Ana Popovic (feat. Robben Ford)

Glenn Frey

[ed. Now this is really stepping out of your comfort zone. Who would've thought?]

Emmylou Harris

[ed. Love this old Chuck Berry classic (especially this version by Emmylou and Albert Lee). See also: this excellent cover by Elle and Toni.]

You Never Can Tell (C'est La Vie)

It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well
You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle
And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell
"C'est la vie," say the old folks, "it goes to show you never can tell"

They furnished off an apartment with a 2-room Roebuck sale
The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale,
But when Pierre found work, the little money comin' worked out well
"C'est la vie," say the old folks, "it goes to show you never can tell"

They had a hi-fi phono, boy, did they let it blast
700 little records, all rock, rhythm and jazz
But when the sun went down, the rapid tempo of the music fell
"C'est la vie," say the old folks, "it goes to show you never can tell"

They bought a souped-up jitney, was a cherry red '53
And drove it down to Orleans to celebrate their anniversary
It was there where Pierre was wedded to the lovely mademoiselle
"C'est la vie," say the old folks, "it goes to show you never can tell"

They had a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well
You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle
And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell
"C'est la vie," say the old folks, "it goes to show you never can tell"

Notes on The Greatest Night In Pop

A Study In Leadership, Teamwork, and Love

The Netflix documentary, The Greatest Night In Pop, tells the story of the making of We Are The World, the 1985 charity single featuring (almost) everyone in American pop at the time: Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Diana Ross, Cyndi Lauper, Tina Turner, Billy Joel, Dionne Warwick…the list goes on and on.

The documentary is based on hours of footage from the night they recorded the single, only a few minutes of which was used for the original music video. The Greatest Night In Pop (TGNIP) came out eighteen months ago, and while millions of people have viewed it, I’m constantly surprised to learn that many have not. Everyone should.

If I had to recommend a documentary or just ‘something to watch on TV’ for absolutely anyone - man or woman, old or young, liberal or conservative, highbrow or lowbrow - I’d recommend The Greatest Night In Pop. It may not be the deepest, most profound ninety minutes of TV, but it is irresistibly enjoyable. And actually, like the best pop, it is deep; it just doesn’t pretend to be.

To us Brits, We Are The World was a mere footnote to Do They Know It’s Christmas? That record was instigated by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure and recorded by a supergroup of British and Irish musicians under the name Band Aid (an underrated pun). The proceeds went to famine victims in Ethiopia. We Are The World was made for the same cause.

I knew that, but what I learnt from TGNIP is that there was an element of racial pride in the American response, which arose spontaneously from a conversation between Harry Belafonte and Lionel Richie’s manager. Belafonte said, “We have white folks saving Black folks—we don’t have Black folks saving Black folks”. Lionel agreed, and the wheels started to turn.

Ah, Lionel. The man who makes everything happen. It is perhaps not coincidental that he should emerge as the star of this documentary, given that he co-produced it. The same might be said of Paul McCartney, who emerged as the hero of Get Back. But in neither case do I sense corruption of historical truth. Richie is extraordinary, both as a talking head and in his 1985 incarnation. As chief interviewee - host might be a better word - he sparkles: mischievous, funny, a supreme storyteller. As the prime mover behind the recording of We Are The World, he is simply awesome.

After Belafonte’s prompt, Lionel calls Quincy Jones - the maestro, the master, the producer of the best-selling album of all time. Jones immediately says yes, and they call Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder. Both agree, Stevie only belatedly because nobody can get hold of him (a theme of the doc is that Stevie Wonder is both delightful and utterly ungovernable). With these stars on board, they know that pretty much everyone else will want to be involved, and so it proves. They decide to recruit white stars as well as black, and get Springsteen and Joel and Kenny Rogers and Willie Nelson and others.

The first thing the principals need to do is come up with a song. Lionel goes to Michael’s house, and the pair spend several days hacking away at the piano (Stevie was invited but is AWOL). With a couple of days to go, they crack it (that is, Quincy likes it). The song is, well, fine: not a work of genius but a pleasant, gospel-inflected anthem, easy enough to sing without much preparation, catchy enough to be a hit. It does the job.

When he took up this baton, Richie was on a career high. He’d left The Commodores and broken out as a solo star. He was about to host the American Music Awards in Los Angeles, the biggest primetime music show, for which he himself was nominated for eight awards (he won six). It soon becomes apparent to all concerned that the best and perhaps only way to get all the talent in the same place to record a single would be to do it on the night of the awards, when so many of them are in town anyway. That would mean doing an all-night session, and for Lionel, it would mean first hosting a live awards show watched by millions - demanding, stressful, exhausting - then helping to run this second, private show right afterwards. No problem!

So it is that after the AMAs we see limousines dropping stars off at an LA recording studio. From a narrative point of view, a delicious premise emerges: a bunch of very famous, egotistical, impatient, nervous pop stars, most of whom don’t know each other (“It was like the first day of kindergarten”, recalls Richie) are brought together in a room to make a record of a song they barely know (they’ve heard a demo). It absolutely has to be a huge hit. They have about eight hours; there’s no coming back tomorrow.

It could have gone badly wrong. That it didn’t is testament to all involved but to Richie and Jones in particular. The two of them corral this unwieldy gaggle into making a sleek and successful product.1 The first time I watched TGNIP I enjoyed it unreflectively. When I watched it for a second time, I began to see it as a study in leadership, collaboration and teamwork.

I’ve written before about how diversity needs to be interpreted beyond demographic attributes like race and gender to temperament and personality. The British management researcher Meredith Belbin constructed a famous inventory of behavioural types which together make up a successful team: the Resource Investigator, the Coordinator, the Shaper, the Catalyst, and so on.

TGNIP prompted me to come up with an inventory of my own: the Decider, the Connector, the Conscience, the Old Buck, the Disrupter, the Weirdo, and the Lover.

THE DECIDER

Quincy Jones taped up a handwritten sign at the entrance to the studio: LEAVE YOUR EGO AT THE DOOR. He was possibly the only person in America who would have dared to write such a sign for such a crowd and certainly the only one who would have been listened to.

To lead a team of 40 superstars was a tough task but it certainly helped to be Quincy Jones. Aged 51, he been an arranger for Duke Ellington and Frank Sinatra; produced Donna Summer and Aretha Franklin; won multiple Grammys; turned Michael Jackson into the biggest artist in the world.

In TGNIP he is somewhat marginal to the action just because he is in the control room, while the camera roves the studio floor. We hear his voice over the intercom and see him when he comes onto the floor to coach someone through a difficult vocal part. (He wasn’t interviewed for the doc but we hear him speaking about the night from an earlier interview).

There’s no question he is in charge, though. His interventions are economical and precise; he doesn’t waste words. He is stern when he needs be, jocular in a restrained way; cool. Everyone in the room looks up to him, literally and metaphorically. He is friendly but not your best friend. He is here to make sure the job gets done, and done well. He is The Decider.

THE CONNECTOR

By contrast, Lionel Richie is very much your best friend. He is everywhere, talking to everyone: greeting, thanking, hugging; answering a thousand queries; soothing egos; telling stories and making jokes; giving pep talks; smoothing over potential conflicts; solving musical problems; hyping and cheerleading; raising the energy level when it flags; consoling the weary. Somebody else says of him, “He’s making the water flow.” That’s it.

Richie has a special knack for wrangling very talented, slightly nuts individuals. Cyndi Lauper, who was a massive star at that time, bigger than Madonna, decided on the evening of the recording that she wasn’t going to do it after all. The reason she gave is that her boyfriend didn’t like the demo of the song that Richie and Jackson had made. He’d told her it would never be a hit.

Lionel has to take a minute backstage at the awards ceremony which he is presenting to find Lauper, put any hurt feelings he might have aside, and cajole her into returning to the team. Later on, he’s the one negotiating with Prince over his possible participation over the phone. He also has to hide wine bottles from Al Jarreau so that he doesn’t get too drunk before recording his solo part. Details.

by Ian Leslie, The Ruffian |  Read more:

Image: Netflix

[ed. Highly recommended.]

Is Mid-20th Century American Culture Getting Erased?

A few days ago, The Atlantic published an article on esteemed author John Cheever (1912-1982). But the magazine is almost apologetic, and feels compelled to admit the “final indignity” suffered by this troubled author—”less than 30 years after his death, even his best books were no longer selling.”

What a comedown for a writer who, during his lifetime, was a superstar contributor to The New Yorker, and got all the awards. Those included the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the National Book Award, and the National Medal for Literature.

But that’s not enough to keep any of his books in the top 25,000 sellers at Amazon. Try suggesting any of Cheever’s prize-winning works to your local reading group, and count the blank stares around the room.

And it’s not just Cheever. Not long ago, any short list of great American novelists would include obvious names such as John Updike, Saul Bellow, and Ralph Ellison. But nowadays I don’t hear anybody say they are reading their books.

And they are brilliant books. But reading Updike today would be an act of rebellion. Or perhaps indulging in nostalgia for a lost era.

The list goes on—Joseph Heller, Bernard Malamud, Carson McCullers, Robert Penn Warren, Katherine Anne Porter, James Agee, etc. Do they exist for readers under the age of forty?

Their era—mid-20th-century America—really is disappearing, at least in terms of culture and criticism. Anything from the 1950s is like an alien from another planet. It simply doesn’t communicate to us, or maybe isn’t given a chance.

And what about music?

The New York Times recently noticed that mid-century American operas never get performed by the Met. It’s almost as if the 1940s and 1950s don’t exist at Lincoln Center. (...)

But I see the exact same thing in jazz. Most jazz fans want to listen to music recorded after the the emergence of high fidelity sound in the late 1950s. So they are very familiar with Kind of Blue (1959) and what happened after, but know next to nothing about jazz of earlier periods.

If I were making a list of the greatest American contributions to music, my top ten would include Duke Ellington’s music from the early 1940s and Charlie Parker’s recordings from the mid-1940s. But even jazz radio stations refuse to play those works nowadays. So what hope is there that these musical milestones will retain a place in the public’s cultural memory?

Jazz musicians who died in the mid-1950s, such as Art Tatum, Charlie Parker, and Clifford Brown should rank among the great musicians of the century, but somehow fall through the cracks. Maybe if they had lived a few more years, they would get their deserved acclaim. But the same fans who love Monk, Miles, Ornette, and Trane often have zero knowledge of these earlier figures.

Now let’s consider cinema from the 1940s and 1950s. It doesn’t exist on Netflix.

You might say that Netflix has eliminated the entire history of cinema from its platform. But it especially hates Hollywood black-and-white films from those postwar glory years.

Citizen Kane is the greatest American film of all time, according to the American Film Institute. But when I try to find it on Netflix, the algorithm tells me to watch a movie about McDonald’s hamburgers instead.

The second best American film of all time is Casablanca, according to the AFI. When I tried to find it on Netflix, the algorithm offered me an animated film from 2020 as a substitute.

The sad reality is that the entire work of great filmmakers and movie stars has disappeared from the dominant platform. It wouldn’t cost Netflix much to offer a representative sample of historic films from the past, but they can’t be bothered. (...)

Not all of these works deserve lasting acclaim. Some of the tropes and attitudes are outdated. Avant-garde obsessions of the era often feel arbitrary or constraining when viewed from a later perspective. Censorship prevented artists from pursuing a more stringent realism in their works.

But those reasons don’t really justify the wholesale erasure of an extraordinary era of American creativity.

What’s happening? Why aren’t these works surviving?

The larger truth is that the Internet creates the illusion that all culture is taking place right now. Actual history disappears in the eternal present of the web.

• Everything on YouTube is happening right now!

• Everything on Netflix is happening right now!

• Everything on Spotify is happening right now!

Of course, this is an illusion. Just compare these platforms with libraries and archives and other repositories of history. The contrast is extreme.

When you walk into a library, you understand immediately that it took centuries to create all these books. The same is true of the Louvre and other great art museums. A visit to an Ivy League campus conveys the same intense feeling, if only via the architecture.

You feel the weight of the past. We are building on a foundation created by previous generations—and with a responsibility to future ones.

The web has cultivated an impatience with that weight of the past. You might even say that it conveys a hatred of the past.

And the past is hated all the more because history is outside of our control. When we scream at history, it’s not listening. We can’t get it cancelled. We can’t get it de-platformed. The best we can do is attach warning labels or (the preferred response today) pretend it doesn’t exist at all.

That’s how Netflix erases Citizen Kane and Casablanca. It can’t deny the greatness of these films. It can’t remove their artistry, even by the smallest iota.

But it can act as if they never happened.

This is especially damaging to works from the 1940s an 1950s. These are still remembered—but only by a few people, who will soon die.

This is the moment when works from 80 years ago should pass from contemporary memory and get enshrined in history. But that won’t happen in an age that hates history and wants to live in the eternal present. (...)

But that eternal present is a lie, an illusion, a fabrication of the digital interfaces. And this not only destroys our sense of the past but also undermines our ability to think about the future.

In an environment without past or future, all we have is stasis.

So it’s no coincidence that culture has stagnated in this eternal digital now. The same brand franchises get reheated over and over. The same song styles get repeated ad nauseam. The same clichés get served up, again and again.

by Ted Gioia, Honest Broker |  Read more:

Image:Bettmann/Getty/reddit

[ed. Jesus. Who in their right mind would have approved these interview questions? Miles Davis and Harry Reasoner (60 Minutes).]

Enlly Blue & Royal Blues Club

[ed. More here, and if you like this check out Etta James' catalog, too.]

The Big Push

[ed. Yow. This kid (Ren) is great.]

Billie Eilish

[ed. See Song Exploder for podcast interviews with just about everyone, including Billie Eilish.]

Grant Green, McCoy Tyner

 

Here's a Story For the Kids

The other day, on Twitter, people (“people,” you know who I mean, the disorganized blob of posting addicts, ahistorical teenagers, and semi-employed journalists and academics who on the right day constitute a plurality of social media discourse) were submitting bids for the worst song of all-time. And it wasn’t long before someone posted a clip of Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes performing their 2010 hit “Home” on NPR’s Tiny Desk.

(Twitter embeds don’t work anymore, but it’s around the 5:00 mark below.)

The clip went viral in a way that other suggestions for WOAT did not, even though “Home” isn’t that bad. Really, it’s not. Sentimental and cloying, yes, and the whistle is grating; I did not like the song when it came out, and no false nostalgia descends upon me now. But if I put on my “neutral cultural critic” monocle, strip away all associated memories, and attempt to hear it for what it is, “Home” is basically cut-rate folk-rock. Maudlin, but not ontologically objectionable. Tinker with the production and you can imagine the Carter Family singing it. There are worse songs in this genre, for sure, and way worse songs beyond that. (...)

And that’s not getting into the hundreds of god-awful filler tracks, novelty cash-ins, and self-recorded demos that litter the deepest recesses of Spotify’s library and Instagram Reels, though I grant that when people say “worst song of all-time” they usually refer to “worst song of all-time that listeners have heard of.”

But what made people (again, “people”) respond so strongly to “Home” was the video, in which singers Alex Ebert and Jade Castrinos duet face-to-face in that stripped-down and “real” Tiny Desk way. They make affectionate eye contact, and in particular Castrinos is making a face that says “I am sort of kooky but I really love you,” while Ebert’s face says “I am communicating a secret that only we know, which is that I really love you” A love song sung by two people who are in love—this is a formula that listeners usually fall for, and “Home” was sort of popular when it came out. It’s easily the band’s most popular song.

Still, much of what I just described is considered ontologically objectionable in 2025. Partly it’s because of the way they look: Ebert is long-haired, bearded, and shirtless underneath a white suit jacket (Father John Misty as a cult leader), while Castrinos hides very short hair beneath a knitted beanie, and lolls her head around as she sings. I cannot speak to the spiritually liberating experience of performing this song, but a ruder interpretation is that she looks like she’s clearly on drugs, thereby making her behavior insincere. Partly it’s the received understanding that this song is emblematic of the widely mocked “stomp clamp” genre that symbolizes millennial culture of the early ‘10s—music regarded as unilaterally embarrassing because the young have come for the old even though lots of us also hated it at the time!!!!!!! We didn’t all work for BuzzFeed!!!!!!!

Anyway. That “Home” seems “cringe” is possibly its worst sin—get a load of these two 20-something white people drawling at each other about moats and boats and waterfalls when they should be taking a dang shower. Actually, Ebert and Castrinos resemble the type of people who Father John Misty is so good at skewering, the self-serious flower child artiste types who are horrible to talk to at parties.

(A pet peeve: Everything is “cringe” from the right perspective. Even the haughtiest people I know have made—or enjoyed—art filled with emotions and ideas that are, to me, flatly wack. One of the most judgmental snobs I ever knew is now a fitness influencer. Another paints the worst paintings I’ve ever seen in my life. Another writes fiction. Calling something “cringe” is usually a confession of vulnerability, a sign of weakness. Projecting your own aesthetic and emotional insecurities onto other people? That’s cringe, bro.)

Watching all this discourse unfold about a song I never liked inspired a familiar feeling: the need to correct someone on the internet who is wrong. I particularly feel this feeling when the discussion involves a period of time I lived through, and still remember pretty well. It’s obnoxious to be confronted with the crude stereotypes of how people allegedly behaved and thought back then. I understand that history is always being re-remembered by the pedantic, but sometimes you go, “whoa, that’s my history.” (...)

It’s funny that the song is seen as “cringe” now, though, because my first thought watching the clip is that these two people—both thin, and attractive in the face—are obviously having sex with each other. Perhaps today they look like back-to-the-land types, or MAHA believers, or simply homeless—but back then, this look said “we are going to take drugs and fuck,” which is categorically not cringe. (Unless you’re talking too much about your polycule, but I don’t want to open that can of worms.) Sex can be gross and shameful, but two hot people giving in to unbridled desire is one of the most powerful forces alive. It’s why people watch movies, or pornography, and it’s why many were—and are—skeptical of the hipster, this fear that attractive people were fucking. And when you remember, as I said above, that “hipster” was at some point applied to literally everyone under the age of 25 who voted for Barack Obama, it all reduces to a fear that young people are having fun.

Ebert is a particularly funny vector for this accusation of “cringe” because he was formerly the lead singer of Ima Robot (nobody remembers this), a sexed-up dance-punk band from the early ‘00s that the art kids of my high school were obsessed with. The line “No, I want to wait for someone like you” from Ima Robot’s single “Dynomite” is as earnest as anything in “Home,” and it’s sung by the same person: a handsome white man who was probably having a lot of sex with other good-looking people. That the same guy with a different haircut could go from making cocaine music to marijuana music (to paraphrase an old Chuck Klosterman observation) is the stronger criticism about the meaninglessness of this stuff: It was all lifestyle content sold by intellectually bankrupt sex addicts. (...)

Yet it’s easy to imagine Ebert coming by all of this authentically, in that girls and boys alike just want to have fun. This is uncomfortable to think about, the possibility that strangers may just be enjoying their lives. I watch a lot of TikTok videos, which I’m still unpacking, and a frequently encountered affect in the comments is a sort of smug tut-tutting. Like if you’re watching a video where a cat eats a slice of turkey, you’d better believe you’ll read a comment where someone tells a whole sob story about how you’d better make sure the turkey isn’t cooked in any herbs because my sister’s cat ate a piece of rosemary and died. If there’s any opportunity to judge from a removed vantage point, a commenter will take it. More and more I wonder if culture isn’t just cresting toward the inevitable endpoint of art not mattering so much as whether it is produced by someone worth rooting for—someone who doesn’t make other people regret their own personal choices. We’re already there, maybe.

I regret very few things in my life, and I am lucky to feel this way. But I’m certainly aware of the choices I didn’t make. And the truth is, in 2010 I was definitely envious of people like Ebert and Castrinos, so confident and happy in their crunchy earthy hedonistic bubble. I lacked the confidence to be so romantically available, in a way that might allow me to have my own full eye contact love affair with a sprightly and interested person. I was the type to pine, and ruminate, and this is not pining or ruminating music—this is stuff for dropping acid and frolicking in a field. My father had died a few years before, and I’d moved past the immediate shock toward a deeper understanding that I was now different, and sadder, in a way that often prevented me from letting loose. But really, my father’s death only sharpened and clarified feelings that were going to come out at some point. People my age who enjoyed this song—I don’t even think I felt like we were part of the same species.

This is why the clip of “Home” offends, I think, because it’s visual evidence that two young people were maybe in love. Without the video, it sort of sounds like Paul Simon. With the video, it’s everything you’re not, and everything you never were, and everything you will never be, which is a scary thought.

by Jeremy Gordon, Air Gordon |  Read more:

Image: YouTube

Marcin Wasilewski Trio

Sudovian Dance

Universal Music Group is Going After Rick Beato

Just when you thought major labels couldn't get more stupid...

I lost faith in the music industry decades ago, and I’ll never get it back. You will have an easier time convincing me that Elvis still lives in Graceland or Santa Claus delivers gifts from an Amazon truck.

I’ve heard too many horror stories and I’ve seen too much firsthand. I eventually came up with my “Idiot Nephew Theory” to explain why major record labels seem so much more stupid than other businesses.

Here’s how I’ve described it:

THE IDIOT NEPHEW THEORY: Whenever a record label makes a strategic decision, it picks the option that the boss’s idiot nephew thinks is best.

And what do idiot nephews decide? That’s easy—they always do whatever the company lawyer recommends.

But just when I think I’ve seen it all, some new kind of stupid comes my way via the music biz.

And that’s the case right now. Universal Music Group has gone to war with Rick Beato.

If UMG were wise, they would thank Mr. Beato, who works tirelessly to grow the audience for their recording artists. Rick is smart and trustworthy, and is probably the most influential music educator in the world right now.

He does his work on YouTube, where he has more than five million subscribers. I’m one of them. I learn a lot from Rick’s videos, and have been fortunate to be his guest on two occasions (here and here).

He offers sharp commentary, and has conducted smart interviews with Sting, Pat Metheny, Rick Rubin, David Gilmour, Ron Carter, George Benson, Keith Jarrett, Michael McDonald, Jimmy Webb, and many other legends. These artists open up with Rick, because he is so knowledgeable, with big ears and a big heart.

So why is Universal Music upset?

Like any music educator, Beato plays a few seconds of the songs he discusses on these videos. But he’s very careful to limit himself to just a short extract—and this is allowed by law.

It’s called fair use. And it’s part of our copyright law.

Universal Music can’t change fair use standards. But it can file a constant stream of copyright infringement complaints with YouTube. And this puts Beato in a difficult situation—because he will get banned from YouTube after just three copyright strikes.

If that happens, his 2,000 videos disappear from the web—including all those historic interviews. His five million subscribers lose a trusted voice.

That may be what Universal Music wants. Listen to Beato explain this dire situation:

Universal Music is making surprising claims. On a short 42-second video on Olivia Rodrigo, Beato included just ten seconds of a song. But UMG still charged him with copyright violation—although this seems a straightforward example of fair use.

Beato pushes back and successfully defends his fair use rights—but the disputes keep coming. He showed us his email box on the recent video.

Rick has been forced to hire a fulltime lawyer to handle the endless stream of infringement claims. He has won repeatedly—but maybe that’s what gets the label so upset.

“We have successfully fought thousands of these now,” Rick explains in the video. “But it literally has cost me so much money to do this. Since we’ve been fighting these things and have never lost one, they still keep coming in….And they’re all Universal Music Group.”

“It looks to me like Rick Beato was targeted,” claims lawyer Krystle Delgado, who runs the Top Music Attorney channel on YouTube. “What the major labels have said in their closed door meetings to me is nothing short of shocking.”

“If you try fighting them, they get upset,” she adds. “And that’s when this thing starts to escalate.” She notes that her other clients run into this problem and one company—Universal Music Group—is the leading instigator. (...)

I could share many other videos expressing support of Beato. But you get the idea—the wider community of music educators and commentators is alarmed.

This is sad confirming evidence for my Idiot Nephew Theory. Maybe some corporate lawyer thinks this is a smart strategy for UMG. But people who care about music see it differently—they know how destructive this kind of behavior really is. (...)

His audience knows how much good Beato does. We see how much he loves the music and how much he supports the record labels and their artists. They should give him their support in return.

by Ted Gioia, Honest Broker |  Read more:

Image: YouTube/Rick Beato

[ed. Everyone knows about Rick, right? If you don't, choose any musical artist that comes to mind and you'll probably find an interview or analysis of their music on his channel. A great educator, historian, and fine musician in his own right. Also, for an additional dose of stupidity, see: We've Reached the Sad Cracker Barrel Stage of Cultural Evolution (HB):]

***

"Hey, I love American traditions as much as the next bumpkin. But Cracker Barrel isn’t a tradition by any stretch of the imagination. The company was founded on September 19, 1969. That’s exactly one month after the end of Woodstock.

Even Jed Clampett could sniff out the phoniness at this chain restaurant.

Cracker Barrel is a postmodern pastiche of rural tropes. Jean Baudrillard would call it a simulacrum. By that he means that it’s a symbol disconnected from reality—it merely refers vaguely to other symbols.

So you can’t bring back my grandpa’s Cracker Barrel—because my paw-paw never saw a Cracker Barrel. (...)

The biggest shareholder is BlackRock. Did you think it was Dolly Parton or Willie Nelson?"

Spinal Tap II: The End Continues

[ed. The boys are back. Coming September 12 to a theater near you.]

Image: via

[ed. See also: Rob Reiner on ‘Spinal Tap II’ and His Real Rock Memories (RS).]

Taylor Swift’s Engagement Ring Marks a Return to Vintage Elegance

The pop star’s antique-inspired sparkler channels the “heirloom look,” reflecting a return to antique stones.

In her 2008 classic song “Love Story,” Taylor Swift fantasized about getting proposed to: “He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring / And said, ‘Marry me, Juliet.’”

Seventeen years later, Ms. Swift, 35, finally had her fairy-tale engagement. The football player Travis Kelce, also 35, proposed with what appears to be an elongated, old mine cushion cut diamond set on a yellow gold band. (A cushion cut diamond has rounded corners.)

The ring was designed by Kindred Lubeck of Artifex Fine Jewelry in New York. Ms. Lubeck makes hand-engraved jewelry with natural gemstones.

“It’s not just a flashy piece, but more of an aesthetic, really beautiful diamond,” said Marion Fasel, a jewelry historian and the author of “The History of Diamond Engagement Rings: A True Romance.” Her friends in the jewelry world, she said, have been excited about the piece because of its high quality.

“You can tell this is a beautiful diamond from the light and faceting arrangement,” Ms. Fasel said, estimating the weight to be around seven carats.

“It’s a real trend in jewelry and diamonds and engagement rings to choose antique stones because they have a very different kind of light,” Ms. Fasel said. “Even though this is a giant diamond, it’s a much softer light.” (...)

There also appears to be engraving on the side, as well as two smaller diamonds. “They must mean something, because everything with Taylor means something,” Ms. Fasel said. (...)

Nilesh Rakholia, the founder of Abelini Jewellery, a modern British jewelry brand, estimated that the ring weighs seven to 10 carats, costing between $1 million and $1.3 million.

“What makes this design particularly striking is its blend of vintage charm and modern minimalism,” Mr. Rakholia said. “The choice of yellow gold has been making a huge resurgence in fine jewelry, loved for its warmth and ability to enhance the brilliance of white diamonds.”

Jason Arasheben, the founder of the jewelry company Jason of Beverly Hills, said that he anticipates an uptick in requests for elongated, old mine cushion cut diamonds, as well as thicker bands and antique aesthetics. “I know I’m going to get tons of screenshots from clients,” Mr. Arasheben said, citing the Taylor Swift effect.

Ms. Fasel doesn’t expect too many details about the ring to be confirmed by Ms. Swift soon. “With my history in celebrity engagement rings, no one says anything,” she said.

Much of the jewelry worn by celebrities tends to come from professional relationships with major brands. Ms. Swift, for instance, has almost exclusively worn Cartier and Lorraine Schwartz pieces for red carpets. But an engagement ring, Ms. Fasel said, is different: It’s the “one thing that is not branded, and I feel that’s part of the reason the excitement around an engagement ring has accelerated to such a high level.”

by Sadiba Hasan, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce

[ed. Who doesn't love Taylor and Travis? Reminds me of another similar engagement: Inside Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio's Roller Coaster Romance (Biography). See also: Taylor Swift’s Engagement Ring and the Romantic Mystique of Old Mine Diamonds (Sotheby's).]

Steely Dan

Asian Cultural Symphony Orchestra 亚洲文化乐

 

Sharon Van Etten

[ed. So good, don't know why she isn't more followed. Live version here. See also: Idiot Box; and her beautiful duet with Angel Olsen: Like I Used To  - (who wouldn't die to be looked at like that?).]

A Teen Band Needed a Pianist. They Called Donald Fagen.

I'm crossposting this amusing account of how Donald Fagen, the creative linchpin in the Dan sound, showed up recently as pianist with a teen band. (He is 77 years old and the rest of the band is 17!) Fagen can be prickly and reclusive and hasn't performed anywhere else this year. But here he unexpectedly agrees to sub for another musician on a lowkey gig. Enjoy! - Ted Gioia.

In April, a curious video began circulating among Steely Dan fans online. It showed a trio of very young-looking musicians playing with the silver-haired eminence Donald Fagen.

The performance at the Barn at Levon Helm Studios in Woodstock, New York, was the first time Fagen had been seen onstage since Steely Dan canceled the last nine of their tour dates with the Eagles in the spring of 2024. The show also marked his first public appearance following the October 2024 death of his wife of more than 30 years, the singer-songwriter Libby Titus.

Exactly how, fans wondered, had the Nightfly been coaxed back behind the piano? To get the story, I spoke in April to the members of Roche Collins: Ronan Roche and Sam Cousins, who trade guitar and bass, and drummer Lavon “Lee” Collins. At that time, all of them were 17.

Collins’s mother, the singer-songwriter Amy Helm, is the daughter of Titus and Levon Helm, the famed drummer and vocalist of the Band. Which makes Fagen, technically, Collins’s step-grandfather. As it turns out, this wasn’t the first time Collins had asked Mr. Steely Dan for a little help.

The video of you guys playing with Donald Fagen at the Barn made the rounds among Steely Dan fans.

Lavon Collins: Wait, really?

People were excited to see Donald onstage playing music again.

Collins: That’s really funny that it got circulated that way.

How did that appearance come about?

Collins: It was really kind of a simple thing. I’ve been playing with Donald sometimes just for fun, and he, of course, has a good feel and can play chords. I had an idea for this groove kind of thing [for the song “Words to Live By”], and then I asked Donald for some help on it, and we just did it together. So before the show, I said to him, “Hey, we need a piano player for that song,” and he just did it.

Ronan Roche: We had a dire need. We had a piano player who was going to do that whole gig with us, but then he couldn’t get off work.

Sam Cousins: So we figured our last option is Donald Fagen, I guess. [Laughs.]

by Jake Malooley, Expanding Dan |  Read more:

Image: uncredited

[ed. Nice to see him back in action, plus discover a new Steely Dan substack/website.]

Mayer Hawthorne & Daryl Hall: A Strange Arrangement

[ed. Haven't thought about Mayer for a while. The real deal.]