Nicole Westbrook-It’s Thanksgiving

The joke is on us.

And the only people who don’t get it are the music business establishment, the usual suspects complicit in creating the drivel that pours out of Top Forty radio, compounding cliches as they parade around believing they’re Masters of the Universe.

The truth is…ANYONE CAN DO IT!

That’s one of the appeals of rap. You don’t have to spend long hours alone practicing. You can hang with your buds and make up your rhymes and ask why you’re not famous already, since you just graduated from middle school.

Nobody listening to this crap thinks it’s forever. It’s got the protein of a milk shake. Goes down easy, makes you sick thereafter.

Once upon a time, all the hit records were different. Now they’re all the same.

Now “It’s Thanksgiving” is not as good a track as “Friday,” with its indelible chorus. But watching the video, you can’t help but wonder, not only who Nicole Westbrook is, but who are her parents and what do they think they’re achieving here, allowing their young daughter to parade around in too much makeup, as if they can will her, or spend her, to be a slightly older Honey Boo Boo.

And then Nicole starts singing into her drumstick, using it as a microphone just before three minutes in, and you wonder…maybe even she knows it’s a joke…

That’s what makes this work… The big black guy cooking in the yard, showing up in a turkey costume… This isn’t made for the hit parade, but Funny or Die!

It’s only the establishment that takes itself seriously. We see reporters lashed to lampposts, reporting on the hurricane, and all we can say is GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE! We know it’s for the ratings, we know the people on morning TV are not best friends, the whole world has bifurcated, separated into a camp that believes the old game still rules and those who are laughing hysterically at it.

And that’s what’s killing music. Because not only is there a laughable establishment, people are lining up to play. On “Idol,” “The Voice” and “X Factor.” Not a single person watching believes any of the contestants can be a star. Only the producers do. It’s HYSTERICAL!

Taylor Swift has got nothing on Nicole Westbrook. Then again, unlike Ms. Swift, at least Nicole Westbrook has a sense of humor. “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” wasn’t put together as music, lightning in a bottle that would stand the test of time, it was a purely commercial venture, to keep Ms. Swift in the public eye, to make her and the old men behind her rich. And the complicit mainstream media laid down and said hosannas, as if “calculation” was not in their dictionary.

Meanwhile, the same guy who created “Friday” has repeated his blockbuster formula and is gonna burn up the Internets, which are even more powerful and more important than any radio station, any newspaper, any SoundScan, any Mediabase. Remember, radio refused to play Rebecca Black, but we all know “Friday” and can’t even tell you what was a hit on radio a year ago.

Just as funny are the white guy shoegazers who can’t sing who themselves are mad they’re not rich and famous. But they’re not even worth skewering. Because nobody’s paying attention.

And then there’s Bob Dylan. Who can’t even sing, but the media trumpets the hype, says “Tempest” is the album of the year, and when the L.A. “Times” reporter reviews his Hollywood Bowl show, toeing the line, saying how great it is, he’s got to add an addendum, after the attendees weigh in and complain how awful it was:

Bob Dylan at the Hollywood Bowl: Fans express outrage (as usual)

You see we know the truth.

The truth is music is now the playground of the wannabe rich. They boast that they tie in with corporations, they overcharge for shows more akin to Broadway musicals than Philharmonic performances, hell, Beatle performances, and scalp their own tickets along the way.

We’re bankrupt. It’s just like Wall Street. Which still believes it’s not at fault, did not bring the economy down, builds thing instead of just making money. Meanwhile, everybody at home is scratching his head and saying…WHAT?

Meanwhile, you desperately try to get on the “Today Show” with your built by committee tracks thinking this is the road into people’s hearts.

People’s hearts are CLOSED! You can’t get in. The people before you have ripped them off so bad, they’re multiple times bitten and completely shy.

No wonder nobody lasts anymore.

The girl I love
Is a perfect dresser
Wears every fashion
Gets it to the tee.

I bought “Quadrophenia” the night I saw “Billy Jack.” I stopped first at Korvette’s, I put the paper bag beneath the seat of my ’63 Chevy and went into the almost empty theatre in New Haven to see the movie that was not yet a cultural icon, but would soon become one.

And then I went home, after midnight, and dropped the needle on this double album while my parents slept upstairs. The first track that resonated was “Sea And Sand.”

Crushes…I guess they’re in our DNA. Yes, we all loved Claudia Schiffer, there have been two-dimensional icons since the advent of mass media. But usually it’s someone in class, at work, that makes our heart jump. I don’t know about you, but I’ve avoided going to places for fear of running into my crush. I just wouldn’t know what to say, it would all be too painful.

Oftentimes it’s someone just for you. Not that cheerleader or the class president. You invest all your hopes and dreams within them. Without even having exchanged a word. And even if they turn out to be someone different, you still love them.

“Sea And Sand” is rocking along, and then all of a sudden, it pulls back, it’s almost a completely different song… We hear the lyrics above.

Then the song goes back to rocking. And then it gets wistful again…

I see her dancing
Across the ballroom
U V light makin’ starshine
Of her smile.
I am the face,
She has to know me,
I’m dressed up better than anyone
Within a mile

But the other guys look much better. He sleeps on the beach. It’s worse than unrequited love, it’s the cold loneliness. That’s what we love about rock and roll, it gives us hope.

And at this late date “Quadrophenia” is seen as a masterpiece. But unlike “Tommy,” it didn’t have “Pinball Wizard” to sell it. It had to marinate in the public consciousness for decades before everyone testified to its greatness. And then there was the movie, the best rock film ever made, with the remixed soundtrack which had much more punch, that sounded so much better.

And, unfortunately, Pete Townshend’s “Deep End Live!” is not on Spotify. With the exquisite rendition of “I’m One.” But this demo is almost as good.

Every year is the same
And I feel it again
I’m a loser – no chance to win
Leaves start falling
Come down is calling
Loneliness starts sinking in.

Life is hard. Even if you’re a winner. Because victory doesn’t last long. You don’t make partner, you get sick, your spouse leaves you. And then you’re alone, you feel like a loser.

But this was back when rock was an outsider’s game. When a gawky guy with a big nose could be a hero. Before everybody wanted to be a member of the group, play nice to be included.

Where do you get
Those blue blue jeans?
Faded patched secret so tight.
Where do you get
That walk oh so lean?
Your shoes and your shirts
All just right.

Feeling inadequate. Despite the self-esteem movement, I think it’s part of the human condition. Feeling you’re just not good enough. Despite your best efforts. Pete nails it here better than anybody else.

I got a Gibson
Without a case
But I can’t get that even tanned look on my face
Ill fitting clothes
I blend in the crowd
Fingers so clumsy
Voice too loud.

Music used to be our way out. If we weren’t good-looking enough, not popular enough, we could practice, we could get recognition, we could become the one. Before everybody wanted to be a beautiful nitwit without depth on reality TV. Music at its best is an outsider’s game, because that’s what we all truly are. It’s the nature of being alive.

But I’m one.
I am one.
And I can see
That this is me,
And I will be,
You’ll all see
I’m the one.

Don’t give up. Take antidepressants if you must. Ride it out to the other side. Because it does get better. If you stay at it. If you realize life is a long game. But the adolescents listening to the Who didn’t know this. Ergo those nights at loose ends.

I didn’t even know these demos had come out. And in the old days I’m not sure I would have plunked down twenty bucks for them, already owning two double albums of Pete’s demos and only listening to them once.

Then again, you’ve got to hear them. At least that one time. You’ve got to get closer. Because this is the essence of life.

P.S. If only Pete would post “Empty Glass” on Spotify so I could write about “A Little Is Enough”…

Rhinofy-The Quadrophenia Demos

Previous Rhinofy playlists

So I finish dinner with Richard Griffiths, get the latest lowdown on One Direction, hear how much they don’t do with old media, how they don’t want to overload their fans, and I get into the lobby of the London and check my Twitter feed…

And it’s blowing up.

Drake tweeted me.

At 22:43, @Drake wrote:

“The Rules by Bob Lefsetz…genius.”

I wrote that post weeks ago. In my mind it’s already dead. But suddenly it came back alive. Drake stepped on the land mine, expressed his emotion, and brought in his audience, all 9,437,807 of them.

Okay. Some of that number may be fake. Some may have dropped out of Twitter. Some may be overloaded and missed it. But based on the plethora of retweets, I know that a ton of people saw it!

I don’t know Drake. Never met him, never got an e-mail from him, off the top of my head I can’t even tell you who his manager is.

But somehow he found me.

You can go on late night TV. You can do the usual things. You can make yourself feel good by marketing. But nothing sells like the product itself. When it’s great. And despite the supposed short attention spans of the younger generation, they’ve always got time for great, they’re constantly looking for great, they’ll stop by and smell the roses of great, they’ll tell everybody they know about great.

I wrote that post on October 22nd. Today it’s November 7th. It took that long to percolate, to reach Drake.

If you expect instant results, you’re dreaming. Or you’re paying someone to bop everybody over the head, pissing them off.

I’ve been doing this for over twenty five years. The best thing that ever happened to me was the Internet, it allowed me to reach the world for free. And if I thought this one tweet were gonna make my career, were gonna rain down cash, I’d be completely stupid. But I do know a credible artist whose fans adore him endorsed me and I end up with a positive imprimatur. Suddenly, a bunch of people I’d be unable to reach in the old world, who wouldn’t be paying attention to me in the old world, know who I am. And if they see my name one or two more times, they might check me out further, I might make some new fans.

I don’t know where I’m going. It’s like someone shut off the lights and I kept walking. And I’m bumping into bushes, stumbling, then other times I run into people and opportunities I could not foresee in the old world.

You can do it the old way. But the old way is dying.

Drake means more than any radio station. Any gatekeeper. The artists are the new gatekeepers. And the way you achieve this is by having an ongoing positive bond with your fans. Not a few old men who say they can break you big. Mystery is out the window. Now you’re the guy or girl next door making music, truly Jenny From The Block as opposed to that plastic-surgeried, airbrushed woman using that moniker. Without the machine, J. Lo’s got nothing. But those using social media and the new world to their advantage have everything.

As I sit here, the retweets continue to pour in. Nearly a day later.

I did nothing! Other than write a great piece to begin with.

And why did I write it? Because I was so frustrated with a bureaucracy that was failing me, that I got inspired and wrote to blow off steam.

Greatness isn’t contemplated. It’s not something you think about, hone and perfect. No, greatness is inspiration! Based on years of hard work. You may practice for decades, but you’ll only break through when you throw off your inhibitions, trust your instincts and truly capture lightning in a bottle.

If you do this, people know, people find out.

Word spreads incredibly quickly online.

And incredibly slowly.

The key is to be in the game.

If you do something great, it will find its audience. Maybe years later!

So I’m lying on my bed, wondering how much longer I have to watch before I can turn off the TV. I saw Romney give his concession speech, which was one of his best efforts ever, despite appearing to be a robot, and I was just waiting to hear what our President, past and future, had to say.

It’s long after midnight on the east coast. Even a brand new day in Chicago. He won, but it’s not quite the celebration of four years before, we no longer have that kind of hope. And then he hits the stage and there’s this song playing in the background, picked up by the room mic, not bled into the main mix like a professional TV program, connecting with the synapses in my brain, stimulating me.

We’re gonna continue to have abortion. Gays are gonna have rights. The Supreme Court won’t turn so far right that we have revolution. But this is all latent, in the back of my mind, until I hear those notes I know so well, embedded in my DNA, truly bringing together the meaning of this historic event, the reelection of an African-American President who truly embodies the fact we live in a melting pot society, no matter what Karl Rove and Donald Trump have to say.

Yes, in a week where Chris Christie could compliment the President and finally embrace his hero Bruce Springsteen, once again it’s illustrated we’re all in this together, and nothing evidences this more than our music.

Yes, this blind African-American with this indelible number is the best our country has to offer. In a nation where hip-hop is embraced by whites and Jay-Z playing Barclays gets more ink than Barbra Streisand playing the same joint days thereafter, we’ve got to admit that this is not our parents’ country anymore, IT’S OURS!

I’ve done a lot of foolish things
That I really didn’t mean, didn’t I?

We all smoked dope, we had unprotected sex, we promised things that did not come true, it’s part of growing up. Gotcha only seems to matter in politics, in real life we’re all floating down the rushing river, trying to get along.

Obama could not single-handedly give everybody a job and make everybody rich, but he did do the impossible, pass health care legislation and institute a stimulus bill whose only flaw was it was not big enough. He did the best he could. And I wish he were even more left, less conciliatory, that he would stop pandering to Republican talking points like the deficit and just LEAD!

That’s what we want our politicians to do.

But that seems to be passe.

The days of Kennedy. The days of the Beatles. Athletes are not role models, just ask Lance Armstrong, but artists certainly are, when they decide to do what’s right as opposed to what’s expedient, when they throw out the focus groups and speak from the heart.

Oo-ee baby, you set my soul on fire
That’s why I know you’re my heart’s only desire

I’d be lying if I said I felt this way about Obama. I didn’t even think that his acceptance speech was that great. But when I heard “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours” playing on my TV, I loved my country just as much as those right wing wingnuts, I was proud to be an American.

That’s right. Just like we rejected Perry Como and embraced the Beatles, Obama’s rejecting the Confederate flag that Lynyrd Skynyrd was afraid to abandon and clinging to the hope, the bringing together of the tribes of black and white, that’s embedded in the exquisite Stevie Wonder ditty, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours.”

That’s what he was. This was a better choice of music placement than any movie this decade, any TV show, it was not driven by money, but what was exactly right.

We are together.

Nobody likes government waste.

Nobody likes killing fetuses.

Everybody wants the freedom to live their life how they choose, as long as they don’t infringe upon the rights of another.

Everybody wants to be safe.

Everybody wants to crank up the music, throw their hands around their loved ones and exclaim…

SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED I’M YOURS!

Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours