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!
Rolling Stone Magazine recently released their latest ‘list’, “The 100 Greatest Songwriters” rollingstone.com). Let me repeat that title, “The 100 Greatest Songwriters”. Their descriptive line states “From Brill Building tunesmiths to Punk poets, from Woody Guthrie to Max Martin, the visionaries who defined music history.”
The Easily Off-Track Intro:
I’ve lived in Los Angeles for almost 30 
years now. To quote Donny Osmond, “And that’s a long, long time.” Consider, when I moved to The City of Angels, curling still used actual brooms instead of those ultra-high-tech sweepy things. Am I the only 
traditionalist left on God’s rapidly-warming Earth who misses the majestic “Flappa Dappa, Flappa Dappa” of the mighty besom as stalwart men of iron will guided their beloved “rock” (I really know the lingo) to its date with other rocks of a different color and destiny?
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 