Author Archives: Michael H. Little

Graded on a Curve:
The Rolling Stones,
Exile on Main Street

I’ve been down in the dumps of late; the suicide of a friend, the death of another friend I dearly loved, and a bad case of the blues have all pretty much brought me to my knees. I feel beat down, fagged out, fucked over, and broken up, and life sure does have a way of tarnishing your eyelids, doesn’t it?

Where to turn in times like these? When you’ve got a foot in the grave and your head in the oven?

Exile on Main Street, naturally. It’s as beat down an LP as ever you’ll hear; Mick, Keith and Company are torn and frayed and have shit on their shoes and the whole album sounds like it was recorded in a sub-basement of Hell.

And yet. The Rolling Stones’ 1972 bruised and battered masterpiece (and high-water mark) somehow manages to rise above the bad vibes and general miasma of death and dissolution that surrounded the band at the time. Nothing–not drug busts, the death of Brian Jones, Altamont, tax exile, or Keith Richards’ slide toward junkiedom–could stop the Stones from turning Exile on Main Street into a celebration of hope and soul survival.

And this despite the fact that the album is the aural equivalent of the La Brea tar pits. Mick Jagger has never stopped carping about Exile’s notoriously sludgy mix, but the murk doesn’t just work–it’s part and parcel of the double album’s greatness. You have to trudge through shit to get to the Promised Land, and if you scrape the shit off these songs, well, you find diamonds. “Turd on the Run” anyone?

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Graded on a Curve:
Hot Chocolate,
10 Greatest Hits

The U.K. funk/soul/disco outfit Hot Chocolate never made much of a dent statewide; they’re best remembered for their 1975 hit “You Sexy Thing,” although pop aficionados will also remember them for such curiosities as “Brother Louie”–which Stories took to Number One in the U.S.–and “Emma.”

And that’s too bad, because the racially mixed Hot Chocolate produced some damn good music, much of which found its way onto their 1974 debut Cicero Park, 1975’s eponymous Hot Chocolate, and 1976’s Man to Man. Lead singer Errol Brown and bassist/co-lead vocalist Tony Wilson were a formidable songwriting team before the latter’s departure, and Brown continued to turn out some excellent stuff, as is proved beyond a doubt on 1977’s 10 Greatest Hits.

It didn’t hurt that Brown’s soulful croon was one in a million, or that he could shriek just like Wilson Pickett. Just listen to the screams he tosses off at the end of the immortal suicide ode “Emma,” which works to a “T” thanks to the funky drumming of white guy Tony Connor and the guitar of other white guy Harvey Hinsley. And Hinsley’s guitar is a thing of wonder on the hard-charging funk rocker “You Could’ve Been a Lady,” which would have flown to the Top of the Pops in a just world. This baby remains one of my favorite songs of America’s Bicentennial Year; inexplicably, Hot Chocolate didn’t see fit to release it as a single.

“Disco Queen” shows off Brown’s funky vocals and Connor’s heavy manner on the drums; the horn section is hot, and when Brown sings “She don’t need no man to give her satisfaction/All she needs is a guitar playing high” Hinsley’s there to do just that. This baby is the Talking Head’s “Life During Wartime” for the dance set, and I love it. “Heaven Is in the Back Seat of My Cadillac” has an impossibly funky groove and brings the best out of Brown, whose vocal style on this one is impossible to describe. Suffice if to say that when he bends the words “Let me take you there” the ladies swoon, and never has the idea of cramped back seat love sounded so good.

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Graded on a Curve: Fleetwood Mac,
Kiln House

We remember Fleetwood Mac’s Danny Kirwan who passed away on Friday, June 8 with a look back from our archives. Ed.

Long before Fleetwood Mac became thee greatest soft rock band of all time—1977’s Rumours sold approximately 17 billion copies, and everybody from the Shah of Iran to the killer whale at the San Diego Zoo were humming “Go Your Own Way”—Mick Fleetwood’s flagship was a bona fide English blues band. And charting said flagship’s Mac’s Columbus-like course from trad blues wannabes to soft rock heroes makes for an edifying listening experience.

Take 1970’s Kiln House. Guitar slingers Jeremy Spencer and Danny Kirwan were in. Former guitar hero Peter Green was out. Christine McVie provided backing vocals, but was not yet a member of the band. Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham were doing whatever it is rock gods do before they become rock gods. Pursuing careers in professional badminton, perhaps. Anyway, Kiln House is a far more curious bird than Rumours or its groundbreaking predecessor, 1975’s Fleetwood Mac.

If Kiln House is short on the pop gems that stud Rumours and Fleetwood Mac, it’s light years away from the band’s blues origins as well. The truth is Kiln House is all over the place. Just check out the guitar heroics on such great tunes as “Tell Me All the Things You Do” and “Station Man.” And from there Mick and Company veer crazily from old school rock’n’rollers (a kick-ass cover of Fats Waller’s “Hi Ho Silver”) to country parody (the hilarious “Blood on the Floor”) to rockabilly tributes (a wacky cover of “Buddy’s Song,” which is credited to Buddy Holly’s mom, and “This Is a Rock,” which lopes and shuffles along at a lackadaisical but irresistible pace, putting anything ever recorded by the Stray Cats to shame).

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Graded on a Curve:
Mud,
The Very Best of Mud

Ask your average American about English Glam, and she’ll most likely reel off a familiar list of names. David Bowie, Roxy Music, T. Rex, and Mott the Hoople will top the list. Sweet and Slade will most likely come as afterthoughts. As will the likes of Gary Glitter and Suzi Quatro.

But U.K.’s Glam Rock movement had a glitter-encrusted underbelly that only the most tuned in Americans knew about. Alvin Stardust, Geordie, Chicory Tip, and Mud may have been household names in Merry Olde England, but they’re rock’n’roll trivia answers stateside.

I would like to report that this deep pool of unknown talent opens wonderful new vistas to American Glam aficionados, but if Mud is any example, we didn’t miss all that much. A couple of the cuts on 1998’s 20-song The Very Best of Mud shine, and I’m certainly happy to have them around, but for the most part I can only say there’s a good reason why Mud made even less of a dent on the U.S. pop charts than Slade and Gary Glitter.

Which is too bad, because in many ways Mud personified the populist (read: strictly for the tweens) wing of U.K. Glam. And like most of said members of Glam’s populist under echelon, they owed their relatively brief success to two uniquely English impresarios of star-making machinery. The first was superproducer/label owner Mickie Most. The second was the songwriting/production machine that was Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman.

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Graded on a Curve:
Neil Young,
Time Fades Away

Neil Young’s years spent “in the ditch” (his words) remain, for me, the most vital of his entire career. As the hippie dream fell apart so did Young, and on albums such as 1975’s Tonight’s the Night (a “howling facedown with heroin and death itself,” in the critic Robert Christgau’s words) and 1973’s live Time Fades Away Young proceeded to disintegrate, sick unto death with the deaths of his junkie friends and dissatisfied with the folk-rock box he’d put himself in with 1972’s mellow Harvest, the LP that made him a superstar.

On Tonight’s the Night the songs bear an almost unbearable weight of sorrow, and Young’s mournful wildcat yowl is a million miles away from the peaceful vibes of Harvest; one can only imagine what Harvest’s diehard fans must have thought of it, just as it’s hard to imagine what his concert-going fans made of the never-before heard songs on Time Fades Away, on which Young and his Stray Gators ripped into such raw, electrified (and electrifying) numbers as the title track, the great “Yonder Stands the Sinner,” and “Last Dance.”

Me, I’ll always think Tonight’s the Night is the greatest LP ever made about the demise of the Age of Aquarius, but Time Fades Away has its pleasures as well, even if Young himself has dismissed it on multiple occasions, saying in 1987 that it was “the worst record I ever made—but as a documentary of what was happening to me, it was a great record.” And on the original, unreleased liner notes to 1977’s Decade, he again expressed his unhappiness with the tour and ensuing record, before saying, “… but I released it anyway so you folks could see what could happen if you lose it for a while.”

So what we have here is as sort of rock version of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Crack-Up, with Neil coming to pieces in the spotlight, as it were. Fortunately Young is hardly the best critic of his own work, because despite his bad memories of the tour that brought us Time Fades Away, the resulting LP is tremendous—not nearly as chilling as Tonight’s the Night, for sure, but a howl of pain and disaffection nonetheless.

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Graded on a Curve:
Big Black,
Atomizer

File under: Music to Hurt Things To. These guys make me think of that line from Fight Club. You know, the one that goes, “I felt like destroying something beautiful.”

I was never much of a Big Black fan for a couple of reasons. For one, they never made me chuckle the way their noise rock brethren in Cows and Killdozer did. For another, I had the hardest time working up any enthusiasm for their drum machine-driven proto-industrial sound.

But time has softened me up to the very unlovable Steve Albini and Company. Sure he’s an awful snot with a jaundiced worldview and a mean word for just about everybody, but you can’t deny he lacks vision. He wanted to make a horrible pummeling caterwaul and accompany it with lots of transgressive lyrics based on stories he read in the newspaper or vomited up from his revolting imagination, and the results can be heard to nauseating effect on Big Black’s 1986 debut LP Atomizer.

The LP credits Albini (guitar, vocals, drum machine programming), Santiago Durango (guitar), Dave Riley (bass) and Roland, who happens to be the drum machine and who I can only presume didn’t get paid. And this despite the fact that on some songs Roland should get top billing.

But on other cuts it’s easy to forget poor Roland because the boys make such an ungodly noise with their guitars, thanks to their use of metal guitar picks notched with sheet metal clips. They achieve a variety of startling and discordant effects via this simple trick; the tinny Chinese din of “Passing Complexion” (think world music as played by guys who never got out of Evanston, Illinois) will give you a good idea of the sonic possibilities. Sonic Youth have nothing on this bunch.

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Graded on a Curve:
Heart,
Dreamboat Annie

What do you get when you cross Stevie Nicks with Led Zeppelin? Heart, of course. Ann Wilson brought folk-inflected female tonsils to the hard-rock table, and things were never the same.

Or rather they were the same, because Heart, while they were groundbreaking, were not one of those bands like the Velvet Underground that went on to launch a thousand imitators. Aside from the songs we all know because they still get played on classic rock radio, Heart’s sound never caught on for the simple reason that they could never settle on a sound, as is demonstrated on their 1976 debut Dreamboat Annie.

Dreamboat Annie veers from Led Zep rips (see “Soul of the Sea”) to Glen Campbell-flavored ersatz country (see all three iterations of the title track, the second of which is the keeper), and takes a few MOR folk, pop, and country rock stops on its way. So if it’s continuity or cohesiveness you’re seeking I suggest you look elsewhere. Diversity–in terms of both gender and music–is the order of the day, and while Ann and Nancy Wilson certainly did a lot in terms of proving girls could play just as well as the boys, the musical on their debut is diverse to a fault.

Ann Wilson is what happens when a little girl grows up wanting to be Robert Plant instead of Janis Joplin or Karen Carpenter; unfortunately the Wilson Sisters couldn’t decide whether they wanted to grow up to be Led Zeppelin or Fleetwood Mac. The lesser angels of their nature led them to unsatisfying compromises like “How Deep It Goes” (string and horn-infested pop shlock) and “(Love Me Like Music) I’ll Be Your Song” (bona fide soft rock), the latter of which reminds me of Bread, for Christ’s sake.

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Graded on a Curve: Allman and Woman,
Two the Hard Way

When it comes to bad marriages, the one between Gregg Allman and Cher was far from the worst. I give you Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, who were such gluttons for punishment they married twice. And John and Lorena Bobbitt, whose less-than-happy marriage ended in a custody dispute over John’s penis.

And let us not forget the marriage between 19h Century art critic John Ruskin and Euphemia Gray, which remained unconsummated after Ruskin made the horrifying discovery that unlike his beloved nude sculptures Euphemia had–gak!–pubic hair.

But what made the disastrous Cher/Allman union so uniquely awful is that they saw fit to leave us with a wedding souvenir in the form of 1975’s Two the Hard Way. Famously attributed to “Allman and Woman”–Cher having evidently agreed to surrender her half of the billing to womankind in general–this ill-starred love child was doomed to ignominy from the start for the most glaring of reasons, namely irreconcilable musical differences.

How incompatible are we talking? Suffice it to say that the wedded couple’s post-LP European tour was cut short after fights kept breaking out between Allman Brothers fans and Cher fans at their shows. It was like a replay of the Civil War, only it was fought overseas. I like to think the Cher fans triumphed–”Claw that hairy brute’s eyes out, Bernice, with your fabulous six-inch nails!”–but I have my doubts.

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Graded on a Curve: Foxygen,
We Are the 21st
Century Ambassadors
of Peace & Magic

Foxygen’s 2013 full-length We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace & Magic raises an interesting question. To wit: Just how good can an album be when the strongest cut on it is a shameless Pavement rip?

The answer, surprisingly enough, is pretty damn good indeed. It doesn’t hurt that the Pavement steal in question–”No Destruction”–is for the ages. Nor does it hurt that the indie pop duo of Sam France and Jonathan Rado have an uncanny knack for raiding the old musical closet to put together new and garishly interesting outfits.

When it comes to retro, Foxygen prefers the AM band to the FM one; their songs are twisted, for sure, but most of them have the exuberant pop! of a cork coming out of a bottle of expensive champagne. And like a good bottle of bubbly, We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors will definitely go to your head.

The album’s potpourri of sounds runs the gamut from the dizzy-making French pop readymade that is “San Francisco” (dig those cheesy glockenspiels and the dreamy backing vocals of Sarah Versprille) to the truncated mutant blues that is “Bowling Trophies.” The latter is a total musical outlier (it borders on noise rock, from the Cows bugle blurt on down) and our favorite pot-loving duo’s retort to those people who wondered what it was doing on the LP probably ran along the lines of, “Hey, it sounded great when we were stoned.”

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Graded on a Curve: Brownsville Station,
Yeah!

Some albums make such a small and unprepossessing mark on rock history that it’s easy to forget they’re there. And so it is with 1973’s Yeah! by Brownsville Station, the hard-rocking Detroit power trio whose soul claim to fame is that great anthem to juvenile delinquency “Smokin’ in the Boys Room.”

Brownsville Station was one of the lesser bands to emerge from the vibrant Detroit rock scene of the late sixties–compared to the likes of Iggy and the Stooges, the MC5, Grand Funk Railroad, and even the Bob Seger System, Brownsville Station ranks as an almost forgotten footnote.

But Cub Koda, Mike Lutz, and Henry “H Bomb” Weck had some good music in them, and they scored a minor triumph with the covers-heavy Yeah! The late Cub Koda was both a music writer and a walking musical encyclopedia, and he obviously chose the album’s very diverse assortment of covers–by artists ranging from the Velvet Underground to Jimmy Cliff to Hoyt Axton to fellow Detroiters Terry Knight and the Pack–with loving care.

This is party music by a party rock band that doesn’t aim too high but hits the target right in the bull’s eye; these boys didn’t have grand musical ambitions, they just wanted to show you a good time. And they do; all ten of the songs on Yeah! are guaranteed, in their own small way, to help you get your party started.

And Brownsville Station will surprise you too–their take on Lou Reed’s “Sweet Jane” is bona fide sweet, and the last thing you would expect from these rock’n’roll animals. And they turn Robert Parker’s horn-driven rock’n’soul classic “Barefootin’” into a T-Rex/MC5 hybrid and unfettered guitar rave up. The axe is straight-up Marc Bolan; the vocals are pure Rob Tyner.

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Graded on a Curve:
Kansas,
Point of Know Return

I saw Kansas once. What a waste of a state. And the band is even worse.

That said, the one time I saw Steve Walsh, Kerry Livgren & Company live I had a wonderful time, although that could be attributed to the fact that I smoked PCP by mistake. Brought a whole new meaning to “Dust in the Wind.”

And to be fair–I went to see them way back when because I liked them. “Carry on Wayward Son” was fine by me, and I was a total sucker for their sound, which basically involved Robbie Steinhardt’s violin chasing Steve Walsh’s organ around the stage while Kerry Livgren was doing whatever it was he did on synthesizers and Rich Williams was trying his hardest to be a complete nonentity on guitar. And those lyrics, man. Deep!

Kansas is a young person’s band in the same way that Thomas Wolff is a young person’s novelist; they sounded pretty great to this dumb teen, but if you’re still cranking them up at 40, well, I have to wonder about you.

For one there’s the question of the lyrics; Walsh and Livgren are collectively even more lunkheaded than Rush’s Neil Peart, although to be fair to the boys it must be said that at least they’re not trying to ram Ayn Rand down your throat. I direct your attention to “Portrait (He Knew)” off the band’s 1977 masterpiece Point of Know Return. The “He” in question is Albert Einstein, and Livgren does some very insightful thinking about the great man along the lines of, “Never said much to speak of/He was off on another plain/The words that he said were a mystery/Nobody’s sure he was sane.” It’s a PhD thesis in rhyme, it is.

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Graded on a Curve:
Toto, Toto IV

Poor Toto the dog. First Miss Almira Gulch of Kansas tried to have him euthanized. He escaped her clutches only to find himself transported via tornado to fucking Munchkinland, where he had to elude the Wicked Witch of the West.

You would think that being catapulted from sepia-toned Kansas to the technicolor Land of Oz would be enough trauma for any mutt. But no. Fast forward approximately 40 years. And guess what? Poor Toto is the victim of identity theft! Seems a bunch of slick L.A. studio musicians decided to swipe his name and turn him into a MOR punch line! Guaranteeing he’d never be able to show his hairy mug in the dog park ever again!

This latest calamity was enough to lead poor Toto to the bottle. But not only has he sobered up, he’s touring the country to tout his brand new tell-all autobiography, The Name Is Toto, Damn It! I recently caught up with him at a Barnes & Noble in Newark, Delaware, and he was glad to share his views on what he likes to call “that band of pricks who dragged my good name through the mud.”

So Toto; when did you first hear Toto?

I was in my Lamborghini. I wasn’t too thrilled with the instant fame The Wizard of Oz got me, but it paid for one bad-ass chickwagon. To say nothing of a pad in Brentwood. Anyway, “Hold the Line” came on the radio, and I thought, “What a cretinous bowl of suck.” In hindsight it’s not such a bad song. But I was listening to a lot of Captain Beefheart at the time, and I thought most everything on the radio sucked. Afterwards the DJ said it was by a band called Toto, and I lost my shit. I pulled to the berm of the Hollywood Freeway, got out of my car, and threw up.

You literally threw up?

Right. About 200 yards from the exit to Cahuenga Boulevard. It was a bad moment. What if YOU heard a really shitty song on the radio and the DJ said it was by Michael Little? I’ve always been very picky about my commercial endorsements. A dog food company offered me big money to put my name on their dry chow and I said no way. The stuff tasted like it came out of a Yeti’s ass. Same thing happened with a wine cooler company. I was drinking about nine bottles of Thunderbird a day at the time, and that swill still tasted like nutria piss.

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Graded on a Curve:
Father John Misty,
Pure Comedy

I’m a big fan of Josh Tillman (aka Father John Misty). I love the way he sounds like the second coming of Elton John and I love his dour worldview which makes him rock’s village crank holding forth in the town square to a snoozing dog. Sure he’s a nattering nabob of negativity, but then again so am I.

So I’m a mite aggrieved by the insults that are being slung his way. John Mayer went to Twitter to say poor Father John “sounds like shit Elton John but if he was just sitting in a corner staring at his hands on LSD.” And The Atlantic Monthly said of Misty’s 2017 LP Pure Comedy that it “often plays like a tedious brochure for nihilism, rescued only by a few flirtations with grace.”

To which I would reply that Father John Misty–who has done time in a slew of bands including Fleet Foxes–sounds like pretty good Elton John to me. And I would reply furthermore that there are far worse things than brochures for nihilism, which is nothing more than an attempt to strip away the comforting illusions that allow us to ignore the painful realities of our present predicament.

I’ll be the first to admit that Pure Comedy is occasionally tedious; at 13 minutes “Leaving LA” tests even my patience, and three of its other songs exceed the 6-minute mark. But I kind of admire its epic reach; if the adamantine pessimist Louis-Ferdinand “I would live for a thousand years if I were certain of seeing the world croak” Celine had decided to forgo the novel in favor of rock, he’d have put out a long-stemmed bummer much like this one.

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Graded on a Curve:
Seals & Crofts,
Summer Breeze

Let’s see if I can think of a nice thing to say about Seals & Crofts. How about, “At least there were only two of them?” Or, “Judging by the cover of Get Closer, Crofts looks like he’s pretty good at catching flies with his mouth?” Or, “According to Wikipedia the soft rock duo were instrumental in converting England Dan and John Ford Coley to the Bahá’í Faith, making it the Yacht Rock religion of choice?”

Or how about this: “With their summer songs blowing through the jasmine in your mind Seals and Crofts were the epitome of early seventies’ mellow, and most likely the inspiration for the Blue Jeans Committee?”

Sure, 1972 commercial breakthrough Summer Breeze–the duo’s fourth LP–is a morass of soppy lyrics and mushy melodies, but if you’re a fan of all things easy listening it’s unbeatable. Soft rock doesn’t get any softer, and if an earth shoe could sing it would sound just like them. So put on your yacht captain’s cap and prepare to set sail on the gentlest seas from here to Catalina!

Like a lot of your more flaccid Soft Coast avatars Jim Seals and Dash Crofts were born in the Heartland, Texas to be precise. But you wouldn’t know it by listening to them; their patchouli-scented sound carries nary the faintest whiff of Angus beef sizzling on the barbecue. Theirs is a folk rock with barely a whit of folk or rock in it, and who can blame them? The word was out that the kids were in dire need of some serious ear-coddling, and wanted to go to California in their minds.

Seals & Crofts succeeded by being softer than anybody–softer than the Eagles, Carole King, America, John Denver, Loggins & Messina, Bread, and James Taylor put together. They parked themselves at the intersection of Gentle and Nullity and they made hay. And they had something more going for them as well, namely an added dash of alternative spirituality. Seals and Crofts introduced an element of foggy Bahá’í mysticism to the mix, and by so doing out-Cat Stevened Cat Stevens himself.

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Graded on a Curve:
Neil Diamond,
Hot August Night

So my physicist buddy Stoner Doug finally managed to construct an actual time machine and was like, “Where should we go?” And we looked at each other and without even having to think about it shouted in perfect sync, “Hot August Night!” Because who wouldn’t have wanted to be at The Greek Theater on that historic August night in 1972 when Neil “Beautiful Noise” Diamond put it all out there in an orgiastic celebration of cosmic shlock?

Forget Elvis! Forget Chuck Berry! Forget Jesus Christ! This was NEIL at his Forever in Blue Jeans best, giving it his all! The Greatest Concert Ever! You don’t hear about it much because the story got suppressed by Neil’s record label, but 15 people died on that sultry August night! Steamed to death by sheer joy!

And Doug and I wanted to be two of them. So we climbed into his primitive time capsule made out of aluminum siding and flattened Dr. Pepper cans with a big sign on a stick reading “We LOVE you Neil!” And following a dramatic WHOOSH and the shriek of the time machine’s 350 Small Block Chevy engine there we were, sitting in Row Three beside a 50-year-old woman from Reno who told us she owned 13 cats all of whom were named Neil (if male) or Diamond (if female).

And there he was! Neil in the flesh! Just like on the cover of Hot August Night on which he appears to be jerking himself off! And why not? If anybody has the right to stroke his shtupper in front of an audience of thousands it’s Neil, who is THE songwriter of our time! The Brill Building savant who came up with such master strokes of pop brilliance as “Cherry, Cherry,” “Sweet Caroline,” and “Song Sung Blue”! To say nothing of the deep philosophical meditation that is “I Am, I Said,” in which an existentially alone Neil complains that nobody will listen to him, not even his chair!

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  • SUPPORTING YOUR LOCAL INDIE SHOPS SINCE 2007


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