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If you’re a little morbid, like me, or a lot morbid, like Jeff Conaway, maybe you’ve considered what song you’d like played at your funeral. Just a couple of weeks ago, for some reason, I began thinking about this. I’ve yet to reach a decision, but I may do so through this thread. How about you? Have you considered what song you would like played at your funeral?
I was at Citizens Bank Park last year, when legendary and beloved broadcaster Harry Kalas was memorialized. As his casket was led through a line of Phillies players and into the hearse, Simon and Garfunkle’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was played. Kalas’ sons set it up, saying that it was his favorites on their old car 8-track player and the song their dad requested to have played when he died. I’m not a big Simon and Garfunkle fan or that song, but it was touching.
How do you want to touch your loved ones and admirers when you’re put to rest? Choose now so that the task of selecting your song is not left to Shawn Love!
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I know next to squat about the recently deceased Ronnie James Dio. I know he replaced Ozzy Osbourne in Black Sabbath, and I think I know he was really short. And I know he led a band called Dio. He seemed like a totally reasonable, level-headed guy in this recently conducted interview. I’m only slightly surprised, after learning in recent years that heavy metal icons can be regular blokes too.
It’s hard enough for any rocker to age. Rockers in some genres can turn to folkier, bluesier singer-songwriter material to grow dignified and old, but what’s an aging icon of metal to do? Robert Plant, not quite a heavy metal singer, but close enough for discussion, has classed up his act into his 60s by effectively going roots-rock. Has any other metal musician found a way to make music and present himself in a way more appropriate to his age? Is Ritchie Blackmore and his medieval lute-rock the next best attempt? Has Metallica effectively prepared for old age by crafting their middle-aged PowerPoint Rock Strategy?
Last night my wife and I tottered down to our local hotel. To see a band that I have waited 18 years to see: The Chills, one of New Zealand’s finest exports and central to the Flying Nun story of the 1980s and ’90s.
The Chills have an incredible catalogue of songs to select from, although you could probably never say hand on heart that they had a bona fide ‘hit’. But what has always hit the spot, and did again last night is this thunderous, floor-shaking anthem “I Love My Leather Jacket.”
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The song is a dedication to Martyn Bull, a drummer in The Chills, who died aged 22. The question Townsmen my wife wondered out loud is this. Is there a better song in memory of a departed friend than this one from The Chills?
I never used the guitar distortion stomp box The Rat myself, but here in Philadelphia I’ve long associated it with Townsman saturnismine,* who’s always had it ready to boost one of his solos whenever I’ve seen him play live and the few times I’ve played alongside him. I’m pretty sure he’s the only guitarist to have used a Rat on one of my own band’s recordings, when he overdubbed dualing solos on what we hoped would go down as the shortest seemingly long guitar jam in rock history. In other words, I hated The Rat for whatever weird aesthetic reasons I’m prone to hating inanimate things until I heard being stomped on and played through by my friend.
So rock’s other big loss this week, the death of writer/DJ/indie label founder Charlie Gillett, has had me thinking about the title, if nothing else, of his classic early rock history book, The Sound of the City. The reason I stress the title is because I have a terrible memory and what I want to discuss may actually have little to do with Gillett’s book. Continue reading »
UPDATED: Another departure on the next page.
105yeWrjoEc] Alex Chilton, the enigmatic cult figure who first came to stardom as the teenage singer for The Box Tops and later drifted into initially unwanted obscurity with the eventually appreciated Big Star died on Wednesday at 59 years old in a New Orleans hospital. It is believed the cause of death was a heart attack. Here’s a good obit from his hometown paper.
I never saw Chilton on his occasional Big Star tours with drummer Jody Stephens and the guys from The Posies, but I got to see Chilton at J.C. Dobbs, a narrow, little club in Philadelphia in the mid-80s. This was at the height of Big Star cult worship, but Chilton was touring in support of a humble EP of Memphis soul and some odd-ball covers that had more in common with his Box Tops roots than his Big Star stuff. As usual, I was reluctant to see him play songs like “Volare” when I’d been worshipping at the alter of the first and third Big Star albums (and the handful of songs I liked on the second one, an album I still find distracting at too many points). He had some single out at the time called “No Sex.” I thought it was stupid, as I usually find topical ditties to be. Plus I’d heard from friends who had seen him and even hung out with him that he was moody and a little creepy. Word was he couldn’t be counted on as a performer.
Thankfully I snapped out of it, realizing that I should take advantage of the fact that I was in my early 20s and the doorman used to let me into almost any show without charge. What did I have to lose, except the assumed validity of me preconceptions?
If memory serves he fronted a trio: him on guitar, some pretty slick, stick-thin (possibly fretless) bassist, and a drummer. The Memphis-style novelty numbers (imagine Rufus Thomas singing his stuff in Chilton’s whiny, twangy voice) worked live. Chilton was a really good guitarist, ripping off tasty licks on a Telecaster. People were shouting out for Big Star numbers now and then, but true to reports he gave off a slightly threatening aura, an aura that threatened to walk off stage if people couldn’t get into the here and now. I forget, he may have played a Big Star song or two during his set, and he may have played a Box Tops song. Maybe. What I do remember clearly is that for his encore he announced that he would now deliver on all expectations. He played a half dozen Big Star classics, from “When My Baby’s Beside Me” to “Kangaroo.” He played “The Letter.” He ended with a really sweet version of the Bacharach/David song “The Look of Love.” It was a marvelous ending to what started as a surprisingly fun set.
As a performer/person, Chilton was inscrutable throughout the show. The guy obviously oozed musicality, but it was hard to get a sense of what he was after. He was the opposite, say, of Joe Strummer. No wonder his career was all over the place. I know people like this in real life and wish they could get some focus, commit to something. Regardless, Chilton left a trail of good music through the years.
By special request of Townsman Hrrundivbakshi, in the comments on this thread, on behalf of Alex Chilton, please see this piece on Johnny “Guitar” Watson. Sadly the Soul Train interview seems to have been wiped clean from YouTube.
