As bizarre as even I still consider this lil’ factoid to be, Yours Quite Truly honestly did spend the majority of the Reagan administration touring Canada’s hepper lounges and ski resorts as one-fifth of the one and only (…ah-hemm: but AUTHORIZED, I’ll have you know) Beach Boys “tribute” act known as Endless Summer.
So there!
It’s confession time. Some of my devoted readers are not going to like it. It’s related to my disdain for certain genres of music so if you’ve got a strong constitutional defense for the music you love you may want to read the ‘New Yorker’ in your smoking jacket instead. Or track down re-re-re-runs of the Grand Ol’ Opry on TVland. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool music snob. I have no patience or interest in Jazz, The Blues or Country music.
Full disclosure. I don’t do Country music. I’ve never been a fan of those Good Ol’ Boys singing – through their noses, I might add – about dogs and bar fights and pick-up trucks and hurtin’ songs about how a good woman gone done them wrong or some endless road trip of wide open spaces carrying a rack full of guns because: FREEDOM!
Thanks to the good people at AudioBlood, Bob Segarini, Pat Blythe and myself have spent the last ten days mixing and mingling with musicians, artists, and the people who love them. It’s been simultaneously exhausting and exhilarating. I won’t lie … my feet hurt, I’ve got a desk covered in CDs, business cards, and promotional bumpf of all stripes … and I’m relieved that I don’t have to do anything more strenuous than type this recap of the festivities. Although there are a few more events tonight …
In Montreal in the sixties, growing up in a Catholic family, we were always encouraged to use our talents in religious gatherings. Even my Aunt Pat, blissfully unaware that she was tone-deaf, would raise her voice loudly and proudly in song. I sang at mass, first in Latin as the organ wheezed, and later in folk masses, where the guitar was the instrument of choice.
I’ll be a sonofabitch! I was on page ten of this post when the goddamned computer decided to start a new document from that point, shredding the old one into etherdom. For a minute, I was pissed, I tell you, because that was two days of work, but the couple of hours trying to retrieve said document made me realize how much I really don’t care. It may be time and work lost, but this interview, graciously granted by Tracy Nelson, a monumentally talented vocalist, was lost to the ages (computer crash) until I came upon a hard copy I had printed for just that reason. I cannot begin to tell you how happy I was to find it.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 