In the rain

Highlights from my 10+ Albums: "In the Rain" by The Dramatics.

I debated whether this was the song or if the theme from Shaft by Isaac Hayes was the song, the song that started an interest/obsession in 1970s soul, particularly the Southern Soul that they used to play on AM radio back in the day. It could be either of them, or it could be another song, like something by Barry White heard on childhood car trips across the Southeastern US ("See Rock City!" "Stuckey's--7 Sticky Miles!"). Or even "Sideshow" ("Let the sideshow begin/step right on in...") by Blue Magic.

But "In the Rain" is pretty, well, dramatic and memorable all on its own. There was an AM station in Jacksonville, North Carolina, aka "Marineland," near where I grew up, that gave this heavy rotation at one point, so it's become one of my favorites over the years, a song that also seems to herald the "Quiet Storm" movement on FM radio a decade later (WHUR, Howard University Radio in Washington, DC, being one of the finer purveyors of the genre in the early 1980s).

Growing up in the South, growing up in the US, we listened to R&B/soul/black music constantly, but we weren't necessarily kind to or respectful of African-American performers. The choreographed dancing, the vibrant-colored suits, the emotional lovey-dovey nature of the songs all seemed "too much," worthy of ridicule, even a little camp, sometimes. And yet I find songs like "In the Rain" engaging, memorable, and poignant on a deep, meaningful level than I do songs by a whole host of rock performers with far more street cred.

I'll also point out that if you listen to early Beatles and early (and even later) Rolling Stones, who are they using for inspiration? Who are they trying to interpret and emulate? African-American performers from the 1950s and 1960s-- Think Chuck Berry, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the Isley Brothers, Little Richard, James Brown, Etta James, Aretha Franklin, and many others. Who were about as rock and roll as you can get.

So respect to The Dramatics and all the other '70s soul groups. They earned it just by being on the scene but continue to earn it with their enduring artistry.

¿Qué será mi vida?

Like I said, always choose disco.

Choose disco

This is probably way too much yellow fabric and blue eyeshadow for a rainy October morning, but some of us choose to jumpstart the day with drugs while others, like me, choose disco.

The Gibson Brothers (who, despite the Anglo sounding name, were actually Francophones from Martinique) represent a phase of late 1970s French/Belgian pop hitmaking that no one other than me would possibly be interested in. Long live the production team of Daniel Vangarde and Jean Kluger!

From this era and from this production team, I am particularly fond of "Cuba" but also of another Gibson Brothers' hit, "Qué Será Mi Vida (If You Should Go)," which was popular the year I made my debut at the cotillion of publicly acknowledged homosexuality. That is to say, bounded out of the closet and into the hearts and minds of a small but highly valued group of family and friends.

Cuuuuubaaaaaa, quiero bailar la salsa ....

Showing the '70s some love

And Party Every Day: The Inside Story of Casablanca Records by Larry Harris
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I enjoyed this book far more than I probably should have. While it's not perfectly written, it is very entertaining, especially for me, someone who remembers well the rise and fall of Casablanca Records, the Kiss era, Donna Summer, disco, Parliament/Funkadelic, and everything else that Neil Bogart, Larry Harris, et al., begat and bequeathed.

Not all of it was good, but when it was good, it was great, as much for the music as for the fantasy, glamour, and excess it created.

The focus in this book is perhaps more on Kiss than on the others. As more of a disco dolly, I would have preferred more about Donna Summer and Giorgio Moroder. Nonetheless, Harris does a good job of conveying some of what was going on with them and their music at the time. He also touches upon the rise of gay culture in the disco era, not shying away from it, although again, I was left wanting more.

That's not really a criticism. I'm just greedy.

While not a Kiss fan and knowing only a little about George Clinton and Parliament, I was nonetheless enthralled to read about their personalities, work, and vision, and how Casablanca hustled to unleash them on a receptive, if unsuspecting, public.

I was a teenager during this era, a time in my mind's eye, when America was still on the move, when the angst and anger of the late '60s had somewhat subsided and the conservatism and consumerism of the '80s had not taken over. So there's a special place in my heart for the people, places, and events described within. People often say the '70s were about nothing, but I think they were about a number of things: harmony, unity, diversity, fun, working out our past social kinks and moving on to a better, more liberated culture. An idealized take on the decade? Perhaps, but I'd match it any day to the accomplishments of the '80s.

Having said that, from some of the events described in these pages, I'm not sure I would have survived if I'd been on that '70s scene. In fact, many didn't. Drugs, decadence, and disease took their toll.

Thus it's great to have Harris's stories about Paul Jabara, Marc Paul Simon, Jacques Morali, Henri Belolo, Casablanca FilmWorks, Donna Summer, George Clinton, the four Kiss solo albums, radio promotion, marketing music, and all the rest. It's a terrific chronicle of a lost time and place and a loving but honest look at the genius and the folly that was Neil Bogart.

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When I was 15, it was a very good year . . . for music

I think we can all agree by now that my taste in music--and most other forms of popular culture--is a mixed bag, ranging from the almost-credible to the incredibly dodgy.

Australian and South African soap operas, Fannie Flagg novels, lustful or wry commentaries about French TV personalities, the Sims, ABBA, shortwave radio, the Minogue sisters, '60s James Bond movies, Eurodisco and other music that is more about the beat than the lyrics--guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, and so very guilty.

And so be it. I am what I am, and to deny these rather camp cultural tastes is to deny myself, my identity, which in large part is that of a gay white American man in his early 50s with a slight Southern accent and somewhat leftist politics who can't drive a stick and avoids pretentiousness and math as if they were plagues from the heavens. I'm weary of apologizing for myself and tired of feeling embarrassed about my likes and dislikes--even though I am doing a bit of both, right here and now.

I do have other interests, ones that are slightly more highbrow, especially when it comes to movies (ahem, film) and fiction (ahem, literary fiction). I should share more about those and maybe I will in the year ahead. Admittedly, it is tougher to write about the "serious" stuff and somewhat less fun. Perhaps this belies some serious intellectual laziness on my part, I would wager. Or, again, am I dissing myself over my true interests so as to seem weightier, to be taken seriously? Yes, that too.

Goodness knows I struggle with this at work too often, pretending to being into what I do when, really, I think my interests within my profession lie elsewhere and are much more basic. They're more about helping people, relating to them, figuring out their needs, than shilling to them about another new, half-tried technology or half-baked theory.

My profession is crazy these days. But it doesn't mean I have to be, too.

And, thus, I present to you "Fly Butterfly" by Ruby Manila.

This is one of those songs that has teased my memory for years. I used to hear this--or something like it--on my shortwave radio in the late 1970s, but I was never able to identify the performer, the song title, the country of origin, the year of release, or even the exact station I was listening to (although I had a pretty good idea it was being broadcast on a German station or one in the Benelux between 1976 and 1978). I heard it more than once during the era but could only remember the refrain, "fly, fly (or high?), butterfly (butterfly)," sung by a smooth, high female voice, counterpointed by a ridiculously deep male voice.

I adore the song--it's quintessential Eurodisco, with the swooning vocals, skanky bass, and seductive beat, perhaps more 1976 than 1978 in sound, but who's counting? It's not quite as I recall it--I don't remember any of the lyrics other than the chorus; I remember the music being slightly more electronic and faster in beat; and I remember the singer's voice as being a little higher--but it is the song. Maybe there was another "special disco version" or someone else covered the tune. Regardless, this is it, and I'm glad to finally discover it after nearly 40 years of off and on searching.

How did I find this? I'm not sure I can even recall the exact steps. For years (at least five, maybe longer), I've searched repeated for the phrase "fly high butterfly song" and "fly fly butterfly song" or simply "butterfly song 1970s" via Google, YouTube, and some online music forums. You'd be surprised not at how many references to butterflies in the 1970s you might find in this way but perhaps at the number of songs you might discover.

Such as this:



Which is close. Right genre, right era, right region.

And this:


Which is not but was popular in the early '70s and was covered in other languages and by other artists.

Apparently, too, these guys had a hit with a song called "Butterfly" in the 1970s, but I kept getting pointed to this instead:



No, I don't understand it either. On many different levels. When it comes to "schlager," I realize that even I have borders of camp that I won't cross.

For some reason, last night, after a day of housework and sleep, I was obsessed with the idea of finding this song (plus one other, which we'll get to in the near future). I tried my usual searches and came up empty. And then I got creative (or overcome by the dust and cleaning chemicals, take your pick) and branched out a bit. I can't remember what exactly I typed in the search box: Some combination of "butterfly, fly, disco, song, 1977, 1970s" or some such. This search somehow miraculously led me to this page, which identified a song title and a singer, although providing more lyrics than I recall. And this information quickly led me to discover the video that started off this post.

There are a few other references to the song: For example, this page and this page. But that's about it, at least for now.

None of my usual searches and sources have turned up a roaming mp3 or even an unwanted vinyl for the tune. But never say never. I found the song, I found the artist, and in good time, I'll add the music to my collection.

Along the way I think I also discovered another lost part of my youth and thus nother part of me. Misspent you say? Wasted you infer? I beg to differ. I wouldn't be me without all the Ruby Manilas and Fly Butterflys in my life. Perhaps that means little to you--but if you've gotten this far in the post, I suspect it means something--but it increasingly means a great deal to me.

Day after day

I'm not quite sure why, but this has been my earworm for the last couple of weeks, "Day After Day" by Badfinger, a song I esteem to deserve the label "classic"--unlike so many other offerings from your local "classic rock" radio station.

This was in heavy rotation in Casa Montag circa 1971 or so, mostly because Montag's older, teenaged brothers loved this song, especially Cousin Andy, the middle son. And who can blame them or him? Like I said, classic. Lush and romantic in sound, wistful and plaintive, but with just enough rock-and-roll guitars and drums to provide some power and edge, leading no doubt to bro-bonding among the lovelorn.

I'm describing the song cheekily, I know, but I do think it is praiseworthy. Sure, it's a pop song but it's a poetic, artistic one, a song that makes you feel something, about love, loss, longing, and loneliness. Many pop songs attempt to accomplish this but often fail horribly at it, especially (in my humble opinion) those in the current era.

Usually, most pop tunes get stuck on the theme of love and run the needle into that groove, over and over and over. Longing gets its due as well, as does loss. But loneliness à la carte, let alone the bento box of all four emotions, rarely is listed on the pop menu.

I'm not sure I have any bigger point to this post, other than to say I adore this song, and it's been happily stuck in my brain for some time now. It's a good memory, a recollection of, again, the simplicity of childhood, the warmth of the family hearth, and the comfort of feeling that anything is possible--in 1971 or 2014--even love.

Talkin' Mac

After a week of politically inspired gnashing of teeth and work-inspired bitterness, perhaps it's time for something musical. My go-to happy place seems to be consistently the sounds of the 1970s. Horrible fashion, dodgy color schemes, no Internet, and stuck in a small town in the back of beyond, yet I feel warm and cozy toward that era.

Pre-adulthood, pre-serious relationships, pre-money woes, pre-responsibilities. About the only things I had to worry over were getting to school on time, finishing my homework, and not looking like a fool every minute of every day in front of my classmates. Part of the foolishness was no doubt conveyed through my taste in then what was considered "not cool" (and probably gay) musical choices, such as ABBA, soul, and disco.

The best years of my life, maybe, at least if nostalgia is our benchmark. I wouldn't want to relive them, though. They were not in any sense my "glory days" in junior high and high school. Years of angst spent not knowing who I was or being able to own up to who I found attractive are not experiences I would want to relive, thanks all the same.

Instead, what I'd like to do is sink back into the "mise en scène" of the '70s, if you will--just luxuriate in the culture, the milieu, the zeitgeist. That's often what I feel nostalgic toward--not the trappings of crap style or tacky furnishings but what we were listening to at the time, what we were talking about, and what I was feeling at the time. So it's more of a me-me-me zeitgeist, but, hey, that's what you pay me for.

So this weekend's "8-track flashback" looks wistfully upon the music of Fleetwood Mac. I am by no means a "classic rock" fan and, similar to how I feel about most country music, would just as soon see it banished from the light, their aficionados forced underground, having to swap shittily recorded mixtapes of every entitled white guy and boringly middle class singer-songwriter-screamer signed to a big deal on Sunset Boulevard.

I'll see you in hell, '70s and '80s hair bands. You're in my sights, pretentious prog rockers. I'll have your heads on a platter with a sprig of parsley on the side, dear d-jays at every Middle America radio station. May the world find you stuck in a Reagan-era shame cycle, forced to just say no to anything new or fun or colorful, while your life spirit trickles down your spine and pools at your feet, in your new home: the sub-basement of a foreclosed Moral Majority McMansion, Any Suburb, USA. With liberty and Tom "Top Gun" Cruise and Melanie "Working Girl" Griffith movies for all.

In other words, welcome to the new 2014, same as the old 2004, 1994, and 1984.

Wooh. So much for steering clear of bitterness and politics. Let's move on, shall we?

* * *

And let's move on to Fleetwood Mac, circa 1975, with "Say You Love Me."



"Say You Love Me" was probably the first Mac song I appreciated at the ripe old age of what? 13? 14? For me, it was probably less about the lyrics (and for me it almost always is less about the lyrics) and more about the sound--the voice, the melody, and, yes, even the banjos. How can you not love the harmonies and happiness of this tune? I liked "Over My Head" and "Rhiannon" as well, but this is such a sprightly, poppy little thing, so evocative of that London-meets-Los Angeles folk/rock/pop/country sound that Mac had in the mid-1970s. I want to go back in time and hear it play on the radio of my parents' AMC Hornet once again. Those were the days, my friend, we thought that American Motors would never get bought out by Renault, of all enterprises, just a few years later.

* * *



When thinking about Stevie Nicks' role in the Mac, it's hard to pick a favorite from among songs. There is "Rhiannon," "Dreams," "Gypsy," and "Sara" to choose from. Along with "Landslide," "Gold Dust Woman," "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around," or "Edge of Seventeen." The wealth is overwhelming, practically poignant.

"Sara" was on the turntable a lot during college, as was the quirky "Tusk." "Rhiannon" came out when I was still trying to figure out Stevie Nicks and whether I liked her voice or not. But "Dreams" edges out the others. It reminds me of a good era in my little hometown. I think my brother Frank owned the album (or maybe it was my brother Charlie or my sister Barbara?). It spun on the turntable a lot at our house in the spring of 1977.

At least I hope we had the album and not the 8-track tape . . . fade, beep, reprise.

* * *

Fast forward to 1979 and "Tusk."


A really bold, odd choice for a single, but a brilliant one at that. More like a soundscape, the soundtrack to some frenetic, tension-filled scene on celluloid--a chase scene or a bank heist gone wrong--than a 3-minute-and-30-second pop song. And god bless 'em for that.

I could take or leave some of the songs on which Lindsey Buckingham was featured prominently. To this day, I can't hear "Don't Stop" without thinking of how it's been abused by certain politicians wanting to appeal to (read: fleece) progressives and baby-boomers (an act that really doesn't require co-opting good music), but Lindsey really added a lot to the group. Who could imagine a group performing something as lush and radio-friendly as "Over My Head" in 1975 creating something as experimental and sonic as "Tusk" in 1979? With a marching band no less.

Plus you gotta love Stevie Nicks' expert twirling of a baton in the official video. I'm sure that's a moment when the British members of the group started to rethink the whole Southern California experiment. "My god. We're in the middle of a baseball field. There's a university marching band playing. And our little 'Welsh witch' is twirling an effin' baton! How did we get so lost?"

Faust was wrong. There are plenty of things to regret.

* * *

Lindsey has always bugged me for some reason. Perhaps in part because he was and remains a very handsome, self-assured (possibly too much so) man. He was gorgeous as a '70s hippie and luscious as an '80s hipster--and, in my warped mind, he always seemed completely aware of this, which is a major turnoff for me. Not that Mr. B. would be perturbed by this confession, of course. Not that this confession is based on anything other than gut and a few TV appearances.

But ol' Bucky was a terrific musician, writer, and singer. Just maybe not a great performer.



This is an incredibly overwrought performance by both Lindsey and Stevie. But "The Chain" is a brilliant song, so all is forgiven, Lindsey. Just don't do it again, please. Again, for Chris, John, and Mick, another bell must have rung, another penny must have dropped.

* * *

I could never stand most of the Mac's '80s videos--I remember describing them in an essay I crafted for my non-fiction writing class in college as "a fine example of the symbolic wallow that is MTV" or some such.



This is the only one that I can just barely tolerate, "Little Lies" from 1987 or so. It gives me just enough mental respite and perverse fascination that I hesitate before I kick in the screen of my 30-year-old cathode ray-tubed console TV set.

And yet, I take issue with the video, nonetheless. To me it looks as if the band just happened upon a Tweeds catalog photo shoot and decided to add the leftover clothes to their own wardrobes. Just prior to the Tweeds shoot, Duran Duran had been on set making their own video--so Stevie, Lindsey, and Christine borrowed some makeup and spackled it on hurriedly before anyone could stop them.

That or the entire video was filmed as a promo for Glamour Shots. Whatever, everyone loses.

Nonetheless, while "Everywhere" from the same album, Tango in the Night, is probably my favorite Mac song ever, "Little Lies" features a wonderful mixture of all three singers--McVie, Nicks, and Buckingham.

* * *

And, finally, this is what I mean about Fleetwood Mac's dreadful, artsy-fartsy videos--



Honestly, dude, Whiskey-Tango in the night-Foxtrot. Who thought this was a good idea? Who allowed this to happen?

Personally, I think it was Stevie and Lindsey. Christine, Mick, and John on their own would never have approved this storyboard. "Let's just do it, please, so that they'll both shut up, alright?" I can hear Christine saying, while Mick and John sob silently into their sleeves.

* * *

With that, we conclude today's psychic flashback. Surprising to some that I could enjoy Fleetwood Mac so much, but it's all true.

Just be grateful I owned up to it--and opted for this nostalgia trip rather than the other one in my head this week--mid-'70s British soul with the likes of Tina Charles, Jesse Green, and Biddu on heavy rotation.

But never say never . . .

Fashion crimes against humanity

All y'all know I love the '70s, for lots of reasons but especially for its politics of dancing, which for me encapsulates the decade's open and relaxed attitude, its positive vibe, and its diversity of ethnicities, sexualities, ages, income levels, social strata, body types, and more. It was OK to be gay, lesbian, straight, and bisexual. It was OK to be African-American, Latino, Anglo, a woman, a man, rich, poor, middle class. It was OK to be. At least that's how it seemed from my vantage as a boy and then a teen. There were lots of possibilities, lots of positivity. The horizon was endless, the future bright and welcoming.

And the music--such a mix! Glam, pop, rock, Southern rock, punk, new wave, soul, funk, jazz, and, yes, disco--and some or all of it coupled together in the same song.

All y'all know as well that disco is one of my favorite genres. I like it in part because of the diversity it embraced and represented but also in part because of the beat. I, for whatever reason, have always been a slave to the rhythm, even though my Anglo-Saxon culture too often seems to fear, reject, and denigrate it. Considering the beat . . . what? Too "ethnic"? Too feminine? Too gay? Too queer? Disco was about the party, sure, about self-focused dancefloor fantasies and glamorous excess. But I think there was some love and kindness there, too. Joy, happiness, and community. And sometimes even more depth than it's give credit for.

I don't think this is just my fantasy either. I'm currently reading excerpts from Vince Aletti's The Disco Files 1973-78: New York's Underground, Week by Week, a compendium of articles and charts from the '70s disco scene, along with some before-after-the-fact interviews with Aletti (a columnist, scene-chronicler, and record distributor during the era), who describes what the disco heyday was like:

There's this scene at the end of [the movie] The Last Days of Disco, one of the characters has this very idealistic speech where he says disco was a whole movement. It was funny, but it was really true and people felt that. They felt disappointed that the idealistic quality of it was being trampled over, in favor of money and celebrity. As much as disco was glitzy and certainly loved celebrity culture, there was never a sense of it being driven by that. It was much more driven by an underground idea of unity (Aletti, 1998, p. 466).

All to the good, and all to the sad and the bad that that feeling was lost due to the "disco sucks" backlash, Anita Bryant, the Reagan and neo-con era, HIV/AIDS, and the fierce, sometimes hate-filled reaction to the culture of the '60s and '70s. Those were "Good Times," and I'm so sorry that they disappeared in a huff of money-grubbing, wowserism, and not-in-my-backyard bitterness.

Nevertheless, despite my love for the era, there's one thing I cannot abide about the '70s: The absolute vileness of the clothes. The colors, the fabrics, the cut, and the style. Profoundly horrid, incredibly tragic, viscerally repulsive.

Oh sure, you could slap a Gucci-Pucci-Fiarucci label on it, but there was nothing flattering about it, except maybe that the clothes did allow for a diversity of body types more so than today's lines. You could be heavier in a caftan or hairier in a leisure suit, but if that's your only saving grace, you probably need to go back to design studio and the catwalk and try, try again.

I hate to go there because it is so so easy, such a cheap laugh, the ugliness of '70s fashion. Mind you, I don't think the '80s, in retrospect, were any prettier. Edgier and sleeker perhaps but still, ultimately, hollow and very dated-looking nowadays--that "triangle" design motif with the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist pervaded every piece, all of which were shaded in equally decade-giveaway colors.

I favor a lot of '50s and '60s design. It must be the MadMan in me, but that era looks so much classier and classic (albeit preppy-conservative at times), even if the experimentation of the late '60s often looks clownish and tawdry nowadays, an odd mix of Dacron and denim, in organic shapes and lurid colors.

A couple of cases in point--the dancers in the video above by Spanish pop-rock-disco combo Barrabás and this one below by the oddly named Spanish/French band Bimbojet.



Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Fugly foxtrot at that. Nothing you'd ever want to wear yourself, let alone see on anyone you know, except maybe on someone who dumped you for a Solid Gold dancer.

But, again, no cheap shots: Rather than blaming disco, the '70s, hedonism, the Gay Agenda, a mass outbreak of vision and taste impairment, or any other easy-ways-out, let's call out the real culprit: Tacky couture and fascist glamor, courtesy of one Generalísimo Francisco Franco.

I'm (mostly) not making this up and only being slightly ridiculous: Dictatorships do seem to have a certain (horrid) fashion sense. Rarely is it good, with the possible exception of you-know-who. More often it is simply, cruelly vulgar. Really, how often do you need to look at photos of Eva Braun and Marlene Dietrich side-by-side to see that La Dietrich not only left behind a genocidal maniac with a really stupid mustache but also lots of treacly, frilly Berliner Alexander-plotz hausfrau drag? And how many times do you have see a certain V. Putin shirtless on the back of the people's long-suffering horse to long for the days when horse-drawn carriages pulled up to balls and banquets and gentleman sauntered about the manor house in well-cut Eugene Onegin-inspired shirts, trousers, and suits?

It's bad enough that these anal retentive mass murderers abuse their citizens' basic human rights--must they also destroy their nations' innate sense of style? The Italian working class had it going on with its headscarves, neck kerchiefs, and wrap dresses. Bendito Benito "Muscles" Mussolini, with that lampshade pull on the end of his modified fez, so did not.

During a fashion war, intervention and action are vital now, not later. Where is the UN General Council when you need it? No doubt helping victims of famine, conflict, disease, and the like. Yet while the UN dithers, miserable wretches must dance around in jewel-toned Arabian Nights' fantasies and mustard-yellow-and-sage-green baby poop-striped travesties, with no one caring, no one coming to their rescue, not even Couturiers-sans-Frontières.

Clams on the half-shell and roller skates? A rumor has it that it's getting late. Time marches on, just can't wait. There's not a moment to waste when the survival of humankind's fashion sense is at stake!

Hair apparent

I'm going really retro tonight--retro Canadian no less--heading to "dahntahn" Pittsburgh to see none other than Gino Vannelli in concert.

And I'm très excited! Gino's one of those quirky performers I have enjoyed over the years. Oh sure, for a not-in-the-know homosexual kid in the 1970s, Gino was sweet-and-salty eye candy. That hair! (Meaning, that chest hair!) The tight trousers. The overall exotic look. The Italian from Montréal singing in English. The seductive kinda pop/kinda jazz song stylings. Pretty heady stuff for a young lad who kept sneaking peaks at the cover of the Storm at Sunup LP at whatever record store I happened to be skulking through.

But the man can sing and write and perform and do all sorts of musical things. The above clip shows him appearing on Soul Train, one of the first non-African American performers to do so. He sounds fantastic--that wonderful vocal range matched with passion and emotion in his voice, and the clever pop-jazz compositions that put him in the ranks (in my mind) of Steely Dan and Pat Metheny. I'm not sure he ever got the credit he deserved, but he's still out there in his early 60s. So he's doing fine.

I didn't dare buy a copy of Storm at Sunup back then. I had a pretty liberal record-buying allowance all things considered and often blew my wad (ahem) on disco and Europop. But for some reason in my mind, a lot of soul music and Gino Vannelli seemed like transgressions too far.

Chalk it up to latent racism and latent homophobia, mine and everyone else's. (And goodness knows, we've all gotten past those, haven't we?) A harsh critique perhaps but one that I think would be fair to say. But why Donna Summer and ABBA albums were OK and Gino Vannelli and Barry White were not is something I'm still figuring out. I think it's all about denial of self, a fear of being teased, a fear of looking foolish and "too" sexual, a worry over masculinity, apprehensions that have followed me into my early 50s.

It gets better, sure, but it's still always kind of there. At least if you're me. But like Gino, I'm still out there. I'm doing fine.

So forget all that--on to Gino! I'm going with my friend the Music Lover and really looking forward to it, despite an incredibly busy week distracting me with other meshugas. It's doubtful that Gino will show up on stage shirtless (my preference) or pantless (the Music Lover's preference). You can't go home again to the 1970s, despite my constant trying to. Nevertheless, it should be a good concert as Gino's still in fine voice (even if I fear he's gone very MOR at this late career stage).

And if I can see Carly Simon and Patsy Gallant in concert some day, then I'll have (almost) blacked out all the spaces on my own personal '70s rock-and-pop hall of fame bingo card.

Alas, the center spot, ABBA, will no doubt always be open.

This woman's work

A break from my Thicke-hatin' and un-Wanted Rihanna attention-paying. Let's get to some music that matters: "Wow" by Kate Bush. Released in 1979 as the second single from her underrated album, Lionheart (one of my personal favorites, however). Gorgeous. In song and symbol.

OK, so the video and the interpretive dance are a tad precious perhaps and Kate's voice may be an acquired taste. (There is a cheesy parody out there, Pamela Stephenson from Not the 9 O'Clock News, knocking on Kate's artistic foibles in "Oh, England, My Leotard." I'll let you discover that on your own.) Nonetheless, the creativity and the fortitude it took to make this work of art! To be this incredibly intelligent, colorful, iconoclastic, nonconfirmist, sexy performer, singing her own work for the world to hear! All at the tender age of 20-something! For a major label in 1979 no less! With a backing track consisting of real horns and woodwinds!

I hope Katy Perry and Lady GaGa see this video and weep every night for what they are not and for what they cannot do - although I'm sure La GaGa would just co-opt the concept and clothes and Katy Perry would rip off most of the imagery from Kate's videos and call it her own.

There are so many things to comment on about this video and this song. I love the fact that when I finally discovered the video it confirmed my speculation about the line

He'll never make the screen
He'll never make The Sweeney
Or be that movie queen
He's too busy hitting the Vaseline

Wow. Indeed. That would be a very provocative line for 2013. Imagine it in 1979. Add to it that very suggestive bum pat Kate gives to underscore the meaning, and I'm quite surprised this video wasn't banned for life from the Beeb.

Before you get offended by Kate's tantalizing reference to gay male sexual expression pre-HIV/AIDS, do keep in mind that on the same album, she also included a song called "Kashka from Baghdad," which starts off with this line--

Kashka from Baghdad
Lives in sin, they say
With another man
But no one knows who

And continues with the chorus--

At night
They're seen
Laughing
Loving
They know
The way
To be
Happy

It took me some time to get that reference to "another man," meaning one member of the couple is a man and so is the other. Despite being released in Britain in 1978 a mere nine months after her debut, The Kick Inside, was launched, I didn't find Lionheart in a local record store until 1979 or 1980, as I recall. I finally acknowledged my same-sex attraction in the fall of 1980, "came out" as it were. So imagine the import of that song, of both songs, in conveying some understanding of gay existence, at least to me, during those formative years.

Here you had a respected songwriter telling tales about "us," openly, not in euphemism, at least in the case of "Kashka."

Anyway, "Wow." And "Hammer Horror" and "Wuthering Heights" for that matter. Oh, to be in England, to live in a country where songs like these could get played on the radio, make it on to the pop charts, into the Top Twenty, even number 1.

One of life's regrets? I didn't make my first trip to Europe until 1985, and then to the former Soviet Union, Estonia, Finland, and Sweden. All cool and memorable in their own right, but the UK circa 1977-1982 was where it was at. I'm sorry I missed it. I'm sorry I didn't buy more records and listen to BBC World Service and that the internet didn't exist as we know it then. I'm sorry that I didn't have the money and the good sense to say "fuck responsibility," "screw everybody who knows me," and "death to what's expected of me" and just go, live, love, explore.

Maybe next life. However, I'd probably have been way out of my depths -  life seems such much better from far away, especially when it's so boring at home. And I'd probably be dead now. Or not. I never have done very well among the British in terms of affairs of the heart or other, Vaseline-lacquered body parts.

It's no secret that I love the music from the '70s and '80s. The '80s everyone loves, but the '70s sewed the seeds for the '80s, good and bad. The '70s got it all started with punk, disco, singer-songwriters, Philadelphia soul, glam, new wave, electronica, rap, reggae, and a whole lot more.

So yeah, after 1985 or so, maybe even after 1983 or so, it all started to turn to crap. Clever synth riffs and thundering beats, all of which seemed novel a few years before, quickly became standard and then predictable. Even I tuned out Kate Bush after 1985's Hounds of Love, practically ignoring 1989's The Sensual World until a decade or more after its release.

I'm not sure we've ever recovered from what the classes and the masses did to the world in the 1980s. I'd be hard-pressed to come up with a more recent "golden age" of popular music, culture, or awareness (because there were issues too, ideas being addressed and tossed around, however casually). I certainly have enjoyed musical moments since - early '90s rave culture, late '90s drum-and-bass and Cool Britannia. There's plenty of world pop, stuff in other languages, and "pop with jagged edges" (like Annie) to have appreciated over time. Yet it doesn't feel as though there's been any groundswell of good music, great culture, or sustaining thought since then.

I'm old. Perhaps I just missed it or didn't get it (for example, grunge and hip-hop, neither of which I ever warmed up to, neither of which were aimed at me).

Nowadays, despite the technological and media advantages, I would imagine it would be tough to be a pop star. Too much capitalism. Too much conformity. When the possibilities for DIY pop should be even more spectacular and doable.

Kate Bush then for me represents a last, great era of yes-we-can popular music. I hope to convey in this and future posts how important in the pop panoply I think she is and why I just generally think she's "ooh, yeah . . . amazing."