In Which Another Musical Legend Comes To An Untimely End

When news broke yesterday of the death of Whitney Houston at age 48, my first reaction was "Holy Shit!" I was shocked. Not the news I expected to hear, and yet somehow not completely unexpected news either.

The daughter of gospel's Cissy Houston, Whitney came out of nowhere and blew everybody away with her enormous natural talent. She had "IT" in abundance. Long, lithe, drop-dead gorgeous, Houston broke onto the music scene back in 1985 after meeting her mentor, Clive Davis, gracing the world with the power of her dazzling, impeccable voice. A true gift from the Gods.

I submit as evidence this isolated track of her hit, How Will I Know.



She hit the ground running with hit after hit, amassing accolades and awards faster than the female species amasses shoes. Her musical triumphs followed by movie star success cemented her status as Diva. She was unstoppable. Who can ever forget her incredible performance of the Star Spangled Banner before the 1991 Super Bowl. The most ridiculously difficult anthem to sing, and yet Houston delivered it effortlessly.



She was on top of the world.

Then in the 1992 she married Bobby Brown... and her world started to implode. Her life became a train wreck of drug abuse and domestic strife all played out in the public eye. She became a joke, a has-been, a foot note of her former life.

It's heartbreaking how one decision in ones life can break it at the knees, bringing about total ruination. Her life was that of Greek Tragedy, fallen by misplaced loyalty, addiction and hubris. A sad ending for someone whose talent transcended the paradigm.

NPR's Ann Powers expresses it perfectly.

That Houston died mere steps from that stage, only to be discovered by her bodyguard in one of the thousand hotel rooms where she'd laid her head, is strange poetry. I've long thought that someone should write an opera about this brash, brilliant woman, born a child of soul and raised to womanhood within the heart of crossover pop. She broke hearts, and was herself broken. She suffered, but not in her music, which even at its saddest was grounded in a sense of dignity and the determination to transcend. She defined a style that so many would adopt, yet her talent was unique.

She was an original with a crazy, boat load of talent, who sadly pissed it away. We all make choices in our lives. I hope she was beginning to make wise ones in hers. We'll never know. What we do know is, man... she had an amazing set of pipes.



You can read Ann Powers post in its entirety here.

In Which The Master Coverer Covers A Master

(Okay, so you're going to have to bare with me as I share yet another accomplishment of the blue-eyed lovely one whose talent knows no bounds.)

Columbia Records has created a cover series entitled Old Ideas With New Friends enlisting musicians to share their renditions of their favorite Leonard Cohen songs. So far The Mountain Goats, Cold War Kids and Greg Duilli from Afghan Whigs have taken a turn at interpreting Cohen (posted on Consequence of Sound here).

This week was The Interpreter's turn.

I'm not a big Leonard Cohen fan. I don't care for his low, grumbly talk/sing style. Much like Tom Waits and Lucinda Williams, I appreciate the brilliance of his lyrical mastery, but I prefer his works interpreted through another's voice.

Rhett breaths new life and energy into Cohen's Classic, Tower of Song, setting it's painful resignation against a positive upbeat that blindly propels us along in classic Miller style.

Bravo!

Rhett Miller "Tower of Song" from Columbia Records on Vimeo.
Rhett Miller "Tower of Song" from Columbia Records on Vimeo.

She Makes the Dough AND Gets The Glory 
or Canadian chanteuse, Kathleen Edwards rocks the South Side

(Holy CRAP! A post that's actually somewhat current. What the? What?!?)

Okay, so Saturday night Canada's rock 'n roll songbird, Kathleen Edwards pulled into town in a big black bus. This was to be Geo's and my first date night in a long time.

A date night? Are you kidding me?!? I was so excited!

Geo is alwaysAlwaysALWAYS my first choice for concert partner, but he is very discerning as for whom he ventures out of the confines of our abode. (is that correct grammar? maybe...maybe not. whatev. english is not my first language. that's my story.)

ANYWHO...

He was actually excited about seeing Ms. Edwards. We were going to make an evening of it. You know, dinner, drinks, maybe a little white guy dancing. But alas, Geo's indentured servitude played the trump card in the game of our social life in the shape of an unreasonable, high-maintenance client with no earthly clue of the meaning of DEADLINE. Consequently, my ever-lovin' has been working outrageously long hours the entire week. He works so hard. He needs a vacation, or at the very least a long weekend. Or maybe a visit from a skillful Thai escort.

I kid. I'm kidding. I'm a kidder.

There was a nice cross section of age groups in attendance. Ms. Edwards is only 34, but her appeal is universal. Her music is filled with life's pathos set to grinding guitar rifts with a complimentary smattering of quieter, introspective beauties. Her latest effort, Voyageur is, in her words, "filled with personal baggage of love and loss". A cathartic collection of tunes exorcising the demons from her recent divorce. But make no mistake, she is no shrinking flower crying in the corner. No way. She is in complete control, and she comes out to rock, BABY!

Saturday was my first time seeing Edwards perform. The thing that struck me was she's no waif. It's refreshing. She's a real girl with a big presence. When she took the stage, she started her show by saying, " Just because you're sitting down doesn't mean you have to be pussies." before launching into her latest hit, Empty Threat.

She is so badass.

The kind of chick you want to hang at the bar with, doing shooters, smoking cigars and telling trashy jokes. None of that pansy-assed, girlie shit from her.




Throughout the evening she playfully sparred with vocal audience members. At one point, she waxed on about the greatness of Sidney Crosby, getting on the good side of the audience by sympathizing with our agony over his continued health issues and calling him the embodiment of all that is good about hockey (she is Canadian after all. hockey is in her blood) before launching into I Make the Dough, You Get the Glory, punctuating her dedication with a "fuck you, Penguins."




See. Sooooooo badass! Ha Ha!

Edwards played nearly all of her current release and a few older gems to the appreciative gathering. The encore consisted of exactly one song. A cover of Big Star's September Gurls.



And the the covers streak continues.

Another great evening of live music in the Burgh worth the exhaustion at work the next morning. The only thing that could have made it better is if Geo was sitting next to me. He would have loved it. Thanks to my trusty gal-pal, Mary Ann-ski (aka, Betty) for subbing in the last minute.

You can pick up Kathleen's latest here.

In Which I Celebrate Another Circle Around The Sun

Okay, so unless you're under 10, your birthday ends in a zero or you're barely on the living side of 100, birthdays are relatively insignificant. Personally I'm okay with the suspension of notice until the next big milestone roles around in eight years.

And that next one is a big ole beeyatch. Blerg.

That said, last Thursday was the anniversary of my birthing 5+ decades ago. If I'm not mistaken, 52 is the age where it becomes mandatory to use terms like davenport, liquefy all meals to drink from a straw and learn how to play Pinochle. But I digress...

Upon opening my world-weary, bloodshot eyes early that morning, I was humbled to find 40+ birthday greetings on both Facebook and Twitter. And they kept pouring in, tipping the scale at ... I don't really know the total because the number was so high I stopped counting.

I am genuinely overwhelmed by the shower of love and affection bestowed upon my wretched soul. (chokes back tears) I am truly touched...

And not just in the head, even though that is certainly a truth.

Anyway, the first treat of my narcissistic day of me was picking up my favorite ex-pat coworker, Jimmy McParkway from the airport. Young James has heeded the call of greener pastures in the form of Weekend Anchor/Morning Reporter for the Hearst affiliate in Bahston, Mass. He's doing extremely well and getting a well-deserved shot at making a name for himself. His absence still stings, but seriously, how can I be anything but thrilled for him.

Jimmy was my cohort in crimes of the senses, so naturally I had to do something completely juvenile when I picked him.

I'm classy, yo
i'm also 12

We had ample time to catch up while shoveling gobs of breakfast grub down our gullets at a quintessential Burgh joint, Eggs 'n At. When we took off our coats, we laughed out loud to find we both had Pens gear on. Oh, so Pittsburgh.

yinz goin' to the game?

Moving on...

Every year The Special K hosts a winter weekend event at a nearby ski resort known as Snow Blast. Normally the festivities begin on Friday. For years I've been wanting to go up for snow tubing and stay overnight, but the restraints of my current indentured servitude on Saturdays have always thwarted my desire to slide down a slope at break-neck speed, precariously perched upon an unsteerable, overinflated rubber donut with no visible means of stopping at will.

That's all kinds of fun right there, yo.

As the Fates would have it, the festival started on Thursday, the Saturday of my personal unconventional weekend AND my birthing day to boot! Finally, tubing with a couple hilarious girlfriends. Holla!!

As the Fates would also have it, blinding sheets of rain fell all day.

All. Frelling. DAY.

No tubing for you. One year.

The Fates are dicks.

Either that or they are sincerely concerned I'll wipe out so magnificently, my brittle femur will snap in two, in essence declaring me old and feeble. See what I mean? Dicks.

Although disappointed, that development didn't put a damper on the partay. Oh no, my friend. The kibosh may have been on the sledding, but we did what any respectable, red-blooded American girls would do. We cracked open a cold one or three.

Yes, there was drinking.

snow boots and
swimming suits

Yes, there was snacking. Yes, there was jumping on the bed.

blur via wine goggles

Yes, there was the inebriated commandeering of noodles from innocent, unsuspecting youth in the pool. Yes, there was drunk-white-chick-dancing.

And no, there are no photos of that.

Thank the baby Jesus.

Burnett and me, modeling sophisticated head wear

me and beets toughing out the elements

But most importantly, there was hysterical laughter, camaraderie and unfiltered fun. What more can you ask for, right? Seriously. I haven't laughed that hard since...well, January 5th.

doctor prescribed dark chocolate cake and Merlot
it's good for the heart
that's my story
shut up

Plus I got this kick-ass cake and some really great swag. Geo got me a couple of amazing lens for the iPhone along with this adorbs sock monkey beanie.

ain't I just adorable?

Then when I got home, I found a box of the MOST AMAZING individually wrapped brownies called Fairytale brownies from my buddy, Marcy Anne. Raspberry, cream cheese, walnut, pecan, peanut butter, mint...

OHMIGAWD! To. Die. For. I'm salivating like Pavlov's dog just thinking about them.

*Drool*

It was a really great birthday.

I cannot thank my friends enough for the cards, the electronic messages, for the joy. I am thankful for all of these goofballs in my life. I can't imagine spinning around the sun, clinging to this crazy blue planet without each and every one of them. From the bottom of my pointy little heart, I thank you all for a tremendous celebration of the anniversary of my hatching.

Love ya! * MUAH!*

But seriously, next year I'm strapping on the bubble wrap and snow/ice tubing, DAMMIT!

In Which Don Cornelius Makes His Last Stop On The Soul Train 

Okay, so way back in the stone age, circa 1970, a Chicago DJ with a voice as lush as velvet launched the iconic, weekly music/dance show, Soul Train. Every week Cornelius would spin the latest and greatest in the soul genre, as well as feature live performances from up and coming notables such as Aretha Franklin, Sly Stone, James Brown, Curtis Mayfield and the O'Jays. 

His was the cool cousin to Dick Clark's white-bread, American Bandstand. There was nothing wrong with AB. It was a fun dance party, but once Soul Train hit the airwaves, it was all I wanted to watch. It was hip and happening and had THE BEST dancers strutting down the train line. 

That line dance at the end was my absolute favorite part of the entire show. I learned how to dance by watching those couples work their magnificent moves across the studio in their outrageous tight pants, platforms and elephant bell bottoms. Bad Luck by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes (featuring Theodore Pendergast) was da bomb, yo! That song shot me out of my chair and into embarrassing-white-chick-dance-mode faster than anything. I waited for it each week. I still have the urge to jump up when I hear that tune. Although now, you know, I might break a hip.

OHMIGODJESUS! Seriously. They wore the most crazy, fab 70s outfits! And how about that one dude's fro? Epic mass. Extra points for that one, my friend.  

The New Yorker columnist, Ben Greenman spoke eloquently of the Don Cornelius legacy here. It's well worth the read and gives a bit of the back story. 

I was saddened to read The Don took his own life today. It's difficult to understand how someone comes to the conclusion that he would be better off dead. Life and death are full of mysteries.

One thing is for certain, Mr. Cool will always inhabit a special spot in my heart for introducing the unfettered joy of Soul music to a shy, awkward, white girl and inspiring her to get up and busta move with abandon every Saturday afternoon. I will be forever grateful to you for that.

You were the epitome of smooth, Sir.

We wish you Love, Peace and Soul. 

In Which I Shed A Tear Over A Storied Chrome-Domed Structure

Okay, so I'm a huge sap. Ginormous. I get strangely attached to inanimate objects. Always have. So much so that I sometimes actually feel empathy towards pairs of shoes I used to cherish and wear multiple times a week, now cast aside for newer, hipper footwear. I image their long, audible sighs and new-found feelings of insignificance based on my callous disregard.

See. Pathetic screwball. But that's nothing new, right?

This week, the Powers That Be have started dismantling the most iconic architecture in my beloved Burgh, the Civic Arena. The once beaming, chrome-domed igloo has had its aluminum outer shell stripped, exposing a rust-colored underbelly. The arena was functional, funky and instantly recognizable from all approaches, especially the air. Spotting this unique circular beauty through the porthole of my cramped airplane seat was always the first warm hug of home.

It's legendary retractable roof was something special. I can't tell you how cool it was to be rocking out at a concert, watching the city skyline magically appear before my glazed-over eyes.

Spectacular.

Plus could there be a more aptly-shaped home for Penguins to reside? Seriously. And now it sits, empty and abandoned. The once proud, first-of-its-kind, innovative new kid, dissed, deflated and destined for the scrap heap, forced to listen to the flashy new upstart down the street collect all the accolades once showered upon him 52 years ago.

I can hear his sighing from here...

and my heart breaks a little.

The first pie-shaped panel came down Friday.

I shed a tear.

Yeah. Big Fucking SAP.

Goodbye old friend. Thanks for the memories.

Random Crappola
or cleaning up my crap and throwing it your way

Okay, so I used to jot fragments of thoughts on torn slips of paper and toss them on my increasingly cluttered dresser to blog about later, similar to Liv Tyler's character, Lucy in that gorgeous, provocative and touching film, Stealing Beauty, only mine were far less poetic or interesting.



(Rent this lovely movie. It will make you smile, cry a little and long to live in Tuscany for a summer just once in your mundane little life.)

I've made great strides in breaking myself of this scrap-stacking habit, but now instead of junking up my dresser top, I've cluttered up the notes app on my iPhone. Henceforth is some of the nonsense stashed on my electronic BFF.

1. Dude, My Phone Speaks in Tongues

I get lots of spammy emails from cruises to debt reduction to singles dating, but we'll get to that later. Every so often, my phone has a religious epiphany and starts speaking in tongues in the subject lines.

get your epidural crankpin
out of my naughtily psychologic zooplasty

i'm sure there's a cream for
sulfurousness boobies

...or maybe it has Tourettes. (It said boobies. hee hee) Whatever. It looses it's mind and sounds like this to me.





2. Dude, My Phone Wants To Pimp Me Out

No shit. My phone is constantly trying to hook me up with singles. And not just white singles either. It tries to tempt me with perspective mates from all corners of the world...Asian, Indian, black, Jewish, Latinos, seniors....

Okay, the seniors one stings a little. What the Hell are you trying to tell me, Pimpbot? I'm so beyond my freshness date that my best bet is skip the youngins and head right to the hearing aid and cataract club? That's cold, dawg. Well, guess what, asshat. The joke's on you. I'm already married. PFFFFFFFT!


3. Dude, C is for Captain

Oh Captain, My Captain

Ever since Captain Heartthrob, Sidney Crosby was sidelined once again in late December from recurring concussion symptoms suffered after a hit, the Pens slipped into a losing streak. Last week there was rumor of grumblings from some of the players frustrated by the scoring slump that Sid has been dogging it in his rehab, that he is actually healthy enough to play and that it's time for a new captain to get them back on track.

Local sports writer, Dejan Kovecovic penned a terrific article defending Sid and his desperate desire to return to the ice to play the game he eats, lives and breaths. How anyone can question Sid's passion is insane. The following day during their morning skate, every team member wore a "C" on his shirt as a sign of solidarity with their fallen leader.

K is Russian for Kaptain

In an instant, fans across the interwebs added Cs to their profile pictures on FaceBook and Twitter, taped Cs to their jerseys to be prominently visible when they sat in the stands and altered their children's hockey uniforms.

way to go, l'il pens

Even the prize blimp got in the act.

That's gotta make Sid feel loved. This overwhelming outpouring brings a tear to my eyes and makes me proud to be a Pittsburgh Penguins hockey fan. Oh, and ever since this public show of faith, the Pens have won their last three games. Holla!

We love you Sid! Take your time. Get better. We'll wait for you. But please, for the love of all that's holy, leave that crappy beard at home. 

4. I Have Drank From The Pinterest Kool Aid 

Yeah, like I need ANOTHER time-suck distraction. ACK!!

Pinterest is an electronic bulletin board where you can archive all the things that interest you, pinning them to a particular board to reference later for projects or recipes or purchases or travel destinations, or in my case to sit there in perpetuity, ignored and rotting on the vine.

I don't have much pinned on mine yet except for a couple photos of Paul Rudd and Rhett Miller...what? you're surprised? Really? It's like you don't even know me.

Sigh.

Anywho, I can see how you can sit down for "just 10 minutes" and five hours later, still have your head plastered to this site never having noticed that the sun has gone down, the room is dark except for the unhealthy blue glow emanating from your Mac and your starving children are clawing at you for food for the last hour.

It's like crack. Pretty, shiny, pointlessly addictive crack.

Now leave me alone. I have some pinning to do.


5. Swatting The Heavy Legislative Hand With Humor

Yesterday, in protest of the SOPA and PIPA legislative vote (supported by Corporations, natch) which would end the use of the internet as we know it, numerous websites like Wikipedia and Reddit, staged a blackout. Speaking of Wikipedia, HappyPlace.com compiled a list of bizarre topics blocked by the voluntary blackout like Uncombable Hair Syndrome, Toilet Related Injuries and Deaths, and Swastika Forests.

via Oatmeal
no copyright infringement intended
don't tase me, bro

I agree that piracy netting monetary gain is rampant and hurts musicians and artists who struggle to make a living at their craft. However, I don't believe fans shooting and posting videos or photos from concerts who collect no compensation for those images damages the artists' bottom line. In fact, I believe that kind of free promotion is invaluable to building one's fan base. Think about it. When a friend tells you about a new band, where's the first place you visit to listen to their music? YouTube! I see no down side to this.

If passed, this bill could effectively shut down this lame-ass blog and throw my ass in jail for posting videos and photos of others "intellectual property". What are we, China? How about focusing on prosecuting real criminals like those bankers who bilked the public of billions of dollars, took bail out money at no interest then gave themselves ginormous bonuses... They didn't post concert footage, so they're safe.

Moving on...

One of the websites that went dark is the always irreverent The Oatmeal. Leave it to the Oatmeal to explain it in such brilliantly weird fashion. Watch here.

Yesterday's movement may be over, but it's still not too late to contact your representatives. Here's a link to locate your personal political yahoo and defend a free and open internet.

Do it for Oprah and Jesus.

and the Lord sayeth,
keep thy interwebs free