I’m sipping Flor De Cana and lime juice, it’s three a.m.
Blow a fruit fly off the rim of my glass
The radio’s playing Superchunk and the friends of Dean Martinez

Actually, there was no music at all. It was just the two of us. Living an
extended "My Dinner With Andre". When we entered the restaurant, it was empty.
Then it filled up with diners, and emptied, leaving us alone once again. In
between the bookends, we delineated our lives.

Whilst the boy bands ascended and died, whilst Napster rose and fell and was
reincarnated in name only, whilst everybody was paying attention to the
headlines, something happened. We lost touch. The media used to be a reflection of us. Suddenly it has become this monster, force-feeding more than we can
possibly eat. It’s an endless buffet, and we’re no longer hungry for what’s being
offered. The embarrassment of riches is no longer appealing, we’re looking
for something different. What we’re looking for is connection. Human
connection. We want to be touched the way people have been since the beginning of time, but this has been lost, we’ve become unmoored, we ceased being people and became consumers. Isn’t that what our President told us to do after 9/11,
shop? As if it was that easy to divert ourselves from reality, as if the purpose
of living is to sustain the economy?

I tried to explain where I was coming from. But it all sounded so different,
so strange. My goal isn’t to make money. My goal is to be like those albums
of yore, "Blue" and "Late For The Sky". I want people to read me and feel
touched, feel that they’re not alone just the way I did when I heard these
records in my bedroom on Farist Road, in my dorm room at Middlebury, through the
Blaupunkt in my 2002. But the more I talked, the worse it sounded. But deep
inside there’s a flame, that is never extinguished, like the light in a
synagogue, nothing can put it out, because that flame is me. And she understood this. I knew it when just shy of 11 we were standing by her car and she asked me
if I was going to call her. Put a smile on my inner face. To know that what I
worry are my warts are actually my appeal, that by being me, I wasn’t gonna
lose, but win.

Do you employ Smart Playlists? They’re really not that hard to use. Under
the File menu in iTunes, click on "New Smart Playlist". The window that comes
up appears to be written in computerese. But don’t be thrown. Fiddle around
with the choices, add a few criteria, click "OK", and listen. The Smart
Playlist I was listening to is entitled "Top 25 Most Played". Yup, I unchecked
"Match the following condition" in the pop-up window. I checked the button to
limit the list. And then I left the defaults "25" and "songs" and clicked on
"most often played" from the furthest right pop-up menu. And then, in the line
below, I clicked on "Live updating". So, in case I developed a new favorite,
in case I played a song over 51 times, it would replace Dave Matthews’ "Some
Devil", currently on the bubble at number 25.

So it’s deep in the evening, past midnight, and I’m lying on my floor doing
my back exercises. I pulled up the Top 25 Most Played smart playlist on my
iPod, I needed my friends. I heard "Sand In My Shoes", "Shannon" and Elton’s
"The King Must Die". And then as I was in the hall, atop the balance board, I
heard "Get Up Jonah", number 12 in my all time personal iTunes hit parade.

I get scared that I’m not good enough. God, with everybody blogging, aren’t
I gonna get TRAMPLED? But then I read something awful, or something great,
and I realize subject matter is secondary to style. Can you write something
that’s intimate, something that isn’t boring, something that gets in people’s
souls? Not many people can do that. And not much of the Top Forty can do that
either. It’s kind of like Jessica Simpson’s breasts. Fake. They look good,
but you don’t want to squeeze them. The thought of getting up close and
personal is positively scary. But the best music is just the opposite. You can’t
get close enough. To the point where much of my sixties listening was done
right in front of the stereo. Hell, I would have climbed inside if I could, I
just wanted to snuggle up to the music, not only wrap myself around it, but MELD
WITH IT! There are more technically skilled guitar players than Bruce
Cockburn, but none that play quite his way. It’s kind of like you pick up in the
middle of a conversation. There’s this weird rhythm, the notes being played are
like someone opening a car door, urging you to get in. Suddenly, listening
to "Get Up Jonah", I felt connected. And it’s this connection that’s lacking
in ALL of Yahoo Music Unlimited. As far as I’m concerned, there only needs to
be ONE record in the store, as long as the right person picked it.

And when I was done going up and down on the balance board, I went to my
desktop Mac, fired up iTunes, and pulled up all the Cockburn stuff I had. And
what came up first, at the top of the list, was a version of "Last Night Of The
World" recorded live at KBCO that I just downloaded this weekend. There was
that strange rhythm once again, something unique to Bruce, but it felt like my
best friend from long ago, come to rescue me, come to root me.

If this were the last night of the world
What would I do?
What would I do that was different
Unless it was champagne with you?

Death is inevitable. Don’t worry about Fox News too much, Rupert Murdoch’s
gonna die. SOMEDAY! And when he does, the empire is going to fall apart.
Just look at Warner Music. If Steve Ross were still alive, Warner would be the
monolith, not Universal. Alas, the Big C got Steve. Furthermore, he’s been
forgotten. That’s something the big swinging business dicks don’t want to let
you in on, that the only thing that remains, that carries on, is the music.
Oh, they’ve got it where they like it now. The music is so shitty, so
evanescent, that in some fucked up twist of logic Clive Davis has the media believing
HE is the star. Instead he’s just an aging control freak, an MOR filter who’s
going to die too. And when he’s gone, the whole house of cards is going to
crumble. All of the vapid acts he championed are going to be sucked under by
the steam roller of progress. The only thing that remains is greatness. And
isn’t it ironic that it’s this greatness that is allowing today’s Warner Music
to profit. Without the catalog, Warner is worth next to nothing. But those
Led Zeppelin records live on.

Lyor Cohen says to join his incubator.

But why the fuck would an artist want to do that? Why would an artist sell
his soul to become subservient to a serial financial rapist? No, the real
artists today exist outside the system, they’re renegades, rebels, fighting for
revolution, a time when these fat cats become powerless, are rendered truly
meaningless. Not that everybody’s gotten it. Too many of the independent artists
really just want to play on the major level and reap all the rewards for
themselves. And then, of course, so many of them suck. And while Bob Dylan
parades in endless ballrooms and ballparks as a parody of himself, the media
needing the false heroes he used to rail against, some of those who came before are still trying, working outside the system, following their own muse. They’re
not hyping themselves, but when you experience their work, you stop dead in
your tracks, you can’t move on, it’s like being in heaven and coming across
Princess Grace. But these acts are not dead, not embalmed, they’re still alive,
still breathing.

I’ve seen the flame of hope among the hopeless
And that was truly the biggest heartbreak of all
That was the straw that broke me open

I need to own my music. I know that’s irrational. That rental should be
enough. But when the apocalypse comes, when we’re all huddled around the fire
and there’s no Internet to hook up to, I want to be able to plug in the
village’s portable generator and have a party. When I’m traveling across Africa,
which I hope to do, when I’m on an endless airline flight, when I’m in a death
spiral, when all I have is what’s in my possession, I’m not gonna look for permission,
I want to have full use of what I’ve got, not a license agreement. Or
maybe it’s that I need these tracks to feel good about myself. Maybe they’re
who I am. Maybe when I hold up my iPod you can’t see what’s inside, but you
know it’s me, and that nobody can take my identity away.

I saw major corporations sue people rather than figure out a way for more
people to own more music. I see Yahoo not really caring about me, just trying to
corner Net real estate, to insure they own everybody’s heart and mind.

I don’t want anybody to own my heart and mind. I may sound like a voice in
the wilderness, but this is what keeps the so-called powerless together, that’s
what we have in common, that’s our bond, you can’t steal us, you can’t
compromise us. Oh, they’re TRYING TO, the politicians and the major corporations,
but it’s against human nature. Yes, people want to be free. But freedom isn’t
something physical, freedom is something in your mind. It’s you. But rather
than stoke this freedom, the corporations and the government want to exercise
some bizarre mind control. Thank god it’s literally impossible.

On the last night of the world, there probably won’t be a generator. It will
probably be just you and me around that fire. Telling our life stories and
singing songs. No, we won’t be talking about television, not some cool
Websites, not movies either. And we’ll sing some sad songs. But we’ll also sing
songs of hope. Because that too is human nature. The belief that if we just
hang on, we’ll be delivered, things will work out.

If this were the last night of the world
What would I do?
What would I do that was different
Unless it was champagne with you?

It’s always the last night of the world. If you don’t know that, you’re
living too fast. The problems you’re mired in are irrelevant. Never forget that.
Don’t expect to be happy all the time, but savor the moments. And the
memories.

I’m sipping Flor De Cana and lime juice, it’s three a.m.
Blow a fruit fly off the rim of my glass
The radio’s playing Superchunk and the friends of Dean Martinez

Yes, we’re back where we started from. Hell, you can never deny who you are.
And to be honest, when I find a track I like, I play it over and over,
savoring it. Orgasm can’t last forever, but a song can. A song that reminds you
of the good times, a song that rides shotgun, a song that enriches your life.

Go to: http://www.brucecockburn.com/neworleans.html

And when you get there, point your mouse to "Play", click and listen to "Last
Night Of The World". It might not be a hit according to them, but it is
according to me.