Under All Those 'David Bowies'...A Regular Guy

Being a personal memory of the man...and how 

he reshaped my whole view of him, in under 24 hours.

By Peter Rodman

"Do you remember a guy that's been  

in such an early song?

I've heard a rumour from Ground Control... 

Oh no, don't say it's true..."

He was as big, in his time, as Dorothy Parker or Hemingway ever were in theirs--and in my little world, needless to say, David Bowie's passing is a pretty monumental loss. 

I say "little" because the full time interviewer lives and breathes their work alone--with little if any time to soak in what just happened, let alone share any of the personal stuff about it with friends or loved ones, before the next one comes along. 
Only now, 4 decades later, have I really taken time to re-live and enjoy the essence of what's on all those tapes, and what went into each one. In David Bowie's case, the lasting impression is the openness he so freely offered both on and off the air, during what I'll call my Bowie weekend, way back in 1980.  A little background, first:

Phoners (telephone interviews) were never my preferred

method for interviews, but in a few rare cases--either to do a favor for some rock promoter, or if (as with Bowie) it was simply the only way to get an interview--I'd acquiesce, and do one.  Everything from the sound quality to the distance between you usually conspired to make phone calls sound like...well, phone calls.  Less interesting.   Less spontaneous.  Less dynamic.  Less able to have music edited in.
Less everything.  
More pertinently, they could be iffy for a multi-media freelancer, income-wise. 
Those who strictly write for newspapers, no matter how big, predominantly use phoners, to ply their trade; but balancing both print needs and the exacting audio standards of a radio program pretty much demanded that nearly all my interviews be conducted face-to-face.  
My advantage over each venue was the other. My advantage over them all was that I retained full ownership of every tape I ever made, not being an 'employee.'  My work was licensed for a single use, and could be sold elsewhere as I saw fit. That still holds true.
So I knew I'd be selling each story to two or three print outlets, but if the sound quality didn't pass muster, it couldn't run on my radio

Tools of the Trade: the living room rig
...circa 1980

program, and even if it did, an abbreviated phone call (using my suction cup 'microphone' at home) wasn't exactly optimal. (Then again, that's still the best phone sound I've ever heard on the radio--and...it was in stereo!  I still say, they've never improved on that gizmo. ) 
But the point is, I had lots of time to fill, on my weekly radio interview show... and phoners just wouldn't cut it.  So, again: Phoners?  
Not my favorite.
But, an exclusive David Bowie phoner?  From an artist who only did a handful of interviews every few years, at most?
Sure.  I'm in.
In scoring interviews, many times the greatest 'in' was simple hustle.  If I could devise an angle no competing music or entertainment outlet was using, I'd be far more likely to gain access to my target subject.  Better still, if no other writers were paying attention--for example, not thinking a highbrow play might be a great place to score an interview with a worldwide rock star--well, all the better for me!  

A brief digression about radio:

99.9% of all radio stations won't do an interview, unless the artist comes to them. (I call those lazy affairs 'drive by' interviews. "So...uh...what's next for you guys, on this tour?" "Oh...uh...Kansas City. I think it's Tuesday.")
Literally nothing about such an interview will ever be of any interest, beyond the fleeting moment in which it happens.  Mine, on the other hand, could be re-used and repackaged forever--depending upon how well I could steer the questions and answers toward slightly less time-sensitive topics. (I avoided phrases like "your new album" or "last night's show" like the plague.)
What made my mission easier was the fact that in all my travels during the '70s and early '80s, I never saw another radio personality luggin' 40 pounds of recording equipment around to venues or hotels, the way I did. 
I wasn't a "DJ" at all; I was a reporter--something I took seriously, 24/7/365.  The biggest advantage I had in Colorado during all that time was that nobody else in my vicinity was doing anything even close, as a full-time gig. 
The best interviews don't just come to you; you have to go get 'em.  Even Howard Stern's interviews would be better, if he left the comfort zone of his studio and went to them. 
This aspect of my job was completely unknown to my family and friends. I don't know how they thought all this happened...but it didn't just happen.
Oh, and one more thing: Nobody "hires" you, for this kind of job. You invent it.

~ END OF BRIEF DIGRESSION~

The occasion for our encounter was Bowie's brief touring

David Bowie onstage, as The Elephant Man ~ 1980

stint as a dramatic stage actor (in the title role of The Elephant Man), which seemed an obvious 'in' to me, as I figured no other rock writers would probably spring for a ticket, or even have much interest in it --though some have since corrected me, on this point. Still, it offered a much better likelihood for actually connecting with Bowie than would any 'large hall' concert tour he might mount, as one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. 
Many remember it as a Broadway play, but in fact it debuted (with Bowie in the lead role) at Denver's Center for the Performing Arts, from July 29-August 3 of that summer. Then it was on to Chicago for a month, and the show finally hit NYC in September, where it ran through January 3, 1981. 
Meanwhile, a week or two out from the Denver debut--as per usual--was when my real work was gettin' done: 
Buy a ticket; befriend the venue and theater people; contact

A couple archived cassettes
from the time period--
including the Bowie phoner.

David's management, by 'long distance' telephone to London (remember, there were no cell phones back then; my monthly home phone bills in 1980 were routinely upwards of $400!), including several repeat calls and unreturned messages, etc. 
My other work spoke for itself; I'd sent out bound books with hundreds of articles and feature stories, clearly documenting my 'reach' in regional newspapers and magazines.
Even past interviews--particularly one on the plane with Keith Richards, Stanley Clarke and Ron Wood (for a side project of theirs, 'The New Barbarians')--helped cement my credibility with David's reps, some of whom were actually shared with the Rolling Stones.
The whole idea was to erase any doubt:  If he were going to do any interviews in the Rocky Mountain time zone, especially if it was only one--it had to be me. That was the pitch, always.  (Now, it can be told!)  But it was true:  The combined print and broadcast circulation I could generate from just one interview could not be duplicated by any single print or radio outlet in the region, at that time. 

By the time I actually saw the play, I'd already set up a phoner, for the following afternoon...even though I secretly hoped for more, if possible.  And by poking around the unfamiliar neighborhood (40 miles from my home) after the play, I found my way to the only nearby bar, where the actors slowly trickled in after me, to informally wind down for the first time all week, celebrating their first few full-dress, paid-for shows. Good guess!
Lo and behold, after a couple beers with the supporting cast, exchanging notes about everything but their lead player...in popped a very casually dressed David Bowie.  After awhile he was jumping into, and initiating the conversation.  He soon indicated he was already aware of our forthcoming on-the-record chat, and even said he was looking forward to it.  The boy was more than willing to throw down (well, sip) a beer (at least, I think it was beer) and joke around a bit, in advance of our formal Q and A, the following afternoon. 
Perhaps each of us was sizing (or buttering) up the other, I dunno...but a more delightful night I cannot imagine, and could never have expected.  And perhaps it was the sheer exhilaration of having gotten a couple performances under his belt, but David was positively ebullient.
On top of that, I'd never have guessed he was as outgoing, virile, down to earth, and quite frankly "one of the guys" (in a decidedly hetero way) as he was...but he was! 
For what it's worth, this was a thespian--not a lesbian.
That came as something of a jolt to the musicologist in me, who'd carefully studied his albums for a decade, believing full well that the pan-sexual, otherworldly 'being' he'd sold himself as, was exactly what he would be like.
But that wasn't anything like the casual dude joining in on some already snappy repartee.
Easy to laugh, quick with a quip, happy to ask about our 'American football' team (the Denver Broncos, whose footage was on the bar TVs pretty much non-stop, even in summer), he was almost so 'low key' that when we waved goodbye about an hour later, it was as if ol' Dave was just one o' the gang, and you'd be seeing him again, any ol' time! 
Surely this couldn't be the 'concept' icon who symbolized

Bowie, in his beloved adopted hometown, NYC.

'high art' the whole world over, recording electronic music in Berlin, or hangin' with William Burroughs downtown, while his rock counterparts flitted about, up at Studio 54. 
Surely the guy I'd  just chuckled back and forth with about life, and bars, and girls, for God's sake! wasn't the androgynous minx on the cover of 'Pin Ups' or the Spaceman from Mars--nor even the hobbled and deformed character he'd so deftly portrayed onstage, less than two hours earlier. 
But he was.
He was all those things; all those 'Bowies.'
In listening back to our phoner now, I always cringe when I hear myself pronouncing his name as David "Booey."  The whole world says "BO-ee,"

This was actually a fairly light week; my normal taped load
was more like 6 or 7 taped interviews, almost always face-to-face.

and in truth so did I...until my various contacts at his office clearly and repeatedly used "Booey," and so--for the first time since I began collecting his music in 1971 or so, I jumped onboard.  "Booey" it would be.
A year or so further into the '80s, as he rode "Let's Dance" and "Modern Love" to whole new heights, I noticed that his reps had themselves jumped the pond, back over to his audiences' preferred "BO-ee."
(...now you know.)

The next day--as with so many other days back then--I waited at the appointed time, for my phone call...most likely in my pajamas.
That old "dial" phone (pictured near the top of this page) was RED for a reason:  It was called the 'hotline.' Everything important either happened or began, on that phone.  It could never be tied up for anything else.
So when it rang--as always, not a minute early or late--I was sittin' right there, counting the seconds.
"Hello?"
(female voice, businesslike) "Hello, is this Peter Rodman?"
"This is he..."
"Alright--could you hold on just one moment please, for Mister Booey...?"
(brief pause)
DB: "...Helow?!"

PR: Hello, David!
DB: Hi!  How are you!

It was as if we'd never left the bar--but now it was on to business, for me--and I'd taken enough notes at the play to quote a few lines I thought might apply to Bowie himself, or at least explain what drew him to the play--while still

shedding light on his overall thought process, as it might apply to music, painting, poetry, or any other kind of art.  The hope was that if I didn't overdo the analogies, we might get some insights hitherto unavailable in his (decidedly guarded) "rock" interviews.
I won't recount the body of it here; I may post it or share it again another time.  But when asked about the 'chameleon like' persona everyone had always ascribed to him, Bowie chuckled, countering that in fact he thought of himself as "rather grasshoppery," instead. 
As each question came together, he put me completely at ease (and hopefully I did him, as well) resulting in a conversation somehow good enough to entertain and engage us both, to the point where our defenses evaporated, the rapport from the night before kicked back in.
Suddenly, there it was again--the easy laugh, the self-effacing manner, the "aww shucks I'm just a regular guy" thing, juxtaposed ever-so-gracefully with his earnest appreciation for his lot in life, which was to make, appreciate, and LIVE "art," in all its various forms. 
Maybe it seems odd to dwell so much on "process" here, or that I've declined to rewrite the interview for you, in this blog (I promise to unearth it later and include it here)--or even that I'm still so surprised at the Bowie I encountered, that weekend. 
But it's been my experience, with notoriously elusive subjects (like say, Frank Zappa) that you'd better expect the least, and just take what they give you as a bonus. Don't just assume they'll be cagey--but don't expect them to bring you roses, either.
None of my hard-earned knowledge applied to David Bowie at all.
David opened right up and gave me lots of stuff I'd never even heard from him before, as if to say, "I'm an open book...go ahead, I'll answer anything!"
Not what I expected at all.
I've interviewed everyone I ever wanted to meet, and then some. Fame never got to me, and still doesn't--and Bowie was no exception. But probably because his attitude was so unexpected, I still can't get over what a 'regular guy' he was!  It was like looking down inside an active volcano, and seeing a very calm man there, seated in lotus position, beckoning you.  "Come on in, the lava's fine!"

David Bowie...and his famous eyes

I had looked straight into the eyes of a man with two different colored souls--or was it straight into the soul of a man with two different colored eyes? 
You choose; I'll never know, really.

All I know is that today, I grieve for the guy I saw on the stage, and met at the bar--and the grace with which he welcomed me, for however brief a moment in time, into the center of his actual self--even giggling along with me, about his wild array of previous onstage characters. 
"I had to leave Ziggy behind," he confessed at one point.  "He was killing me!"  
Our official interview came in just under the 10 minute time allotted.  The print version will appear elsewhere in this blog, within a few days (I have to dig it out!); the audio version might just turn up elsewhere, later this week.
As my own career went on through the '90s, I still never liked phoners, but I'd have to say I cannot think of a better one than David's, which is probably my favorite interview in the 'phoner' category. (Unless you count the time I played the parrot singing "I left My Heart in San Francisco" for Tony Bennett.  Nah...I'll stick with the Bowie phoner.)

I just wish I could have another toast with the guy, or some Hong Kong barbeque, maybe. Heck, I'd even settle for another phoner--though I doubt we could ever top the one we did, back in that summer of 1980.  
It wouldn't matter much to me now if we ever met up again, as long as he was still around.  But I have to say, it just feels really wrong that David Bowie's gone.
All I know is, this death hurts more than most of 'em--even the biggest ones, celebrity wise.
His personal generosity towards me is always the first thing that pops into mind--like a neurological reflex--whenever I hear his music.  I honestly never anticipated feeling that way, prior to our first encounter. 

That rare glimpse of the man's true essence--just some guy his local bodega owner knew, or a recording engineer, or an elevator operator--is something I'll always consider a personal gift he didn't have to share with me, but did. 
Some people--even in this business--collect autographs; I collect memories. (Okay, and a couple thousand tapes...)

In which the REAL David Bowie (2013) makes a statement, by
defacing one of his own album covers, and getting you to buy it.

I can think of only two career events in Bowie's life since 1980, that really evoke the unassuming chap I got to hang out with, and later interviewed.
The first is his 2013 album cover--pretty much erasing the 'celebrity face' as art, acknowledging the death of album art as we once knew it (in 12" form), and challenging the listener to really toss out all the marketing appeal, if music is truly "all we care about" anymore, as everybody in the MP3 generation likes to say it is.  Brilliant, brilliant...and oh, so subversively street-Bowie!
The other instance was on October 20, 2001...when Madison

Square Garden darkened, and the shadows of two towers faded behind an oriental rug, as a simple man sat--in lotus position, with no introduction whatsoever, and opened the most difficult all-star rock concert in history: the post 9/11 'Concert for New York City' at Madison Square Garden, broadcast LIVE on literally almost every channel in existence.    
There he sat, casually launching into not some Ziggy Stardust-fest of self aggrandizement, but a complex Paul Simon song-poem from '68, about seeking and finding "America"...and love...just as David himself had. Before he followed it up (with "Heroes"), Bowie spoke of "my Local Ladder," a firehouse he'd visited many times--both before and after 9/11.  Those were the first spoken words in the whole show.
This was the real David Bowie. 
Humble, affable, thoughtful, always artistic, and finally ready to show us all his true self--just another guy in that godawful moment, confused as hell like the rest of us, but giving his all, on that dopey but poignant sounding Casio in front of him, set to sound like a carousel calliope; sans makeup, and with only the dimmest pin-spot; sorting through life's commotion, which always returns to ashes; but never (we all hoped) this way again.



"Ashes to ashes, funk to funky; 
we know Major Tom's a junkie..."
 
I like to think he's at peace now.
The ashes are all sorted out; he knows full well, he left all who knew him with a smile. 

Angels eavesdrop on the random humans below--including Lou Reed--
in the 'Berlin' of Wim Wenders' amazing film, Far Away..So Close!

I imagine him sitting atop a gargoyle over a forgotten building, beneath the grey skies of his beloved Berlin, happily listening to all our transient thoughts, and marveling at all this hysterical social networking about him... ("...about me!") in much the same way as those wistful angels did, in Wim Wenders' transcendent film, Far Away...So Close! 
His own ashes casually sift through his fingers, and float casually toward the Earth below.  
He hears the random

An angel surveys all that lives and
breathes below him, from high
atop a statue of an angel in the
film 'Far Away...So Close!'

thoughts of passersby, above and below--including Lou Reed, whom he long ago produced.
He sees me typing this, and sees you reading it; glances toward his old building in NYC, and smiles down at the elevator man; he drifts by the studio to see who's manning the board, one more time; remembers a homeless man he once slipped some cash to, and checks in on him from his perch in the sky, to see that the guy's still okay...(he is); Bowie turns toward home, and sees Iman, sitting alone at a desk there, holding his picture; he wonders how they ever got so lucky...but knows she'll be fine.
He looks up, and humbly thanks his maker; then looks down, and humbly thanks us.
"My," he says to no one, sighing whimsically. "They are a busy lot, aren't they?" 
He's still David Bowie.
...just a regular guy, takin' in a whole new view.

___________________________________________________________
This Opinion Column is Copyright 2016 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved. 

About Peter Rodman: 
"Sunday Night with Peter Rodman" was a weekly radio interview show, which aired during the '70s, '80s and '90s...first in Colorado, and later in Nashville. Peter Rodman's feature work and columns were featured regularly in the Colorado Springs Sun, the Rocky Mountain News, the Boulder Daily Camera, Colorado Daily, Audience Magazine, and others, both regional and national. He also hosted a TV interview show ('Who's On 12 with Peter Rodman?') on KBDI-Channel 12 in Denver, for two seasons (totaling 47 shows) in prime time.  Peter is currently working on a memoir, as well as a book of photographs, to include portraits of some of his best known interview subjects.
'The Peter Rodman Radio Archive' controls the rights to literally thousands of original radio, print and television interviews and images, to this day.

A Few Words About 'COLUMBUS DAY'

By Peter Rodman

I can still recall when Columbus Day always fell on the 12th, and you know what? I'm pretty happy it does today...but that doesn't mean I think Columbus correctly named "the Indians," simply because he THOUGHT he found India. 
Or that he actually parked the Mayflower in October of 1492 at all--let alone, on the 12th. But all that's academic now; he actually docked the thing on the second Monday in October, as we now know...so we all could have a bank holiday, and take advantage of Macy*s sheet sales.

I also liked it better, back when Pluto was a bona fide planet. But that doesn't mean it has to be, if science proves otherwise.

Like many folks my age, I'm used to "Mount McKinley" being the tallest peak in the Western Hemisphere...but I'm perfectly okay with going BACK to "Mount Denali," if that's what it was really called, hundreds of years before we European invaders came along.  After all, Denali is not a river in Alaska.

And yeah, I've always loved a good Redskins-Giants football game...but should our relatively recent sense of white "tradition" supersede the obvious INSULT to the 'Indians' we used to call "Redskins?"

My point is simple:

Despite what O'Reilly, Limbaugh, Hannity and Beck keep telling you, there's definitely something GOOD to be said, for "political correctness."

Without tact, deference, or decorum, we inevitably descend

into The Land of Trump--wherein snark is king, disparaging comments pass for "intelligence," and everyone is...what's the word I'm looking for, here?  Oh yeah:  Nuts.

So, if I was "for it, before I was against it," regarding the Redskins or Pluto, or the 'Indians' or even Columbus Day...so what?

I personally have no problem changing my mind, to make other people feel better about themselves--or correcting myself if I've been wrong; or seeing things another way, given the wisdom time is supposed to bring us all. 

Maybe we should even re-name "Columbus Day."

I hereby nominate

"Stop Pretending You're Always Right" Day!  Or how about...

'CHANGE YOUR MIND' Day!  
America would be so much the better, for it. 
_________________________________
This opinion column © 2015 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.  
     Speaking of wisdom...Here are two pertinent songs you may enjoy:  
                                                    "American Tune," by Paul Simon...

                            ...and "It Sure Was Better Back Then," by Steve Forbert.

________________________________________________________

A Lifelong Yankee Fan Remembers Yogi (...no news there!)

By Peter Rodman

They still sell these illustrations on the streets of New York City for five bucks or so, but I guess not too many people frame them and hang 'em in their laundry rooms. (Any wonder I'm single? )

Like a few of you, I'm sure, I am old enough to have seen all

Your faithful correspondent, 1978

these guys play baseball together at Yankee Stadium several times, as far back as the fabulous 1961 season. I can still remember every player at every position that year, and even their back-ups. (As comedian Robert Klein once put it, "I had a permanent 'NY' dent in my forehead!")
You knew Yogi was as much a legend as anybody there...there's a reason there are three guys in the above illustration, and not just two.
He was in his sunset years by the time Roger Maris came along, and yet it never seemed odd to us kids that Berra was the last guy in the lineup who'd actually played in the '40s, with Rizzuto, DiMaggio, Crosetti, and the rest. 
Back when Yogi came up, the Yankees still carried six catchers on their roster, and first-stringer Bill Dickey wore the number "8."
They'd never need six catchers again.
Nor would there ever again be any doubt--even with all of Dickey's own accomplishments--who eventually OWNED the (now retired) #8 Yankee uniform.

Jerry Seinfeld often jokes that these days, baseball fans just 'root for laundry'--since the players change teams so often, we hardly know their names.
Not so, in Yogi's time.
I can still remember watching the games on WPIX, (Channel 11 in NY)...and Berra was the clutchest of all clutch hitters. While Mickey struggled with his legs and struck out as much as he homered, and Roger Maris hit what they (unfairly) disparaged as "cheap" homers over the short right field fence, Yogi was a stone powerhouse.

Credit:  The Yogi Berra Museum

But he could bunt as well as swing away, and he often clobbered the ball to the upper deck of the opposite field--not something everyone can do.  His defensive play behind the plate alone would have made him an all-star. He was like a brick wall; nothing got past him safely.
Anyway, that's a thumbnail sketch of the player. 

Then came the coach, the manager--and the coach and the manager again. All good.

George Steinbrenner never apologized to any Yankee for

anything that I know of, besides Yogi--who literally stayed away from Yankee Stadium for 14 straight years after his abrupt firing as manager in '64. (His sin was losing the seventh game of the World Series to the Cardinals, and it stung even more because he was fired by Ralph Houk, who'd been his own Yankee manager and predecessor.)  
They should have given him a *medal* for getting a lousy team that far! (Mantle was literally on his 'last legs,' and Maris had faded almost as fast as he rose.)

During Yogi's extended boycott, every single Yankee fan *knew* something wasn't right in the world.
The team stunk. People lost interest.
And even the acquisitions of Reggie Jackson and Catfish Hunter from the A's wouldn't "fix" the Yankee spirit, until Yogi Berra came back, for real. It wasn't until he did, and the team once again got his blessing, that a new 'Yankee dynasty' was born.

Without exception, Yogi Berra became the most beloved living Yankee.
And then there were the sayings--the 'Yogi-isms' which perhaps more than anything, cemented his legend.
Phil Rizzuto (as a Yankee announcer) had started quoting Yogi "sayings" on slow game days, but it was probably Yogi's boyhood chum from St. Louis--Joe Garagiola--who actually

enshrined (and sometimes embellished) the stories, endlessly reciting "Yogi quotes," until finally there were books and talk show appearances, making another whole 'life' for the Italian fireplug behind the plate.
His malapropisms made even Ringo Starr seem like a pale imitation. Ringo once famously blurted out, "It's been a hard day's night," giving his bandmates the title for a movie. That was good enough, and very Yogi-like.

But Yogi was the Heavyweight Champion of such sayings. (Ogden Nash may have been his equal, but he made his stuff up on purpose. Yogi Berra was truly 'a natural.')
Now that he's gone, the internet will no doubt add FAKE quotes to all the real ones, as it likes to do, with all kinds of memes that start out accurate and end up fiction, because that is the time we live in--when people attempt to feel 'legendary,' by attaching something THEY thought up to a famous name, not their own.
What a world, eh?
That widespread (and relatively new) lack of integrity was foreign to Yogi Berra.
In fact, he was so modest, he'd often shrug when asked about a particularly famous quote, and say "I'm not sure. They TELL me I said it..."
His humility had the ring of truth you can bet will disappear within a few months, as one after another, folks add their lame quotes to his image, and pretend. (Just like they have with 'George Carlin' and so many others.)
That's the age we're in now.  The age of liars. Photoshop. False colors and enhanced images. 
Yogi Berra came from another time entirely, which wasn't over 'til...well...it really is over now.
And ya know what?
Yogi was right about the whole game, be it baseball or life.
"...it got late early."

____________________________
This opinion column is Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman. 
All Rights Reserved.

____________

Here's a cool one hour documentary about Yogi Berra. Enjoy...

Fighting Mindless Growth Begins NOW, Nashville

Thursday is Election Day, here in Nashville. We will pick a new Mayor for the first time in 8 years of unprecedented growth. No matter how you vote, I urge you to vote!  Here are my own thoughts on this election.

By Peter Rodman

The notion that all liberals must vote for Megan Barry for Mayor of Nashville is preposterous.  Just below you will find one of her numerous TV ads (called "Earn") which repeats over and over again how she’s going to “earn” our votes.
The plain fact is, she hasn’t.
On the issues we all care about most, Ms. Barry has been vague, if not slippery.  
But my instinct would still be to support her, because I disagree with (the more conservative) David Fox on even more issues. 
The problem with Ms. Barry, for me, is one of trust.
Look for yourself:

"I want to earn your vote," she says over the music, "because these are fights that I am willing to keep fighting!" ...huh? 
Now watch the above Robert Redford scene from The Candidate, and draw your own conclusions.

Any of Megan Barry's ads (or speeches) could just as  accurately be called “Continue,” because her obvious intention is to continue the mindless madness of ‘growth without purpose’ that has recently begun obliterating the Nashville I moved to, over 25 years ago.
 

Downtown Nashville, 2015~ Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.

Current Mayor Karl Dean has giddily welcomed the world to Nashville, lopping 90% of his attention (and our resources) into a single square mile of our 7,500 square mile city:
...downtown.  
He has shown laughably little interest in outlying areas-- which, let's face it, produce few politically beneficial headlines.
Police and Metro Codes enforcement are a joke everywhere else but downtown--and I'm not just talking about “cars on lawns,” although that should have been cracked down on years ago. (Just try selling your house, next door to some slob whose lawn is littered with vehicles.) 
Just this year, Mr. Dean attempted to fob off the entire downtown jail on Near South Nashville, in order to clear out yet another classic building...so developers could erect even more condos downtown.
The madness has got to stop--and the sad truth is, it WON’T stop, under a ‘Mayor Megan Barry.’

I have repeatedly been told Megan Barry’s a nice person, and I believe that.  More than one friend has written that I should “Have coffee with her!” as a remedy for any nagging doubts about trusting her to be more than just a continuation of the voracious 'Karl Dean Growth Machine.'
I don’t need to.

From the earliest days of our seven-candidate scrum,  Ms. Barry--and no one else--was the candidate whose campaign first pulled a smear campaign. 
It was nasty, too.
As Bill Freeman (a fellow liberal) outspent and out-polled his six rivals, Ms. Barry used her connections at The Tennessean to parlay story after (inaccurate) story into portraying him as a right wing conservative.
For example: Freeman is pro choice, and a ‘pro life’ group of protesters followed him around for several days, finally tracking him down in a parking lot, where they videotaped him answering their taunts, by saying he agreed that abortion shouldn’t be used as birth control--an obvious way to get rid of these pests. 
Quite strangely, Megan Barry was there before the story was even written--the ONLY candidate asked for (or ready with) a retort for publication---and although she knew it was inaccurate, immediately painted Freeman as ‘anti-choice.’ 
The next morning’s paper carried a headline to the effect that ‘Freeman Speaks to Anti-Abortion Group,’ as if he had given some kind of speech to them in support of their ‘pro life’ views!
It was this kind of chicanery that gradually whittled away liberal votes from Mr. Freeman, until Barry eeked out a narrow victory.
The Tennessean later endorsed Ms. Barry, though the slant of its ‘story telling’ columns was transparent from the very beginning.
It then proceeded to chip away at Mr. Freeman’s commanding lead, by citing “polls” that turned out to be Barry-sponsored.   (These are commonly known as ‘push polls,’ designed to ask questions which lead to a desired answer--thereby puffing up the numbers for a given candidate. No reputable news organizations report them as ‘news.’  The Tennessean has pretty much damaged its reputation beyond repair, during this mayoral race.)
Essentially, “the fix” has been in for Megan Barry, from the start.
In the early going she spent very little, as free publicity emerged from the paper. Meanwhile, Barry quietly held fundraiser after fundraiser, in the kind of homes where the crown molding and nick-nacks alone cost nearly as much as most other Nashville dwellings. 

David Fox has long sought to be portrayed as the ‘fiscally responsible, conservative’ candidate--code words for the usual 'austerity' Republicans tout as the solution to everything, these days. 
I have never voted Republican in my life, and don’t intend to start now.
And yet…
What if paring back our ‘It City’ bullshit resulted in a return to paying attention to how we grow, instead of just growth-for-its-own-sake?
What if fewer resources were siphoned off from the rest of the city for downtown, and more attention was paid to details--like the depressing collection of Gannett circulars piling up in driveways all over town, while that conglomerate continues to chuck ‘em in driveways overnight, every Wednesday?  The amount of trash that generates weekly--from literally hundreds of thousands of yellow plastic bags that do NOT go away, and often are left to rot for weeks or months at a time--is staggering. 

It's technically illegal...but Mayor Dean looks the other way.
What if he didn't?
It’s precisely the kind of ‘boring’ detail Karl Dean abhors. 
Unless there’s a blue ribbon to cut--and a high profile ceremony to go with it--Mayor Dean would rather not even be there.

Megan Barry’s backers--including Gannett Publishing, Karl Dean, and most of our mega-developers--consist almost entirely of the entrenched townie contingent. 
Most of her support comes from Belle Meade and Green Hills, where incomes are high and very few neighborhoods endure the kind of ‘shoebox-building’ on tiny house lots we’re seeing in East Nashville and elsewhere, these days.
Ms. Barry has been Mayor Dean’s most solid supporter, on

Nashville's "Mass Transit," circa 2015:
A man waits on Nolensville Road for one of the
'hourly' buses that never seem to arrive.
Photograph Copyright 2015 Peter Rodman.

everything from the insulting and ridiculous “AMP” bus lane proposal (connecting West End to East Nashville, instead of North to South, where people actually need a better bus system) to charter schools--which increasingly siphon tax dollars away from our public schools, and into a select few 'better performing' ones.
 
Here’s my opinion on charter schools:
I gladly pay my school taxes, though I have no children.
But can I withdraw MY tax dollars from public schools, for another purpose of my own choosing? 
Of COURSE not!!!
Neither should you, as a parent, be able to do so.
I fully sympathize with your desire to better educate your kid…but the Public School system only works when we all pitch in to it, period. If schools are under-performing, the answer is more resources--not withdrawing tax monies from them to fund your family's individual desires. Charter schools aren't "choice"--they're welfare for the few, at the expense of the many.
Nashville’s public schools deserve better.
Neither Mr. Fox nor Ms. Barry is in the right place, on this issue.

I always assumed I’d vote for Ms. Barry, until I finally saw all the debates, and realized I don't see much substance behind the pleasant, slightly-forced smile.  
She speaks in platitudes.  It’s scary how her vagueness gets rewarded, too--because tons of corporate 'growth' money has lined up behind her. Never forget, her underlying message is this:
             “Continue the Mayor Dean legacy.”
 
There are many great things Dean has done, mostly by picking low-hanging fruit and taking obvious paths.
After all, downtown Nashville was more or less an empty canvas, when he started!  There was virtually no residential housing downtown back then, compared to now.
But he’s managed to “grow” a theme park, not a real city.
There’s not a single drug store, grocery store, or hardware store--think about that--in all of downtown Nashville!
Name any other major city you could say that about.
You can’t...because it doesn’t exist. 

~ Nature is losing the fight, in downtown Nashville's 'Gulch' ~
Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.

As Bill Freeman pointed out in the first mayoral debate, Nashville ranks #49 in American cities, size wise.
The Top 48 cities all have REAL mass transit--meaning some sort of RAIL system, or a vast network of buses, or both.  But Nashville hasn’t bothered to even consider anything on the scale that it desperately needs--and the sooner, the better. We are slowly watching our city strangle itself, with congestion and growth.
“The way I figure it, we’re 10 years behind--and even if we start tomorrow, it’ll take that much more time just to fund, plan and build a mass transit system,” Freeman said. "So that's a total of 20 years behind, but we're still gonna need real mass transit connecting all these areas."
A network of REGIONAL TRAINS linking one end of middle Tennessee to the other seems like the obvious answer--but no candidates besides Freeman showed even the slightest interest in it.
Both Fox and Barry have continued to use generalities like “every neighborhood counts” in their stump speeches…but neither has offered anything substantive, that would effect real change.
In my opinion, we've ended up with a runoff between amiable (Barry), goofy (Fox), but sadly unimaginative candidates.
So it all boils down to this:
If neither candidate is my cup of tea, which one do I think would do the LEAST damage to the city I love, during the next four years?  
Mr. Fox is diametrically opposed to my every stand on social issues, I’m sure. After all, he’s conservative--I am liberal.
But Ms. Barry’s emphasis on social issues is an insult to our intelligence.  (What the hell does the MAYOR have to do with a woman’s right to choose, gun control, or ANY of that stuff?
The answer is “nothing.”)
And yet, Barry’s ad campaign and debate fodder has been peppered with these topics, as if to obscure her voracious appetite for unfettered GROWTH.
(She in fact supported Mayor Dean’s idea to move the jail out of downtown, and foist it upon South Nashville to clear the way for more downtown development--something she rarely talks about, and a direct indication of her intent to “continue” --her word--the Dean legacy.) 


 Have you had enough growth yet, Nashville?
...because I have! 
At this point, I've reluctantly decided I am ***anti-growth.***
We need to put the brakes on, and reconnoiter. Regroup.
We need a plan.  
It's not that we have such a bad growth plan; it's that we have no plan.  ('Just Keep Growing' is not a plan.)
 
I’m not sure how badly Mr. Fox's ‘austerity’ will affect this town, other than to slow it all down a bit.  And seeing as how that’s not necessarily such a bad thing, I’m going to hold my nose and vote for him.
Because fighting back against mindless growth is the real "fight worth fighting," Megan.




_________________________________________________________________________
This Opinion Column Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

Danny O'Keefe and James Taylor Prove 'You Just Have To Be Ready'

By Peter Rodman

There’s a certain comfort in knowing an artist’s sensibilities and tastes remain intact, even after 5 or 6 decades. The downside might be that you can hear echoes of their past work, in any of their new work.
The upside is exactly the same.

Some critics might mistake predictability for rust, but that’s like saying a movie sequel should throw out all that came before it. (Or even that Gramps should never have processed the wisdom he accumulated, along the way.)
Two new albums put the kibosh on that notion, to varying degrees and in entirely different ways.
I thought you’d like to know...but first, if you will…a bit of history:

It's my belief that a reflexive fear of irrelevance  knee-jerked the community of ‘rock critics’ into defending 'hip-hop' as the most wonderful thing since Elvis.
Well, it ain’t.  (But that discussion’s for another day.)
I only bring it up here, because those same critics (Rolling Stone, for example) would rather be caught dead than to unabashedly praise a new James Taylor or Danny O’Keefe album.
And that is precisely what I am here to do...with a few minor caveats.
I didn't wish to engage in the usual “He’s a national treasure” banter here, but it's unavoidable. 
We kinda know that, about both of ‘em.

The questions for me, before hearing either of these new projects, were:

• How will an entirely new set of original songs fare, as each artist enters his sunset years? 
• Can 60 and 70-somethings really create new work as relevant as the body of classic stuff that put them on the map, nearly a half century ago?
• Are they doomed to merely re-recite the same set of music each and every night on the road, for the rest of their years on this planet?

The answers are, "Nicely, yes, and...yes."

When he was still in his twenties, Taylor wrote of this very phenomenon:  

“See me singin' about ‘Fire and Rain?’

Let me just say it again:

I’ve seen fives, and I’ve seen tens!

It was strong hit

from the Money Machine

I was sittin' on top…

On top of the goddamn world…”

O'Keefe, too, had profound doubts about what it all meant, back in the ’70s:   

“It ain’t for the money, and it’s only for awhile

You stalk about the rooms; you roll away the miles

Gamblers in the neon, clinging to guitars;
‘You’re right about the moon, you’re wrong about the stars’

And when you stop, to let ‘em know you got it down…

It’s just another town, along the road.”

With breathtaking self-awareness, these young men confided in their millions of fans--at the peak of their fame and fortune--about all the self-doubt success had brought them.
Even more impressive was the cool absence of self-pity, in both Taylor's "Money Machine" and O'Keefe's "The Road."  Each possessed a keen eye for taking that emotional ‘selfie’-- without any of the self-congratulatory posturing one might expect today.

All of which neatly brings us to "now."

How, I wondered, would these laser-like songwriting pens fare--especially after such lengthy absences from the studio, and (quite frankly) at such an advanced age?  Had time dulled their swords? 
The answer to that one, delightfully, is “No.”
Time has only brought each writer more wisdom--which is a writer’s personal knife sharpener.

Danny O’Keefe has just made the best album of his entire career.
In fact, it’s got so many treasures, so much lyrical depth, and so many different personalities underneath the singer’s voice and the players' colorings,  I still haven’t quite wrapped my mind around all of it.
This is how albums should be! 
Light Leaves the West isn't something you hear once and say, “Okay…got it.” It's a work of deceptive beauty that may not even grab you, on first listen--but return visits are as rewarding as a new glance at a favorite painting.  You'll go back to the museum wondering how much you missed the first time, confident there’s more to discover.
There is.
This album dips into a rich palette of musical colors. O’Keefe began exploring most of its musical themes as a man in his twenties--jazzy minor sevenths, suspended riffs, knowing pauses before key punchlines--and longtime fans will be happy to hear this fully ripened version of his unique perspective on life...which amounts to a whimsical,  sometimes wistful shrug.

Danny O'Keefe

  The writer in him sees what we all see, and accepts it.  It's his from-the-heart voice that provides the emotion.   
O’Keefe's fans will certainly recognize his arranging skills: At various times the musical ‘stops’ echo “The Road,” or his signature song, “Goodtime Charlie’s Got the Blues,” or even the more ethereal “Magdalena”-- but those were indeed Breezy Stories, compared to the deep thoughts O’Keefe has crafted here.

Light begins propitiously with "You Don't Have to Be Right (You Have to Be Ready)."   The sprightly pop opening quickly draws you in with major chords, and just as quickly calms you down with jazzy colorings, like a Seattle sunset whose fuzzy beauty takes a few minutes to emerge.
Danny begins to sing:

"Even the dreamers don't dream any dreams, any more.

Luxury items; now that's hard to afford..."

Almost immediately, you know you're listening to a poetic voice like no other.  Old timers may actually feel as though they've been awakened-- Rumpelstiltskin-style--by some long-forgotten seer, making his long-awaited 'second coming.'
 

"They tell ya it's all done with wires; I don't think it's true

It's all done with mirrors, just between me and you..."

O'Keefe is quite obviously right and ready.

That opener makes a musical nod to 1972's "The Road," as O'Keefe sets up the payoff (title) line with a kind of 'wait for it...okay, here it comes' set-up...and I find in that more whimsy than redundance.

What's happening here is essentially a re-awakening. Danny O'Keefe has reached a level of comfort with his perplexed nature,  and that acceptance seems to have pulled the shades up, and allowed more light in the writer's room. 

The light that's left "the west" is shining in on his writer's heart, and it shows throughout this gem. Nowhere does he foresake his familiar styles; mostly, he just updates them.

(Fans of the ethereal "Magdalena" will find "Ultramarine" similar in feel but even more rewarding, and so on.)  
I might have liked his voice to be miked a bit closer, as the words are sometimes hard to hear--and always well worth hearing.  In fact, the worst thing I can say about this album is that with a baker's dozen of the best lyrics I've heard in a long time, it's a shame there isn't a deluxe booklet with every single song lyric there, to pour over.   They're available on his website, but it's not the same thing. 
I haven't told him this--and I have no idea how he'd feel about it--but I'm hoping some go-gettin' record company strikes a deal with him to "deluxify" this album, and give it the proper distribution, packaging and promotion it richly deserves. (Hey, Starbucks...how 'bout it? This'd be a perfect fit!)

On the plus side, I've heard nothing that sounds this close to Danny O'Keefe since...well...since Danny O'Keefe!  
Songs like "The Ice Cream Changes" are at once illuminating, romantic, and inspiring: 

"Listenin' to those ice cream changes,

Time has turned us into strangers;

Still, the music sweeps along...

Turnin' memories into songs" 

See what he did there?  In O'Keefe's world, memories turn into songs, not the other way around.  He's inviting you to view things from the writers' hard-earned perspective, which is way more interesting than some sort of cheesy nostalgia trip. 

'Light Leaves the West' is
available at www.dannyokeefe.com

Likewise, in "Help Me Up" O'Keefe alludes to the "I've fallen and I can't get up" ads, but without the usual yucks...not an easy thing to do, especially insofar as he knew you'd wanna have a moment of snark there, and instead lasers in on your compassionate self.  That is the gift of a great writer.

To be honest, I could probably write a whole blog about each song. 
To be merciful, I won’t...

I've heard way more than my share of song lyrics in this life, and not much strikes me as "new" anymore, but there are at least a couple head-turning thoughts in every single song, on Light Leaves the West.  I am grateful for this visit with a mind we should all know better, and a voice that hasn't lost a step in all these years.   
They say even God came back down to Earth, to revise and update His previous book.  This record is Danny O'Keefe's New Testament.

--HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

James Taylor never really went away.  His summer shed tours have been packin' houses for decades, and in recent years he's done pared-down world tours, cover albums, concert albums, and Christmas records--pretty much all the things an artist does, when he's done everything else.

He is regularly feted with 'lifetime achievement' awards and blue ribbons, all very well deserved...but Before This World is his first collection of new, original songs in 13 years. 
As with most singers after a certain age, the voice is ever-so-slightly less supple than it once was, and the "funky James" part of his act is hit-and-miss these days, though still a highlight of any show.
I have to confess too, I am often distracted by 'outside information'  beyond the music, when listening to new material from an old favorite, or even somebody new. 
When JT first came around, for example, the back-story was that of an underdog--fresh out of in-patient therapy, and a chance meeting with Peter Asher that resulted in his first record contract. 

James Taylor, then.

Fast-forward about a half-century, and you've got a 67 year old superstar who's weathered every trend (and every classic pitfall of stardom) to become (you guess it!)... a National Treasure.
Why do I bring all this up again?  
Because it matters.
Why even try to ignore his significance in our lives, as the first singer-songwriter of the whole era which helped define us? 
If Taylor was an underdog at the start, he's the obvious 'overdog' now--both artistically, financially, and practically. 

James Taylor, recording Before This World in his home studio.

Not everyone can walk across their driveway to a world class studio they own, and find Steve Gadd (and the rest of JT's A-list band) waiting there to record.  
I suspect it took him some time to be entirely comfortable bringing his band into his studio, to record his songs...

"I was born singing, yes I am
Grew up some kind of travelin' man;

Sunday morning, pack my things
Say 'So long, Sweet Potato, I'm on the road again'..."     

In one sense, this album is standard James fare, enhanced by note-perfect (at times almost sterile sounding) attention to detail. It's also a return to form, of sorts--echoing not so much his Apple or Columbia days, but the wintery albums he made for Warner Bros. (some of them recorded at another 'home studio') back in the mid '70s. 

"And my favorite thing is to miss my home
when I'm gone...soon as I'm gone..." 

Despite its higher profile numbers (like "Angels of Fenway," which panders to Red Sox nation--annoying this Yankee fan, to no end!)  the real gems on this album are hidden in the running order.  

  "I'm not smart enough for this life I've been livin'
A little bit slow, for the pace of the game

It's not I'm ungrateful, for all I've been given

But nevertheless, just the same..."

"Montana" is a stone classic--worthy of your 'repeat' setting, and trust me, it will bear repeated listens, even if you don't immediately 'get' the line "over the ocean from here" being plunked into a song about such a landlocked place.
(Is he missing Montana? Nope.  Turns out that's An Extra Large Thought, about the tectonic formation of Montana.)  
Here's a recent performance of "Montana," followed by an  oldie you'll know. His 'studio voice' is of course a lot less shaky than this live performance on a nationally televised morning show.  Either way, the new song 'bests' the old one, for me. 

Again, the album version of "Montana" is far better than the above clip.  The studio is James's friend, more now than ever.
When he sings note-perfect, and over a perfectly recorded electric bass, it's as if time has stood still. On this record, he's ageless. In person, not as much. When you hear the gorgeously double-tracked voice sing an extended "Ohhhhhh..." at the beginning of the "Montana" chorus, you ain't leavin'.  It's an emotional high point...and would be for any artist, of any age.
Figure out the lyrics to that song another day; once you hear the studio version, you're gonna wanna hear it again. This, I know.

"Snowtime" is an obvious sequel to "Only A Dream in Rio," at least in musical terms...and JT's background singers pretty much elevate things beyond anything mere mortals might do in their home studios. If it weren't James, you might wonder if it'd ever get recorded. He manages to rhyme "mamba, samba and "La Bamba," conjures "the frozen man" yet again, and begins the track with a line or two of Spanish--almost as if to throw everything into rescuing a so-so number. 
But in the end, you're glad he did.  Because why not hear "Rio 2.0," applied to the Rio Grande?  
See? That's why the ancillary/background factors matter, in assessing an album like this. 
"You And I Again" is possibly the most melodic new song here, and it's terrific.  Too many other tracks stay within a four or five note range--and while I understand why, it's hard to give our multi-millionaire friend a pass, on decorating just any mundane melody with tens-of-thousands of dollars, in production. Sorry...just bein' honest.  
Having said that (and I realize this'll sound incongruous), this is a GREAT album, compared to anything else out there today.
My big problem (and James's) may be in comparing  anything he does today, to the dude in his twenties and thirties, who was full o' nothin' but musical juice.
That part is gone.
This, on the other hand, is the dry James--an acquired taste, for connoisseurs who've stuck with him through it all--for those of us who've been with him a while...and by "a while," I mean 47 years or so. 

As for value, it can't be beat. 
A well-to-do artist can easily afford to double your 'entertainment value' for less than 15 bucks, and this CD comes with not just a booklet but a bonus 'Making Of' DVD, which gives you a glimpse of James's process these days.
I'm always grateful when an artist of this caliber gives us a peek behind the curtain, and into his creative process, though some might find it a bit much to see his cushy compound sold as matter-of-fact beauty anyone might have. (Any mere 'rustic' setting, this ain't...) 
Still, he's more than earned it--wouldn't you agree?     

Some of the album ("Far Afghanistan") is the kind of stuff that relies on elaborate production techniques to decorate awkward songs that would never stand up, given a lesser voice. 
But that's just it:

James Taylor has earned not just his bounty, but our trust.  And as an artist, he's rarely let us down. 

This album fits nicely in his canon, alongside countless other things of beauty he's given us. Who knows? Maybe only two or three songs will last, but that's okay too. (It's a pretty good ratio, by today's standards.) 
Here is an American voice for the ages. James Taylor's voice is perhaps more expressive in its plaintive delivery and tonal inflections, than any other in pop music.

That he isn't given more plaudits from rock's critical community is their loss, not ours...or his.

Fact is, they (and pretty much they alone, meaning the critics) missed (and thereby dissed) a great one. 

This is our old friend, James. 
Maybe slightly less tuneful nowadays, but far more competent a recording artist than the kid we first met 47 years ago.  

Before This World takes few chances, but that's a good thing. It's a breath of fresh air, a return to form, a comfortable pair of shoes, and a warm place to lay down.  

Even your cat will like it.  

WELL RECOMMENDED.   

 

____________________________________________________________

NOTE: There were no videos or full songs available to post here from Danny O'Keefe's new album, but here's Amazon's '30 second preview' of a track from Light Leaves the West. 
You will need to scroll down and click "PLAY," once you get here:   Amazon's "preview" snippet of "Help Me Up"

 
_______________________________
This opinion column is Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
Opinions about music are by their very nature subjective; mine are no better than yours--that's what makes music so great! And it's why I rarely write "reviews" at all...but I was hoping this might help the curious, my age, who wondered about these new albums from our old faves.