Showing posts with label John Stewart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Stewart. Show all posts

Thursday, March 5, 2009

March 04, 2009 Earworm



Even if you don't buy into the myth of Scott Walker as patron saint of romantic gloom, you have to admit that there is no one who could do what he did exactly as he did it with The Walker Brothers. Even when we've heard the songs before - and we usually have - they are always darker yet prettier than you could have imagined. If you happened to have flipped over "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine (Anymore)" - a hard thing to do, I know - you, too, may have found yourself as I did last night: dead tired with a wide awake mind that seemed to have nothing to think about. Over and over, my mind could only spin Scott's story as the string section tried to paint a different, happier, story while lingering above the world's loneliest bar at closing time.

I woke up exhausted, emptied the house, and filled it again with the ever familiar story, now my own, minus the pigeon and, thankfully, a night as empty as Scott's to anticipate.

Monday, January 21, 2008

January 21, 2008 Earworm

John Stewart, the former member of The Cumberland Three and The Kingston Trio, suffered a stroke and died on Saturday at the age of 68. Although he was a respected musician within the folk scene and now regarded as a vital player in the roots-rock movement, I know very little of his work outside of The Kingston Trio of which he became a member in 1961, replacing founder Dave Guard. He did, however, release a single in 1979 that captivated me and fueled my dreams of escape as my transition to high school brought me a few steps closer to freedom.

"Gold" was all over the radio in Baltimore during that summer, aided by the witchy-wailing of Stevie Nicks and the guitar work of Lindsey Buckingham which managed to conjure both the feeling of a warm LA breeze blowing through my hair as I cruised Santa Monica Boulevard care free in a convertible and the sense that the floorboard was alive with snakes. I couldn't wait to get there and began searching for a Saint Patrick medal.

Oddly enough, when I did get around to cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, it was exactly as I had imagined except for the convertible. And the snakes. Probably because I had two Irishmen in the car.