wholesale destruction of the live music scene globally due to the pandemic. Artists are finally starting to look under the couch cushions or Mom’s purse for loose change as a means of survival.
The fifth of what will hopefully be many memories from a life of both rock and roll, not to mention radio, television, drinking, and debauchery. Shall we begin?
In the summer of 2005, a package arrived at the Hollywood offices of Highway 61 Entertainment from London with no return address. Inside were two mini-cassette tapes dated December 30, 1999 and labeled The Last Testament of George Harrison.
As hard as it may seem today to fathom, there was a time, in the not too distant analog past, when starting up a record company required more – much more – than just a domain name and the nearest GarageBand™ software.
Yes, there was a time when starting up a record company required actual brick and mortar (or at least some office space), telephones, pens, pencils, typewriters and reams of 20 lb stationery (plus desks to put them all on and, ideally, a staff of people to use them) …not to mention, in the case of at least one of the two record companies mentioned below, a full Cordon Bleu kitchen staff equipped with a £600-a-month-at-least liquor allowance.
We’re in an interesting transitional period with music. Not the industry part that I’ve frequently beaten up and kicked to the curb time and time again. No, I’m talking about musical direction. I had hoped upon hope that post-9/11 the singer-songwriter would make a massive mainstream comeback to usher in the silver age of thinking man’s music. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. The simpletons in charge of what we listen to doubled down on the stupid with the vacant tap dancing and lip-syncing of nubile females, effeminate boy bands and reality stars-turned-prime-time-embarrassments. ‘American Idol’ was the new A & R department for the future of music.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 