I played this for my mother.

I didn’t buy “Fresh,” not at first, my initial Cream purchase was “Disraeli Gears,” way before “Sunshine Of Your Love” got airplay, I experienced it as an album, it revealed itself to me with each play, and the song that hooked me was the second side opener, “Tales Of Brave Ulysses.”

Not that I knew anything about Greek tragedy, it’s just that the record had a sound that spoke to me, that took me out of my bedroom into a vast world that I thought would understand me.

I finally had a stereo, I’d cashiered my record player, that all-in-one unit with platter and speaker and tonearm sporting a coin to make sure the record didn’t skip. And I detached one speaker from my new listening apparatus, it was a Columbia unit, that’s right, the record company also made hardware, and dragged it to my mother’s bedroom so she could hear and share what I did.

She did not get it.

But I still do.

Contemplating Robert Stigwood‘s death I pulled up “Disraeli Gears” on my Sonos system. And “Strange Brew” sounded better than I’d imagined, it was never my favorite track on the LP, but decades later it fit the pocket, it was so satisfying.

Unlike “Sunshine Of Your Love,” which I’ve heard enough not to need to hear it again.

But then I thought of all the album tracks, that were secondary back then but I know by heart. Like “Dance The Night Away” and “SWLABR.” “Dance The Night Away” is the antithesis of today, it’s not playing to the back row of an arena, it sounds like it barely escaped the studio, at best is playing in a pub. The music is unselfconscious and personal. And that guitar riff in “SWLABR” was a revelation, I liked it more than I did back in ’68.

And then I heard “Tales Of Brave Ulysses”…

You thought the Latin winter would bring you down forever…

But really it’s all about the instrumental intro, bombastic and then ethereal, as if me and the band were on a ship in the Aegean, just us, experiencing this intense tale. It all came back, 1968, Farist Road, Andrew Warde High School, going to bed early to go skiing in Vermont, my entire life was laid out in front of me.

I purchased the LP at Barkers, on the Post Road in Westport, another discount outlet like Topps and Korvette’s with a record department amidst the chozzerai, this was long before the standalone record shop, these were our record stores.

And it wasn’t the flimsy, intensely-colored U.K. cover, that didn’t reach U.S. shores until later. Rather it was orange cardboard, and although I bought “Wheels Of Fire” early enough to get the shiny silver gatefold cover, what was inside was what truly mattered, the record.

And there was no social media, there was no sharing, it was just you and the sound, one you’d never heard before, it was all news to you.

And sure, you might talk about records at school, but really it was just you and the band, creating a bond, which is why you went to see them live, which I did twice that year, before most people knew who Eric Clapton was, when people were just starting to say Ginger Baker was a speed freak.

And the colors of the sea blind your eyes with trembling mermaids

It was psychedelic, when people were doing LSD and Day-Glo was permeating the universe but it was all brand new, today we’ve got tech exploration but back then it was all about testing cultural limits, there was a new trend every week, it was hard to keep up, you were either on the bus or you weren’t, you were either hip or you weren’t, there was a schism in society and the dividing line was the music.

Tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers

I knew all the words, not that I had them down accurately. I’d sing them to myself in the halls of high school. You couldn’t take your music with you, you had to wait until you got home to drop the needle, which you did immediately and continued to do as you did your homework, as you fell asleep, I had a timer to turn my stereo off, music was the most important thing.

These are the tales of Brave Bobby. When I found these records and they carved deep, indelible ripples into the tissues of my mind.

I love that Jerry wore his Nikes, dirty ones at that.

That’s the essence of a baby boomer, irreverence, speaking truth to power. You don’t see no stinkin’ millennials doing that, never mind the lost generation known as Gen-X. Kids today are all about sucking up, being two-faced, doing what it takes to get ahead. Whereas their elders thought if you can’t disrespect someone, if you can’t catch them off guard, they’re not worth talking to, never mind knowing.

That’s right, classic rock was built upon irreverence. Making jokes about Paraquat, Danny Schechter creating his own version of the news. We were our parents’ children and then suddenly we were father to the man. We grew up adulating Kennedy and then we had no time for Johnson and Nixon and by time Jimmy Carter took power we were disillusioned and tuned out. And then Reagan, the enemy, never forget how he took on the the University of California, won and legitimized greed and nothing’s been the same since. It may be morning in America, but it’s every man for himself. And you’d better start running and cunning or you’re gonna be left behind, with no safety net and your right to health care only a motion from being taken away.

So I’d like to say I watch every episode of “Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee,” but it’s not that funny. Turns out Larry David was the genius. He’s even referenced herein, with the Prez talking about playing golf with Mr. Enthusiasm, who wears enough sunscreen to have it dripping from his ears. How can it be that an irreverent schmuck can play golf with the most powerful man in the world? That’s what happens when you hang it out completely, when you’re unworried about judgment, people cling to you. That was the essence of John Lennon. Could Larry David be the next Lennon? Think about it.

So the show starts with a ’63 Corvette. It don’t get any better than that. And Jerry recalls the early sixties when America was the CAN DO country. Before it became the CANNOT, before a vocal part of the population wanted to jet us back to the past, as if we wanted to live on plantations with guns by our side in case some varmints attacked us. And to think that a varmint is in the White House! One of my favorite rock stories is told by Al Kooper, whose song “I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know” was covered by Donny Hathaway. But when Al heard the new version he flipped out, the lyric had been changed, the Blood, Sweat & Tears original was “I can be President of General Motors, baby” and now Mr. Hathaway sang “I could be king of everything.” Irascible Al called Jerry Wexler to complain. And Jerry barked back…AL, A BLACK MAN COULD NEVER BE PRESIDENT OF GENERAL MOTORS!

But a black man is President of the United States.

And a woman is chairman of General Motors. Did you see the company just invested $500 million in Lyft? Cars are gonna drive themselves, you’re probably not gonna even own one, you’re gonna use an app to call one up and…

You don’t want to believe that. You think cars are representative of your massive genitalia. But today’s generation knows it’s all about experiences, especially since you stole their future and they can’t even afford an apartment in the city.

So seeing the Vette is like viewing a Dead Sea Scroll.

But they can’t leave the premises.

Remember when Presidents were shot? Happened in the sixties. Squeaky Fromme even tried to take a potshot in the seventies. Security is tight for the leader of the free world, for you and me?? Not so much.

And on campus Obama is stiff. Intelligent, but measured.

But then he loosens up. Like he did on Maron. Wherein he said change happened slowly, and if you wanted to see single payer health care you should look back from decades out.

But this show wasn’t really about substance, but personality. Life. Obama laments the loss of his anonymity and then Jerry says how being famous is so much better. He’s right. Too many wankers revere the good old days which weren’t so good. Like vinyl. Remember warps and skips and returns? I miss those not a whit.

And Obama says little kids like him, because of his big ears and his name, they like how it rolls off their tongues.

And Jerry keeps talking to him like he’s a regular person, showing no respect. Hell, it’s great when he slouches on the couch and eats an apple and leaves the core on the coffee table. Decorum is for wimps. You gotta go where you wanna go, do what you wanna do, with whoever, you wanna do it with.

And Obama insults Jerry by not knowing he still works, labeling him “retired.”

And Jerry makes news by getting the Prez to admit that so many world leaders are just plain loony, but the right wing press hasn’t picked up on this because they haven’t watched the show, they hate Jerry and Barack and want to make like they don’t exist. You know, the rich blowhards wearing expensive suits who say they’re saving the common man from oppression, the one with no future who pays no taxes and benefits disproportionately from government programs in his red state. It’s all about disinformation, moving the ball forward. Actually, Obama analogized politics to football.

But when Obama throws his arm over the steering wheel of the car at the end, when he refuses to use the ten and two position, that’s when he evidences his personality. He relaxes and he’s…

Just like you and me.

Another guy who wants to look cool but usually looks dorky.

And there you have it, the modern era in a nutshell. Wherein the press corps is following nitwit Donald Trump who has no chance of becoming President while a comedian gets the man in power to admit he wears only one brand of underwear and can’t stop eating guacamole.

There’s more truth in what you eat than what you say to get elected.

And Guantanamo is still open and income inequality reigns but the truth is we’ve got a black President, someone who knows hoops and hip-hop and may be stiff but is positively part of the fabric of our nation. He’s not disconnected and better, just confident and one of us.

And I know this not because some investigative reporter dug down deep for an expose, but because a guy just like you and me, but funnier, known as Jerry Seinfeld, had a conversation with him and treated him no different than he would you or me. Because we all put our pants on the same way, we’re all in this together.

And anybody could become President, but who’d want to be?

I’d rather be a comedian. Someone who can point out the inanity of modern life. Someone who can speak the truth. Someone who can be themselves 24/7.

You know, like rock stars used to be.

Spotify link (Both versions of “I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know.”)

He managed Cream.

But no one knew his name until “Saturday Night Fever.”

You’ve got to understand, the only requirement to being in show business, especially the music world, is the desire. It’s a compendium of self-made men, hustlers who fear neither veracity nor the law in their climb to the top. Whatever you learn in school will not help you in the music business, but what you learn on the street will pay dividends. Music is all about relationships. Who you know is more important than where you got your diploma, if you’ve got one at all. Illusion is more important than reality, which is why you’ve got a hard time getting an accurate accounting. They say it’s a home run when it’s a single and the person who needs to get paid is the manager, the financial mastermind, the rights holder, who reports to no one but himself, there’s no SEC for the record business.

And the truth is we all want to be hustled. We hope that things can get better, that we can make it if we just believe, and these manipulators prey upon us. And some of them become successful, like Robert Stigwood.

Read “Born to Be Conned“

He did not come from the Tommy Mottola school of self-promotion. At his peak most knew little about him, his promo majordomo, the already forgotten Al Coury, was the one who got the ink. This was back when colorful characters realized it was best not to have the sun shine upon them. A lesson today’s ultra-rich should pay attention to. When you’re bending the rules, you don’t want scrutiny. No one knew who Louis Bacon was until the “New York Times” revealed his tax manipulation schemes on its front page last week:

“For the Wealthiest, a Private Tax System That Saves Them Billions“

Then again, if you’re boasting about cash you probably ain’t got that much. And Robert Stigwood had plenty.

He came from Australia to England with nothing. He made inroads before the Beatles, but he latched on to them too. And then he hooked up with Eric Clapton.

What would the music world be without Eric Clapton?

Jeff Beck never wanted the accolades, or was too prickly for those who could boost his fortunes to pay attention to.

Jimmy Page broke through, but primarily as one thing and one thing only, the driving force behind Led Zeppelin.

But it’s the third guitarist in the Yardbirds who blazed trails, who inspired a second generation of guitarists to wail. The Beatles got us started, but it’s Clapton who inspired us to aspire to greatness, to test the limits. He was the first guitar hero, and he may be the last.

But no one in America knew who he was. Few had the Bluesbreakers LP. And Cream’s initial album “Fresh” had little traction, despite its stellar track listing. It suffered in its production, credited to Stigwood himself, who probably had little to do with it. But then Bud Prager inserted his client Felix Pappalardi into the mix and the result was “Disraeli Gears,” which penetrated the consciousness of the cognoscenti in the winter of ’67-’68, but went nuclear when the anthemic “Sunshine Of Your Love” hit the AM airwaves the following summer. FM was where you got started, but no one had a receiver in their car, where tracks got blown up. Kind of like the internet today. “Royals” was an internet smash, but it didn’t become ubiquitous until it got on the radio. But the difference between “Sunshine Of Your Love” and “Royals” is the influence of the former, it woke up players, it changed the culture, rock ruled.

And so did Cream.

Its subsequent album, “Wheels Of Fire,” was a double. With extended takes of “Spoonful” and “Toad” on sides three and four respectively. Suddenly, hits didn’t matter, it was all about the playing.

And the classic rock era was initiated.

Of course you’ve got to credit Hendrix, whose “Purple Haze” woke up the populace. And, as stated above, without the Beatles there was no beginning. But you cannot underestimate the influence of Cream.

What did Robert Stigwood have to do with it?

I DON’T KNOW!

But I do know no major band has made it without a first-rate manager. Whether it be David Geffen, Irving Azoff or David Krebs. They’re each the man behind the band, opening doors, parting the sea, making things happen. Being able to play is just not enough.

And then Cream announced they were breaking up. Before the Beatles. And there was a goodbye tour and a “Goodbye” album and Eric joined the first supergroup, Blind Faith, subjugated his playing in Delaney & Bonnie and then put out a solo album that sounded almost nothing like what had come before. It’s still my favorite, with “Easy Now” and “Let It Rain.” But then Derek united with Duane and the rest is history, ergo “Layla.” But “I Shot The Sheriff” came out under Stigwood’s watch too, you think Bob Marley would have been as big without Eric’s imprimatur? Chris Blackwell had been promoting him to no avail for years!

But the press focuses on the Bee Gees, because they had that moment with “Saturday Night Fever,” they helped usher disco into the mainstream. And the movie and album were great, but what has Barry Gibb done for us lately?

With hindsight, we can see Clapton is the giant.

But they were both handled by Robert Stigwood.

So another one is gone, another one bites the dust. That’s the way of the world, but the world used to be different. There was no corporate promotion company, no Live Nation. And even branch distribution was a new thing. Stigwood, et al, were making it up as they went along. And what resulted was the modern music business. You can’t get paid? Neither could the bands of yore! They weren’t in it for the money, but the adventure and the girls, it was a lark. But Stigwood and his buddies turned it into a cash machine, and eventually mazuma rained down upon the acts, who are ungrateful to this day, the men behind the machine rarely get their due.

But they do get paid.

If you last long enough, you get a better record deal, you graduate to the best management. But you still need players on your team, you can’t do it all yourself. Just ask Trent Reznor, who went indie and then crawled back to a major label.

But it was easier back then, because no one knew anything, there were few music business attorneys and the hoi polloi had no access to Don Passman’s book. You had to take it on faith, that this person unveiling this yarn could truly make you a star.

Robert Stigwood could.

And that’s why those who were there remember him.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RIgeu-6Jcs

It brings tears to your eyes.

What kind of crazy fucked up world do we live in where the two musical highlights of the year were provided by septuagenarians?

That’s right, Taylor Swift and Adele did not reach Mt. Everest in 2015, theirs were financial stories propped up by commercial pop and grade B songs, the peaks were reached by Bob Dylan and Aretha Franklin.

Dylan put a cap on the old and brought in the new at the Grammy Awards, wherein he gave a speech that proved not only that he still had it, that the same guy who cut “Positively 4th Street” still operated at an elite level, far outpacing all his so-called competitors, but that he’d been paying attention all these years, he truly knew which way the wind blew. And it was a live event that if you were at you’ll never forget and if you weren’t you won’t ever really understand. Kind of like Newport. You can read about it, but to be confronted with limit-testing individualism unexpectedly is to feel fully alive, knowing that you had an intimate moment with a god.

And then, at the end of the year, came Aretha. She truly made us feel like a natural woman, even if you were a guy.

Looking out on the morning rain

Back when we used to be contemplative, back when Carole King’s “Tapestry” owned the turntable, when life wasn’t about boasting but introspection, when our music soothed our souls, didn’t merely fire us up and get us to dance.

The above-referenced “1989” and “25” will have a fraction of the impact “Tapestry” once had. Because it was a different era, one could own the conversation, and because the songs on “Tapestry” were timeless, known by heart by every baby boomer, beacons in the wilderness. If you’re a boomer and you don’t sing “So Far Away” in your head on a regular basis, you’re a wanker with no sense of context or reflection. Come on…

So far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore

Funny how the web and Facebook have brought us back together, but that’s the story of the boomers, the itinerancy. We couldn’t afford plane tickets on a whim, we got behind the wheel of our large automobiles and spread out over this great nation of ours, bringing our values and our music. That’s right, you had your 8-tracks and cassettes, riding shotgun. We felt the earth move with our friends and then it was too late to become someone different, we were who we are.

But there were two legacy tracks on “Tapestry,” that we knew in prior incarnations, when legendary singers covered the work of Carole King and her husband Gerry Goffin.

“Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” was a hit for the Shirelles back in 1960.

And “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” was a smash for Aretha Franklin in the fall of ’67. It followed “Respect” and was bookended by “Chain Of Fools.” Aretha had jumped ship from Columbia to Atlantic and she’d found her commercial groove, she was the biggest female singer on the planet. Diana Ross and the Supremes may have parted the sea, but it was Aretha who came sailing on through, who owned not only the airwaves, but our hearts.

And like today’s prodigies, Aretha started young, in church.

But unlike the kids, Aretha could play, as she did on the Kennedy Center Honors. Really, do we expect Bieber or Taylor or Adele to tickle the ivories like that?

Of course not.

Because now music is more about fame, more about the scorecard than art.

The Kennedy Center Honors are ersatz. Deserved honorees feted in a second-class fashion, all schmaltzy talk and too often second-rate performances, often by second-rate stars. I’m all for giving people props, especially after long-distinguished careers, I just wish these shows had more moments of gravitas, that they touched us like the original performances, on Broadway, at the Fillmore.

They usually don’t.

But occasionally they do.

I didn’t see Aretha live, never mind being there at the original taping.

But when I got back to the condo after the telecast, it was all anybody was talking about. Remember that? When something was so good the assembled multitude couldn’t help but testify?

And then I watched it.

Some will focus on Aretha’s appearance, not knowing that having the music inside you is what makes you beautiful.

Carole King is thrilled.

But the high point is when Obama wipes away a tear.

It’s our country now, the yahoos fighting the immigrants, ignorantly supporting the rich, are fading to black. Because music stopped the Vietnam war and we live in a rainbow of color these days, credit MTV, which integrated us on television to the point where our mores were changed. Oldsters may have a problem with gays getting married, but the younger generation is just fine with it. And old whites may hate that we’ve got a black President, but they’d be stunned to find out their grandkids adore Kendrick Lamar. Our nation is challenged in so many ways, but if you stop tilting the table, if you stop the gerrymandering and the disinformation campaign, you can see that we’re more together and more accepting than ever before, and one of the main things that brought us together was music.

When my soul was in the lost and found
You came along to claim it
I didn’t know just what was wrong with me
‘Til your kiss helped me name it

You’re lost in the wilderness and then you bring Aretha Franklin up on YouTube and your woes fall away, your life makes sense, you can see a direction home.

That’s the power of art, the power of talent.

“(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” was not the first song Carole King and Gerry Goffin wrote. They didn’t cut it at home on their computer and expect to be household names overnight.

And Aretha Franklin did not bake cookies for fans, kiss the butt of press and radio so they’d make her a star, the music was enough. Remember when the music was enough?

Oh baby, what you done to me
You make me feel so good inside
And I just wanna be close to you
You make me feel so alive

You don’t have to be in a club bumpin’ asses.

You don’t have to be on your iPhone connecting with your buddies.

All you have to do is pull up the video of this performance and your life will be elevated, all the b.s. dragging you down will be pulled away. You won’t believe people this talented still walk the earth, that not everybody in music has been dumbed-down.

This is where we reclaim the power from the bankers and the techies. When we dedicate our lives to art, to excellence, to exhibiting the human condition such that those exposed won’t feel so alone.

Aretha, you make me feel that life is worth living.

Carole, you make me feel that working in obscurity, nearly alone, is the way to pay your dues and to get ahead.

You both make me feel I’m no longer doubtful of what I’m living for.

That’s the power of music.