I have been working on my first new column in months, but it is taking longer than I thought it would. Fortunately, I found this excerpt from a column written and published 11 years ago in 2012, that leads nicely into the one I am working on, which, God and the Grand Wozzel willing, I will share with you next Friday. That said, there are a lot of new words and pictures here, so, yeah, we’re not here to waste your time.
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Music is in the air. Music is everywhere. Concerts are resuming and a limited number of clubs are readying for a return to entertainment. Large tours are back on the docket – including the Rolling Stones who will be traveling for the first time since the band’s formation in 1962 without its timekeeper Charlie Watts (who is recovering from surgery). It has sparked debate about what constitutes value for money in these economic hard times. Are Mick Jagger and Keith Richards (and late bloomer Ron Wood) enough to constitute a real Rolling Stones experience? Fans are divided.
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For all intents and purposes, Lindsey Adams Buckingham has lived a charmed life since first dropping 71 Octobers ago.
Now that I have your attention, let’s talk about music in the time of COVID, shall we?
In the Before Times (March 2020 or sooner) the music industry was teetering on the brink of obsolescence as concert tickets had skyrocketed to the price of, well, a moon-landing, and venues were closing down at a rate equal to Nortel distributors. The music itself had been co-opted by the tech industry through streaming platforms, leaving artists wondering how they got robbed so badly (here’s a hint: you’re the cow, the music’s the milk…insert cliché about not buying the former if you can get the latter for free). On a scale of economics, you’re either a starving creator or a billionaire exploiter. There is no middle class in music. And given that most weasels in the music industry aren’t clever enough to become billionaires, they turn to low hanging fruit and pick the pockets of performers and songwriters for pennies on the dollar.
Over-intellectualizing about a subject as pure and simple in its perfection as the Ramones sort of defeats their entire purpose, now doesn’t it? The proverbial “dancing about architecture,” as Steve Martin (by way of Frank Zappa) might well say.
Consequently, I’ve shied away from most books and studies concerning Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Co. that have appeared over the years. So when a copy of Vera Ramone King’s Poisoned Heart came my way, I cracked it open with a wee bit of trepidation, I do admit.
Dear Diary …
The current case of Writer’s Block continues well into its 2nd month. It is a horrible feeling, not being able to put words into sentences that tell a coherent story, staring at a blank monitor screen for hours on end, wondering if I will ever be able to write again.
It happens to writers on occasion. It is visual laryngitis , intellectual paralysis, which has no known cure. Like the common cold, all you can do is wait it out, taking steps suggested by friends that may have worked for them, but do not work for me. The words cannot be forced, bribed, or cajoled into forming sentences that eloquently, humourously, or intelligently convey what is on your mind.
It is like being trapped at the bottom of a well, unable to cry out for help.
…and rather than leave the page blank, I have, this week, decided to reprint a column from 2011, when the juice was flowing and I could write three of these a week. At least there are some new links and pictures for your dining and dancing pleasure.
There are still more stories to tell, laughs to share, and adventures and opinions to commit to paper …and as soon as I can …I will.
In the meantime ….
I type this through tears. At this moment my old pal Greg Simpson is on life support in a London hospital. And I fear for his life. Suddenly a flood of memories come back to a 20 year friendship all of which involved good times.
Through most of 1968, Skip Prokop’s band The Paupers had been touring with new bass player Brad Campbell as they were making their way through recording and releasing their second album for MGM Records called “Ellis Island.” But Skip was getting a taste for session work and expanding his musical horizons beyond a 4-piece rock and roll ensemble. It was leading him to decisions that would change his life and Canadian music forever…
It was exactly 56 (!) May birthdays ago that I received my very first “big record” …yes, just like the countless Count Basie and King and I albums in mom and dad’s big oak record cabinet. Needles to say, Capitol Canada T-6054 remained lodged on the Pig Player clear through Christmas ’64 …when I received my second big one.
If I didn’t know any better, I would say I am the victim of a Gypsy Curse.
Lately it seems that just walking down the hall has become an obstacle-laden course of Rube Goldberg slapstick and Orwellian conspiracy. Getting from Point A to Point B without slipping on a banana peel, having a piano fall on me, or tripping over my own two feet and landing in an Acme Wood Chipper has become totally impossible.
…and I’m not even chasing a road-runner.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 