Well there’s just a little bit of magic
In the country music we’re singin’

Richie Furay did not expect to be here fifty years later, and neither did we. It’s not that we saw rock music as a fad, but that we thought we’d never get old, and if per chance we did, we’d be just like our parents, wearing conservative clothing and going to classical concerts and the opera.

But it didn’t turn out that way at all.

Richie Furay has had a peripatetic career, but he’s always had the music in him, he’s never been able to fully give up, although he tried. Most significantly in the sixties, when after failing to break through in New York City, he used an uncle’s connections to work at Pratt & Whitney in Connecticut. He assured this relative that he’d be there for fifty years, get the gold watch, but when his buddy Gram Parsons insisted he listen to the Byrds album, he quit, and sent a letter to find his old friend Stephen Stills, to start over, to try once again.

Richie’s letter to Stephen’s dad in Central America was returned postage due, but ultimately Richie made the connection and drove to L.A. to start over with Stephen, they’d sung in a group in New York that had even been featured on the Rudy Vallee TV show, but what you think is your big chance rarely is.

And they did run into Neil Young and his hearse on Sunset Boulevard. And they pulled over to Ben Frank’s to plot the Buffalo Springfield.

This you know, and so much more. Richie was reciting history from the stage, deep nuggets, but he acknowledged we were in the loop, that’s what being a rock fan was, long before the internet, the rumors, the realities, we had to know them all.

And after the Springfield there was Poco. Where he gave Timothy B. Schmit a chance after Jim Messina exited the band. Last night Timothy B. said he was worried it wouldn’t work out, but upstairs at the Troub, in one of the old dressing rooms, Richie told Timothy B. not to worry, he’d chosen him, he was the guy.

And then Richie moved on to the Souther, Hillman, Furay Band, whose first LP went gold, but during the recording of the second, in Miami with Tom Dowd, his heart was not in it and he quit. You see the kind woman wanted a family, they’d been separated for seven months, he wanted to be with her more than the music, or at least the fame.

And fifty one years after their meeting at the Whisky, they’re still together, with thirteen grandchildren, and Richie is plying the boards again, playing the entirety of Poco’s third LP, the live “Deliverin’.”

But that was the second half of the show, after the break. The first half included a cornucopia of numbers, from Buffalo Springfield and his solo career and…

Richie was enjoying himself. I think even more than the assembled multitude, which was mostly over sixty, who’d been there, and knew every word. You see there’s a pleasure in playing, it far eclipses the fame, which won’t keep you warm at night. This was not a brief show, it was over two hours, this was about music more than saying you’d been there, this was the way it used to be.

And maybe the old Buffalo Springfield number “So and Say Goodbye” was the highlight of the first set, but the amazing thing was a recent number, “We Were The Dreamers,” fit right in. You see the band could play. Which is the way it used to be. CSN couldn’t hit the harmonies, just watch the “Woodstock” movie for edification. But at this late date, half a century later, in a club, Richie and his bandmates hit the notes perfectly, it was a revelation. As for the players, none of them were household names. Most were refugees from the era that was, when we all saw the Beatles on “Ed Sullivan” and picked up guitars and played. Some never gave up. They were on stage.

As for the second set, “Deliverin'”…

We couldn’t afford many albums. But those we bought we knew by heart, we played them over and over again. So those in attendance were all singing along, as Richie and crew ripped through the numbers with an exuberance most twenty year olds don’t display.

And when he hit “Hear That Music,” penned and sung by Timothy B…

The man with the now long gray hair emerged from the wings with a lyric sheet…

I thought this would be substandard, a joke, some flubbed lines.

Some songs are forever, some are part of the passage to what comes next, even though hard core fans know them all.

Timothy B. had forgotten it, but when he stepped up to the mic it was 1971 all over again. His voice was crystal clear and he missed not a line. How Richie and Timothy can still hit the notes, sound like their young selves in their seventies, I do not know, but they do.

And the funny thing is even Jim Messina’s number “You Better Think Twice” was a winner. It’s been in my head all morning.

But when the show was over, after the applause continued, the band came out with Timothy B. for one more number.

Funny how the energy’s still there. How when we hear this music it doesn’t feel like nostalgia, but part of a long continuum. Funny how being at a show can be the same, sans seats of course. We used to take our music seriously, maybe standing is cool for punk shows, then again, these sexagenarians bravely stood throughout. It’s just that our music was not background, not light and poppy and forgettable, but everything. It was the sauce that made life worth living and our records were our most prized possessions. We didn’t go to the show to hang with our buddies and shoot selfies, but to connect with the gods on stage, as we closed our eyes and drifted away.

So Richie and crew were bringing us back down home where the folks are happy.

And when Richie and Timothy strode to the mics for the final number…they sang Poco’s “A Good Feelin’ To Know.”

And it was.

34% in the 18-49 target demo, and 29.5% overall.

Is it television or is it the music?

Both.

Let’s start with TV, we no longer live in a monoculture, the only appointment TV is the Super Bowl, not because of the game but because it’s become a national holiday, many attendees at parties don’t even bother to watch the contest. Television is now personalized, on demand, you only watch what you want to see and the networks and cable channels have not yet figured this out. Furthermore, people are expecting honesty and edge, something lacking from the CMAs for eternity. It’s a last century show. Aw-shucks in a world where everybody’s got high speed cable and LTE, where country singers rap and we’re all sophisticated. The myth of flyover country is just that. People in red states don’t vote Republican because they’re uninformed, but because that’s what they believe. But never underestimate the power of media entities to underestimate the intelligence of the audience. This is how MTV was victorious with the VMAs, they realized it was a TV show, no one cared who won, first and foremost the show must be entertaining, something the Oscars have never realized, at least not in my lifetime. The Oscars are a party for the industry, and contrary to popular belief most people don’t want to hang out with these people, certainly not the business people, maybe some of the celebrities. You’ve got to give the people what they want, which isn’t necessarily lowbrow, but if you give them popcorn all summer don’t expect them to want to eat foie gras in February.

But the music…

Country is predicated on old rules. The songs are written by others, primarily about bland subjects, like house and home these days, and radio rules. Only it doesn’t. Many have tuned out. And even more will. Hell, the biggest artist in today’s country music, loved by both Nashville insiders and fans, is Chris Stapleton, and there’s only one of him, he’s honest and forthright and emphasizing the basics in songs he mostly writes, you’d think someone else would follow this formula. Authenticity rules. People want experiences. Awards shows are lousy experiences, furthermore, you have to sit through the music of all these people you don’t like. So the Grammys are doomed. Trying to please everybody means you please nobody.

But country is a narrower focus.

Could it be that country is not delivering what the audience truly wants?

There are few women on country radio, but the audience is more than half female. Maybe these listeners would like to hear more women, at least a woman’s viewpoint, that appeals to men too.

And Americana is shut out of the CMAs, shouldn’t Jason Isbell be on every awards show? And we’ve already determined that the awards are secondary, so how about an up and coming artist. Is Brandi Carlile country? Arguably so. People are passionate about Brandi, is ANYBODY passionate about Carrie Underwood? She sings, she married a hockey player, but she’s vapid. As for Brad Paisley… One hell of a guitarist who’s completely sans charismas.

And “Mayberry” has been in reruns for half a century. Nowhere does cornpone live anymore, but we still get the cornpone jokes. It’d be like the Grammys featuring the Royal Guardsmen singing about Snoopy and the Red Baron, then again, that might be more interesting than what we’ve got!

So the awards show is dead and buried. Most people believe there’s no reason to tune in. The time to fulfillment ratio is way off. Especially when I can pull up something I want to see on Netflix. And the competition is not only cable and on demand, but Fortnite and Facebook… The audience moved on and television hasn’t even realized it.

As for the music played…

We live in an old world with an old construct. That there are only forty records on the radio, if that, and the rest don’t exist. But that’s patently untrue. It’s a much wider world out there, and more people than ever don’t believe in the top forty, and now they’ve got choice. The Spotify Top 50 doesn’t really dominate, but those in it get all the ink and accolades and the rest of the audience shrugs its shoulders, it doesn’t care.

So what we’ve really got is opportunity. The world has gotten broader, people want more acts, but the business infrastructure is STILL operating on a pre-internet paradigm.

This is what’s going to change. For fifteen years we fought about distribution. Streaming won, it’s on demand, that’s it.

Now we have to focus on the content. Revolution is coming. Once again, the audience is ahead of the business. Those who follow the audience will win in the end. And the audience wants more than what we’re giving them, MUCH more.

“Delay, Deny and Deflect: How Facebook’s Leaders Fought Through Crisis”

Why are the tireless self-promoters always the ones who fall from grace? Why do they always have blind spots? Why do we buy their act and then find out it’s built on fiction?

We knew this. Sheryl Sandberg lived a charmed life with little loss, other than that of her husband ultimately, but that was after the die was cast. She went to Harvard, worked with Larry Summers, got a gig at Facebook, told us all to lean in and…

We bought it.

Oh, there was a backlash, from women who said they couldn’t have it all, what with kids and transportation and… Sandberg did a bit of a mea culpa after her aforementioned husband died, but she’s continued to be lionized as an upfront, honest seer, a beacon in a sea of darkness.

And now we know that isn’t the case.

Now this is a dicey situation. After Me Too, it’s very dangerous to attack a woman. But this isn’t about women in general, after all, Ms. Sandberg is not a woman in general. She’s a woman of privilege. A have in a world of have-nots. And don’t the haves always tell us we’re inadequate, that if we were just like them we could succeed?

But we don’t have the background, the enrichment in elementary and high school. The ability to pay for an elite university.

Meanwhile, these people run the country and blanch when we tell them they are out of touch. But what’s worse, nothing that happens affects their pocketbooks, they’re overpaid and insulated, they can’t go from hero to zero, but from hero to merely rich and possibly disgraced.

Sure, there are men who do the same thing as Sheryl. Maybe if there were more women in power her offenses would wash off of us. But since there are so few women of power, the media glommed on to her story, while doing no checking, they bought it hook, line and sinker, as if Sheryl Sandberg was the answer to all their problems.

Ain’t that America.

We need heroes so we buy the b.s. of those raising their hands.

But it’s not only Sheryl, it’s everywhere. The CEOs with PR people… Everybody wants to be rich and famous, they’ve paid their dues, they believe they’re entitled. They all want to be rock stars, with the trappings. Being normal is not an option. And we keep reading about YouTube stars and influencers to the point we feel inadequate, then we find out it’s all b.s. Notice that you haven’t been hearing about YouTube stars recently? Because to make a living you’ve got to work 24/7 to the point you’re burned out and now all the emphasis is on esports and Instagrammers, the machine needs fodder.

The machine needed Sheryl Sandberg. And she volunteered for the job.

There are a lot more women who deserve the accolades, many faceless, bringing home the bacon and bringing up the kids, but that’s not a sexy story, so that does not get covered. It bugs me when people keep jamming their story down my throat, when they’re portrayed as inevitable winners, like they’re better than us.

But they’re not.

This is what income inequality has wrought.

This is what the internet has wrought.

This is what the media has wrought.

A small cadre of “winners” in cahoots with the fourth estate inundate us with their supposed victories.

But really they’re losses.

Say it ain’t so Joe.

But it really is.

Clapton Christmas

Sometimes you try too hard.

In today’s competitive market, where you can make it but the label won’t put it out until it’s convinced it’s a hit, everybody feels the pressure, and this works against music. Whereas Eric Clapton’s Christmas album seems to be a toss-off, getting a group of people together in a studio to jam, to create product as opposed to shooting for stardom, and that’s why it’s so great, it’s REAL!

If you were alive back then, in the era of jams, when it was about the feel first and foremost, you’ll get this, you’ll close your eyes and you’ll be at the Fillmore, swaying with the crowd, enraptured by the music.

This is the past, but it could also be the future.

You’ll be stunned that this sound is still around, it’s totally in the pocket, it’s like running into a cousin, a college roommate, but they don’t look like they used to, they’ve experienced, they’re world-weary, just like you, they’ve got a tale to tell, and this is it.

Now if you need the Clapton of yore, where he’s working out on his axe, play “Christmas Tears,” he wails enough for any fan. But truly, Clapton’s learned the lessons of his old mentor Delaney Bramlett, that less is more, and there’s no upside in showing off, you’ve got to be in service to the song, the track.

And even though you recognize some of the titles, if you didn’t read them you probably wouldn’t know the track. The song is just a starting point. We haven’t had this spirit since 1968, with Al Kooper’s “Super Session,” where people who knew how to play reinvented the songs of yore and made them brand new.

But my favorite cut on the album is “Home For The Holidays,” it immediately lays down in a groove and you can’t help but fall into it, you find your foot tapping, your head nodding, your body twisting, even if you’ve never danced in your life. This is the blues. As filtered through the English musicians who popularized the sound. And it sounds as fresh as yesterday. Sometimes you have to go back to the basics to get to the future.

This is how it was. Before MTV reinvigorated Top Forty, when it became about the hit single and only the hit single. “Happy Xmas” is of a piece, you’re getting a peak into music creation not by machines, but people, then again, “Jingle Bells” is a tribute to Avicii, and done well. Yes, there is some stretching on this album, but you’ve got to get past the opener, “White Christmas,” the lamest cut on the album, it’s like they felt they had to put a recognizable track up front, as opposed to the best, whereas the album doesn’t really start to swing until “Every Day Will Be Like A Holiday,” the fourth cut in, when only the hard core is still listening.

You put on “Happy Xmas” and start to drift. Then you start to focus. It’s like the band is in the next room over, smoking, having a few drinks, getting into it, you want to break through the wall and join the party, just be in the space where the magic is being made. This is a far cry from today’s bulletproof music These tracks breathe. Primarily because no one steps out, all the players are together, a cohesive unit.

If you want to know how it once was, when an album was a statement, capturing a moment in time as opposed to a hit surrounded by dreck, all made for a theoretical audience that does not exist, listen to this.

Really, give “Happy Xmas” a play. All the way through. Even if you’re an atheist. It’s not about the holiday, but the music, and isn’t music our religion anyway?