Dollar Bin

The Music Weaver

Let's have ourselves a Sandy Saturday. We deserve it.

All One Song, Barstool Blues Week, Part 2

For the record: this week's All One Song was more than just 5,423 repetitions of the word f$#k.

Indeed, the word "slint" was used nearly as often. And I've got to admit to you that I initially did not even know what the hell our guest, whose name I cannot remember, so let's call him Leonard P. Bedsh$#ter, was talking about when he spoke that word, "slint."

Before too long I put two and two together than determined that "slint" was not Bedsh$%ter's mispronunciation of how I look at the world without my glasses, but was instead the name of some vital but obscure long ago rock band which means a lot to good old Leonard, or whatever his name is.

My famous brother surely knows all about Slint's music, and I imagine you do too. But not me: I collected $1 records. Slint probably issued their albums on homemade and hand drawn cassette tapes which now can be only occasionally found on eBay for four to five figures.

Anyway, since learning of the band's existence I've listened to some Slint and I've come to a few conclusions:

There is no end, and there never will be, to the amount of music out there that I do not know about. 50 years from now I'll be writing about some hitherto unknown fantastic record made by preteen, antisocial truck drivers who worked in northeastern Poughkeepsie's underground late 70's rollerskating scene.

"Math rock", the late 90's "post rock" genre that Slint is, apparently, partially responsible for, isn't really my thing. Don't get me wrong: Slint's music is cool! Their crunchy jangle and paranoid beats are both fruitful and weird. Wilco's Spiders (Kidsmoke) is obviously rooted in their ideas.

But when it comes to early 90's white man bands, I'd still rather listen to Uncle Tupelo, Built to Spill, Giant Sand, GBV, Pavement, The Pixies, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr, and, for that matter, Nirvana.

But I'd say the juiciest nugget to emerge from the whole Slint thing for me this week circles around Polly Jean Harvey. Apparently, Slint was a vital band for her at the time, so much so that she penned a handwritten piece of fan/snail mail to the intense sad boys in charge of Slint.

Wow! Imagine getting anything whatsoever in the mail from this lady:

I spent the early 90's breathlessly awaiting PJ's, or anyone else's, missives. They never came.

Anyway, it turns out she was so impressed with Slint that she wanted to join their band. Really. But by the time they got her letter, however, they, the band, had ceased to exist; it seems to have taken each member years to heal from their whole experience together.

And that makes sense! Slint's music is many things, but it sure ain't relaxing or joyful.

And, finally, the Slint/PJ connection makes a ton of sense. After all, listen to this worried, hovering and pulsing track by them...

And then listed to this equally worried, hovering and pulsing track by her...

All One Song, Barstool Blues Week

Listen: I work with tenth graders.

Their teachers, their parents, their country, their best friends, themselves: they righteously and gleefully declare "Fu$k You!" to all of them. In their hands, the word "f&*k" means absolutely everything and absolutely nothing: it's a compliment, a put down, an expression of wonder and an act that they've heard that one can perform solo, coupled up or, who knows how.

And it ain't just the F Word they enjoy bandying about; indeed, they know more curse words than they do colors. And, because I run a pretty great high school, they - usually - add "fu@#ing" to their feelings with a big old grin on their face, and only when they think I'm not around.

Plus: I also work with twelfth graders.

And, no matter how hard I sell them on doing Shakespeare or Our Town for their senior play, one thing is always true: every set of soon-to-be-graduates wants to swear like sailors on stage in front of their parents, grandparents, teachers and young children alike.

And so, this year's class is doing like just about every class before it and putting on a final play that's edgy, vulgar and dumb. For them, that means Rumors: 90 breathless minutes of spoiled rich folk covering up a crime and, you guessed it, yelling "Fu&k!"

For that matter, I occasionally teach seventh graders. And boy, oh boy, you should have seen their saucer eyes and gaping, metallic mouths this week while they sat in on a 12th grade rehearsal of Neil Simon's foul mouthed spectacle. Each of them was busy storing up the zingers, eager to test out the seniors' filth and swagger alike later on while huddled together around the swing set.

And so, for all these fu!@ing reasons, consider me totally fu$%*ng capable of making my way through this week's expletive-rich All One Song.

Matt Sweeney, of Adele/Guided by Voices/Johnny Cash fame, is this week's curser in question: he's nearly 60 years old but he still sounds pimpled and pissed, stuck forever in middle school, and sh%t.

Neil Young? Sweeney considers him "fu@#ing awesome."

Zuma, the record that boasts this week's song? It's "unfu$%ing believable."

Barstool Blues, his song in question? It's "just really fu&*ing" great.

The song's drunk-but-backwards-on-a-high-wire guitar solo? "Fu%&ing nuts!"

The record's stoner-hard-at-work-in-homeroom cover art? ""It's just the fu%$ing best."

The song's brutal, efficient and blasted lyrics? "Fu()ing perfect."

And that just about sums up this week's lighter and fouler than usual, but still super sweet, show. Sweeney chose a song he really "fu%$ing" likes and then proceeds to exuberantly swear about it.

Enjoy!

And, of course, I like the song too! It's one of Shakey's very best, and it's fu%^ing great.

As Time Explodes

Good news everyone: I listened to Neil's new live Chrome Farts record this morning so you don't have to.

But you should listen to it anyway!

The record is actually pretty good, worthy of at least one or two spins, and, like the performance of Ambulance Blues that I wrote about earlier this week, As Time Explodes leaves me mildly disappointed that I didn't cough up the necessary 7.62 million bucks to see the tour in person. Indeed, the new album is good enough that, being a Shakey completionist, I will probably buy myself a copy someday, assuming I find a vinyl copy for under $14 smackeroos.

Here are the tracks in order, with my Positive Month comments to follow:

Daddy Went Walking finds Young recasting himself, appropriately, as the song's ancient father. I've always assumed that this light-as-a-feather Silver and Gold track describes Neil's own aging pater, especially in that it longs for said old daddy to successfully return to mommy's loving arms, and we all know that Neil was the only person on the planet who held out hope that, 50 years after their divorce, his parents would shack back up, even if it meant doing so in the great beyond. One then wonders which of his three ex-wives Young has in mind for a heavenly rendezvous during this opening track; were I any of the ladies in question I'd file a formal petition with Saint Peter immediately, seeking the removal of Young, upon his arrival to heaven on high, to a cloud of furthest distance. Anyway, the performance here is nice! Young sounds sprightly and the Real, I mean the Farts, know all the chords.

Looking Forward is a good choice for this tour and this band. I've always liked this song. Young sounds so old. But he's still at it!

Harvest Moon. Zzzzzzz.... Wake me up when it's over.

Ohio. Less good! Young played this way better solo electric two or three summers back.

Name of Love. I sense a theme emerging: Neil - surprise! - has concerns about the state of our country, government and world. He gets nicely soulful here, and everything about this performance is a big step up from the Coastal tour's staggering and slightly embarrassing Don't Forget Love. This rightfully obscure song, which has always sucked and which I think is the one that Billy Talbut righteously fails to sing or understand during Muddy Tracks, sounds mighty fine by comparison.

Be the Rain. I never liked this Greendale closer much at the time; but now, after a full decade of Young rolling out additional, and almost entirely boneheaded, environmental anthems, this song sounds downright sublime, despite its asinine backing vocals. Neil sounds bonkers, like he's leading the Stop Shopping Choir straight off a cliff. Good stuff!

Big Crime is weird: instead of the two chord guitar stomp Ira Kaplan and I admire, we get a mix that grants Spooner Oldham control of a haunted mansion elevator. We go up; we go down; we do both at once; I need a seatbelt and a bucket. No more great again!

Long Walk Home means we are still in the record's five-song-so-far political commentary section. This Life track, which dates back to the middle of the Vietnam War but was appropriately shelved at the time because it was just too earnest and obvious, sounds good here, and I like the Ukraine update just fine. Neil and I obviously vote together.

I think Vampire Blues is the low point on this record. Spooner, now that he's escaped the silverware drawer, has no idea what to do with such a simple piece of music, and so he vamps, rather than vampires, through the piece. I think this song is on 3 of Young's last 5 live records, which is dumb. My contractual obligations related to Positive Month require that I stop writing about this performance right now.

Cortez starts out in a paint by numbers fashion, then goes somewhere worth going. Young beach balls some cool guitar shrieks here and there and we get to hear the song's "lost" cave verse for the first time on record. There are probably 4,654 official and bootleg versions of Cortez out there which are better than this one. But it still sounds damn good.

I regretfully report that Neil must not be listening to my famous brother's Shakey podcast, All One Song. Proof of this sad reality can be found in the fact that Neil resolves the final line of After the Gold Rush here amidst a billionaire's wallet's worth of loose and unneeded notes, despite Simon Joyner's brilliant suggestion that the song's power lies to a great extent in Neil leaving that final line unresolved. Sorry for the bad news bro...

(But wait! No! This record was recorded last summer and Joyner's episode on the song dates to this past winter, and it was only posted a month or so ago! Nevermind! I've anachronistically doubted Neil; he's surely rumbling around Greenland, as we speak, in his donut-fat powered Hummer, wearing a Make Greenland Green Again ball cap and listening to All One Song; now and again he comes to a stop beside some moose, penguin or Greenlander, and hits pause on the podcast only long enough to roll down his also donut-fat powered windows and reassure the moose, penguin or person in question that a) the only thing he wishes to own which previously belonged only to them is their gratitude for that fact that he now makes all his music freely accessible to them through his forever-Beta website, and that b) thanks now to Tyler and Simon Joyner, he now knows to never finish that last line on After the Gold Rush ever again. The moose must be thrilled; I'm not sure the penguins care too much.)

Okay, I admit it: I have not yet listened to this record's Like a Hurricane. My morning run came to an end at that point in the record and I cooked my family breakfast instead. Nevertheless, I am willing to bet my entire record collection against yours, including my original printing of the Velvet Underground and Nico, that the song's performance on As Time Explodes is not anywhere as good as those found on American Stars and Bars, Odeon / Budokan, Live Rust, Weld, Way Down in the Rust Bucket, or even Unplugged. Let me know if you'd like to take me up on that bet. (UPDATE: I listened to it later in the weekend and I win, you lose: reach out and we'll coordinate you handing over your records.)

I don't need to hear it to tell you that Silver Eagle (a lazy rewrite of This Land is Your Land dedicated to his tour bus) is total and absolute shite. And that's the note on which Shakey ends his record.

Leah Senior's Summer's On The Ground

Back in the day - specifically, 1995 - standing orders seemed in place for all white female coeds to own a CD copy of Jewel's first album.

Copies of the thing took up space in just about every female space around me: they'd hold the center in shoebox collections and wall-mounted racks alike, and they always held prominent position in the dumb protective zip-up books we'd all studiously employ because the flimsy plastic cases which held that hateful form of music technology were forever cracked and useless.

Jewel, apparently, was the next big thing, our generation's Joni Mitchell.

I was... ambivalent. At best.

Just like Jewel, I was sensitive, sure, but I really didn't want to stay that way, nor was I too fired up about someone who sounded alarmingly like a 12 year old singing to me about it.

But there's another weekend left in Positive Month here in the Bin and so, even though I have not knowingly heard a single piece of music made by Jewel in the 30 years ever since those hyacinth days of bread and theses, I will go ahead and assume that all those incredibly-more-intelligent-than-me ladyfriends were right at the time about Jewel's greatness.

And a quick google search verifies such assumptions: Jewel, circa 2026, appears to still be even blonder than my beer. Plus, she's wildly eager to show off her bikini preparedness and she's somehow associated with Kevin Costner. And those three attributes - blonde / bikini / Waterworld - clearly beat out humor, ethics and hard work as the very best possible foundations for positive personal assessment, do they not?

Anyway, I thought back to my Jewel-filled early college nights this past month when I first encountered Leah Senior's debut record, and that's because in it Senior sounds how I always wished Jewel would sound at the time: sensitive, sure, but also dead set and determined to offer up full musical beauty and grace.

Isn't this song sweet? I love it, and not just because summer is indeed on the ground, in the air, and nearly here. I love the phrasing and guitar tone, not to mention the melody and the connection with us that Senior is able to instantly forge.

And so, someone, please, tell Kevin Costner to leave Leah the hell alone. We need her to forget everything except keeping up the great work.

I hope you all have a great weekend. Here's a live take of the song to take you into it.

All One Song, Ambulance Blues Week, Part 3

Good news everyone: Neil didn't ruin one of his very best songs during last year's tour.

Rather, he kinda nailed it.

I like that we can actually hear some of what Methuselah, I mean Spooner Oldham, brings to this performance. I feel like this is the first time I've ever actually noticed him on a Chrome Farts track, and I hear him appropriately bringing an early version Idiot Wind organ vibe to the proceedings.

Now, if someone would just get the Fart's bass player some new sunglasses and a whole new vibe... Then we'd truly be rocking in the rain, ready for the raid.

For the record, Young can do even better. Here he is in his midlife heyday, cradling the track with both urgency and a very tasty vibraphone with the help of Mike Mills and Peter Buck. He’s sporting a pair of very white man kicks as well and he even does a Dylan-styled rewrite thing within the kidnapper section.

That same night Young stuck around to help REM turn themselves somehow and momentarily into a strung out but organized 4am version of Crazy Horse during the Zuma sessions.

Watch Stipe kneel, pretty well overtaken by it all after a great vocal, and then linger for the tremendous piano outro. This is really vital music.

All One Song, Ambulance Blues Week, Part 2

Wow, maybe the best thing about this week's episode is that it introduces me, and maybe you too, to the music of Zachary Cale.

Listen to this guy!

I love the big sky stretched out over this track, with its warm glow of organ and breath. Cale sings like Tom Verlaine had he ever taken a gigantic chill pill, and he lets the pacing here wander, linger and dwell in wondering ways.

And just listen to what happens when he places keys at the center of his work.

There's a Jeff-Tweedy-kicking-back-with-Nick-Cave thing going on here that I love. And when the drums join the track's lonesome ghosts a quarter of the way in I feel like a dead serious Ringo has joined their sad party.

All One Song, Ambulance Blues Week, Part 1

The first thing I have to say is that today's All One Song guest nails it when he compares what is perhaps Shakey's biggest mothercuddler of a track, Ambulance Blues, to "walking through a painting."

I've cowered in the Sistine Chapel, swooned before Botticelli's Primavera and found spiritual assurance through Chagalls and Rothkos alike. I've seen me some paintings.

And, for me, Neil's wildest and widest canvas is equally vital.

Listen to the ceremonial hand chimes that first crash in the fifth, titling, verse. Stand within the booming echo of what is easily Neil's finest vocal performance, period. Wonder over the fact that it's Ben Keith who summoned up such a fierce yet gossamer bass line - did he ever even play that instrument anywhere else?

Giggle freely throughout the song. You should. Then hold your head in your hands. Sigh and finally smile, cuz what else is there to do when Kershaw's fiddle churns and Neil's harmonica burrows so elementally into and beyond the earth at our feet.

There, that's Part 1.

Tomorrow we'll consider the rest of the episode, try to figure out who exactly the guest, Zachary Cale, actually is, and wrestle with whether or not Young tarnished or uplifted himself and Mother Goose alike by hauling Ambulance Blues out of the Rust Bucket during last year's tour.

Manfully Shared Stages

Unless you're Bob Dylan (and I suspect you are not Bob Dylan, but, if you are indeed Bob, Howdy!) it's always a good idea to welcome in a female voice.

And so we spent some quality time with Gram and Emmylou, and all their dueting descendants, earlier this month. But today let's focus on a rarer art: songs with alternating male leads.

Sure, securing a whole stable of hunky harmonizers behind a manly centerpiece - think Crazy Horse, the Heartbreakers, Uncle Tupelo and, well, just about every other man band - is commonplace.

But males, and I'm surely no exception, are greedy jerks far too often, and so it's fairly rare for any band's Neil, Tom or Jay to step aside mid-song and let another dude carry a verse.

But doing so can often make all the difference.

Here's what I'm talking about: note how this judo-laden Belle Sebastian tale struggles to overcome its snooziness until the drifting horn and patient melody are suddenly interrupted by a second, fresh male lead at the 4:45 mark.

Know what I mean? All of the sudden I'm sitting up, wishing I was in this band.

It's fun, if you're me anyway, to sit around and think of similarly uplifted tracks.

There's John's wonderful, sighing entrance following Paul's bellicose belting on I've Got a Feeling...

... and there's Richard's worried soldier, stumbling across Sloth's Swarbrick-centered battlefield.

(This live take is fantastic, but it features an epic voice crack at the end of Thompson's verse; I suspect it's such moments that helped convince him to quit the band shortly thereafter)...

... Not to mention Richard welcoming in his son in a full lifetime later to help him recreate all of Captain Wentworth's pent up heartache.

Jane Austen fans will understand my reference and imagine Anne Elliot finally shrugging off her self-loathing and doubt. Consider her, and me, Persuaded.

All of these songs, to my ear, are immeasurably improved by that second male voice. There's teamwork within them, and courageous deference. And those, sadly, are rare qualities when it comes to famous men.

And so it's no wonder that, at age 12, I fell in love with The Travelling Wilburys. Seriously.

I knew I wasn't leading man material on any level. But I wanted to know that the life ahead of me would be both fun and successful, and that I'd go through it with a band of male equals around me, each of us willing to share the stage and trade off verses.

And wow, I wound up with just such a crew. The men in my life know what I'm talking about.

Bob Dylan's Good As I Been To You

My famous brother called bullhonky on yesterday's Free Bin claim that my college years were spent listening to Black Francis and acting like a 12 year old.

He's got a point: I actually spent my college years listening to Guided by Voices and acting like an angry, entitled white man. My ire knew no bounds: meat eaters, D.H Lawrence, record store hipsters and Pearl Jam flunkies alike all knew the flair of my evil eye. And, in response, they all shrugged.

I also couldn't stand Bob Dylan's Good As I Been To You back in the day, and so I impulsively condemned that record to the Octogenarian Bin in yesterday's post.

Then, this morning, three things happened:

I remembered that it's supposed to be Positive Month in the Bin. Positive Month is officially a pain in my ass. But a deal is a deal, and positive I must be.

I also realized that I probably haven't even listened to Good As I Been To You, the record I'd just bashed, in over 30 years.

And finally, I remembered which of us owned Good As I Been To You. To clarify: my teenage buddies and I had a system, born of our scarce means and budding genius: we took turns buying new records. We're talked about the days of double tape decks here, of course, meaning that while Jordan owned Harvest Moon, and Harris owned Full Moon Fever, and I owned Magic and Loss, and Eric owned Green Mind, all of us wound up with a personal, bootlegged copy of each of those mighty records in short order.

And, because my buddy Matt has always been the nicest and most selfless among us, he was often passive-aggressively bullied into buying the records we needed but were least excited about.

For example, Matt had to get our copy of Hard Promises because its videos and cover looked like they were products of The Great Depression.

And, therefore, he totally had to buy our copy of Good As I Been To You.

After all, the record:

Featured what we thought of as a lousy Cream song (Sitting on Top of the World)

Ended with something called Froggie Went A-Courting which sounded like Mr Toad ditching his motorcar so as to guest on an episode of Rainbow Bright.

Followed Dylan's previous record, Under the Red Sky, which I had proudly bought and then instantly regretted, cuz it sucked, and,

Featured arguably the worst cover in the history of CD long boxes:

Good grief, the cover is even worse than I remember! Dylan doesn't just look like he's Adam Sandler, age 92, working his way through a long and wearying fart; the mild, rising explosive light and clouds to his either lower side make it look like the fart in question is leveling entire city blocks, kinda like whatever is hopefully not currently occurring in Orange County (seriously, what the hell is wrong with our country?).

Anyway, let's stop declaring truths without any evidence and actually listen to Good As I Been To You, and let’s see if it does indeed still suck. And let's dedicate that effort to my forever friend Matt.

So you can picture him: earlier this week Matt and I spent an afternoon and early evening sticking out like polar bears in the Sahara at a hipster brewery. Legions of said hipsters were either line dancing and/or ax throwing in an inner arcade while we quaffed the goods, ate the tacos and took turns identifying the acts responsible for a truly terrible mix of late 80's glam rock on the place's high-fi.

My blind guess that Styx was responsible for one utterly harrowing track was proven correct even though I've never listened to a Styx record; he remembered that Skid Row was responsible for 18 and Life. I remembered Sebastian; he remembered Bach.

I doubt Matt still has his CD copy of Bob's 1992 ode to the white man's solo acoustic blues, but that's no matter: Matt's the best, and this is for him...

Well, I already stand corrected. Dylan rocks here at the album's opening; he's all swerving skip and dodge, rooty-toot-tooting his way through this piece like there are ants in his pants, only they're the good kind.

It kinda blows my mind that Bob could do so much so well on an acoustic guitar at this point. Matt and I had seen him play a few months earlier and he'd sounded and appeared just about dead.

Want some proof? I've got some proof:

It took 3/4 of Stuck Inside of Mobile before we even recognized the song;

he played Cat's in the Well;

the best part of the show, by far, was the blissed out guy next to us in the very last row describing the high quality falafel one could get one's hands on in a Grateful Dead parking lot.

That, and I got to drain the main vein in the men's room alongside a tie-dyed Bill Walton. His one-eyed trouser snake was loose and about somewhere way up in the rafters and he was all fired up about Bob. A gnarly moment!

But wow, this second song is just totally beautiful. I'm sitting here all upset about the fate of these convicts, wishing they could be pirates.

Clearly, I was a dumb kid to hate this record. Hard Times, Canadee-I-O: the record is actually made up of great, skillful stuff from one of our big deal artists in mid-flight.

Then again, let's give me a break: I was 16 years old when the thing came out. I was a teenager in love with another teenager, and I drank a lot of Squirt. Who could expect me to get fired up about the deeds of pirate folk as told by the world's spriest 116 year old?

And, there is some pulpy nonsense mixed in with the good stuff. I still don't like Sitting on Top of the World; Tomorrow Night previews Bob's snoozy Sinatra phase; and Froggie Went a Courtin' still puts Positive Month strenuously to the test.

Cactus Lee's Lone Star

Let's surge towards the end of a self imposed Positive Month here in the Bin with a series of songs that just make me happy.

I hope this one makes you happy too.

I'm sending this track, with its bubbly bump and sway, not to mention its accompanying montage of sweet 70's living room grooves, out to my buddy Ned. You can catch a glimpse of him above, thirty years ago, alongside yours truly and on his way to Mexico.

Marilyn to Madonna Week, Part 2

There are plenty of things I enjoy losing my pants for.

A swim in a glacier-fed mountain lake, a moonlit wiz off my back porch...

I could go on listing more of the quality times that I seek out without my pants in place but my famous brother reports that yesterday's description of cleaning the cat's butt took things a step too far.

And so let me move on to report that old people sure don't make me want to drop trou, at least not yet. And I'm guessing, and hoping, that they similarly inspire you to leave your pants firmly belted, buttoned and zipped.

And so you've got to admire Billy Bob Squarespace, or whatever his name is, on this week's All One Song. The guy simply loves snuggling up with old people, especially when they are - metaphorically anyway - pantless.

To wit:

He produces their records! His latest, a debut record by an 83 year old named after a problematic vegetable who "loves Jesus, marijuana and his family" sounds totally naked, honest and killer.

In college, while you and I were busy listening to Black Francis and acting like 12 year olds, Jerry David DeCicca (I looked the dude’s name up, because continuing to call him Peter David LeBoof or Dominic Sebastian Cheeseworthy or Anthony Miranda McSqueeze seems rude, and it's niceness month in the Bin) spent quality time with Neil and Bob's most octogenarian records: Good As I Been To You and Harvest Moon. Both albums are products of the men's middle age, sure, but on them they sound like they're 106 years old and are bidding us all a fond farewell with quaking knees.

Plus, DeCicca even pledges allegiance to Neil's most recent record, and especially its utterly tone deaf "let me explain why I hate my sainted daughter" theme. You gotta love McSqueeze's point though: no one should write such songs, he argues, let alone sing them, but the fact that Neil does so anyway makes him utterly unique and therefore admirable in the very same way you and I would just have to shrug and then cheer if we ever caught sight of a pasty white 86 year old strutting the catwalk.

Even so, the guy's got principles, and therefore limits. Much as he loves art that embraces ugly naked truth, Cheeseworthy cites Old King as Neil's worst song, and that not because it's boring unless Neil takes 15 minutes to explain it to you...

... no; DeCicca says it's Neil's worst song because in it he kicks his dog and does not apologize.

Marilyn to Madonna Week, Part 1

I can do hard things!

I can do the essential twice-a-week deep clean on the cat's butt; someone's gotta do it!

I can track down four used tires for the family van for less than the price of one new one and pay for it all in cash because that's the way Jessie, my tire guy, rolls.

I can unclog my bootleg gray water system by standing around and swearing a bit, then unleashing the beast and spewing 5 months of the family's congealed essence all over my bewildered yard, and I can do it like nobody's business.

I can even forge connections between, and get my students mildly interested in, the state of Elizabeth Bennet's petticoats and our federal government's increasingly irrelevant system of checks and balances in the very same 45 minute class.

And so, I can surely do the hardest thing yet: I can sit through an hour of some guy I've never heard of talking about From Hank to Hendrix, which may very well qualify as the least seductive song choice in the history of All One Song.

I mean, come on.

The song is soft and nice to listen to; it's good.

But all of us have listened to it before, and we've done so over and over and over again. Plus, its lyrics are largely obvious and verging on hamfisted; even its California Divorce makes me yawn. Worse yet, it climaxes with the clumsily phrased concept of a "musical ride." I like rollercoasters and music, separately.

David Briggs hated the song, and David Briggs always knew what he was talking about when it came to Neil.

I don't hate the song. Ben Keith plays on it! And the second half of the final verse, with its troubled window and pleading tree and growing distance, all plays. But I'd much rather actually listen to Hank or Hendrix or Madonna, or gaze chastely upon Marilyn. And I'd much rather hear a discussion of just about any other Neil Young song.

But, I can do hard things! So, let's roll the dice and listen to the music made by today's guest. Tyler doesn't tolerate dopes, so maybe this guy's tunes will help me summon up some courage and optimism before dropping the needle on Dylan to Depeche Mode week.

Apparently, Jerry David DeCicca has a song about cosmic watermelons. That sounds promising!

Okay, this song is far sillier and more enjoyable than I'd even hoped. Jerry Jeff Whateverhisnameis sounds like Jonathan Richman on peyote. And that sax is really something.

Beverley Martyn, RIP

Who knows what Beverley Martyn could have accomplished had she not dedicated the 70's to supporting her supremely talented, utter wreck of a husband, John.

Here she is before they met, anchoring an early Randy Newman song with power and understanding alongside Nicky Hopkins, who played keys with everyone from The Beatles to The Stones to Cat Stevens and Jerry Garcia.

She was just 19 years old.

This sure doesn't sound like a voice that would make just a few unsuccessful singles and then two records in a supporting role before stepping away from music altogether for nearly 30 years.

But that's what she did, and it looks like she took on far more vital work instead:

Happily, Beverley gave herself a perfect musical swan song a decade or so ago, unearthing and performing a never-before-heard track which she'd apparently started writing with Nick Drake shortly before his death.

Listen as she helps Nick, our lost Orpheus, glide back briefly into the light before ferrying him tenderly back out of sight.

Rolling Thunder's Sorrow

Here's one of the most exciting moments from Mitchell's entire Archives collection:

Listen as Hissing of Summer Lawns' rich verse work gets Dylan's full Rolling Thunder treatment, complete with busy, tumbling keys, Mick Ronson's six-string plunges and Joni, wide-eyed and masterful, riding into, make that above, the storm, master of all weather.

Rita Coolidge's I Don't Want To Talk About It

Speaking of Rita Coolidge, let's take a listen as she effortlessly hang glides her way through Danny Whitten's ode to resolution amidst heartbreak.

Does Rita's take compete with the Crazy Horse original, with its gut wrenching lead vocals and shimmering Ry Cooder slide guitar passes? Surely not.

But it's still damn good, and it serves as a tasty treat on a record that I guarantee is waiting for you, as we speak, in your local Dollar Bin.

All One Song, T-Bone Week, Part 2

The following angry thoughtful post has been fundamentally slightly altered so as to meet the stupid and self-imposed Positive Vibes Only editorial requirement I set for the Bin this flippin' month.

Damn it!

I found it unbelievable, unconscionable and downright unethical wonderful and I was filled with rage understanding when, a full freakin' hour into this week's show yet another of my famous brother's unworthy guests sheepishly admitted to never having seen Neil Young play live.

"What the living hell? How lovely!" I replied in response, before collecting my vindictive pleasant thoughts and listening further.

Such admissions are unwelcome and irresponsible, especially when the idiots guests in question are only in their early 60s and have been Neil Young fans for a full mere 45 years. I doubt am sure that such worthless august guests had other pressing tasks that got in the way, such as scientifically tracking the distance between Uranus and theirs births, deaths and other assorted traumas which unreasonably called them away from Neil's vital shows.

Okay, where were we?

Oh yeah: Otherwise, Additionally, this week's episode is another winner, as always!

I love the ideas bandied about regarding monotony and helplessness as Re-Ac-Tor themes. Like Unlike me this month, Neil clearly was filled with rage towards the things he did not have the serenity to sit with or the capacity to destroy. And so he gave us T-Bone's brilliant 9 minutes of hand claps and horror.

Off the top of my head I can come up with just two similarly album-shattering tracks which, like T-Bone, aren't parked apologetically at the end of the record or even at the end of a side but stand there, complacent and belligerent, in the dead center, refusing to budge.

Here's the first, but it doesn't compete with T-Bone in that Yo La Tengo couldn't come up with any caveman lyrics to accompany it. Plus, it's kinda good.

And here's another, even better competitor to T-Bone in the Bone Headed department. Seriously, somebody get me a bucket:

I have not read this week's guest's biography-driven books, but I totally want to now that I've pictured him getting high in an alley behind a Santa Monica movie theater before attending a first run screening of Live Rust while just 12 years old enjoyed an hour of his thoughts and ideas.

(When I was 12 the edgiest thing I did was chug all the beer in Eric Lyman's parent's frig. Then again, that was far safer than eating fistfuls of Halloween candy for breakfast with one hand while piloting my bike to school with the other without a helmet or a clue.)