September 19th, 2008


Well, Hell

Yup. *That* Sucks
    Watching one of our PBS stations at too-late-to-be-up-o'clock, and there's a begathon special on Stevie Ray Vaughan. And it reminds me that a goddamned helicopter crash ate him. 
    I mean, he's up there, all wonderful gaudy costumes - half gentleman highwayman and half Texas braggadocio, and all brilliance; he's playing that battered slab of a guitar, with strings he can make do anything. Anything.
     He coaxes sparks and scratches up tearing, ripping sounds and screaming, streaking howls of music, and that's what we expect; and then he turns around and plays flowers and water running somewhere, and you can take a deep breath and it's the same guitar.
     And he's in love with that guitar. And there's always a place in the music where he does ... something ... and I swear the sound makes him slip and slide across the stage, I swear it moves him by itself, takes him up half an inch off the stage ... it only lasts seconds, but it's the music that does it.
     Fucking helicopter.


Music, music, music

The Wrong One Won
     My Best Beloved and I have long agreed on this, but watching a 2004 Cindy Lauper concert tonight simply reinforced the belief: In the War of the 1980 Songstress Divas, the wrong one won.
     (Sorry, Madge. You're a fantastic businesswoman, intelligent symbol wrassler and such - and a keen dancer, too! But really? When it comes to a voice that blows you away, and a heart that powers the voice? Not so much.)