What wine pairs best with a white nightshirt?
A red blend of course. Somewhere between the table and my mouth my wine took a detour, landing in a splatter pattern on my chest.
I know I should have immediately applied Shout or some other brand name stain treatment, but I elected to wear it as is, pretending it’s a work of high end non-representational art.
For some reason this spillage caused me to ponder the music of Neil Young. I’ve been listening to Neil on my Alexa device quite a bit lately, and I have to wonder: Where are the Neil Youngs of today? Where are the singers who are raw and real, who wouldn’t have gotten past the audition stage of The Voice or American Idol, but who speak to the soul of the resistance?
Nowadays someone would try to clean Neil’s vocals up. They’d treat the stains and strains and commercialize the lyrics. Screw that. My nightshirt and Neil are gonna resist that shit.
Here’s Neil’s Old Man. Enjoy.
I came within a heartbeat of purchasing this box of Partridge Family paper dolls at a garage sale this morning. Thankfully I came to my senses and walked away with my dollar still firmly ensconced in my pocketbook.
There was a time I’d have bought anything with a picture of David Cassidy (aka Keith Partridge) on the box, but maybe I’ve finally grown out of my fan girl years. I texted the photo to an old friend who’d shared my fascination with David and other male teen celebrities—namely John and Barry Cowsill.
Via text we had a couple of giggles, and she asked if we could have been considered groupies. I thought about that term and its negative connotations for a moment and then responded that if so, we’d been lousy groupies, not given to indulging in drugs or orgies. We were born to be mild.
Here’s a bit of The Partridge Family’s I Think I Love You. You’re welcome.
Dissonance, we’re told, followed by harmonic resolution, heightens emotions, takes us beyond the ordinary.
One chord away from our comfort zones, straining our understanding, challenging our deepest beliefs.
Every piece worth keeping keels on an edge of unease, hiding a slip of protest between the lines, so we may join the refrain.
When one’s singing is so awful it requires police intervention, that’s really bad karaoke.
by Leslie Noyes
Standing tall and proud
Voices raised in joyful praise
An anthem for us
Outside looking in
The disenfranchised hear but
An anthem for some
Until all are free
The lyrics are merely words
An anthem for none
She waved her arms, jumped up and down, but not a single person noticed, even though there were plenty near.
Her bold orange blouse and flamboyant floral jodhpurs, a sight to behold for those who might’ve seen, had
They bothered. A certain age had rendered her transparent, of no apparent interest to the world at large. Their loss,
She thought, launching into a power ballad that threatened to shatter windows. Except no one was listening.
When the music starts,
when the beat begins,
I still want to move
like I did way back when
My hips find their groove
My feet find the beat
Hands sway in time
And I can’t keep my seat
Lord, I know I’m past the age
Of raising hell on the floor,
But when that downbeat hits
I beg for one dance more.
At Disney Springs (once known as Downtown Disney) one can be entertained by this gentleman and his strolling piano. I call this one, “Music that Moves Me.”
I call this one, “Not-So Long and Winding Road, with Apologies to The Hollies.”
by Leslie Noyes
We were the Beach Combers, baby
Barefoot and easy on the eyes
Ripped jeans and plain white tees
Making music; earning sighs
We covered the Beach Boys
Crooned all the smooth tunes
Scattered all the seagulls
Drove the turtles from their dunes.
Lately I’ve been thinking,
Life came easier back then,
But the music now’s much deeper,
And we’re rocking once again.
(Photo courtesy of Robin Garrett, a.k.a. Effron White, one of the original Beach Combers.)