And the winner is…

SARAH McLACHLAN!

Who proved Canadians have a sense of humor about themselves, while Americans are famously pompous, kind of like Bob Dylan, who had one of the best commercials, but didn’t get the message that Chrysler is owned by Fiat, an Italian automobile maker.

The ads got better as the game got worse. I even appreciated the little girl lassoing the Doritos. But the first half was littered with the work of alcohol and car companies, who believe being bombastic is better than being innovative, or sensitive.

Even Bruce Willis was sensitive.

And what kind of crazy world do we live in where Microsoft has a good commercial?

It wasn’t about the game. It was about the gathering of the tribes.

Super Bowl Sunday is the one day of the year when blue and red, old and young, everybody in America tunes in to the same damn program.

That’s the story of the last ten years, our descent into a Tower of Babel society, wherein what’s important to me is unknown by you.

But it turns out that despite tomes like “The Long Tail” it doesn’t feel good to be in the niche, we all want to be in the mainstream.

Then again, watching this production I didn’t find anything for myself, with my sixties values wherein I question authority and am suspicious of the establishment. Now musicians are dying to become part of the establishment. Look at all of them who prostituted themselves for cash, appearing at one Super Bowl bash after another, as if how much money you make is more important than what you believe in.

And I’ve got no idea what Bruno Mars believes in. He’s pure entertainment.

But he performed quite well. Got to give him props for starting off with a drum solo. He single-handedly stripped the ball from the classic rockers who’ve dominated halftime ever since Nipplegate. Mars could play, sing and dance. And I’m sure it was exquisite at MetLife Stadium…at home, not so much. It’s a rare musician who can make music work on television. Prince did it. U2 did a good job. But the truth is music is something you feel, and television is two-dimensional, after all, they do call it the FLAT SCREEN! And yes, back in the sixties, when the Super Bowl was invented, the au courant rock stars were not invited, but they probably wouldn’t have appeared. Football??

But now we live in a homogeneous society where it’s every man for himself. Like rats in a cage we try to climb the greased pole. And even though the aforementioned Mr. Dylan sang that we’ve all got to serve somebody, it turns out most of us are serving those with the bread. We’re a country of Olivers, can we just have a little bit more?

And the right team won. The bastards known as the Seattle Seahawks. Who brought their posse, the so-called “12th Man,” and played so hard that all Broncos were issued switchblades and Uzis on their way out of the dressing room.

Just kidding, of course. But we live in a brutal society. And the Seahawks are a brutal team. Who never entertained the concept of defeat. They beat the Broncos so bad, it’s a metaphor for our nation’s income inequality, the haves and the have-nots. Because the Broncos beat their AFC foes the Patriots, we thought they were up to the task. But it turns out the 49ers would have kicked their asses too. Because anybody could see the Broncos had an inferior defense. And no matter how well Peyton Manning may throw…an offense without a defense is like a singer without a tune…i.e. nowhere.

So what else did we learn?

That Bruno Mars did not need the Chili Peppers. That if you’ve got the goods, scuttlebutt is irrelevant. In other words, an outsider or unknown can triumph, but only if he’s spectacular, a ten on a ten scale. Then again, no one told the sports and the business press that Mr. Mars was already a star in the music world.

That New York is the epicenter of the nation and every Super Bowl should be played in the city, that is New Jersey, hereafter. There’s never been as much press, as much attention to the game as this year. Because it was in media central, amongst the most cutthroat of our citizens. I don’t want to go, but it’s fun to observe the spectacle.

That Jerry Seinfeld’s spot was better than most, but it didn’t have that twisted I’m an outsider feeling his sitcom possessed. Jerry’s just too self-satisfied for me to cotton to him anymore. The man without problems who knows everything about parenting…eek. However Jason Alexander was excellent!

That the best band on the telecast was the Muppets. Turns out truth on TV is radiated by puppets and cartoons, everybody else pulls their punches.

And the big loser was Philip Seymour Hoffman. Who had the bad luck to O.D. on the day of the biggest sporting event of the year, and was therefore bumped from the front page.

But one thing you’ve got to say about Hoffman is he always swung for the fences, even in semi-incoherent films like “The Master.” He was our Lester Bangs. And although he won an Oscar for “Capote,” it was his work in small films like “The Savages” that endeared him to audiences. Because underneath it all, Philip Seymour Hoffman was a regular schlub, like the rest of us. He was real, unlike Kim Kardashian and the rest of the plastic surgery patrol.

That’s right, as young men shorten their lives on the gridiron, a press scared of extinction keeps trumpeting the efforts of no-talents and we all sit at home flummoxed, wondering whether to protest, join in or give up. We’re angry, but we’re not sure we can win, so too often we turn to drugs. Which have been glamorized for no reason.

Is that how bad your life is, that you want to escape?

That’s the essence of intoxicants. And we all live so close to that line, and so far from satisfaction.

So, so long Peyton Manning! You’re not really gonna come back next year are you, there’s no way you can win.

So long New York City, where the squeegee men have returned and the artists have been squeezed out. The Super Bowl is emblematic of the metropolis, all shiny, but with a dangerous underbelly, where cash rules and if you ain’t got it, we’re not interested.

And so long Philip Seymour Hoffman. You didn’t even get to see the game!

P.S. Featuring Ellen DeGeneres in an ad for Beats Music is like featuring Harvey Fierstein in an ad for the NFL. Not everybody can sing and not everybody can play football. Let’s stop lionizing the wannabes and focus on the true talents. To employ Ms. DeGeneres to hawk Beats is to eviscerate all the cool from music, and without cool, we’ve got nothing… Wasn’t that the essence of Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Johnny Rotten, Kurt Cobain… We want stars who march to the beat of their own drummer, like Joni Mitchell and Amy Winehouse, not corporate tools working on Jimmy’s farm.

What kind of crazy f____d up world do we live in where Howard Stern gets a better tribute than the Beatles?

One in which Adam Levine does a spot-on rendition of “Purple Rain” and establishes his rock and roll bona fides overnight.

I was planning on hearing this on the replay, but my flight was canceled by snow and I find myself…unable to stop listening.

What a crazy world we live in. Wherein Howard hypes this low-rent celebration of his sixtieth birthday and the straight media completely ignores it and more celebrities turn out and reveal themselves than at the Golden Globes, the “gold standard” for celebrity looseness.

But it’s not surprising, when Howard specializes in extracting nuggets from others we’re dying to know but are way too creeped out or afraid to ask. Like were your parents virgins when they married?

That was one of the questions Mr. Stern put to his parents twenty years ago, it was featured in the replay of bashes past on his second channel, Howard 101.

By putting it all out there himself, Howard has license to ask you…

How much money you make.

How frequently you have sex.

Whether you’re going to invite him to your wedding.

That’s what Howard asked Katie Couric. Who showed up with not only Whoopi Goldberg, but Barbara Walters. Along with Mariann from Brooklyn and so much of the rest of the Wack Pack.

But not Eric the Midget/Actor.

Don’t know who he is?

That’s just the point. In the Stern world, Eric is a star, with more airtime than a movie star. We know Eric and his peculiarities intimately, whereas the celebrities the mainstream media promotes are airbrushed to the point where when TMZ reveals the tiniest blemish, everybody goes OOH!

But we’re all imperfect, we all have blemishes, we all fart. Otherwise, why would we click the linkbait of stars without their makeup?

Jewel sang her rendition of Howard’s adolescent composition, “Silver Nickels and Golden Dimes.”

And Train may have covered “I Feel The Earth Move” at the Carole King/Musicares tribute, but here the band performed what we really wanted to hear, its spot-on take of Led Zeppelin’s “The Ocean.”

And unlike the Grammys, Bon Jovi sang his big hit, the soundtrack to “Deadliest Catch,” “Wanted Dead Or Alive.”

John Mayer didn’t utilize the occasion to promote a single, but covered Bob Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone.”

Although hosted by Jimmy Kimmel, David Letterman made an appearance, and revealed why he made up with Jay Leno.

And at this late date, hours into the bash, a Google news search of “Howard Stern” reveals nothing other than the appearance of Chris Christie.

But not tomorrow. Tomorrow this will be a big story. When the herd media decides to go on it, since they’re interested in whatever stars do.

But not Howard Stern. Because they don’t want to consider him a star.

Because he’s not beautiful.

He’s not a great singer or actor.

He’s just like them.

And that’s why it’s Howard Stern’s time. You stay in the game long enough and your moment arrives.

In the cacophonous world we inhabit you only rise to the top and sustain if you’re constantly in the public eye, doing new things. And Howard’s creating twelve hours of new material every week, at an insanely high level, since he’s honed his craft for forty years.

Yes, while music focuses on the barely pubescent, when it lauds Miley Cyrus, with songs written by old men, the truth is it’s a long way to the top if you truly want to rock and roll.

And listening to the free stream on my computer it’s reminiscent of nothing so much as a 1970’s FM simulcast. Real, but at a distance.

I didn’t think I needed to be there.

But I was wrong.

Packed with celebrities, John Fogerty is singing “Bad Moon Rising” right now, the show is fast-paced, but loose. There’s none of the airiness or phoniness of network TV.

But that’s not hard to believe, because Howard Stern is the biggest star in America.

And you either know it or you don’t.

He’s America’s Number One Interviewer. A bigger star than Jay Leno and Jimmy Fallon and Conan O’ Brien and David Letterman.

Because he’s got the audience.

But you don’t see the Sirius mindshare/listeners in the Nielsen reports.

But that does not mean it’s not real.

What do they say, you judge a star’s wattage by the fanaticism of its audience?

Just read the tweets.

This is bigger than the anniversary of the Beatles’ appearance on Ed Sullivan. Because this ain’t history, this ain’t calcified, Howard Stern’s Birthday Bash is life itself.

The Birthday Bash

Once upon a time, Top Forty was truly the best of the best. How else to explain the ascension of this track by a Canadian folkie to the top of the Hot 100?

It wasn’t the first time Gordon Lightfoot had chart success. He broke through three years earlier with “If You Could Read My Mind.”

But I don’t remember that. Because “If You Could Read My Mind” went to number 5 in February 1971, when I was ensconced in the wilds of Vermont, where the only radio was the ten watt college station, and I didn’t own a car.

But when “Sundown” had its run, I’d just graduated, it was the summer I spent shadowing my dad.

I couldn’t find a job. I’m never good at finding a job. And with three months until I went to find my fame and fortune in Utah, I asked my dad if I could ride along.

As he evaluated properties, as he went to hearings.

So I spent a lot of time in the car listening to beautiful music. That was my dad’s specialty, along with news…remember “Monitor”?

And this day, we cruised through the ghetto of Bridgeport to our next door neighbor George’s pharmacy. Where there was almost nothing on the shelves because of theft. And I sat in the car and pushed the buttons and heard “Sundown.”

Which I also listened to in my ’63 Chevy convertible, which required undivided attention, otherwise the front end would wander right off the track.

It was late in the day.

Just like today.

I was climbing the Centinela hill when “Sundown” played on Sirius XM.

The fog was rolling in, the sun was setting, and my whole life was laid out in front of me.

That’s music. The quiet introspective sounds that still percolated on AM back in ’74.

There’s a groove. And people say the track was inspired by Cathy Smith, who delivered the speedball that took John Belushi off the turf, but that was oh-so-long ago.

This was when we still lived for music, when rock stars were the richest and most powerful people in the nation, when rock could encompass everybody from the folkies to the headbangers, from Gordon Lightfoot to Black Sabbath.

Sometimes I think it’s a shame
When I get feelin’ better when I’m feelin’ no pain

This was back when I still drowned my sorrows in alcohol. When you called me for the night of your life.

Those days are through, but “Sundown” still resonates.

Rhinofy-Sundown

My favorite Carole King song is “Goin’ Back.”

It didn’t used to be. It used to be “So Far Away.” And then it was “The First Day In August.”

But a few years ago I heard “Goin’ Back” from her initial stiff solo album “Writer” and I was hooked.

And when I needed to hear it after Friday night’s Musicares tribute I fired up Spotify and I found…

Phil Collins’ version.

Huh?

The first time I heard “Goin’ Back” was on the radio, from the live Nils Lofgren lp.

You remember Nils Lofgren, right? The prodigy who recorded with Neil Young and then had little traction but tons of cred with his group Grin and went solo. I saw him headline at the Santa Monica Civic, where he did his mini-tramp flip, but was ultimately overshadowed by Van Halen.

Nils now has a gig playing with the Boss. After replacing Little Steven, who went off on his hejira, and Nils was allowed to keep his job when the prodigal son returned.

But Phil Collins has sauntered off into the wilderness.

At least that’s what I thought, recently there have been rumblings he’s coming back. But when “Going Back” was released, it was supposed to be Phil’s swan song.

You remember “Going Back,” right?

I certainly don’t. I mean vaguely. He cut a covers album that went straight into the dumper. At least in America, where it peaked at 34, which for a superstar, and Phil once was, is like having a tree fall in the proverbial forest, no sound is made, at least not one anybody can hear.

But who knew the reason the album was called that because it concludes…with a cover of the great Goffin/King tune?

Were you a Genesis fan?

If so, you bought Phil’s solo debut, “Face Value.” And although “In The Air Tonight” and “I Missed Again” ultimately received a ton of radio airplay, it was the quieter numbers that truly resonated, like the album’s closer, Phil’s cover of the Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows.”

Phil’s cover of “Goin’ Back” is just like that.

I think I’m going back
To the things I learned so well in my youth

Like the sound of Jonathan King’s “Everyone’s Gone To The Moon.”

Back then the radio was our best friend.

We had the telephone, but no texting. No e-mail. When you closed the door to your bedroom, you were truly alone. Long before every kid had a flat screen in their bedroom, our best friend was the radio.

I think I’m returning to
All those days when I was young enough to know the truth

Back when I ran on instinct, before I was hobbled by experience. When everything was new and exciting and I wanted to try it all.

Now there are no games to only pass the time

Every day I’d rush home, change into my play clothes and go right back to school to play baseball, I lived for it.

No more electric trains, no more trees to climb

I’m not climbing a tree today, I’m afraid I’ll fall and hurt myself. My mother threw out my electric trains, along with my baseball cards. But once upon a time I’d put a smoke pill in the locomotive, twist the dial on the transformer and watch that Lionel run around the track, trying not to go so fast it would fly onto the floor.

Thinking young and growing older is no sin

Now we’re young externally. We diet to fit into our children’s clothing. We get plastic surgery to deny our true age, which we lie about. But inside…we’re so damn old. Risk is anathema. Getting a baby boomer to try something new is like getting Justin Bieber to give up dope.

And I can play the game of life to win

Winning was so much different then. When the country was driven by the middle class, when we were all in it together, when we weren’t worried about being left behind, but focusing on personal fulfillment, who we really wanted to be.

And every day can be my magic paradise
And I can play hide and seek with my fears
And live my days instead of counting my years

Yes, Phil changes the lyrics!

The original speaks of a magic carpet ride. And lacking a little bit of courage. And the singer wants to go back, catch her if you can.

But the truth is you can never go back. You’ve got to be an adult. Even though inside you wonder if you ever grew up. Time marches on, you’re closer to death, you want to put on the brakes and all you can think about is the way it used to be, when life was full of possibilities instead of dead ends.

And then you put on a record and it still is.

P.S. Most oldsters have given up recording, because no one is interested in hearing what they’ve got to say. But if instead of putting out an entire album Phil Collins had released this track and this track only…he might have had some traction. Because the feel is just incredible. Listen.

Spotify playlist (which includes not only Carole King’s original and remake, but the Dusty Springfield iteration, which preceded Carole’s recording, and renditions by the Byrds, Nils Lofgren and…Freddie Mercury):

Phil Collins’s “Going Back” on YouTube