I got a haircut the other day and the guy before me asked for white sidewalls. For those who don’t know, white sidewalls is a euphemism for a buzzcut which pretty much eliminates hair from neck to crown. Marines are poster boys for the style and I jerked my mental knee and mentioned The Marines. Yes, he said, I was a Marine. I looked closely at him and I could see a hard life written on his face, the cracks deep and ancient. His life hadn’t been easy.
The masterpiece in the header is none other than Jess Pillmore‘s Reveal, a 2005 release which swept me away and earned my pick for Album of the Year. I don’t think there is a person out there who would not raise the brow, but like that old crusty umpire, I call them as I hear them. I undoubtedly have most if not all of you at a disadvantage. You have not heard the album and even if you have you have not studied it. You are therefore unaware of the sweat and blood and emotion and, yes, genius which sets this album apart from so many others. At first listen, even I had little inkling what was beneath the songs themselves. At twenty listens I began to have an idea. By one hundred, I knew.
Lots going on in music these days— Apple announcing their foray into streaming (I love the headlines such as “Apple May Save the Recording Industry”— I mean, what idiot thought that one up?) and the Brian Wilson biopic (My buddy Stan Twist says that if you are either a Brian Wilson or a Beach Boys fan, you won’t want to miss it) and there are lots of new albums to go over. And, as always, old ones too. But…
It was opening day yesterday— for baseball, in case you’re wondering. Time for the so-called Faithful to breathe in the aroma of Spring and pay homage to overpaid athletes who had better be as good as they can be because that home run that center-fielder just hit cost the club $27,102.56. I don’t know what it is but even the intelligent lay aside any real maturity they gained since the last out of last years World Series. Cubs fans talk of a pennant, Red Sox fans rejoice in the fact that they have yet another chance to win it all and Dodger fans— well, the Dodgers haven’t been the Dodgers since they left Brooklyn, in my opinion. Major League Baseball died for me on the day they announced the move. Walter O’Malley destroyed not just one childhood fantasy of mine— that baseball was a sport— but also what I had always thought the only major league worth caring about— The Pacific Coast League.
The last we looked in on Jim Colegrove, he asked the question which consumes every artist, musical and otherwise— …where would the world be without dreamers? The question ended Part Three of his story as being told through this column at which point Colegrove and band were headed to New York to grab that fabled brass ring dangled by the record labels of the time. If you recall, drummer N.D. Smart II who was supposed to be the band’s drummer, opted for a gig with The Remains, who had scored a leg of The Beatles’ tour. But Smart was there when the band arrived after a long car trip.
It is time to eat some words and I do so with remorse. Those words, spoken when I was young and somewhat foolish and also feeling a bit immortal, I suppose, were tossed at The Cowsills and other groups and artists I found somewhat wanting in terms of musical output. They were pointed at a string of what I would call “manufactured” bands— those whose music supposedly came from the hit makers— I called it Hollywood music back then. The Monkees took a big hit, the band put together not really for music but for TV.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 