I’m still hangin’ with Sly and the Family Stone these days, and I do have a few things I want to write about that are connected to the music, but not necessarily what I am working out to. However, they’re scribbled on bits of paper, half written, or have lost my interest and I need to give my motivation a good kick in the butt. So today, as I have gotten used to now posting on Wednesdays and Sundays and this is after all Wednesday, I will write about what I did today because it wasn’t a normal day. Nothing earth-shattering, except maybe to me, and then that is certainly an overstatement.
Now that I am two years and two months cancer-free and that ever present lump in my thyroid is nevermore, I am concentrating on that odd thing with my feet. Ruled out circulation a while back, and today went for an EMG – electromyography. I know, I never heard of it either but the test consists of a very nice technician taping things to my feet and legs and giving me the most annoying electric shocks in various places, then the doctor coming in to utilize the thin needle I kept hearing about to stab me repeatedly along my left calf and low into the ankle and telling me to lean into the weapon as hard as I could during each jab. Two more, she’d say, then last one. I’m no dummy. I knew she meant until she got to the right leg, but no. She didn’t have to. The reason she explained didn’t matter to me as she could have said it was because she didn’t like my perfume and I would have accepted it. Good news/bad news is that it looks like I have healthy muscles and nerve cells. So the doctor sent me across the street for blood tests.
It was just before noon when I got there with only one person ahead of me. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t had any water since last night so I grabbed a cup and downed it as my name was called. “I have difficult veins,” I explained to the phlebotomist. “You think that scares me,” she wheezed (and she did have an awfully pronounced wheeze). “No, not you.” Turns out the doctor ordered nine tests and after the phlebotomist finally got the popular vein to start spurting, I ran out of blood at seven. I watched as the waiting room filled up with the lunch crowd who also needed the phlebotomist, who all looked at me with vexation and ire. But she had that never say die attitude and found two more vials in me upon searching throughout my right arm. I forget about my uncooperative veins until times like these, after the ordeal when I say that I must remind myself to hydrate well the night before and the morning of any doctor’s appointment at all no matter what it’s for. And then of course I forget, or only remember for those times it turns out not to be relevant. I won’t bore you with what happened next as I worked my way back downtown with both arms wrapped in shocking pink gauze at the elbow, collecting Max food (he’s cheap but particular, or vice versa) and stopping in at the Landmark Diner on Grand Street because, while I would never use a utensil that even touched the table slightly, they have good coffee and pleasant employees. Foods not bad, but I’ve only had their omelets.
My last stop for the day was for a facial. I had a Groupon (don’t tell Agnes at GemVie) closer to home and I wanted to treat myself as I had the day off anyway. And I was a really good girl. Again, I won’t bore you with the details but it was a fine facial. After the treatment, for some reason I don’t remember, I told the aesthetician the street where I live. “I live there,” she said, then mentioned the address of her building. “I live in that building,” I said. “I’m on the 35th floor,” she said. “I’m on the 35th floor,” was my response, and I wasn’t joking around. I half expected her to say she lived at the same apartment number as I, but of course no, though she is right down the hall. How weird is that? It is a small world sometimes. And this is New York.
I came home amused and at 5pm found there was absolutely nothing on the television I wanted to watch so I turned on the radio. I preheated the oven and prepared three yams for cooking, as yams are my new must haves, found myself dancing around to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” and then put on Sly until dinner was ready.
And that’s what I did today. By the way, those are not my legs in the picture.
I finally got around to returning the Grateful Dead and Kinks albums I borrowed from my friend. We had a very lovely catch-up and he asked if I needed more albums. I hadn’t planned on it, but did take him up on his once again, oh so generous offer by saying – okay but no Kinks, which had less to do with the Kinks than it did with the fan encounters the last time around. He went into the back of the bar that he runs and came back with two more Dead albums. I did have fun with American Beauty and the attention the cover drew on my trip home last summer, and even though I’ve never heard of either this or the other album he gave me, nor recognized any of the song titles, it happened again. As I walked down to the end of the subway platform carrying the albums under my arm with Blues for Allah exposed, it caught the attention of a very young man, who I’d say was about twenty, give or take a year or two, and keeping in mind that I am at an age when everyone under 40 looks like a kid. I thought he was going to ask me something about the just-made announcement, which I could not have helped him with as who could possibly have understood it, so what’s the sense in even making it. Instead, he nodded toward the album and said, “I’ve been looking for that album for years. I have all of their albums except that one.” I told him that I myself owned no Grateful Dead albums and these were on loan. “You’ll have fun with it,” he said. I then told him there are still vinyl stores around (though one of the older ones in New Jersey just closed), and he replied that he knew. “I support that,” he said. Ah, so young yet so wise, I thought. While I found the album less than wowsome and only had a smidge of a recollection of one small passage in one of the songs, I have to admire the loyalty of the Dead fans, as lore and love is passed from generation to generation, and serves as a bond between them. It’s very cool.
Last year at this time, I was smack in the middle of the album A-Z workout project, and had just gone from McCartney, to Meatloaf and was readying for Lee Michaels. I’ve never been above a size 12 and was still a size twelve at the time, just a bit more fit. Now, the project long over, I’m still floundering about as to how to handle the blog, yet am still dedicated to working out, to listening to the music of various stages of my life and exploring different though not unfamiliar sounds. And I am a size 10. So much so, I’ve been pigging out, and sometimes on sugary substances throughout the holiday season, and still remain a size 10. And not even the same size 10 as I was the last time I was comfortably that size. Except for the belly, which although it has gotten a bit smaller is still the hold-out, the rest of the body has gotten firmer. Oh yeah, and the bat wings and turkey neck show little improvement. Aside from all that (seems like a lot though, now that I type it up) I think I look pretty good. Not much like a walrus. The exercise routine is more strenuous than a year ago, but it’s a matter of progression and I hardly notice. Music-wise, I have tonight, tomorrow and the thought that it is the start of yet another year to get through, but am still finding comfort with Sly & the Family Stone, Benny Goodman and The Young Rascals.
Happy New Year to one and all and a few very happy birthday wishes as well. Glad tidings!
Thanks to Cafe Press for use of the great photo.
You know what’s been helping me through the holidays? The holiday season is traditionally not so good for me, starting with my birthday/Thanksgiving, which builds like a snowball as we get to this time. You know that about me, right? Although last year it started on a much more positive note with a great birthday and a not so bad Thanksgiving. This year – eh. So to answer the question I first posed, this Sly & the Family Stone compilation CD that is just one of many greatest hits albums for this 60s-70s iconic group was not only a nice find music-wise, I am also appreciating the implications that Sly and the family conveyed so long ago. Some songs were a little hokey back then to a cynic like me, but they are filled with positive messages for all folk.
The Family Stone’s appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show were memorable as mega-afro’d (I always loved a good fro) and shirtless Sly and his platinum blond sister (didn’t see many blond black women back then) danced and sang their way into the audience as white men in suits and ties smiled at them, some getting into it, some merely amused, some not so much either way. But Sly was every bit of a Mr. Showman, and persevered in his quest to raise awareness, spirit, confidence and sense of family across the lines while bringing rock ‘n roll to all, even the suit and tie crowd.
I knew the blond was Sly’s sister, though I didn’t know her name. The sister, Rose played keyboards and sang, brother Freddie played guitar and sang, Larry Graham was the bassist, Greg Errico the drummer and Jerry Martini was the sax player. We all knew the name of the trumpet player though from the line in the group’s hit “Dance to the Music.” That line, as I now understand it to be, has Sly singing “Cynthia and Jerry got a message they’re sayin’” and Cynthia, whose name is the only comprehendible one, yells “All the squares, go home.” Now, all the lyrics sheets I have found state that she sings, “All the squares go home,” however in listening to it over and over, if she is saying “go home” rather than “far out” she may be a great trumpet player but lousy annunciator. No matter. Along with the encouragement offered in songs like “You Can Make it if You Try,” “Higher” and “Everyday People,” oh and let’s not forget “Stand,” the fact that even though only three of the seven members of the group were related and two of the seven were white, they demonstrated that family was more than just blood and color. Plus, they had a girl trumpeter. Girls didn’t play trumpet. Not back then. Girls played piano or acoustic guitar if they played an instrument at all. Cynthia Robinson, black, fro’d and female was a great influence for girls like me who even from a very, very young age found the limitations placed on girls irksome. Still do. To me, she was incredibly cool.
So, I’ve been playing this CD over and over during the holiday season, and have found its feel good music is helping me keep my head above the doldrums and helping me feel good about myself and others, just as the it is intended to do. It offers a lively bit of exercise and fun sing-along. So it occurs to me, particularly in these times of conflict – where is Sly and his family Stone when we need them?
Christmas carols? Feh – a pox on them all. Sly & the Family Stone’s Super Hits is my new Christmas album.
I’m not one to post someone’s death or birthday just because it happens. But when I heard the news today, oh boy. I was very saddened. Less than a week ago I wrote about a less than stellar release by Joe Cocker, lamenting that knowing I needed more Cocker in my collection, if you’ll pardon the phrase, I went out and accidently purchased the CD of the very same cassette tape I had previously panned. Both times I acknowledged that I wanted a better inclusion or inclusions and was looking forward to writing a bit more in depth about this remarkable artist. He died today of lung cancer at the age of 70. Frankly, I though he was older. Years of hard drinking gave him that appearance, but I believe he pulled it together while living on Jane Fonda’s ranch in the 80s. I remember he mentioned in an interview, maybe on Letterman, that Mrs. Hayden was nice enough to let him reside on her California ranch. Fonda was married at the time to then California state assemblyman and former Chicago 7 defendant Tom Hayden. As I wrote the last review I wondered what Joe Cocker was up to these days and anticipated hearing something special from him soon. He was so unique and driven by the music, and seemingly humble. He threw his heart and soul into his songs at the risk of being ridiculed for his uncontrollable spastic movements. And he was. But we loved him even more for it. I’ve posted one of the pictures from Woodstock, from where most of my generation first caught sight of him with his trademark tie-dyed shirt and sweat-matted hair. I’m not going to tell Joe Cocker to rest in peace – who am I to tell him how to lead his death. But I will tell him this – Thank you. Thank you very much.
J – You know me too well.
The funny thing is, when I put this CD on recently I thought the Joe Cocker I had on cassette tape, which I had exercised to last May was so much better than this. It starts off great but quickly dives down. Don’t get me wrong, I love Joe Cocker’s soulful voice, he is a great singer. And great to watch perform. A songwriter, not so much. So of course I had to look for the tape to refresh my memory, and found that, sure ‘nuf, it’s the same album. But I don’t remember – how did I feel about it eight months and numerous albums ago? Happy to say, I wrote just about the same thing. I’m not fickle. And I will agree with myself further to say that I still need to get more Joe Cocker. Just not this one.
Btw – impressive friends on this record with the likes of Jimmy Page and Stevie Winwood.
Long ago, when the Pips were still together, I had a really great cat named Bubba. All my cats have been special, but Bubba was especially special. He was one good-looking guy who would have led you to believe he was pure Russian blue until you looked closely at the faint rings of a tabby on his tail. And smart, cleverly smart; sociable with both feline and human; sweet, cuddly and playful; a great personality tempered with a dark side that included a good bit of attitude. For all these traits, even the Bubbattude, if you will, everyone loved him. Except for the family that had abandoned him. The story I was told by the neighborhood kids was that they were moving, put Bubba, or whatever his name was at the time, in the car, he jumped out, they looked for him for a short time before driving off and never coming back. This beautiful, sleek, determined, dark grey cat basically muscled his way into my ground floor Queens garden apartment by continuously picking at my window screen. He didn’t look like a Bubba, but that was what I wanted to call him, after Gladys Knights’ brother Merald, better known as Bubba, both Bubbas being pips. We had a happy life together, Bubba and I, and I’m sure he had no problem with the name I chose for him.
I actually have a bad cassette tape of this best of CD that someone with whom I worked at a music conservatory made for me more than 15 years ago. I was manning the front desk one Monday evening as everyone filed into the auditorium for adult chorus and to wait for the chorus leader to arrive. He was always running late. Jazz musicians. I was listening to one of the songs on this tape and blurted out something like – geez I wish I could sing like Gladys. Then a voice behind me said “then join my chorus.” I eventually did join the chorus and also started taking singing lessons with the chorus leader with the idea of having a cabaret act. I was getting pretty good. My range stretched quickly in a short time. But then you know, things got complicated. Jazz musicians. And I had something to do with it. So Gladys and her Pips started my short-lived show-biz ambitions, and now provides a pretty decent workout along with memories.
Before you ask, I do like all three of the best-known versions of “I Heard it Through the Grapevine.” Marvin Gaye’s and Creedance Clearwater Revival’s are both very good, but when Gladys sings “take a good look at these tears in my eyes,” it’s a command that must be obeyed. She’s pissed. The song has force and comes from the gut the way Gladys Knight does it and is my favorite of the three.
I also have a fondness for “Midnight Train to Georgia,” but my favorite Pips song is “Neither One of Us (Wants to be the First to Say Goodbye)” for kind of the same reason.
Last week, I ate cookies in bed, two nights in a row. And I don’t care. Remember that mammogram I didn’t tell you about that I had the day before my birthday, which was my first follow up in too long a time after the cancer surgery I had and only alluded to way back at the beginning of The Walrus Was Paul? Well, I had good news, very good news and thought if there was ever a time I deserved to eat cookies in bed, two nights in a row, it was at that moment(s). I did wait until after meeting with the oncologist and confirming the findings to share my good news with you. And I want to of course, but I am cautious about what I do share, for various reasons, but in this case I didn’t want to focus on that issue. It’s an important issue, I know very well, but I’ve got a tangled theme as it is that I’d like to stick with. But I wanted you to know that I am good!
I know! Didn’t I just have another bit of wonderful health news recently? Yes, indeed I did. And it doesn’t stop there. My planets must be very well aligned these days because something unexpected that is good for me happened at work. And that’s all I’ll say about that because this is not a bitch session about my job (which by the way, I do like certain aspects of). Oh and my laptop came home last night. This is my first time really using it since it went into rehab, and it’s great. The D key, and all its neighbors are still in place. I am HAPPY and playing the lottery.
I’ve also got more CDs that I’m enjoying and will write about later. But why do they make CD packaging so hard to open? I remember coming home all excited with a new album, ripping it open and throwing it on the turntable. It’s not that simple anymore. I actually just got a lecture on buying CDs instead of downloading music. This is a big step for me though, and I’m having fun.
Did anyone see the Tribute to Bruce Springsteen on PBS the other night? It started out great. Hosted by John Stewart, it kicked off with Alabama Shakes belting out “Adam Raised a Cain” (singer Brittany Howard needs a tougher name) followed by iconic Patti Smith looking just as a soon to be 68 year old Patti Smith would look, and sounding great singing their collaboration “Because the Night.” Then I was kind of underwhelmed. I liked Sting doing his Bruce impression, but it was when Neil Young AND Crazy Horse came on all looking as old as the hills and performing “Born in the USA,” and rockin’ the house that my interest really returned. Something about it struck me funny, everyone up and dancing to Neil Young. Then at the end of the song, old Neil starts Brucing. You know, chanting over and over Bruuuuuuce, as Bruce fans are known to do. Neil always was an odd boy.
As soon as the song was over, the ex called to let me know that if he had to catch the later train in the morning it was Neil Young’s fault, because he thought he would just fall asleep on the show but Neil’s unique performance made him want to stay up for the rest. The rest was Bruce luckily for me, because you know I love Bruce, and always will, but I am not up on his recent stuff that others were performing, and by recent I mean nothing much after “Streets of Philadelphia,” so I was glad he performed “Born to Run” and my tied for favorite with “Rosalita,” “Thunder Road” with the remainder of The East Street Band.
So the ex did catch the later train, which didn’t interfere with our usual eating of bacon and eggs and going to see a good current movie. Last time, if you recall, we saw Birdman and yesterday’s pick was The Theory of Everything about physicist Stephen Hawking. A little slow for me, but a good English movie. While I wanted them to get into the science more, and get to it, I didn’t even realize that the movie ran over two hours. It does hold one’s interest. And I didn’t know beforehand that it was based on Hawking’s wife’s book (nor that she had written a book, or even that Hawking had been married with children). As both the ex and I enjoy watching the closing credits, I found that out after the movie ended and that explained a lot for me. I like Hawking even more now. He’s got a great sense of humor, I loved him on The Big Bang Theory, and I know that I will love him when he gets his wish and is cast as a Bond villain, which will definitely motivate me to do something I have not done in decades – go see a James Bond film. Yes, Hawking wants to be a Bond villain, and I think it’s a swell idea.
My friend moved. Did I tell you that? My friend who inspired me to move to Manhattan. And now she’s not only out of the City, she’s gone to another state. Connecticut. So it’s not like I won’t see her, it just won’t be near as much, and without any spontaneity. I am enjoying the spontaneousness of being a Manhattanite. It’s a shame, but some people think they can skate through life being financially irresponsible, and then – Boom! It catches up with them.
I tell you this because it was she who gave me this CD. Long ago, before the exercise project was even a glimmer of light in the distance. I think she didn’t want it anymore and I never knew why. And know I understand less why someone wouldn’t want this greatest hits compilation. I don’t know much about the band, nothing really, but I recognize every song, and can sing along with most. They had their own distinct sound that was never monotonous. You know them from their paralleling, rather than harmonizing of tenor and bass voices like in “Take Me I’m Yours” as well as for their very Ian Druryish “Cool for Cats.” I caught the end of a recent televised concert some months ago, and they still sound good.
Either I’ve just been in a good mood lately or I’ve been listening to some really enjoyable tunes and getting in some mighty fine workouts. And you know, Benny Goodman is still on the turntable.
The Walrus Was Paul 