Yesterday was pretty much the walking sequel to to the documented day prior, but everything was more stark, bleak, and drunken. And I had to sit in a 4x4 DJ booth, staring at plywood/computer monitors for eight hours, drinking Guinness[1]. Thus, all of the same faux-analyses apply, except instead of the glass being "half-full", the glass was "half-empty". And there were thirteen "completely empties" sitting around me. And an aging graffiti writer gave me directions to a local metal bar on the back of a receipt for an order of chicken wings. And I had crumbs from my turkey sandwich all over my Fred Sanford T-Shirt. Thus, my emotionally crippled doppleganger was Paul Westerberg, not John Fogerty. Viva la Replacements!![2]
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The Replacements - "Bastards of Young" [3]
The Replacements - "Answering Machine"
The Replacements - "The Ledge"
The Replacements - "Achin' to Be"
The Replacements - "Goddamn Job"/"Junior's Got a Gun" (Live in '81, at the 7th Street Entry)
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[1] Actually, it was Bare Knuckle Stout, and they gave it to me when I ordered Guinness on my first night. I didn't quibble, because I figured my constantly crashing computer and my tendency to get drunk and play Social Distortion repeatedly would alienate my coworkers soon enough anyway; I didn't need to accelerate it by starting a fit over being served an Anheuser-Busch knock-off at 6:45 in the evening. Shit, what's 63 RateBeer points between friends??
[2] And I swear, in spite of the fact that I could probably fill a page-a-day calendar with drunken white man music, this will be my last "James Joyce, document my day through shit/shower/shave to slumber" entry for awhile. Godspeed, blogosphere.
[3] Yes, that's the real, MTV-aired video. These guys are that fucking awesome.
So I've been working on a post about Warren Zevon/the long strange trip I've been on (macro and micro, ladies and gentlemen). And it's interesting (at least to me), but at the same time, I'm creeping into that oh so familiar territory where I don't update this for months at a time, and it's for such nonsense as going on a bender, or realizing they play "Martin" episodes at 2:30 AM, or other such bullshit. In the meantime, the reason I started doing this wasn't because the pretentious bullshit that interests ME is of interest to you, it's because the gaps between that bullshit draw you back. Sometimes I lose that, and end up talking about old Dismemberment Plan b-sides. Thus, to give my half dozen[2] readers what they desperately crave, here is what I'd give you if I were next to you, drinking high life and watching the Brewers.
I had this really interesting conversation about the nature of people from rural areas, and the optimism, friendliness, and other Jimmy Stewart [4] traits that they seem to bring with them when they embark on a metropolis. Where our ideological paths diverged, however, was that while the catalyst of said conversation thought that they all sought out kindred spirits, and thus ended up lonely/unfufilled, I thought of myself/Buck Owens/Gomer Pyle/Girl you knew from high school with pigtails that probably lives in the West Village now, as that sort of cleansing, one part-per-million component that leaves a wide trail of reflection in their wake. Now, I'm not meaning to suggest that my time in the city, nor that of any other country-fried jackass, is as some sort of Johnny Applesee-inspired ambassador of traditional values, knock-knock jokes, and other such cinnamon in the applesauce. However, I think that a reminder now and again of why you do what you do is important.
I apologize for the melodramatic explanation, because I assure you, even people on Wall Street trading baby carcasses had a more socially profound day than I had. However, the day was a classic Anthony day, those that typically inspire the sort of "what does it all mean" questions that most people abandon after they leave high school/Fueled By Ramen records. I bookended my day, on the floor, in Queens, with baseball. Tacoby Bellsbury's phenomenal catch, millions of Japanese watching opening day with the fervor of our grandparents, and Bystol making off color comments at ten-year-olds for drafting relievers out of turn. In short, the kind of day where I have an endless half-stock before I even check the updates page on SpankWire. In the middle, I read a little Steinbeck, did some laundry, prepared for my Fantasy Baseball draft, grocery shopped, and played Smash Bros.
Basically, this was exactly the sort of day that is the reason I'm 24 years old, quasi-employed, and sleep on a floor. However, as I set about lofting my ridiculous circumstances towards a profundity I could never reach, but incessantly claim after beer four, I soundtracked it all with Creedence. And all was good.
Nearly everyone I know has heard me extol the virtues of "Lodi", one of the greatest songs of all time. To be brief, since you've all heard the pitch ad infinitum, "Lodi" is "Piano Man" for people that aren't emotionally/intellectually retarded. John Fogerty's yarn is about spending the rest of your life in a town you never planned on being in for more than 24 hours, and the Sisyphean struggle of trying to get the fuck out with some goddamn dignity. From the opening chords to the staggering key change at the end, it's a crash course in empathy, and it belongs on God/Allah/Jah/Jordan's fucking jukebox in spot A Fucking 1.
But, as I lazily drifted through the day, taking a nap, pleading with the Asian Laundromat operators not to fuck up my Blackhawks jersey, delicately testing the freshness of my produce, downloading songs from third grade to play for drunks tomorrow at work, I realized that I needed a bit beyond "Lodi", and simply played through Chronicle[5], about nine times.
From there, I jammed the fuck out of everything: the wise cover of "Proud Mary" took me through the bakery while I bought glazed donuts, "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" was the daily song that the neighbors have to listen to me karoake during my unreasonably-late-in-the-day shower, and "Hey Tonight" guided me through my daily "send out one resume so that way you can sleep without waking up in a sweat about how your sole occupation is playing Bon Jovi for people from Jersey" routine. John Fogerty's vocal rang true on each one, but the big three were "Lodi", "Long as I Can See the Light", and "Someday Never Comes".
As much as the guy has written some of the greatest good time music ever (Shit, fucking Jeff Lebowski references him as such), I think we all forget that barring the aforementioned Van Morrison, John Fogerty may be the greatest white soul singer of rock and roll's formative years. "Looking Out My Back Door" hilariously invokes acid confusion (though only his hairdresser knows for sure), "Down on the Corner" is on every Time Life "Music of the 1960's" box set for the next century, and "Fortunate Son" addresses politicism in a way that truly captures the angst of those affected, not simply limousine liberals who rally against any land-owning white man's cause. However, his true gift is that he managed through every A and B side to lend a gravity to subjects that his contemporaries never could have. As played out as my Billy Joel/"Lodi" comparison is, I fucking dare you to place "Someday Never Comes" against anything ever written by Art Alexakis, and not end up wanting to beat all of Everclear to death with a fucking crowbar. The reason the man is a national treasure is that he's genuine, without being heavy handed. He writes for all of us, though gives us the credit that what we would write would be "Grapes of Wrath", and not the Nickelback song most of my tenth grade shop class probably would have penned. He's probably the only classic rock dinosaur that gets trotted out on every awards show tribute imaginable, yet never comes off as tired, pathetic, or dated. Instead, he gives a context to things that flatters, without ever pandering, nor bludgeoning you with obviousness. Just as it makes my pathetic, post-collegiate road trip come off as a profound journey of ambition and self-discovery, it makes you cooking bagel bites in your sweat pants a brutal reality that can be overcome, pumping gas a look towards a railed future. In short, he takes every act of uselessness that you perform during your (shit, definitely my) menial existence, and elevates it to a plateau where it seems a tragic, yet vital component of a decaying system. There's a humanism (in the delivery, obviously, but also in the narrative arc of each original composition) that not even Springsteen can approach, because it's about the micro, and never the macro. In short, the man gives us far more credit than we goddamn deserve. And it's what makes him a genius.
Creedence Clearwater Revival - "Someday Never Comes"
Creedence Clearwater Revival - "Long As I Can See the Light"
Creedence Clearwater Revival - "Lodi"
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[1]Before Timberlake [2]Google analytics [3] has actually proved that whole self-deprecating "nobody reads my shit thing" is wildly incorrect, but I think the Rodney Dangerfield schtick is my bread and butter, so going egomaniacal now would be self-destructive. [3]Or, at least it will, tomorrow, after I finish my taxes, and triumphantly install it onto my blog. [4]Since I'll probably never get around to writing about it, I'll simply use this footnote to recommend Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. I'm a sucker for Frank Capra, and I don't think there's nearly enough populist films being made today (Mumford, of course, being a pleasant exception). That movie is the reason why I still follow politics, even though it usually makes me want to punch everyone in the face. It's also a member of the club of "Weird audio/visual material that makes me cry when I drink Malt Liquor", formed by a Van Morrison record I've probably shoved in all of your faces at taverns up and down highway 29. [5]I'm not putting up mp3's, because I'd imagine everyone has this (let me know if you don't, I'll hit you up with something), but shit, this is like the most competent "Greatest Hits" disc of all time. CCR got it together, mayne.
