Unlike our President, I read the papers, I’m not locked into my view, I’m collecting data 24/7, and sometimes I change my opinion.

I want to take back any and all kudos for Neil Young and his new album.  Oh, I didn’t heap praise on it.  I mostly lauded Neil for cutting the record so quickly.  But then I got e-mail from somebody who asked WHERE THE FUCK WAS NEIL LAST YEAR?

It’s interesting.  Pink.  Neil Young.  Everybody’s piling on now that Bush’s poll numbers are in the dumper.  But back when it was a risk…where were the musicians standing up THEN?

Furthermore, there’s nothing on Mr. Young’s record with the hookiness, the sheer sonic joy of "Ohio".  Oh, I like that Neil follows his own muse, but like too many denizens of the sixties, Neil’s best days are behind him.  But since Neil’s got a name, because the media is comprised of sheep, we’ve got endless reams of hype on his new record.  Really, it’s a circle jerk.

What I lament about this new media era is there’s nowhere to go for honest information.  Disseminated by someone with no investment.  Who just wants to turn you on to something with no AGENDA!  We used to be able to trust FM radio.  With Sirius playlists tight as a drum, even on the JAM BAND channel, and with Zellner cutting tracks from libraries on XM willy-nilly, the hope of satellite radio is teetering.  And Internet radio is a joke.  Because nobody can afford to do it.  Nobody will invest in it.  Innovation has been curtailed by the long arm of the RIAA.

All I’m looking for is a guru.  Whom I can trust.

Ironically, the person I could trust most this past year was Steven King.  He of the horror novels.  Which I don’t even read.  Mr. King turned me on to the best track of 2005, James McMurtry’s "We Can’t Make It Here".  In his monthly column on the last page of "Entertainment Weekly".

I want to quote an appropriate passage here, but EVERY WORD of "We Can’t Make It Here" is so poignant that I’ll have to print them ALL at the end of this article.

But really, what makes "We Can’t Make It Here" so great is the MUSIC!

But the classic rendition, the solo ACOUSTIC version, has been pulled from the Web.  Still, you can download the electric take at: "We Can’t Make It Here".  And view an acoustic version, although not quite as good as the one that’s been disappeared, at: Acoustic Sunrise and Acoustic Sunset.

I don’t know what happened to this country of ours.  Where the independent can get no traction.  Where it’s not about quality, but SLOTS!  Radio used to be open.  But despite the Spitzer settlements, terrestrial radio has TIGHTENED UP!

MySpace is a joke.  It’s breaking no bands.  It’s just an endless morass of crap.  Swimming through the site is like venturing into the Sargasso Sea.  No thank you, I’ll pass.

And Pitchfork is a deluge of reviews with no creed.  You’ve got to take each one individually.  And that’s just too much effort.

Music on the Web is in its infancy.  We NEED some consolidation.  Some FILTERS!  To gain our faith and turn us on to great tracks.  All music was not created equal.  iTunes delivers no discovery.  And with so much music being produced today, one is tempted to give up.

And the old fogeys lament the death of albums.  When I dare you to name two new good ones, playable throughout.  No, they’re endless.  Like an all nighter with Courtney from "Survivor".  Someone who won’t shut up and has nothing to say.

Society is more fluid in EUROPE than America.  Yup, the odds of getting rich are greater OVERSEAS!

The rich just got another tax cut.

We live in a police state.  That’s what they call it when the government spies on its citizens.  Which Bush, or is it CHENEY, is doing.

We don’t need Bruce Springsteen recording Pete Seeger songs.  Played by a big band for old farts who are probably voting Republican anyway, now having made it in middle age, not wanting to sacrifice a single dollar.

No, we need inspiration.

James McMurtry was Columbia’s great white hope fifteen years ago.  Give Donnie Ienner credit for pushing the debut record.  Which gained no traction, because radio said James’ voice wasn’t PLEASING enough.  Ever heard of Bob Dylan?

But James stayed at it.

And unlike the boomer acts, his days are not behind him.  His craft has matured.  He’s delivered.

I know I’ve written about this song before.  But I’ve got to write about it again.  Because brilliance is so rare today.  Everybody’s so jaded that their dicks get hard for almost nothing.  They just nod on the sidelines, waiting for the next David Blaine stunt.  We used to LIVE for music.  Listen to it to know what was going on.

That spirit still lives.  However much the flame flickers.

The mainstream is a vapid wasteland.  Neil Young tried, it’s just that he didn’t cut one track that would have made "After The Gold Rush".  And, like I said, they took the BEST version of James’ track down, it’s unavailable at any price.  Unless, of course, you steal it P2P, which I highly recommend.  But, if Compadre Records had any balls, they’d put the killer take back up, and I could tell EVERYBODY to download it.  Because people need to hear it.

"We Can’t Make It Here"

Vietnam Vet with a cardboard sign
Sitting there by the left turn line
Flag on the wheelchair flapping in the breeze
One leg missing, both hands free
No one’s paying much mind to him
The V.A. budget’s stretched so thin
And there’s more comin’ home from the Mideast war
We can’t make it here anymore

That big ol’ building was the textile mill
It fed our kids and it paid our bills
But they turned us out and they closed the doors
We can’t make it here anymore

See all those pallets piled up on the loading dock
They’re just gonna set there till they rot
‘Cause there’s nothing to ship, nothing to pack
Just busted concrete and rusted tracks
Empty storefronts around the square
There’s a needle in the gutter and glass everywhere
You don’t come down here ‘less you’re looking to score
We can’t make it here anymore

The bar’s still open but man it’s slow
The tip jar’s light and the register’s low
The bartender don’t have much to say
The regular crowd gets thinner each day

Some have maxed out all their credit cards
Some are working two jobs and living in cars
Minimum wage won’t pay for a roof, won’t pay for a drink
If you gotta have proof just try it yourself Mr. CEO
See how far 5.15 an hour will go
Take a part time job at one of your stores
Bet you can’t make it here anymore

High school girl with a bourgeois dream
Just like the pictures in the magazine
She found on the floor of the laundromat
A woman with kids can forget all that
If she comes up pregnant what’ll she do
Forget the career, forget about school
Can she live on faith? live on hope?
High on Jesus or hooked on dope
When it’s way too late to just say no
You can’t make it here anymore

Now I’m stocking shirts in the Wal-Mart store
Just like the ones we made before
‘Cept this one came from Singapore
I guess we can’t make it here anymore

Should I hate a people for the shade of their skin
Or the shape of their eyes or the shape I’m in
Should I hate ’em for having our jobs today
No I hate the men sent the jobs away
I can see them all now, they haunt my dreams
All lily white and squeaky clean
They’ve never known want, they’ll never know need
Their shit don’t stink and their kids won’t bleed
Their kids won’t bleed in the damn little war
And we can’t make it here anymore

Will work for food
Will die for oil
Will kill for power and to us the spoils
The billionaires get to pay less tax
The working poor get to fall through the cracks
Let ’em eat jellybeans let ’em eat cake
Let ’em eat shit, whatever it takes
They can join the Air Force, or join the Corps
If they can’t make it here anymore

And that’s how it is
That’s what we got
If the president wants to admit it or not
You can read it in the paper
Read it on the wall
Hear it on the wind
If you’re listening at all
Get out of that limo
Look us in the eye
Call us on the cell phone
Tell us all why

In Dayton, Ohio
Or Portland, Maine
Or a cotton gin out on the great high plains
That’s done closed down along with the school
And the hospital and the swimming pool
Dust devils dance in the noonday heat
There’s rats in the alley
And trash in the street
Gang graffiti on a boxcar door
We can’t make it here anymore