somehillbilly:

toophilipinotophunction:

Sheena Easton, “Telefone (Long Distance Love Affair” (1983)

This brings back some old memories, back when radio still had superpowers.

Tags: Music Radio

Great paintings shouldn’t be in museums. Have you ever been in a museum? Museums are cemeteries. Paintings should be on the walls of restaurants, in dime stores, in gas stations, in men’s rooms. Great paintings should be where people hang out. The only thing where it’s happening is on radio and records, that’s where people hang out. You can’t see great paintings. You pay half a million and hang one in your house and one guest sees it. That’s not art. That’s a shame, a crime. Music is the only thing that’s in tune with what’s happening. It’s not in book form, it’s not on the stage. All this art they’ve been talking about is nonexistent. It just remains on the shelf. It doesn’t make anyone happier. Just think how many people would really feel great if they could see a Picasso in their daily diner. It’s not the bomb that has to go, man, it’s the museums.
— Bob Dylan 
(text via crashinglybeautiful)

Great paintings shouldn’t be in museums. Have you ever been in a museum? Museums are cemeteries. Paintings should be on the walls of restaurants, in dime stores, in gas stations, in men’s rooms. Great paintings should be where people hang out. The only thing where it’s happening is on radio and records, that’s where people hang out. You can’t see great paintings. You pay half a million and hang one in your house and one guest sees it. That’s not art. That’s a shame, a crime. Music is the only thing that’s in tune with what’s happening. It’s not in book form, it’s not on the stage. All this art they’ve been talking about is nonexistent. It just remains on the shelf. It doesn’t make anyone happier. Just think how many people would really feel great if they could see a Picasso in their daily diner. It’s not the bomb that has to go, man, it’s the museums.

— Bob Dylan 

(text via crashinglybeautiful)

(Source: suicidewatch)

Here’s a recording of a scan around the NYC radio dial on December 8th 1980, the night John Lennon died, courtesy of WFMU’s Beware of the Blog.

(via marathonpacksperpetua)

I’ve seen his record covers through the years and always been a little intrigued by Frankie Miller, but somehow — content to park him alongside the Rory Gallaghers and Robin Trowers of the world — assumed I’d find them about as musically uninteresting as I found John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers (who I desperately wanted to get into when I was in love with all-things-Eric Clapton in my mid-teens, but ended up coming to the conclusion that you maybe had to be a British schoolboy — still terrified by James Brown’s hips & lips — to properly enjoy). So I stayed away from the Scottish singer’s albums. Until last week. I ran across his Full House album (from 1977) on a blog and downloaded it on the strength of the album cover alone. How could I not give it a try. He looked like Braveheart at the mic, lost in an ecstatic moment. Was it before battle, mid-battle or after? I had to find out. I was instantly seized by his voice. It took me back to the eighth grade, when I was just discovering Joe Cocker, Bad Company, Thin Lizzy and Rod Stewart by way of Q-98 (Fargo’s classic rock radio station), BMG & Columbia House tape clubs (I didn’t get into CDs until a year or so later) and the public library’s LP collection. The combination of a great rock band, a passionately soulful vocalist unafraid to let his voice break (to be taken to its illogical conclusion a year later when I first heard Nevermind) and a particularly great repertoire struck a chord with me. It felt like I was driving my Chevy Cavalier down University Drive again, windows down, my home speakers blaring fat & punctured (I hadn’t yet figured out that home speakers don’t sound as good in a car), my shades too big for my face. Frankie felt like an old friend I was meeting for the first time. By the time I was done with Full House, I had Once In a Blue Moon (1972) and The Rock (1975) in cue. I was not disappointed by either. Once in a Blue Moon — with pub rock band Brinsley Schwarz as the backup band — feels like the winner of the three so far, and I’ve only made it a few passes through each of these albums.

I’ve seen his record covers through the years and always been a little intrigued by Frankie Miller, but somehow — content to park him alongside the Rory Gallaghers and Robin Trowers of the world — assumed I’d find them about as musically uninteresting as I found John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers (who I desperately wanted to get into when I was in love with all-things-Eric Clapton in my mid-teens, but ended up coming to the conclusion that you maybe had to be a British schoolboy — still terrified by James Brown’s hips & lips — to properly enjoy). So I stayed away from the Scottish singer’s albums.

Until last week. I ran across his Full House album (from 1977) on a blog and downloaded it on the strength of the album cover alone. How could I not give it a try. He looked like Braveheart at the mic, lost in an ecstatic moment. Was it before battle, mid-battle or after? I had to find out.

I was instantly seized by his voice. It took me back to the eighth grade, when I was just discovering Joe Cocker, Bad Company, Thin Lizzy and Rod Stewart by way of Q-98 (Fargo’s classic rock radio station), BMG & Columbia House tape clubs (I didn’t get into CDs until a year or so later) and the public library’s LP collection. The combination of a great rock band, a passionately soulful vocalist unafraid to let his voice break (to be taken to its illogical conclusion a year later when I first heard Nevermind) and a particularly great repertoire struck a chord with me. It felt like I was driving my Chevy Cavalier down University Drive again, windows down, my home speakers blaring fat & punctured (I hadn’t yet figured out that home speakers don’t sound as good in a car), my shades too big for my face. Frankie felt like an old friend I was meeting for the first time. By the time I was done with Full House, I had Once In a Blue Moon (1972) and The Rock (1975) in cue. I was not disappointed by either. Once in a Blue Moon — with pub rock band Brinsley Schwarz as the backup band — feels like the winner of the three so far, and I’ve only made it a few passes through each of these albums.

Gordon Lightfoot’s ribbon of darkness

Long before Gordon Lightfoot was a Canadian folk legend, he was a legend in my father’s white Riviera convertible. It was the early ’80s and that’s the only place he existed in my small world, but it was a place where music dominated. It was a place where my small world felt huge. Of the dozens of cassettes my father had in his otherwise spotless car, Gord’s Gold stood out in a special way to me. As a perennial passenger (though in hindsight I’d like to say that I was the GTO-in-training), there was ample time to sit and stare at all the cassettes trying to make sense of the music we were cruising to; trying to connect whatever dots I possibly could with the strange and intoxicating sounds coming out of the speakers; mythologizing without even knowing it; superimposing and fusing the seemingly disparate visual fundamentals of color, shape, texture and my ever-evolving sense of beauty with the audio dimension in which I was immersed. He had a name that could have easily placed him in a position of high rank in the Star Wars universe and — looking a great deal like my father (perm-and-all) — had an especially-rugged handsomeness that appealed to this particularly Indiana Jones-obsessed youth.

And the songs sounded like a day with Dad.

Fast forward to my sophomore year of college. As a DJ at WIUS here in Bloomington, I had the pleasure of having up-and-coming singer-songwriter Ron Sexsmith on my radio show. I’d fallen in love with his debut and was lucky enough to hustle him onto my show when he passed through town opening for John Hiatt (at what was then called Mars). We chatted awkwardly (as two shy souls are prone to do) for about 15 minutes before he started to play some songs with his acoustic guitar and a voice which came from another time. Among the songs was Lightfoot’s "Ribbon of Darkness", originally released on his ‘66 debut Lightfoot! and then re-packaged in ‘75 as the opening track on Gord’s Gold.

  Ribbon of darkness over me  /  Since my true love walked out the door
  Tears I never had before  /  Ribbon of Darkness over me

I taped that radio program. Though I haven’t listened to it since the day it was taped, I think about digging out that cassette three or four times a year, negotiating my humility for a chance to once again hear Ron’s performance of that song to an audience of one. It remains one of my favorite folk songs of all time. A universal tune that is so well-written as to allow the singer performing it to wear it like a costume, to fill it with his own particularities, to take the universal and give it a sense of time & place.

  Oh how I wish your heart could see  /  How mine just aches and breaks all day
  Come on home and take away  /  This ribbon of darkness over me