I admit it, I got turned on to this track by Rascal Flatts’s guitarist, Joe Don Rooney.

Yes, I listened. Come on, who wouldn’t?

But the reason Mr. Rooney tracked me down was my love of “Still Feels Good,” which still puts a smile on my face today. At least that’s what I think.

And at first I was not enamored by the intro, and the verse just seemed a bit too pedestrian, but then…there was that change, that drop down, and THE CHORUS!

Some rules are immutable. If you want to have a hit, you’ve got to have a hook, something that makes our bodies jump and want to sing along.

The track played through and…I had to hear it again.

And the more I heard it, I couldn’t stop, I didn’t want to leave the space the track put me in.

Now Rascal Flatts have had a hard go of it. Their record company…was downsized/put out of business, their hits dried up and…

Now they’re aligned with Scott Borchetta’s Big Machine powerhouse and…just maybe they’ve got a hit.

It’s got that good-timey lyric like Little Big Town’s “Pontoon”…  Oh, it’s more introspective than that, but there’s the lowest common denominator reference to George Strait and it’s hard not to believe a bunch of people were sitting in a room trying to write a hit.

But the truth is there’s that chorus and Gary LeVox’s vocal.

Not to minimize the contributions of Joe Don Rooney and Jay DeMarcus, it’s just that…too many people believe they can make it without the talent, without the goods, without the ability to SING! Sure, Bob Dylan hasn’t got a classically good voice, but he’s one of the best lyricists of all time. And both John Lennon and Paul McCartney excelled at singing.

“Rewind” has got the Beatle basics. The great vocal, the great chorus, the great harmonies, the only thing it’s lacking is a delectable bridge.

Then again, the Beatles were forever, I don’t think “Rewind” is.

But while we’re waiting for the next groundbreaking track, let’s revel in the professionalism and quality of this workmanlike cut that makes me want to go to the gig, throw my fist in the air and sing along.

That’s the experience.

Easier said than done.

Respect.

Rhinofy-Rewind

You won’t have Simon Cowell to kick around anymore.

Oh, don’t believe that. Stars come and go, starmakers are forever.

Simon will return to the English version of the show and will create another star, which is what Simon Cowell does, just like Clive Davis delivers divas and resuscitates the careers of old farts.

And we never want to hear those Santana all star albums ever again, nor do we want to hear most of the dreck Simon Cowell has pushed upon us, but it’s all commerce, you just think it’s art.

Let’s go back to the beginning, “American Idol.”

It launched when the music industry was supposedly dying, when it was deemed a second class citizen not worthy of attention.

But suddenly, music was the main story, at least on television. And those who’d inhabited the sphere previously deludedly believed we were in the middle of a paradigm shift.

We were not.

That shift happened a decade before. With the advent of Mariah Carey. When it became more about the pipes than the song. Come on, you may like that Carey Christmas record, but the rest of her material is substandard, despite all the trumpeting of its chart success.

Yes, old fogies have wondered where their music business has gone, the one wherein Mo Ostin gave you oodles of cash to do it your way. That was after everyone had seen the Beatles and wanted to spill their personal story on stage. But a decade ago, they scraped the country and found out there were a ton of Carey wannabes, not only Christina Aguilera!

Yes, it’s been an endless parade of great singers. Or great lookers. And everybody’s been scratching their head, wondering…IS THIS WHAT WE’VE COME TO?

Absolutely not.

We’ve come to a point where music does not drive the culture, where it’s a second-class citizen, and the only people who can resuscitate it are the musicians themselves.

“American Idol” was a diversion. It minted almost no stars. But it got everybody bitching that you just couldn’t do it the old way anymore, be a traditional artist with something to say, who can play and sing.

But that is incorrect.

Not only has “X Factor” been canceled, the ratings for “American Idol” are foundering. As for “The Voice”… Remember that juggernaut known as “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Reality singing shows are fads. They’re not the main event.

So what have we learned here…

Credit the two Simons, Fuller and Cowell, for seeing an opening, realizing that nothing reaches the public like television, and until you’ve seen the trick performed a few times, you’re vulnerable. Neither was wet behind the ears, they both had long histories in the music business, they just uncovered a successful formula. That’s what all business people are looking for, the next hit genre, the next hit music. Give credit to Fuller and Cowell, they made the music come to them.

Furthermore, Cowell knew it was about television. That music was secondary. That he could mold the winner after the fact, and get rich all the while. “American Idol” success may have been scarce, but across the pond there were continued triumphs. Because like every Brit, Cowell is fascinated with America, but doesn’t really understand it. That we like our heroes humble. That’s what killed “X Factor,” it turned out no one was on Simon’s side.

But before that mistake, Simon Cowell knew that it was all about the drama, and the best dramas have villains, and he was one.

Furthermore, in a country that’s notoriously full of crap, where no one speaks the truth and CEOs constantly apologize, Simon Cowell did neither. In other words, he was all about the truth and he never apologized. He became a star. But very few stars leave their hit band and triumph. David Lee Roth said how great he was, but after a couple of singles he was forgotten. TV, like music, is a team sport. And Cowell had no team at “X Factor.”

The villain can’t run the show. He’s got to be the outside agitator. But on “X Factor,” Cowell was the driving personality. And failed. He had neither the heart of Tony Soprano nor the gravitas of Vito Corleone. He was a thin man with an expensive haircut in a white t-shirt. Next!

So Simon Cowell exits the stage with his tail between his legs. Goes back to the U.K to resuscitate his hit show, which is flagging not so much in the ratings as in its ability to mint a diva or boy band the mother country can embrace and discard, that’s their way.

But it’s not our way in America. In America we’ve always thrived on a two tier system. The mainstream and the alternative, those who are playing by the rules and those who are inventing a new game.

But MTV unified those two. Everyone drank at the altar of television exposure, the hip no longer wanted to be obscure.

And when MTV stopped playing music and “Idol” and Cowell got all the attention the alternative thought its lunch had been stolen, that it was left out of the game.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Alternative is a state of mind, not a sound. Alternative is for those who think, who want more than nougat at the center.

But some things never change.

You’ve got to have material.

With hooks.

You’ve got to be able to sing.

And you’ve got to have something to say. Not necessarily in words, but emotion.

And if you create this, the usual suspects will come running to your door. Simon Cowell only peddled dreck because he’d run out of quality.

Yes, the problem is not Simon Cowell, or “American Idol,” or “The Voice,” the enemy is us.

We believe we deserve instant success without doing the hard work.

We believe we need to make as much money as the financial and tech elite, and fly private.

We believe we’re entitled to the trappings.

When everything starts with the core.

Art is a journey. You never know where you’re going, never mind where you’ll end up. You take your chops and woodshed ideas and test them on the public. Sometimes you’re a few years ahead, sometimes you’re on the wrong track, but if enough artists pursue their dreams…

We end up with quality art.

Nothing is as powerful as music, except maybe sex, and music is much more prevalent and cheaper to afford.

So it’s your ball. We’re up for anything.

The public led with file-trading. The public led with YouTube. The public is in control, the execs just like to give the appearance that they’re steering, but they’re not. They don’t buy the tickets, you do.

So fifty years after the Beatles the building blocks remain the same.

And we are truly ready for something new.

Something credible, that respects itself, that isn’t eager to sell out to rich corporations from the get-go. Come on, if corporations were bastions of creativity, they wouldn’t be wiped out by Silicon Valley.

So, so long Simon Cowell. You’re a footnote in music history. A Bob Marcucci decades hence.

So long music on television. None of these artists can write a hit, otherwise they wouldn’t need to appear on these shows. These productions were always about entertainment, never about music.

And so long the sour grapes that reality singing competitions were ruining the music business. With the slate wiped clean, we’re ready for those who realize radio comes second, not first. That if you employ multiple writers you lose the heart, the sincerity, the humanity that delivers a lasting hit. That first and foremost it must sound good.

Nothing’s really changed. It’s just that the scrim of obfuscation has been removed.

It’s time for us to get down to work.

I’ve been meaning to write about winter. But every time the inspiration hits, I’m far from the computer. And I hate writing when I’m not inspired, because my audience is too large. The negative feedback, or the lack of any feedback at all, is inhibiting. Once upon a time I labored in near-obscurity. It didn’t matter what I wrote about, I could mention people’s names…but now when I do they read it, so that door is closed, you know, the one wherein you reveal personal experiences, from your viewpoint. Like rejection by wannabe girlfriends. And abuse by males. Why is it that people reach out to put you down? I’m not complaining about it, I just don’t understand it. I never send e-mail to public figures, why would they want to hear from me? But I’ve got people who I have not met who e-mail me religiously, to tell me how ignorant I am, or to set me straight when they haven’t completed reading what I wrote to find out I mentioned it.

But now I’m too far off point.

But maybe that is the point. Winter is lonely.

But there are activities. Like board games. And indoor sports like basketball and swimming. They do those in Los Angeles, but without the same ferocity as the east coast, parents don’t force their kids to participate to get the out of the house, they go out of the house on a regular basis. With their mobiles in hand.

Yes, we live in a connected world.

But winter is desolate.

That’s one thing Alexander Payne got right in the movie “Nebraska.” The bleakness.

And that’s what I experienced Saturday last, when we landed in Denver. The gray plains with an equally gray sky, as if we lived in a tiny snow globe and exit was restricted.

We were supposed to arrive the night before, but our flight got canceled, it had dumped feet of snow, and now they text you to tell you you’re not going and the flights are full so you just can’t rebook the next day.

Which is why we ended up in Denver as opposed to Eagle. In a van. With a thin coat of snow covering the Interstate as we crawled along trying to get past an accident. No matter where you go, people can’t drive in snow.

Did I ever tell you I was in two accidents in two days?

I wasn’t driving.

The first was coming down the hill from the Middlebury College Snow Bowl. Evan’s parents had bought him a brand new Datsun 1200, which was just one step above a Tonka toy. It was so weird, this was long before anti-lock brakes, the car we hit was stopped a hundred feet away. Evan just stood on the brakes and we slowly slid right into this Chevrolet, which emerged without a scratch, the Datsun’s front end was so crumpled you’d think it had been in a demolition derby.

The next day, in a Volkswagen squareback, someone I don’t remember the name of, since I’d hitched the ride, stood on the brakes and we rear-ended a vehicle in town. Violently. But with no resulting damage.

That’s winter, it’s the land of accidents.

And growing up in Connecticut we yearned for what didn’t always occur. In other words, snow would be predicted but it would rain. You’d walk home and end up soaking wet and peel all your clothes off in the bathroom and you’d feel sticky and warm and… That’s right, we walked home from school, back before everybody was paranoid their children would be stolen.

And if it did happen to snow, we woke up and turned on the radio, praying that school would be canceled. We didn’t care that we had to make up the day in June, we just wanted a holiday, wherein we could go outside and play and come inside and drink hot chocolate and the world would be so quiet.

And then I went to college in Vermont.

Because I got addicted to skiing.

I started in my friend’s backyard (that’s right, I’m not mentioning his name, I’m not sure I can handle hearing from him), and then my family graduated to Mt. Snow as a result of a promotional film my sixth grade teacher showed us and…

I ended up with two interests, music and skiing. And although I pursued both at college, to say I was an outcast would be an understatement.

You see I just could not take it seriously. I’d played the game, of getting good grades to get into a good college, I was done. But the students at Middlebury, they studied like their lives depended upon it. As if at age thirty, forty, fifty or sixty, someone would want to know where you graduated in your class, as if they’d be interested in what you studied, as if they’d want to know what institution of higher learning you attended.

But they don’t.

They try and make you believe life is about jumping through hoops. But the truly successful veer off at some point. The rest are slaves to the grind.

So I went skiing. Every day. Rain or shine. Literally.

And riding that chairlift in the blowing cold, or startling sunshine, I was at peace with myself. Oh, that’s not true. I’d aggravate about my equipment, but it’d be my own private sanctuary, a respite from the college doldrums.

I especially liked it when it stormed. Because of the quiet. Because of the isolation.

That’s what’s been happening in Vail this week. It’s been blowing and snowing, it’s been cold, at times even brutal, and I’ve loved it.

Because it reminds me of who I am.

And illustrates that despite our hand-held devices, it’s truly just us versus nature. And despite our desire to connect with others, ultimately we’re alone. And when you’re away from the city, and it’s just you and God, it’s a religious experience.

And when I think of winter I think of Tori Amos’s song. She lost the plot. Tori was so good, she decided she could follow her own muse and we’d all be interested. But the truth is, she forgot that we desire a modicum of comprehensibility. And her audience got older and younger people don’t know how good Tori was.

And there was that great song on the subpar Rolling Stones album, you know, “Winter,” from “Goats Head Soup.” Slow and dreary, it’s got that wintry feel.

And now our nation tends to be divided in two. Those who’ve said SCREW THIS and moved to Florida or sunny Southern California, and the stoics in the northeast, who still remember their SAT scores and where they got rejected from college and believe they’re better than the rest of us because they endure the weather.

And that leaves me stuck in between. Because the east made me who I am.

But the west set me free.

So that’s kind of what’s on my mind. I don’t think I nailed the essence of what it feels like to be sliding down a ridge, barely able to see what’s in front of you as the snow stings your face.

Nor have I been able to convey the majesty and scariness of the mountains. They’re both your friend and your enemy, and too many people don’t realize this.

But these thoughts have been rambling around my brain. And instead of waiting for a moment I doubt will come, I decided to lay them down, because that’s what a writer does.

And I’m a writer.

It’s too stressful to strive to constantly excel. It makes someone refrain from playing. After all, I don’t want to lose my audience, like Tori Amos. I’m thankful for it. But I don’t want to be constricted by it.
And that’s what’s going on in my brain on a Friday afternoon as the sun is setting and it’s intermittently blowing and snowing and I’m now warm and toasty inside, but outside the window is…my lifeblood.

“7 Things a Record Deal Teaches You About the Music Industry”

I wish I could have written this myself, but alas, I did not have the experience.

This is the best non-sour grapes delineation of what it means to make a deal with a major I’ve ever read. It illustrates that first and foremost major labels are about money, not art, and you should never forget this.

Teaching people that making deals with major labels is selling their souls is an enterprise just as worthless as trying to convince them their mobile provider is not the best and acts don’t scalp their own tickets. People keep lining up at the door of these companies for a rocket to stardom. Actually, you can buy a rocket to the stars, the Russians sell one, you too can be a cosmonaut for…TWENTY MILLION! (Actually, now they charge $71 million, Lance Bass was gonna get a sweetheart deal.)

Money talks and we’re the living proof, that’s what Ray Davies said, and he should know. If you take it, you’re owned by it.

And never forget that major labels are not in the artist development business, but the hit business. Their idea of artist development is taking nine months or a year to break something, if you think they’re going to sit idly by while you noodle in the studio and record three stiff albums…you must’ve been signed to Warner Brothers back in the seventies.

However, although Spose says he’s got a successful Kickstarter campaign and a fan base that generates cash, don’t delude yourself into thinking he’s a star. That’s the major label’s business. Or your own if you’re really that damn good and willing to pound the boards building an audience over a period of years.

You cannot build an audience via Twitter and Facebook, social networking can only burnish the brand at most. It’s the core that drives people to you…your music and your performance.

There is no easy way out.

Or, you can make a deal with the devil, but please have no illusions he’s an angel.

_________________________________

I was wrong. Larry David was involved with the “Seinfeld” Super Bowl spot. He cowrote it with Jerry and directed it.

Mea culpa.

But the Beatles never got back together and the “Seinfeld” people should hang it up too. Otherwise it looks like you’re holding on to the last gasp of fame. Then again, the “Seinfeld” reunion on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” was great, proving that there are no rules.

Then again, Jerry is the guy who is friends with both Leno and Letterman, the way he sits above it all bothers me. In other words, if you don’t have enemies, if you don’t have faults, if you’ve got no insecurities…I’ve got a hard time relating to you.