No rights: homage
Southern, punky in their style, given that they came from Georgia (albeit the artist’s savehaven of Athens which is historically known for its indie music scene).
I dig them much. Great players with dynamic, live charisma.
The vocal echo being sung after Stipe’s gives me chills.
They are geniuses at subtlely. Their content gets revolutionary for their context, but it is only whispered. Very articulately. And, their appeal across the spectrum is undeniable. A rare combo.
No rights: homage to an innovator.
Remember this album?
Opening track.
Sounds great in a pair of cans.
The song’s tempo shifts and
the outfit slides easily into
a softer sound.
Impeccably nuanced for a bar band.
<>
R. used to own the joint; but he sold it.
Allegedly.
He would neither confirm nor deny this.
He heard him directly asked twice, separately, and all he would give up is:
I work here.
He returns nightly.
He emerges from the back of house with a
fresh bus rag. He flaps it,
like a matador,
before folding it into a small square.
He does not even give up
a smile.
He magically produces a broom and dust pan to
sweep the carpet.
They don’t make ’em like that anymore?
Hardest working man in show business.
<>
The smell of cologne breaks through, suddenly.
I breathe it in deep. Try to see the source.
That was a fun song: the singer says, tuning his guitar.
He and the fellow on keys banter between songs. Long enough to be ready for the next song. Not too long.
The bass and drums do not laugh along or smile.
The funky bassist.
There is a reason he is front and center.
He has no mic. He does not solo.
Nothing is the only part he overplayed.
He is perfectly on point. Tight.
Anchoring.
A self-indulgent guitar solo becomes necessary at his command.
The guitarist announces the set break.
We now pause for this brief station identification: I think.
Guitar and keys wander out the back door
to the smoker haven.
Bass bums around with the crowd.
The perfectly understated drummer (rarest of the rare) escapes my awareness.
I look up at the screen above me and am informed carpet is being liquidated.
I stop looking at the screen.
The bassist is the first to return to his position.
Standing in his spot. Waiting.
The drummer appears moments later. Seated at his station.
Tick, tick.
The bassist sits down on an amp and starts playing along with the song on the jukebox.
/gotta have that funk/
You got it: I think.
He plucks a quick harmonic, wrapping up, as the guitar and keys return to the stage.
Stands back up, he takes his place between the two.
Guitar and the fellow on keys banter. Long enough to be ready for the next song. A bit closer to too long this time.
Tuning strings, the singer says: all right. We are gonna play the same set for you all over again…you guys look like you’re having a good enough time that you won’t even notice.
Hell, half of ’em probably don’t realize that you are a cover band: I think.
Deep cuts selected.
Covers of covers.
An undercover, cover band.
<>
Clearing empties and wiping away the sticky of slightly, sloshed beer spills,
R. stops by my table.
He calls me by first and last name.
When did I tell you that information, sly, observant one?
No rights: homage
A great gem.
Easy breathing.
Subtlety.
Especially when heard in cans.
….
A ball bouncing.
No rights: homage to someone playing the carcass of the dinosaur called a
Cigarette Pack Vending machine.
No rights: homage
Dig their style much.
A gem discovered this morning.
I am not a morning person by nature but this song had me moving and smiling.
Instant shot of swagger.
No rights: homage to voices speaking their truth.
poetry in practice.
Political eloquence.
Sincerity shines.
Kind, too.
I believe more can be found here.
Apologies, if I am mistaken.
No rights: homage.
A good song to walk home to.
No rights: homage.
I watched the news.
My mistake. I forget how I get [sic. Hissy fitt].
A good rejoinder.
/Land of the free, now, baby/tell me what it’s gonna be/
The girl said: both these seats are taken.
I said: I see the capped drinks now.
She said: they are smoking.
I said: I can dig that.
A chick karaokes my favorite Little Mermaid song.
Quite well, in fact,
as she did not
make it
quietly.
The other girl I mentioned,
She said: this was my favorite movie as a child.
I say: me too. Hair flowing under water, huh?
The next gal sings
Jolene
/please don’t take him just because you can/
She sings it well,
to boot.
A guy steps up to sing
A love song
that includes a spell
of numbers that I do not recognize.
Then, he says he’s gonna call the po po
<A lyric simply sung>
He did not write/right the song.
And, I move back-sdraw
About nine years.
And, I wonder:
Perhaps it is no love song, after all.
/her hands are never cold/she’s got Betty Davis eyes/
Sings the next gal.
I sit, locked, like a female stag, sweet sorrels, and everything in between.
/prepositional end-
ing intended/
No-one is the Only-one
that knows me here.
Anonymity through close proximity.
And, Some-one yells: I don’t know what Betty Davis…what are Betty Davis eyes?
I think: Howlarious.
The smell of cigarettes drifts in and some fellow howls: set me free.
And, I wonder: can
anyone but you “unchain your heart and set you free?”
The screen reads: musical
break 12 measures.
I count to twelve
In-time
@ least I do in a different
pla(i)ne.
Musical break: 8
measures
He says: check, check,
sixteen times.
On-time.
No rights: homage.
Howl along
Howl.
3 tracks
1. Killing a son
2. Ballroom blitz bouncy drums accompany Jungle Jane.
3. Ecstasy.
No rights, writes, or rites.
Homage.
Hummmm….
Smile.
Back to basics.
All homage; no rights.
Great for the intro alone.
Not all musicians can talk about their songs well.
Favorite live version of this song, regardless.
Do they call 18 wheelers “lorries” in Canada too?
“Dead man lying by the side of the road with the daylight in his eyes/
Blind man running through the light of the night with an answer in his hand/
Come on down to the river of sight and you can really understand/…
If you’re walking home alone.”
Do y’all remember the album Relish?
Yeah, it has that overplayed track.
But, every other one is a gem that I bet you have not given a chance in a decade.
Am I wrong?
No rights, homage to a hero.
Get off there kids.
Not talking to the older kids.
Fuzzy noise.
Raw vibrations.
Good morning from the city.
Suggestion: put this on and do your thing.
Good fretting-about tunes.
No cans required.
No rights, homage.
Cool.
Just so cool.
Dig it.
The right song for a dexterous night
And for one I think of.
No rights:homage
WrittenCasey 