exposure

in which I connect emotionally with pop music for the first time ever.

 

Due to my father’s hatred of pop music, as previously discussed, I didn’t really hear pop music in any meaningful way until I was six.

 

Now that I’m a parent and watching my daughter’s burgeoning awareness of the world around her, I realize this was probably also a function of being a kid. To some extent anyway.

 

It is really fuckin cool to rediscover the world through my kid, by the way.

 

For the most part my friend’s parents were also classical music listeners so I didn’t really have any exposure there either.

 

In winter 1982 when we went to Colorado for our annual ski trip. As always we stayed at my parents’ friends’ house, and these friends had a pair of  magical creatures called teenaged girls, as well as a son who was about my age.

 

One non-skiing day, apparently us kids were being obnoxious little shits, or the adults wanted some day time wife swapping, or to drink themselves into an alcoholic stupor in peace, so we were locked out on the deck together.

 

Did I mention this was Colorado? In the winter? And that we were literally locked out? God, parenting in the 80s rocked. I’m happy to report that no one died of exposure.

 

So we’re out on the deck in five feet of snow, and like all brilliant kids, the boy and I planned ahead and packed roller skates. The magical teenagers packed their record player. Which, I suppose was slightly more practical than fucking roller skates.

 

Anyway, while their younger brother and I were unsuccessfully trying to skate in three feet of packed snow, the teenagers were busy digging out the outdoor outlet to plug in their record player. Once we’d finally given up on our fruitless enterprise, they had plugged in and started playing the one record they’d managed to get outside.

 

It was Aerosmith’s Toys in the Attic, which apparently was the right album at the exact right time for me. Something about the music reached out and grabbed me, and I clearly remember Walk This Way and Sweet Emotion. It was an epiphany and I remember sitting in the snow listening with the same weirdly rapt attention I’d give to a major symphony orchestra. 

For the rest of the trip when I wasn’t terrifying my ski instructors, I was begging the girls to play me more records. They got annoyed, but I was completely entranced by their baseball sleeve concert ts, posters and record collections. Even the cover art was a revelation. I’d sneak into their rooms to flip through their albums, and run my fingers down the track lists memorizing the exotic song names.

 

I also started to explore other music voraciously. I got a Columbia record club membership, much to my mothers chagrin. I discovered that radios played music other than classical and spent hours holed up in my room with a shitty clock radio listening to every station I could get a decent signal for.

 

And I loved everything. My friend’s dad introduced me to AC/DC, Led Zeppelin and Simon & Garfunkel (go figure). I watched MTV in my allotted 30 minutes of TV per week, and absorbed music videos. I listened to the poppiest of pop, heavy metal, hair bands, the blues, alternative stuff, dance music…

 

Still do. Still love it all. I’ve steadfastly clung to my childhood openness to everything.

 

Now, rather than voraciously consuming everything all at once, I tend to go through phases. Right now, it’s alternative rock, but I’m seeing EDM looming on the horizon.

 

"You say, "Now what’s your style and

Who do you listen to?” Who cares?”

(pardon if there’s any weird typos, I wrote this whole post on my phone. Which is hard.)

audiophilia & misophonia

in which we discuss my father’s bizarre relationship to music and the rest of the world.

My father was autistic. Straight up. Not gonna sugar coat that one, folks.

(that’s dear old dad, at about 20)

He couldn’t handle all of the different layers of sound and meaning and words and sound in pop music, and didn’t listen to it at all. Couldn’t stand it, actually. Most pop music would cause him to get somewhat catatonic, or curl up in the fetal position in his armchair and start rocking back and forth. Or run away, or get angry.

My mother married my father in 1966, so her consumption of pop music stopped that year, given my dad’s issues. In the 80s, when I was starting to become aware of the music world outside of classical, the only bands she could name were The Beatles (good) and the Rolling Stones (satan). 

Despite my dad’s issues with pop, he loved music.

Loved. It. 

It was one of the only ways that he could express emotions. Art, architecture, dance, film all did nothing for him, and in fact, in many cases, would also send him into catatonia. So classical music it was.

Dad had thousands of classical music records, reel to reel tapes, and CDs. He had the best headphones money could buy at the time, and he built his own sound system, including speakers, from scratch. I spent many hours with him in his basement workshop, silently sanding mahogany panels for the subwoofers he was building, or watching him solder components together. Quality time, autism style, I guess.

I have no idea how he knew how to build the speakers, as he didn’t work from plans at all. I guess just made it up? Maybe he took apart some speakers when he was younger? Maybe he looked it up in a library, memorized the plans, and built it from memory at home? No clue. He was a genius, or idiot savant, and could easily memorize HUGE swaths of text, including various languages, without any issues at all. He just had massive issues expressing himself. Words, sounds, concepts and emotions didn’t really connect for him (no wonder I’m so into semiotics), so speaking his native language of English was tough for him, even though he could read and write in something like 30 different languages.

Once Dad finished the speakers, he put them in the living room, where they sat as gorgeous, highly functional pieces of furniture. Art, maybe? No clue. He then fiddled with the sound system, and the EQ board he had for our home system for hours, getting the levels, which were completely imperceptible to me, exactly right. He’d put a record on, blast it, stand in various spots in the living room, go back to the sound system, lift the needle off the record, fiddle for a bit, and then repeat. For days. I think I heard the same snippet of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty something like 95 times over the course of a week.

Do you all know about the concept of the Golden Ear?  I’m betting that my dad could have schooled all those motherfuckers. Then again, maybe he was just completely insane. Both are distinct possibilities. Who knows how my father’s brain worked? I was probably the only person who came even remotely close to understanding him, and he’s still a complete mystery to me.

We were constantly taking trips to the giant Tower Records store in Washington, DC, so Dad could lock himself into their classical music listening room and purchase new recordings. He was so happy when CDs came out, because their sound quality was much clearer for him.  I guess the absence of the snap and crackle of vinyl made the experience even more pure for his incredibly sensitive brain. 

On one notable occasion, my father purchased a CD of Bax’s Spring Fire from Tower, which he was incredibly excited about, as it had been years since he’d last heard the piece played, and apparently had a hard time finding the recording.  When we got home that evening, he popped the CD into the player, and out came the sounds of the Talking Heads’ Psychokiller. Apparently the CD had been mislabled with Bax and was actually a recording of Stop Making Sense. I thought my poor father’s head was going to explode, but he actually found it funny, and went back to the store where he convinced the guys in the nice quiet, glassed-in classical enclave to pop the disc on, which immediately cleared the room.

(quick note: after numerous years of living with my dad, it became easier to read his emotions. Even when he couldn’t express them, I got pretty good at sussing out what he was feeling, thus being able to describe him as happy and/or excited)

Our house was constantly filled with classical music. Dad would get home, put on a record, and sit in his armchair with a beer, a book, a cat, and listen. It was kind of awesome. 

Except that he liked either music playing in the household (with no one talking) or silence. Makes things difficult for a little kid, but I somehow adjusted.

We also went into DC to the Kennedy Center and to Vienna, VA to Wolftrap for performances on a regular basis. He’d spend days researching the best seats in the house, or location on the lawn for sound quality. 

From a very young age I was able to sit still and listen to whole orchestral movements without fidgeting or freaking out. Probably because of the model of connecting emotionally to the music that my father presented me with. Either that or I was scared of my dad. Maybe some of both. I guess I got some of his obsession with good sound quality (hence, the deviant audiophile thing), but it really blossomed into a love of sounds of all sorts, and dad, for whatever reason, couldn’t handle most noises.

Really long side note:

As a teenager, I forced my dad to interact with pop music again. He still hated it. 

However, when I was 19, I was at home drawing or painting with VH1 on in the background. We were out in the middle of nowhere in Oregon and couldn’t get any decent radio stations. My father couldn’t handle MTV, so VH1 it was. Mariah Carey’s song Always Be My Baby came on, and my father sat there, stony faced, watching the video, before getting up and stomping out of the room. 

Two days later, my dad and I are hiking through the wilderness, and out of NOWHERE he starts singing the “doo doo doo’s” that open the song. I picked up the harmony, and we sang for a few minutes together, dogs at our side, filling the silence of the Oregon Coastal Range.

One of the most surreal moments of my life, and there were many, given my parentage.

(Dad died in 2006. RIP)

road trip music

in which I write about torturing my family with music for the duration of our drive.

So we’re on vacation. We drove from NYC to Cape Cod this past Friday, which meant I drove, which meant that I picked all the music for the trip, which meant that my poor family was completely tortured by my musical choices.

I love listening to music in different contexts, because I always end up hearing things that I’ve never noticed before, or getting to experience new emotions in the music. In the car, the music goes along with the scenery, keeps me awake, and gives my brain something to focus on, other than watching that double yellow slide by. I can think differently about the songs, experience them differently, and like them in a completely new way.

Plus, my main context for music listening is on headphones, either on the subway, which has a lot of background noise, or while walking through the streets of NYC, which, again, has background noise issues. So getting the chance to listen to music played through a sound system (however shitty) and with different things to look at is pretty central to my existence. And thought process. And my enjoyment of music itself.

I know it might sound weird, because these are the same songs, but I’m not the same person each time that I listen to them. There are fundamental shifts in my perception of, and interaction with, the music when I’m listening in different locations, times, and mental states.

Here is the playlist for the road trip (and yes, we only have a CD player, not an MP3 player, so we listened to actual albums. OMG. I know you thought nobody does that any more, but I do. Post on that forthcoming.):

1. Atlas Genius - When it Was Now. This album did not sound good in the slightest on my car’s craptacular sound system. Nor did it sound good with the windows open. (we don’t have AC). Terrible choice on my part. But I listened to it to the end. Bruce and I continued the trend of analyzing the band obsessively, although again, I feel bad because he’s only heard them live (with a crappy sound system) and in the car. 
2. Robin Thicke - Blurred Lines. Holds up surprisingly well in the car. I didn’t get too much negative feedback from the family. In fact, all of his albums hold up well with the car’s terrible speakers. Go figure.
3. Bruno Mars - Doo Wops & Hooligans AND Unorthodox Jukebox. I requested it, and the husband said, “Why do you hate me?” and then commented on Mars sounding quite a bit like MJ. He might have actually liked a couple of these songs.
4. LCD Soundsystem -Sound of Silver. I think this was a 55:55 minute endurance experiment for Bruce. Poor, poor man. While I absolutely adore this album, I will concede that it is not good car music, sounded terrible in the car, and I should probably have never played this for Bruce, despite the fact that he likes the song New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down. Also, listening to it in the car really made me realize exactly how much LCD Soundsystem stole from the Talking Heads. Which is cool, because the Talking Heads are awesome.
5. Los Amigos Invisibles - Repeat After Me. Bruce chose it, because he likes them (we’ve seen them live twice now). We listened to it until we pulled into the driveway on the Cape. Life was good. 

Bruce is driving us up to Provincetown on Wednesday, so he’ll be choosing the music then. He purchased a HUGE sleeve for CDs and packed music that he likes.

We have fairly divergent musical tastes (although we agree on some things, like Tom Petty’s awesomeness). This should be interesting. 

shuggie!

The kiddo and I just went to see Shuggie Otis at Metrotech Center in Brooklyn:

He was great. Amazing guitar player, and honestly, I hadn’t really thought about it before, but I was a little shocked at how much Prince has borrowed from Shuggie’s music. Dayum.

All of the musicians were amazingly talented, and played well together. The kid enjoyed the music, but said it was too loud (we were right in front of the stacks). And, best of all, there were a trio of elderly black ladies sitting right behind us doing a running commentary/editorial on the music. Loudly. 

"Damn, Shuggie, that was a weak ending! Don’t you think that was a weak ending Gladys? I agree. WEAK ENDING, SHUGGIE"

snort.

atlas genius

In which I write about the next great hope for rock. Or something.

So. Atlas Genius. If you haven’t heard about them yet, you probably will soon, providing they don’t implode in a morass of music industry bullshit within the next few years.

They are…a great band. Their sound, in its nascent form, is pretty clearly influenced by U2 and Coldplay (among various other folks), and is awesomely accessible, but smart, rock. I bought their album, When it Was Now, a few weeks ago, and its been on constant rotation ever since (with a break here and there for Robin Thicke). I’m a little worried about getting sick of them, since I’ve listened to this freakin album about three times a day for the past few. 

What I’m trying to say is, the album is good, y’all. Go buy it. (Amazon &iTunes both have it).

Yesterday, I was telling 7-year-old daughter about going to see Atlas Genius in concert later that evening. She was interested, so I popped on their album. She listened for about 10 minutes, and said “their guitar player sounds like The Edge.”

Sniff. So proud. She really DID watch It Might Get Loud closely. He DOES sound like The Edge on occasion, with those really excellent clear, church bell tones on the guitar.

These crazy bastards apparently built their own recording studio where they recorded this album and produced it themselves. Which is amazing, because its really fucking good for a first album (there isn’t a track on here that I dislike), their song writing is damn good, and I can see that it will only get better. There’s a quality to their songs and sound that, given the right environment to flourish, will go from really fucking good to completely transcendent.

They use a little too much synthesizer for my taste but then again I’m a child of the 80s and got plenty of that shit the first time around. Still, the kids these days seem to go for that sort of thing, so who am I to question their musical choices? (Lack of quals will not stop me from questioning, by the way)

My greatest wish/hope is that they get a really excellent producer on board who will help them refine and direct their artistic vision to the aforementioned transcendent phase. (for instance, what producer Alex Da Kid did for Imagine Dragons.) They’re so young, and to have that much talent, both from a musicianship standpoint, and from a songwriting one… GAWD, I hope they have a solid mental/emotional foundation so that they don’t burn themselves out.

My heterosexual life mate (and he adds “regular provider of cock”. Just keepin it classy), Bruce, (fine, husband. Whatever. don’t label me) and I went to see them in concert at the iheartradio theater in NYC this evening, after scoring free tickets. The theater is small. like, only slightly bigger than our NYC apartment small. Which is pretty fucking small. There were maybe about 100 people there. The sound quality was dubious. On a few occasions, the PA system was completely overwhelmed, which was kind of a bummer, because some of the musicality was lost. And on their final song, Electric, the vocals were completely overwhelmed. 

This was also Bruce’s first time hearing any of their music, and while he liked it, he’s unfortunately going to have a not-so-optimal next listen to their stuff as I will likely play it on our 1994 Jetta’s shitacular sound system, with the windows open, while driving up to Massachusetts next week. Yup. 

Having now seen Atlas Genius live, after having listened to their album (obsessively) for the past few weeks, it was clear to me that they’ve really lived in the songs for a while. They’re all excellent musicians, and it sounds like they’re having fun with the music. At one point in the show, the keyboard player threw in a different synth drum beat than is usually played on one of their songs, and it was cute to see the other band members react to it.

So, a listy review of the live show:

1. They seemed tired. They looked tired. I have nothing but respect for people who are going through the music business mill, because I know that they’re all working ridiculously hard. And… yeah. Tired.
2. They’re so cute and so tiny and young! Sometimes it seemed like the lead singer was a little bit too aware of how attractive he is. But whatever.
3. They had terrible rock star faces. That, in and of itself, was fucking adorable.
4. I was a little bummed that the lead singer/guitarist had equipment issues on the song Centered on You. So was he. Definitely showed in the next song, when he was clearly playing pissed off. Or frustrated. or whatever. But he got his head back in the game. (I was bummed because we missed out on one of the prettiest guitar parts I’ve heard in a while.
5. The lead singer played All These Girls solo. Which was fine. It’s my least favorite song on the album. As I mentioned before, I like them all (and freakin adore most of the songs), but this one… Yeah. So Bruce was saying that it sounded like something that would be used in a TV ad for Verizon. Or in a very intense scene on One Tree Hill. I said maybe for a tampon commercial. Yeah, we’re assholes. But I like that about us.
6. Did I mention that I really enjoyed the live arrangements of the songs? I did. That’s one of the things that I like the most about going to live shows, is listening to how the artists are interpreting their songs in that moment, on that stage, with whatever emotions they happen to be having at any given moment. I like listening to the experiments and the failures and the expressions of their “now” through these pieces of music that belong to so many people other than them. It’s pretty beautiful. And I’m thankful that these boys did that with their music this evening. Looking forward to seeing them do it some more.
7. The show started on time (7pm) and ended before the sun went down. Which rocked. Because I’m old, and want to go to bed on time.
8. I’m a little bummed that I went to see a concert at apparently the only venue in all of NYC that doesn’t serve beer. 
9. It would be awesome if they did move to NYC. I would encourage them to move to Astoria, not to Brooklyn, because Brooklyn is so fucking clichéd. Also, Astoria is cheaper. And has a great music scene.

Side note that has nothing to do with Atlas Genius:

Every time I see live music in the city, something bizarre happens on the subway afterwards. This time was no different.

After the show, while in the middle of analyzing the band to death, poor dears, my man and I got on the subway to go home. While we were talking, this guy in his 20s got on the train, clearly tripping his balls off. He was also wearing clashing plaids on his shorts and shirt. This nearly sent my husband into apoplexy, but that’s another story. Anyway, tripping boy was freaking out because we were making fun of him, but he was too fucked up to figure out whether it was actually happening, or if he was just being paranoid. On top of that, he was tripping about a couple of teenagers dry humping on the seats next to us. Fucking awesome.

Ah, New York. We love you so.

why I don't read music reviews. mostly.

In which I gripe about music criticism.
Back in the day, when I was a teenager and hungry for as much information about music as possible, I read every single music publication that I could get my hands on.

Now, I don’t give a shit.

Why? Mostly because I find that so much of the music journalism today is just shallow posturing by whichever guy wants to show the size of his proverbial dick. Also, why is it that almost all of the people writing reviews of music professionally are men? Caitlin Moran? Where ARE YOU, goddamnit?

Case in point: the recent New York Times review of Robin Thicke’s new album by Jon Caramanica.

He managed to write a review of the album, on the basis of one fucking song. Seriously. Blurred Lines? you can’t write about any of the other songs on the album in depth (yeah, Ooo La La and Ain’t No Hat 4 That both got a quick mention, in one sentence, towards the end.)

Caramanica also writes about the album as if all the songs were the same “retro soul” throwbacks as Blurred Lines. Which makes me question whether or not he actually listened to the entire album, or just listened to the first three or four tracks on the fucking thing and called it a day.

Yes, I have written professionally, (yeah, yeah, let’s not comment on the quality of my writing right now, I want to bitch about other people, goddamnit) for actual publications, and yes, I know that editors, limited space, intense deadlines, being forced to review a genre of music that you hate, and a whole host of other considerations, can cause an article/review to have all the good shit cut out of it.

Whatever.

What’s really bugging me about these music reviews/reviewers is that they tend to put so much of themselves into the review (fine, I do it too, duh, hence my blog), but also attempt to maintain the pretension of being 1. an expert and 2. objective. Which they’re not (at least in these reviews). And whether or not the actually DO have these pretensions, the very act of writing for a publication such as the NYT, Spin, Rolling Stone, or whatever, kind of FORCES them into that particular role, and I feel like they should at least TRY to honor the position that they’re holding in the eyes of the audience. (and all caps denote that I’m REALLY PASSIONATE about this subject, right?)

In the past, while I’ve enjoyed Caramanica’s work, (like his absolutelyGENIUS interview with Kanye West), it is this type of dismissive, know-it-all bullshit that just really gets my goat. (Sorry Mr. Caramanica. You just happen to be the most recent person who has hit this nerve. I read some of your other reviews this weekend. They were fine. Didn’t piss me off at all.)

Reading music criticism these days really reminds me of going into record stores and dealing with snotty ass clerks who, regardless of what you purchased, would look down on you as either not worthy of whatever you were purchasing, or sneer because you were buying the album of a sell-out.

See, kids, back in the day, there used to be actual retail stores that sold only music…

life

In which I read Keith Richards’ autobiography.

So, the Rolling Stones were one of those bands that I just never gave half a hairy flying shit about, pretty much ever. I’ve spent plenty of time sneering at people in their 50s who are still stuck on the Stones as being the greatest thing, since ever, who seemingly have to relive their not-so-rebellious youth by taking off their Wall Street banker suits, throwing on a pair of $1,000 jeans and a vintage Stones concert tour t-shirt that they forced their beleaguered personal assistant to find and purchase for them (probably also for a ridiculously huge amount of money) and then pay more than $500 for a concert ticket. And talking about how they saw the Stones in ‘72 or some such nonsense, when you know damn well they were busy sucking cock for grades at Phillips Andover…

Yeah, because that RAWKS, yo.*

As previously mentioned, I was forced to watch Shine a Light on a plane once, between NYC and Dubai. I figured that Scorsese, plus a band that I didn’t totally hate (just felt ambivalent about), might equal a really awesome flick. 

NOPE.

It was the biggest bit of mutual ego cocksuckery committed to film that I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

In the 80s, despite the fact that I was getting educated in Rock and Roll by my friend’s dad, we somehow missed the Stones. He was way into Zeppelin, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Simon & Garfunkel (go figure), and not so much the Stones.

I was vaguely aware of them as some sort of huge countercultural deal, given the absolutely horrified way that my mother would mention them in conversation (she was a burgeoning PMRC member, if there ever was one). Her hatred alone should have sparked in my rebellious little heart a major interest in them, but somehow the Stones and I never really connected.

Still haven’t. I mean, sure, I can appreciate their music and everything, and I understand their influences and their influence, but yeah. Nothing. No emotional connections. Which is fine. I can deal with that. Other people can’t, but that’s just the way it goes. Everybody’s got a kink.

I like them a hell of a lot more than the Beatles, I’ll tell you that much. (Seriously, you can crucify my for the Beatles thing later when I write about it. Just let it go for the moment)

And there are songs here and there of theirs that I’ll listen to. For instance, I have a great deal of affection for Sympathy for the Devil. The Stones version. Not any of the covers. I really love that song. There, I threw y’all a fricken bone.

All this being said, I’m reading Keith Richards’ autobiography, Life. Dude is a funny motherfucker. He has always been pretty much the only reason why I’ve paid attention to the Stones. But then again, I’ve always gone for the dark, brooding, disaffected sort, rather than the hyperactive bouncing around frontman. (see: Joe Perry, Richie Sambora, Eddie VanHalen (sorta), Slash, the Edge, Jimmy Page).

I like the countercultural aspect to the Stones’ existence in the 60s and 70s. And the fact that they’ve managed to live this long, despite the insane amount of drugs they took is a testament to…something.

But back to Life. It’s a really gorgeous book. Richards, and I’m assuming, his ghostwriter, did a fantastic job of developing this intelligent, yet coarse, lower class English voice with wonderfully dry wit. It’s definitely the granddaddy of Russell Brand’s voice in his Booky Wooks. Both Richards and Brand have similar aesthetics (and drug problems, and childhoods, and love of tight pants, and crazy hair), and you can definitely see how Brand kind of grew out of what Richards and his lot were setting up in the 60s and 70s.

Richards is funny, and seems to be rather brutally honest about himself and the things he (and his various girlfriends) were doing at the height of the Stones’ fame: drugs, alcohol, sleeping around, stealing women from one another, fighting, and flouting of all social convention. In part, I found that this book is an intensive read about the utter selfishness and self-centeredness of the baby boomer generation taken to its logical extreme. I’ve long had the suspicion that the boomers used the whole peace and love movement of the 60s and 70s as an excuse to be utter assholes. I wasn’t there (Gen X all the way, baby). But boy, it sure seems that way.

I mean, granted, social conventions desperately needed some good flouting, but to use that as a reason to be an asshole is a titch despicable.

Interspersed among the stories of debauchery are some true gems regarding Richards’ creative process, how he approaches music and songwriting, and how he came to be the musician he is today. Which, quite frankly, has caused me to go back and listen closely to the Stones’ music. At one point, he writes “I find myself trying to play horn lines all the time on the guitar.” Which, now that I’ve read this, I can totally hear on the opening riffs of a multitude of Stones’ songs, notably Start Me Up and Brown Sugar. 

It was also exceedingly fascinating to read about Richards’ fascination with playing (and writing) songs on a five string guitar with open tuning. I’ve known so many amateur guitarists who just couldn’t quite get the Stones’ songs right, and learning this made it all clear to me. Yeah, he removes his bottom E. Awesome. 

So, do I like the Rolling Stones more? Meh… not really. While I have a much deeper appreciation for their music (and specifically for their guitarist), listening to their music is still, for me, the sonic equivalent of being brought nearly to orgasm over and over and fucking over again, but never actually GETTING there. 

(But I really enjoyed this book.)

*ok, so while I completely stand by my vitriol regarding Wall Street douchenozzles, I’ll give a pass to the other 99% of the world idolizing/obsessing about the Stones. Richards wrote this really sweet section as to why all these bankers and dentists are obsessed: “They imagined me, they made me, the folks out there created this folk hero. Bless their hearts. And I’ll do the best I can to fulfill their needs. They’re wishing me to do things that they can’t. They’ve got to do this job, they’ve got this life, they’re an insurance salesman…but at the same time, inside of them is a raging Keith Richards.”

Sigh.