cover me

My favorite radio station, WXPN in Philadelphia, just announced the theme for its annual "Countdown of the 885 Greatest..." whatever for this year. In the past, they have ranked albums, songs, artists over the course of a week or so in the early part of December. After opening up the voting to listeners via the station's website, the playback is subject to heated debates and angry disappointment by those who take countdowns and rating things waaaay too seriously. Countdowns (as well as halls of fame and awards shows) are meaningless. They are based on opinion and only opinion. However, people hold their opinions very dearly. Very dearly. Dearly enough that opinions have been known to cause fist fights and loss of friendship.

I rarely listen to WXPN's annual countdowns for any long period of time. Sometimes, I will tune in just for fodder for posting snarky comments on social media (something I am known to do) until I lose interest (something I am also known to do). Otherwise, I have no interest in knowing that Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Up Around the Bend" was voted the 432nd best song by a group comprised of a guy that hated his brother (Oasis' "Wonderwall" came in considerably higher.) I don't care to rank and rate music, so I never vote in the countdowns. I just want to listen to songs.

This year, the theme is The 885 Greatest Cover Songs (the station's signal comes in on 88.5, hence the randomness of the tallied amount of final entries). I love cover songs. I love to hear one artist's interpretation of another artist's composition, especially songs that are so-called "classics." I love to hear obscure versions of familiar songs. Conversely, I like to hear a familiar song, only to discover that the version everyone knows was previously recorded by someone else, but for some reason, just wasn't a hit. I like offbeat and unexpected takes on popular songs. Covers are cool and I just might listen to this year's countdown more than I did in years past.

Cover songs themselves can be broken down into subcategories of their own. One of my favorites (and I'm sure this will be brought up in the course of XPN's playback this year) is songs that you didn't know were covers. For example, "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. Not only is that song a cover, but it's the third recording after the original version. The song was recorded by country singer Bobby Bare. It did not chart, so the song's composer Don Schlitz recorded it himself, with similar results. Johnny Cash included it on his 1978 album Gone Girl. Kenny Rogers took a shot with it the same year and scored a Number One hit on the Billboard Country chart. It reached Number 16 on Billboard's Hot 100. Another surprising cover is "Superstar," the eerie ballad that reached Number 2 on the Billboard chart for The Carpenters in 1971. It was originally recorded by folk-rock duo Delaney and Bonnie in 1969. Richard Carpenter saw Bette Midler sing the song on The Tonight Show late one night and thought it would be perfect for his sister's vocals. He was right. How about Barry Manilow's signature "I Write the Songs?" Yep. A Cover. It was originally recorded by pop husband-and-wife duo The Captain & Tennille in May 1975 and released as a non-charting single by teen idol David Cassidy before Manilow reluctantly recorded it a few months later. It hit Number One for Manilow. The song's author, Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, included the tune on his own solo record and Frank Sinatra re-recorded it as "I Sing The Songs," entirely missing the song's meaning.

Other songs like Blondie's "Hanging on the Telephone," "I Love Rock 'N' Roll" by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts and even Chubby Checker's "The Twist" are all covers. Yes sir... this year's countdown is going to be a wild ride.

The voting opened just a few days ago and runs until the end of October. Voters are limited to a list of ten songs. I have been compiling my list since the theme was announced. My list, of course, will not represent the best cover songs, because that is merely opinion. There is no "best." I will just submit a list of some of my favorite cover songs. I suppose songs will be ranked by how many people vote for the same song. If that's the case, none of my selections will even make the list. But that's okay. I can listen to them anytime I want.

And at this point, my list of ten songs has been whittled down to twenty. But, I have plenty of time to vote.

I know my list will include THIS GEM. It's my favorite cover song of all time.

You can vote in WXPN's Countdown HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my motto's always been when it's right, it's right

A little while ago, I posted a photo on Instagram that referenced the 70s pop band Starland Vocal Band. Let me tell you a little story about The Starland Vocal Band. It's a story you could have gone the rest of your life without hearing, but here you are, so make the best of it.

The Starland Vocal Band are a prime example of the denigrating term "one hit wonder." In the early 1970s, the husband and wife songwriting team of Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert collaborated with country music superstar John Denver to pen Take Me Home Country Roads, a song that was eventually named the official state song of West Virginia (narrowly beating out I'm My Own Grandpa by just a few votes). Danoff and Nivert recorded two albums of their own compositions under the name "Fat City," as well as two more using the name "Bill & Taffy." All four albums — released between 1969 and 1974 — attracted little to no attention.

As America was celebrating its Bicentennial, Danoff and Nivert formed the Starland Vocal Band and released their debut album. Now a foursome with the addition of keyboardist-singer Jon Carroll and his soon-to-be girlfriend Margot Chapman, the breezy popsters unleashed the seductively-sweet Afternoon Delight on the Top 40 airwaves. With its light melody, honeyed harmonies and cryptic but obvious euphemisms, Afternoon Delight was a ubiquitous hit across the country, peaking at Number One on the Billboard charts just days after the United States wished itself a Happy 200th Birthday.

Riding the wave of its popularity, the Starland Vocal Band seemed to be poised for greatness. They were given their own variety show on CBS that ran for six weeks as a summer replacement series in 1977. The show, a typical 70s romp with corny comedy and musical numbers, featured comedian Mark Russell and a writing staff that included April Kelly (of later Boy Meets World fame) and a young David Letterman. 

When the Grammy Awards rolled around, the group had garnered four nominations, including the coveted Record of the Year and Song of the Year. On the night of the award ceremony, they won Best New Artist, much to everyone's surprise — especially the heavily-favored Boston, whose debut had moved a whopping 31 million units. They also took home a Grammy for Best Vocal Arrangement for their aforementioned harmonies.

Winning two Grammy Awards had a decidedly opposite effect on the fledgling quartet. Their follow-up album "Rear View Mirror" never broke the Top 100 and their next five singles never even charted. Then things within the band went south. They all decided to go their separate ways in 1981. Carroll and Chapman, who became a couple and married during the band's formation, divorced in 1982. Danoff and Nivert followed suit soon after. Afternoon Delight, at one time a popular hit among the bubblegum set, did a complete 180, becoming a reviled earworm and showing up on "most hated songs" lists compiled by critics and music listeners alike. However, in recent years, the song has been featured prominently on the soundtracks of a number of popular movies.

I was 15 when Afternoon Delight was a radio staple. I liked it. It was a dirty song about having sex in the afternoon. What 15 year-old didn't giggle at the very thought? What 15 year-old didn't stifle laughter when they caught their mom singing "Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite" as she was making dinner? The song was cute. The band was cute. What was there not to like?  Yeah, yeah... I know. 1976 also brought the world heavy hitters like Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper and Led Zeppelin's Nobody's Fault But Mine, as well as Blitzkrieg Bop from the Ramones, a bunch of hardened punks who could easily wipe the floor with the Starland Vocal Band. But, I liked the song, no matter what peer pressure dictated.

Now I am 62. I have a subscription to Sirius XM Satellite Radio. With just over a gazillion channels catering to every possible musical niche taste, I find myself listening to the "70s Gold" channel, where favorites from my formative years stream on a daily basis. While I do change the station when certain songs begin, I am surprised by which songs and which bands prompt that action. As soon as I hear the opening strains of any — any! — Who song, I mash that touchscreen button as quickly as I can. I have also caught myself changing the channel away from Van Morrison, Rod Stewart, Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band (If I went the rest of my life without hearing another Bob Seger song, that would not be horrible) and The Doobie Brothers. I will, however, stick around for the completion of songs by Chicago (a band I never liked), Led Zeppelin (another band I never liked) and any number of bubblegum-y, pop hits and so-called "one hit wonders." I hear Afternoon Delight at least once a week during the forty minute commute on my way home from work. I still like it. It makes me think of fun times and just how stupid and carefree the 70s were for me.

On the way home from picking up dinner, I took this picture of my dashboard at a stoplight....

...and later posted it on social media. It received 10 "likes" and several comments, including one person who felt it was his internet-policing duty to tell me the song was about fornication. But, another of my connections — one who I don't know personally, but who "gets" my slightly skewed sense of humor — noted very astutely...

I couldn't have said it better myself.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* * * * * * * * * 

If  you like the Starland Vocal Band as much as I do, why not get a t-shirt and show the world!

You can order one RIGHT HERE! 

happy together

I have to admit. The only reason I wanted to go to this show in the first place was my overwhelming desire to hear a 65-year old Susan Cowsill scream "...and spaghetti'd" in the closest approximation of her 10-year old self. Everything else was a bonus.

To be honest, concerts like these make me cringe and I have unabashedly railed against them for years. Every time I see an ad or promo for an upcoming show featuring the remnants of a once popular band from thirty (or longer) years ago, I will rhetorically question "Who goes to these shows?" Within the past few weeks, a bunch of creaky old men who were once the high-and-mighty Rolling Stones packed —packed, I tell you! — Lincoln Financial Field (the home of the Philadelphia Eagles). With tickets going for around a hundred bucks a pop, I still scratch my head and wonder: "Who goes to see The Rolling Stones in 2024?" The answer, apparently, is 67,000 people... in Philadelphia, at least. By the way, The Rolling Stones are down to two original members, although guitarist Ron Wood has been with them for nearly fifty years.

There are other bands currently waging tours — some even farewell tours. It's your last chance to catch 70s pop rockers Foreigner as they cross the country, waving "goodbye" to their legions (I guess?) of fans. But, be warned. The current incarnation of Foreigner is just singer Mick Jones and a band of guys who never played on a Foreigner album. It is my understanding that, due to health concerns, Mick Jones has missed the majority of dates on this tour. So, with ticket prices ranging from $40 to $95, this is essentially a Foreigner cover band. And, speaking of cover bands, Dead & Company, the Grateful Dead-ish collective who sort-of called it quits last summer, are back and trudging through a residency at Las Vegas's newest showplace The Sphere, much to the delight and obliviousness of Deadheads still holding on to the hope that Jerry Garcia will make a surprise appearance. (Spoiler alert: He won't.) Dead & Company guitarist John Mayer was 12 when the last Grateful Dead studio album was released.

That said, back in March, I bought to tickets to a show that goes against everything I stand for musically and is a reflection of everything I spent two paragraphs making fun of. And guess what? I don't care. The Happy Together Tour has been entertaining time-challenged music lovers for going on — get this — forty years! The line-up has varied over the years, but the concept has not. Headlined by 60s popsters The Turtles, The Happy Together Tour has featured a rotating collection of bands spanning the early 60s up to the middle 70s. The six bands included on each tour has something for every musical taste — providing that your musical tastes never evolved past the Nixon Administration. (For those of you too young to get that joke, Nixon was a President of the United states in the 1970s.) There are doo-wop holdovers, radio-friendly bubblegum one (or two)-hit wonders, pseudo-psychedelic hippies and a little bit of something in-between these specific genres. The two-hour-plus show allows for four songs from each group and a slightly extended set from The Turtles to cap things off.

This past Wednesday, Mrs. P (a somewhat reluctant Mrs. P) and I drove over to the nearby Keswick Theater to redeem our tickets and see what this thing was all about.

First off, my wife and I brought the age range waaaaaaay down. As I looked around, I covertly whispered to Mrs. Pincus: "Are we as old as these people?" Without even glancing up, she said: "Well, you are." I was fascinated! Mesmerized! Did I actually grow up listening to the same music as these people?  As folks filed in — slowly, very slowly — my wife spotted a fellow she recognized in the row in front of us. It was a funeral director from a prominent Philadelphia mortuary, Coincidentally, she had just run in to this guy at a funeral just a week or so ago. It was somewhat comforting knowing that he was in attendance... y'know.... just in case. And by the looks of the crowd, well, I wouldn't have been surprised if his services were employed on this evening.

Soon the lights lowered and the disembodied voice of national DJ Shadoe Stevens announced the evening's first guest — The Cowsills. The Cowsills enjoyed a surge of popularity for a few fleeting years in the fun-loving, carefree 1960s. With radio-ready hits like "The Rain, The Park and Other Things" (you know... "I love the flower girl..."), the politically-incorrect "Indian Lake" and their scrubbed-clean take on the counter-culture anthem "Hair," The Cowsills were the inspiration for TV's Partridge Family. Little Susan is now 65 and has had an pretty successful music career of her own. She performed and toured with Dwight Twilley as well as her own band The Continental Drifters with then-husband Peter Holsapple, late of the db's. She is a staple on the rich New Orleans music scene and can often be seen singing in one of the many clubs in the famed French Quarter. But, tonight she and her older brothers Bob and Paul are flashing back to a time when flower power was "a thing" and peace signs were flashed unironically. Original members Bill and Barry, along with Mom Barbara, have all passed away, The remaining siblings ripped through their hits, including an extended version of the Love, American Style theme song (ask your parents) and quickly cleared the stage for the next act.

Here's where thing started to get a little weird. Joey Molland was announced with a rundown of titles made popular by Beatles protégés Badfinger. A lanky fellow with long, gray tresses took the stage and launched into a barrage of familiar tunes, none of which were originally sung by this guy. The crowd didn't care. They knew the songs and they knew the words and they understood that this is the greatest music ever put to record and runs circles around anything thing that Justin Timberwolf or Billie Irish does. Joey is the last surviving member of the classic Badfinger line-up. In 1983, original bassist and song writer Tom Evans took his own life. The night before, he had a vicious, friendship-ending argument with Joey Molland over royalties from Badfinger's song "Without You," a tune covered by dozens of artists. Although he played on the original recording, Joey had absolutely nothing to do with the song's composition, yet he felt he was entitled to monetary compensation. Joey did not perform "Without You" in his set of four Badfinger songs.

After Joey and before a brief intermission, three guys in iridescent suits sang a quartet of familiar doo-wop-y songs though smiling faces. Identifying themselves as The Vogues, the trio consists of no original members. Tenor Royce Taylor joined the group in 1991, twenty-three years after the group's last charting hit. His bandmate, Troy Elich, joined the group in 2023. Their set evoked a lot of "Oh, I didn't know this was them" murmurs throughout the dimly-lit audience. But, they sang "Five O'Clock World" and everyone was happy.

When the place refilled after intermission, 60s hitmakers The Association reignited the crowd with an airy rendition of "Windy." Between songs, they cracked a few age-related, self-deprecating jokes before lighting up the place with "Never My Love," "Cherish" and an impossibly-accurate reading of "Along Comes Mary." They also reminded everyone that they kicked off the legendary Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. Well, not everyone. There are just two original members of The Association currently touring. Some audience members needed to be reminded of the impact the Monterey Pop Festival had on the 60s music scene. Later, those same folks needed to be reminded where they parked their cars.

Jay & The Americans were next welcomed to the stage. There is a Jay, but he's not that "Jay". He's not even that other "Jay." But he is a "Jay." Actually, those other, more famous "Jays" weren't really "Jay" either... but I digress. The Americans boast two original members from their hit-making heyday. Their current lead singer has a similar soaring vocal style as his predecessors. He was able to successfully recreate songs like "Cara Mia" and "This Magic Moment" (which may or may not be the same song) in such a way as to please the auditory limitations of the evening's audience. They ended with... maybe "This Magic Moment" again... I'm not sure.

As the night drew to its climax, what was left of The Turtles ambled out to the stage. The Turtles, best known for their sunshine-y, kind of humorous, ditties are down to one original member... and he's not even the lead singer. Also known as "Flo & Eddie," the duo that was the core of The Turtles, sang with Frank Zappa, T-Rex and Bruce Springsteen. They even provided songs for children's programming like Care Bears and Strawberry Shortcake. In 2018, Howard Kaylan (the "Eddie" of "Flo &...") was told by a doctor to stop touring in the wake of heart surgery. Mark Volman (the "Flo" of "...& Eddie) recruited Archies (yep, the cartoon band) vocalist Ron Dante to join The Turtles, as Volman had only provided backing vocals, limited percussion and wacky stage antics. Regardless of who was singing lead, this version of The Turtles wowed the crowd with "Elenore," "You Know She'd Rather Be With Me" and "It Ain't Me Babe," including a horribly-accurate Bob Dylan impersonation by Mark Volman in a raucous "bite the hand that feeds you" moment. Ron Dante was afforded a solo on "Sugar Sugar," with nary a mention of his other musical accomplishments over the decades. (He sang lead for The Cuff Links, provided lead vocals for various television show theme songs and produced the first nine Barry Manilow albums.) Of course, the set's coda was the title song of the tour — "Happy Together." The bouncy "bah-bah-bah"-driven tune brought the aged audience to its feet, happily joining in on the simple chorus upon instruction from the stage. And then, in a moment reminiscent of the final act of Disney's Enchanted Tiki Room or every M. Night Shyamalan movie, Volman and Dante invited the evening's performers back to the stage — one by one — to sing a few bars of one of the songs they sang in their set.... even though we were all here and it just happened an hour ago or less! The Cowsill siblings repeated the chorus of "The Rain The Park and Other Things," as Dante announced "THE COWSILLS!" Yeah! We know! We here here for them! That was us, remember? Each band came out in order of previous appearance, offered the Cliff Notes version of their big hit, and then segued back into "Happy Together." It was odd, to say the least. It was fun, to say the most.

The lights came up. The audience rose, some grabbing their canes or walkers or oxygen tanks, and shuffled out to the exit aisles. Mrs. Pincus, who admittedly had some trepidation about attending this event, was pleased. She had fun.

And I got a blog post out of it. As well as something else checked off my list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do you know where you're going to

It's June. I graduated from high school in June. Not this June, of course. A different one. One that was forty-four years ago.

I don't have fond memories of high school. I dreaded every day. I didn't like going there or being there. Despite the Jewish population of the student body tallying nearly 85%, I was subjected to my share of anti-Semitism. I wasn't an especially good student. I didn't bring home good grades. I experienced the ache of unrequited love and, conversely, avoided some female classmates who came on a little too strong for my liking. However, I met some people who, for four years, grew to be inseparable friends, but whose camaraderie waned post-graduation... only to re-connect decades later via the magic of social media. I even re-connected with some classmates with whom I wasn't particularly close. But, time is the great equalizer and once you breach your 60th year on Earth, you begin to understand what was meant by the old adage "life is short" and you finally see just how short it is.

A classmate
wearing the winning button.

Recently, a few silly "snapshots" from my high school days popped into my head. I recall in my sophomore year, an open solicitation to design the "official" Class of '79 button was announced. The winning button design would be mass produced and distributed among our class, where it could proudly (proudly?) be displayed on a shirt, jacket or other piece of clothing. Even back in my teenage years, my budding art career was beginning to emerge. Art classes were the only ones I attended with any interest. In other non-art classes, I found myself doodling in the margins of American History tests or lengthy algebra equations. I was somewhat excited at the thought of having my design grace the "official" button representing my class, having all 1100-plus of my classmates sporting a 3" metal circle of my original artwork. I made a bunch of sketches and after rejecting several preliminary ideas, I settled on a mystical-looking wizard waving his hand above a glowing crystal ball, with the phrase "Class of '79 - We Make It Happen" floating in a semi-circle above his pointed blue, star-spangled cap. I'm not one to brag, but it was pretty good for a 16 year-old. Unfortunately, the rest of my class did not agree. In lieu of my design, they selected a strange depiction of two silhouetted figures standing on a royal blue hill before a bright yellow sun (our school colors) along with the sentiment "Class of '79 Walks Tomorrow's Paths Today" in a swirly, hand-written font. I don't like to knock other artists' work, but there were other designs — that weren't mine — that were waaaaay better than the one that was chosen. I would have been okay with not having my submission chosen. Just not this one. In my opinion, it was poorly executed and the slogan didn't exactly roll off the tongue... and that's not just sour grapes. Although, I retained some keepsakes from my tumultuous high school years, my button currently rests at the bottom of the man-made lake beneath the roller coaster at Great Adventure amusement park in Jackson, New Jersey. Great Adventure was the destination of my year-end Sophomore Class Trip. A friend picked the button off my shirt and flung it skyward with the gusto of an Olympic discus thrower. I wasn't terribly upset.

A classmate
wearing the winning shirt.

My Junior year in high school brought about a similar art-related project. This time, the task was designing the Class T-shirt. This was a big deal. Everyone's wardrobe was comprised almost exclusively of t-shirts. Concert commemoratives, sports teams, "peace" signs held over from the 60s — t-shirts and jeans were the accepted "uniform of the day" throughout the 70s. Even those students whose wardrobe was influenced by the burgeoning disco trend could sometimes be spotted in a t-shirt emblazoned with a glittery iron-on decal. Once again, I repurposed my "also-ran" button design of the wizard. I embellished my original design with more stars, brighter colors and a more detailed main figure. Again, my design lost out to a reworked take on the cover of Steve Miller's Book of Dreams album. Done in the school colors, the shirt featured a near-identical to the album depiction of Pegasus surrounded by stars, beneath the words "Flying High" in capital block letters. I will admit, it was a good design. It certainly was good enough for Steve Miller. It just wasn't an original design. However, the school "powers that be" including the principal, several administrators and an English teacher who served as our "class sponsor," debated the insinuated "drug" overtones of the slogan and mulled over the message that it conveyed. After many heated "back-and-forth" squabbles, a compromise was reached. The slogan would be changed to "Class of Dreams" before the shirts went into production. I believe the designer played dumb regarding any potential drug reference in the original design, only to create a custom-made short run of the original design for him and his pot-head friends. He wasn't fooling anyone.

The next item on the class agenda was choosing a song as our Senior Prom theme. Traditionally, the "prom theme" is a ballad that accommodates slow dancing. A number of songs were nominated with Billy Joel's "I've Loved These Days" declared the winner. A track from Joel's 1977 album Turnstiles, "I've Loved These Days" expresses the heartfelt feelings of a man reflecting on his life's accomplishments — a fitting narration for the end of high school and, of course, an opportunity to hold your prom date close... however awkward. But.... just a few weeks prior to the prom, the same committee that forced the alteration of the class t-shirt, got around to actually reading the lyrics to "I've Loved These Days." Four verses into the unfeigned sentimentality, someone discovered the line "we soothed our souls with fine cocaine." Frightened that this single line would turn the innocent prom into a deranged orgy abundant with narcotics, a meeting was held. Then another. Until another compromise with the incorrigible Class of '79 was reached. Billy Joel's composition on reminisces would be replaced with Diana Ross's 1975 hit "Theme from Mahogany" — a song priggishly subtitled "Do You Know Where You're Going To." I believe the school administration was making a backhanded assessment of my class's actions up to that point. A day or so before my senior prom, there was an afternoon luncheon where speeches were made, awards were presented and yearbooks were distributed. A few of the more musically-inclined students performed for their classmates. One young lady brazenly treated us to a rendition of "I've Loved These Days" — waving her acoustic guitar in the air at its completion in sort-of last ditch exhibition of her middle finger.

In June 1979, my years-long stretch in public school came to a close. My rambunctious class caused its share of controversy through music selections and  t-shirt designs. We thought we were tough little rebels, going toe-to-toe with "the man" and doing our best to "stand our ground." Over the course of four years, there was a certain amount of shoving and name-calling and maybe even a physical scuffle or two. But no one brought a loaded gun to school and I never hid in a closet, huddled with classmates, silently fearing I would never see my parents again.

Maybe my time in high school wasn't as bad as I remember.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

unbroken chain

Andy Warhol once said: "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." Well, this past Thursday morning, I overstayed my allotted time by a half hour.

Some time ago, my favorite Philadelphia radio station began a new feature on their morning drive-time show. Joining such popular features as Wednesday afternoon's "Worst Song in the World" and "The Fab Four," a four-song block of songs from the Beatles catalog, a long-time staple of the afternoon broadcast, the morning show introduced a fun little concept called "The Name Chain Game." The Thursday morning feature entails a little clever thinking on the part of listeners who plan to submit a contender for on-air play. The rules are actually pretty simple. It's a string of songs whose artists are connected by name. The last word (or part of a word) begins the first word (or part of a word) of the next song's performer. This continues for as long as you can. For example, an early submission in the games initial stages ran as follows: "Etta James" followed by "James Gang" followed by "Gang of Four" followed by "The Four Freshmen" followed by "Men at Work" followed by "Work Drugs." Five songs were played in a row and at the end the enthused host of the show reading the conglomeration as "Etta James Gang of Four FreshMen at Work Drugs." She chuckled. The morning news guy chuckled and the morning moved on. This little experiment gathered steam and strings of songs or "chains," if you will, averaged about four to five songs. On the rare occasion, some extended to six or seven. Additional rules allowed for dropping "the" from a band's name. Syllable pronunciation and homophones are permitted, in the case of a recent submission that included Donald Fagen followed by Against Me. 

Now that you've been properly intrigued and have subconsciously begun forming your own chains, let me tell you where Josh Pincus and my ever-so-brief fulfillment of Andy Warhol's prophecy fits into this. 

These go to 11.

Way back in January of this year, I sent an email to the morning show with my entry for the Name Chain Game. Keeping in Josh Pincus fashion to buck convention, my entry included eleven performers. Yep. Eleven. These were not obscure artists. These were performers who I had heard previously in the eclectic mix that is the loose playlist of my favorite radio station. I clicked "SEND" on my email and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And forgot about it. I should mention that my son is employed by my favorite radio station and is pretty friendly with the morning show host. I should also mention that that connection was in no way influential in the decision of whether or not my submission was played... or even considered. As a matter of fact, my son dismissed my submission, citing its cumbersome length not being conducive to the tight scheduling of a radio show. Hey.... what do I know about programming a radio show? I know about listening to a radio show. I've been doing that for most of my life. But, programming? I shrugged my shoulders at my son's viewpoint and secretly hoped to one day hear my Name Chain Game opus.

To my surprise, a few days ago, I got an email from the morning show host. She told me that she'd be tackling my monster submission this week. I made sure I was listening. The game usually kicks off at 8:20 AM on Thursday morning, but, as she explained, due to its unusual length, she'd be starting things just ahead of the scheduled news break. With a proper introduction and/or warning, the opening strains of "Playing in the Band" by the good old Grateful Dead got the whole affair started at 8:13.  At the song's conclusion, a short time out was taken for a quick news brief. The marathon restarted at 8:23 with "I Feel Love (Every Million Miles" by Jack White's recent supergroup Dead Weather. A little before 9 o'clock, the whole shebang came to a conclusion with the fade out of "Standing in the Shadows of Love" by The Four Tops. (How did I arrive here? I'll tell you in a minute.) And that was it. My name was announced and I was thanked. And the show moved on with an unrelated song by funkster Warren G.

Twitter alighted with a few congratulatory tweets and "likes" on the morning show's acknowledgment of the list of artists featured on this week's Name Chain Game. I got a few "likes" myself from a few followers who are local and listen to the station as well.

So, what was my chain? Well, like I said, it started off with The Grateful Dead and went like this...

Grateful Dead 

Dead Weather 

Weather Report 

Portugal the Man 

Man or Astroman? 

Man Man 

Manfred Mann 

Manhattan Transfer 

First Class 

Classics IV

Four Tops

I even made a few suggestions for songs, including First Class's one and only hit "Beach Baby," the sunny Beach Boys homage by an unlikely group of British studio musicians and one of three choices by Classics IV, the smooth, sophisticated jazz/rock ensemble that became the basis for the Atlanta Rhythm Section. (Their 1968 hit "Traces" was selected for play.)

And that was it. By 9 o'clock, my moment in the spotlight was over. As they say, "Fame is fleeting." That certainly is true. If this actually qualifies as "fame."

I don't think it does. But it was fun.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

turning of the tide

I was much younger when I discovered the music of Richard Thompson. So was Richard Thompson.

In 1982, my future brother-in-law (no, not that one... the other one) introduced me to the newly-released Shoot Out the Lights by British folk-rock troubadours Richard & Linda Thompson. The album — comprised of eight heartfelt, sometimes gut-wrenching, songs — was a sonic chronicle of tension, specifically tension in a marriage and tension with colleagues. The married duo was without a record contract and had recently toured as a support act for Gerry Rafferty (of Baker Street fame). Rafferty offered financial assistance to the Thompsons, and expected control in the recording process. Richard and Rafferty butt heads often. At the same time, the Thompsons' marital union was crumbling. The album was released and was lavished with critical acclaim. However, it would be the Thompson's last effort together. Although they continued to tour, they would divorce by year's end. 

Shoot Out the Lights was, honestly, like nothing I had heard before. Granted, at the time, I was a rabid Queen fan and had recently latched on to the ubiquitous New Wave sounds emanating from every FM radio. Richard Thompson was a singer with roots in the English countryside, evoking visions of a guy in a colorful doublet and tights, strumming a lute and serenading the townspeople. He was pretty cool and his style stood out among the trendiness of Adam Ant and A Flock of Seagulls. My brother-in-law praised Richard Thompson's work, and in between Grateful Dead shows, managed to see him perform live quite a few times.

I, however, did not.

I've been to a lot of concerts over the past half century. I've seen big names and small names at big venues and small venues. I have missed the opportunity to see a few of my favorites over the years. Although a fan, I never got to see Billy Joel. Sure, he tours regularly now, but I want to see 1975 Billy Joel, not forty-seven years later Billy Joel. I missed seeing Pink Floyd on their Animals tour due to a miscommunication in my desire for tickets. (That's a long story for which I have since forgiven my brother.) Alas, Pink Floyd are no more, but I'll be goddamned if I'm going to give irrelevant loudmouth Roger Waters a dime of my hard-earned pay to see him croak out his racist, out-of-touch politics. I actually haven't listened to Animals in years.

But Richard Thompson is different. At 73, he's still got it. He still writes good songs. He still is pretty handy on the guitar and he still releases good albums. And I finally got the long-delayed opportunity to see him live.

And it was a somewhat rude awakening for Josh Pincus. 

Richard was scheduled to play at a small outdoor amphitheater in Haddon Heights, New Jersey, a typical "green-lawn and backyard-swing set" suburb, sitting just outside the city limits of notorious Camden. After a rain-out the previous week, Richard was kind enough to take the ninety-minute drive down to Haddon Heights from his Montclair, New Jersey home and perform seven days later.

I arrived nice and early and found a wide choice of seats among the permanent benches facing the small stage. I sat at the rear of an open lawn, using a stone wall as a little table to eat the salad I brought with me. As I ate, more folks began to file in. Some were carrying folding camp chairs. Others toted blankets. Most hefted some sort of paper bag emblazoned with the familiar "Whole Foods" logo. Just about everyone (except me) arrived in Subarus. Oh.... and everyone was old. I mean really old!

For reference only.

The men were bent over, a supporting hand offering comfort to an angled lumbar region. They wore ill-fitting clothes, the uniform of the day either being a Hawaiian shirt (to show they were here for a good time), a weathered concert T-Shirt proclaiming their love for The Grateful Dead, Bonnie Raitt, a recent tour of an ancient band or some annual blues festival dated 1980-someting in the year of Our Lord. A small smattering wore the same clothes they wore while seated all day behind their desk at the law firm which employs them. A lot of these guys looked like Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil. None of these guys had enough hair to drag a comb through, and those that did couldn't possibly complete the task, as it was gathered together in a ratty, gray ponytail. The women wore ensembles available on page 47 of the latest LL Bean catalog or some handmade peasant dress that they have worn to every concert since high school. Some wore that battered, floppy cowboy hat that is standard issue for concerts among this particular age group. You know the one I mean.

I was lucky enough to overhear snippets of conversations around me. "My kids are seeing Pearl Jam tonight. I can't even name a Pearl Jam song!" "I sat right over there last month to see Kathleen Edwards. Right over there. You see? Right there... in the middle. Right where I'm pointing. Right there! Right there!" "That Jenny Lewis is from that Rilo Kiley band." When I turned my head to see the source of each of these conversations, I felt as though I was sitting in the courtyard of a retirement community — you know, the ones that are advertised during afternoon reruns of Wagon Train and Perry Mason.

At dusk, Richard Thompson took the stage. Bathed in lavender lights, he tore through song after song, accompanied only by his acoustic guitar. His between-song banter was brief, though, at times, humorous, displaying the same sardonic wit featured throughout his compositions. Culling from his vast career, his song choice included a few cuts from his time as guitarist with Fairport Convention, a couple of tracks from the "Richard & Linda Thompson" years and, of course his prolific solo output. I was familiar with a handful of tunes. The ones I didn't know sounded like typical Richard Thompson songs, so.... 

About three-quarters into the show, as it neared to its palpable conclusion, I spotted a guy — in my peripheral vison — making his way down the aisle to my right. Dressed head to toe in tie-dye and sporting a birds'-nest-like beard, he looked like he just wandered over from wallowing in the mud on Max Yasgur's rain-soaked farm. While Mr. Thompson was introducing his next selection, "Mr. Woodstock" began to yell at a young man seated at a long table a few feet in front of me. The fellow — in his early 20s — was checking over a few open laptop screens that were arranged across the table's surface. He wore headphones and one hand was resting on a computer mouse. He was — obviously — an integral part of the technical crew. "Woodstock" raised his voice and screamed "Hey! Sound Guy! Sound Guy!" The young man's gaze never waivered from the screens. "Sound Guy! Hey! Sound Guy!," he continued, "Turn it up, man! The people across the street can't hear, man! Turn it up, man! Hey! Sound Guy!" (The venue was so packed, that some overflow of fans  had taken to parking their blankets across a street that bisects the park. A distance away from the stage, but still within reasonable proximity to enjoy the performance.) "Woodstock" was relentless. "SOUND GUY!," he blared. Finally, the young man removed his headset and calmly addressed the angry hippie. He spoke just four words. He said, "I'm the 'lights' guy" and turned his attention back to his work. 

A look of confusion spread across "Woodstock's" face. It was as though he had just been answered in the dead language of Aramaic. He was speechless for a moment, his head cocked to one side like a dog trying to figure out where in the backyard he hid that bone. Then, he continued right where he left off. "Hey! Sound Guy! Sound Guy! Turn it up!" By this point, the 'lights' guy didn't care.

Mrs. Pincus was out of town on this day. When I got home, I called to tell her about the show. I related the anecdotes I just told you, driving home my point about the advanced age of my fellow concert-goers. "Are we that old?," I asked.

"Well, you are.," she replied.

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I would've liked to know you, but I was just a kid

I was driving home from work yesterday. I was listening to my favorite radio station, as I do most every evening on my commute home. It is a commercial-free public radio station that plays an eclectic mix of new and old, popular and obscure and features music from all sorts of genres. A little before 5 PM, the drive-time DJ played "Right On Time," a 2021 release from Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile. When the song ended, I heard the opening notes to a song I had not heard in years, perhaps decades. It was one of those moments where I knew I knew the song and quickly tried to rush ahead — in my mind — to a chorus or familiar part of the song to identify it. As the singer sang, the lyrics came to me as though I had just heard the song a minute earlier. Suddenly, it hit me and I instantly smiled like I had bumped into an old friend. (To be honest, bumping into an old friend wouldn't always evoke a smile from me.) The song was "Holiday Inn," a not-played-so-much album track from Elton John's 1971 release Madman Across the Water. 

I was immediately transported back to the tenth year of my life. Even at a young age, I was an avid music fan. When I was six or seven, my Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of 45s that he pulled from one of the many jukeboxes that he serviced. (I think that was his job, but, as much as I love my Uncle Sidney, what he did for a living was decidedly sketchy.) Among the records — its grooves well-worn from countless plays in some unknown bar or diner — were many Beatles songs, all sporting the familiar yellow and orange swirl label from Capitol Records. Despite the pops and scratches, I played those records over and over, first on my little Close-N-Play phonograph, the worst possible invention geared towards music aficionados and vinylphiles. Later, my parents broke down and purchased a real stereo for our family room, featuring an AM-FM radio and a built-in 8-track player. Soon, I was buying 45s on my own, with The Archies' "Sugar Sugar" and the Fifth Dimension's take on "Aquarius" as the first entries in a years-long collection of recorded music.

At the beginning of 1971, I purchased my first album. It was Tapestry by Carole King, a stellar collection of songs that deservedly swept the Grammys that year. I was still buying 45s, though, as album prices at the time, were still pretty steep for the income of a ten year-old. I bought two 45s one day after saving up enough money and "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon" by this new singer named Elton John were now part of my blossoming collection. I had heard those songs on the radio and I was hooked. They stood out from the other offerings on the AM airwaves. That is something that I have always looked for in music, songs that don't sound like everything else. Among the girl group holdovers and Motown smoothness, Elton John's plaintive voice was fresh and new and unfamiliar. Sure, in 1971, there were songs by the Rolling Stones and The Doors and Sly and the Family Stone... but I was TEN! I was still mesmerized by The Funky Phantom, reeling from the cancelation of The Banana Splits and unaware that The Jackson Five were real people and not just cartoons. So, listening to Elton John was a revelation for little Josh.

In November 1971, my brother — four years my senior — came home with a copy of Madman Across the Water, the actual album that, not only contained the non-radio edited versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon", but a slew of other songs by the fledgling Mr. John... including the epic title song clocking in at nearly six minutes! Twice the length of the poppy little ditties blasting out of my transistor radio. That album got a ton of play in the Pincus household, even by my mom — a proud rock and roller who, at sixty years old, attended a Culture Club concert with a bunch of eighteen year-olds, co-workers at the clothing store where she was employed. The songs — just nine of them — were all wonderfully crafted pieces of music. They ran the gamut from angry rockers like "Rotten Peaches" to illustrative (though historically inaccurate) stories like "Indian Sunset." And, of course, "Holiday Inn," a Bernie Taupin-penned ode to the lonely life of a rock star on the road. Madman Across the Water was the beginning of my love and admiration of Elton John.

Over the next few years, Elton John was pumping out albums like a man possessed. Between 1971 and 1976, Elton John released eight albums, including two double albums. Some years saw the release of two albums. And these were all chock full of hits and album cuts that should have been hits. This was Elton John at his most prolific and most successful. In addition to chart-topping album sales (six consecutive Number One albums), Elton toured extensively, selling out venues worldwide. As funds were short for me, I relied on my brother to keep our house stocked with the latest Elton John releases. I remember having to scrape together nine bucks to purchase a ticket to see Elton John on an upcoming Philadelphia stop on his current tour. On July 6, 1976, I got to see the spectacular Mr. John at the Philadelphia Spectrum, as he toured in support of what would become my favorite of his albums -  Rock of the Westies. (Yeah? Fight me!) He was terrific and even warranted the higher-than-usual ticket price.

 

Later that very same year, my love of Elton John came crashing down hard. I purchased my first Elton John album on my own. It was the overly-ambitious — and rightly panned — Blue Moves, a two-record set that would forever be compared to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Rolling Stone magazine, a publication I find both self-righteous and irrelevant, described the 1976 effort as "[containing] nowhere near enough good songs to justify the extended length." For once, I agreed with something I read in Rolling Stone. Oh, I didn't just give up on Blue Moves. Not by any stretch. I listened to it... again and again. I gave it every chance. I wanted to like it. I desperately wanted to like. But, in my opinion as a loyal and devout Elton John fan, it stunk! The lead single "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" sounded like a cheap attempt at recreating "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" and "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." It seemed very formulaic and rushed. And... honestly... I can't remember any other song from the album. I was done. I washed my hands of Elton John. Luckily, I had discovered Queen a few years earlier and they would only disappoint me when Freddie Mercury died and Brian May wouldn't shut his goddamn mouth. Elton John released 20 more albums after Blue Moves. I can't name one.

But hearing "Holiday Inn" coming from my car speakers was like entering a time machine. And those four minutes and seventeen seconds were nice. Really, really nice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

troll the ancient yuletide carol

I have always loved Christmas music. I'm not sure why. After all, we didn't celebrate Christmas in my house, so there wasn't a "feeling of Christmas" that, I suppose, makes those who do celebrate Christmas want to break out in song as the 25th of December approaches. I loved watching all of the special Christmas programming on television, from the animated A Charlie Brown Christmas (with its sweet and simple "Christmastime" melody) and How the Grinch Stole Christmas (with its faux-menacing title song) to the stop-motion "Animagic" Rankin-Bass productions that mixed original Christmas songs with the traditional and established ones with which I was already familiar. I remember that the now-defunct Philadelphia Bulletin would include an "assemble-it-yourself" Christmas song booklet with the color comics section in the Sunday edition just prior to Christmas Day. It was from these annual, illustrated, 8-page supplements that I first learned the words to beloved Christmas carols like "Silent Night," "Away in a Manger" (having no idea what exactly a "manger" was. Actually, I'm still not certain), and "O Holy Night." I tried to master the Latin lyrics to "Adeste Fideles" once I was sure I memorized the words in the English version, "O Come All Ye Faithful." I was so familiar with these songs, that I recall getting excited as a teenager when, during a 1978 Jethro Tull concert, flutist Ian Anderson broke into "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman" in the middle of a rousing version of their classic instrumental "Bourée."

As I got older and started buying albums, I made sure that I had a good amount of Christmas music in my collection. Whether it was a current band cashing in on a holiday release or a reissue of a famous crooner singing well-known carols — I had to have 'em. And the more unusual, the better. Aside from the classics, I like original Christmas songs that spin tales of off-beat scenarios while still keeping with the holiday spirit. Not necessarily "novelty" songs, but ones that stray from the standard Christmas images like mistletoe, sleigh bells and Jesus's birth. I like the slightly skewed songs like The Pogues' "Fairytale of New York," that creates a holiday scene through the eyes of two drunk Irish immigrants in a New York lockup. My wife's favorite song — not specifically holiday song, but song in general — is The Waitresses' bouncy 1981 rhyming tune "Christmas Wrapping." 

Despite my love for Christmas songs, I am still taken aback by some of the unsettling lyrics that folks blindly sing, parroting words they heard over and over, year after year, not quite understanding what it is they are singing.... yet still teaching these songs to their children and grandchildren. One of the creepiest lyrics is from "Holly Jolly Christmas," a holiday favorite written by Johnny Marks in 1962. Marks wrote a bunch of your favorite Christmas songs. This one gained fame when it was included in the first Rankin-Bass Christmas special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, sung by actor/folk singer Burl Ives. Near the end of the first verse, just before the chorus, Ives' deceitfully friendly tenor says: "Oh, ho the mistletoe/Hung where you can see/Somebody waits for you/Kiss her once for me." Don't let that avuncular "Sam the Snowman" persona fool you. Burl Ives is gunning for your girlfriend, pal. Behind the warm sentiment of this catchy little ditty, this leering stalker is tipping his hand. He's letting you know he's making a move on your honey at the first opportunity. Turns out that "Holly Jolly Christmas" was the forerunner to "Say 'Hi' to your mom for me!"

Andy Williams has a voice I always associate with Christmas songs. He sings two of the most popular ones and they can both be found on his 1963 release Andy Williams Christmas Album. The first is "It's the Holiday Season," a cheerful song penned by no less than seven credited writers. Andy mingles this with "Happy Holiday," written by Chanukah-celebrating Irving Berlin for the film Holiday Inn. "It's the Holiday Season" is an adequate song. It doesn't break any new ground, as far as Christmas songs are concerned. As a matter of fact, it plays out like a Christmas reference shopping list, making sure that it checks all the boxes for things to be mentioned in any good Christmas song — bells, toys, Santa, snow, tree. It even manages to get "peppermint stick" in there. But, "It's the Holiday Season" is also kind of clunky. It's proof that even the most clever lyricist struggles to construct an easy-flowing song. Obviously written with a looming production deadline, this "committee" of wordsmiths, at a loss for words, insert the preposterous line: "With the whoop-de-do and dickory dock" smack in the middle of an otherwise, perfectly good holiday song. This is a reference to nothing and merely a lame placeholder until they could think up a better, more suitable, eight syllables. Well, they couldn't and now, we're stuck with it. C'mon fellas... "dickory dock?" Really? That's the best you could do?

Andy Williams' other signature Christmas song is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," written especially for Williams by his musical director George Wyle, best known for composing the theme to Gilligan's Island. This rousing song evokes the warmth of family gatherings and general good cheer among friends. But, again, in searching for a rhyme for "glory," Wyle opts for the set-up line: "There'll be scary ghost stories." He must have hastily written the lyrics over a previously-started composition for Hallowe'en. When he presented the lyric sheet to the publisher, it was too late. Ghost stories are now and forever part of the Christmas ritual. Thanks to George Wyle, you are now free to distribute candy canes to trick-or-treaters.

Bing Crosby famously sang "White Christmas" in 1942's Holiday Inn and in its much-better (and blackface-free) remake White Christmas in 1954. "Der Bingle" sang a lot of Christmas songs throughout his long career and released over a dozen Christmas albums. "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas," written by Meredith Willson (who also wrote the award-winning musical The Music Man) is one of his most popular. Bing lovingly sings about candy canes, decorated trees and eager children wishing for all sorts of toys. But somewhere near the end of the bridge, this song suddenly takes an angry turn as an exasperated Bing expresses his frustration with the aforementioned kids when he laments: "And Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again." Gary Crosby could tell you stories about his father's impatience, especially when it came to his kids. Hey, lighten up, Bing! Christmas is still a few days away, for goodness sake! School will start soon enough and you'll be back to playin' golf and doin' shots before you know it. Spending a few days with the kids won't kill you.

Bing Crosby also makes his own plea in "I'll Be Home for Christmas," written to honor soldiers serving overseas in World War II. In the song, Bing asks for specific things for his family to have when he comes home for Christmas. His list of demands includes: "Please have snow and mistletoe/And presents by the tree." Sure, Bing, there can be mistletoe. We can pick some up when we purchase this year's tree. And presents? Of course, there will be presents, Bing! There have been presents since you were a kid! But snow? Really, Bing? There's only so much your family can guarantee. We can't control the weather, for crying out loud! If there isn't snow, can we just forget your visit? Mom will be so upset! Wait a second! What did you say....? You'll be home for Christmas... only in your dreams!?! Oh, nice one, Bing! You think that's funny, you selfish, inconsiderate holiday tease!

"There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" also contains some lyrics that make no sense — at least to me. It's been recorded by many vocalists, including Perry Como and The Carpenters, but it's no less weird. The song is all about the trials of travelling in holiday traffic, as is illustrated by the words: "I met a man who lives in Tennessee and he was headin' for/Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie/From Pennsylvania, folks are travelin' down/To Dixie's sunny shore." But, what is going on here? You're telling me there's no pumpkin pie between Tennessee and Pennsylvania? If you want to get technical, Illinois leads the country in growing pumpkins, most of which is used for pie filling. And Illinois is a lot closer to Tennessee than Pennsylvania (which is fourth in production). Okay, okay... maybe they don't have any relatives they speak to in Illinois. But then the folks from Pennsylvania have their sights set on the South because — what? — they've been eating so much pumpkin pie, they have to get out of here? Then, there's that crack about the traffic being "terrific," as though they are enjoying it!

Don't forget the songs about Santa Claus. "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is kind of frightening, if you consider the lyrics: "He sees you when you're sleeping/He knows when you're awake." This pretty much describes the plotline for George Orwell's 1984. Not to be outdone, "Here Comes Santa Claus" is downright threatening, warning children to "Jump into bed and cover your head/'Cause Santa Claus comes tonight!" Jeez! It sounds like Santa is coming to kill you!

And then there are all of the songs that, by reason of misinterpretation, have come to be considered Christmas songs... but really aren't. "Winter Wonderland" does not mention Christmas. Not even once! Neither does "Sleigh Ride" or "Jingle Bells" or "My Favorite Things." And "Frosty the Snowman" is just a song about a snowman that comes to life...on a random day in winter... not necessarily Christmas Day. The song "We Need a Little Christmas," technically isn't a Christmas song either. It's from the Broadway musical Mame and is sung to cheer the household up after the Stock Market Crash of 1929. It uses "Christmas" as a metaphor for "happier times." Oh, and stop singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" as a Christmas song. It's not about what you think it's about.

Nevertheless, I love Christmas songs — no matter how weird or nonsensical or questionable the lyrics are. Hey, aside from "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel" and a couple others in Hebrew, Chanukah offers some pretty "slim pickins" in the holiday song department.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Now, go deck those halls.

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