Rule Number One: Always Bring A Towel

When I tell people that I used to play music for a living, the response is usually something like, "that must have been fun" or "I wish I could have done that." And, certainly, there is a romance attached to the idea of the travelling musician. What is rarely brought up is where travelling musicians stay while travelling.

When I was on the road, band accommodations varied from relative luxury, especially if playing a hotel like the Banff Springs, to downright dirty and disgusting. Unfortunately, the latter is more prevalent than the former and was usually the result of the club providing a so-called "band house" instead of paying for hotel rooms. When we played a hotel tavern, rooms were provided in the hotel and unless the hotel was more then fifty years old, the rooms were generally livable. The newer the hotel, the more comfortable the accommodations.

Band houses, on the other hand, were something different. The club would rent a house or duplex, furnish it with the most basic items, and effectively isolate the band from the venue until gig time. Sometimes band houses were clean, most times they were sort of clean, and every so often they should have been condemned. Band houses by their very nature, are subject to various forms of abuse, given that each week there is a new group of musicians in the house. Some are more considerate than others and alcohol does a lot to help with the redecorating.

One of the worst was the band house provided by the Wild West nightclub in Edmonton, Alberta. It was a townhouse not far from the club, almost walking distance. The broken chair in the front yard, overgrown lawn, and badly needed paint job were the best things about the place. The front door locked, the back door had been kicked in at some point (probably because some idiot musician forgot the key inside) and was nailed shut with a two-by-four. There were bags of garbage piled up against the door, presumably because it was too much trouble to take the garbage out. The kitchen floor was so dirty that a path had been worn clean where people walked the most. The "couch" was broken hide-a-bed that was ridiculously uncomfortable to sit on. A small saving grace was that the television worked and had cable. The beds were suspicious and looked as if the sheets had not been changed in ages. I slept top of the sheets for the entire week. The bathroom ... I showered wearing sandals. Halfway through the week I was told by the owner that he paid for a cleaning service that was supposed to clean the house on Sundays, after the previous band had left and before the new band arrived. I delicately informed him that he was wasting his money, to which he seemed unconcerned.

The Westlander Hotel in Medicine Hat, Alberta had a curious arrangement. It was a large hotel that had all the entertainment you could want. Downstairs was a rock band, upstairs was a country band, in the daytime there were strippers, and a duo played in the lounge. Most hotels sequestered the entertainers as far away from paying customers as possible. The Westlander decided having the entertainers closer to the lobby and front desk would enable them to keep a better eye on the inevitable shenanigans that would result from fifteen musicians, assorted band crew members, and three strippers all staying in the same place at the same time.

One particularly evening (or should I say morning) was one of those golden times when both bands, the duo, and the strippers were having parties together. Most of the room doors were open, there was a cacophony of music pouring out from several "ghettoblasters," alcohol and pot abounded, and there was much cultural exchange between the musicians and the strippers.

I had wandered into the lobby with a fit of the munchies and headed for the chocolate bar machine when I noticed a young family checking in at the front desk. It was plain they had been travelling for hours, the whole family looked dogged tired. They set off through the lobby doors, down the party hallway, to their rooms on the other side of the hotel. Mom, Dad, and a couple of young kids looking nervous strolled by drunk and stoned musicians, past the loud music, through the cloud of pot smoke, and into the safety of the civilian portion of the hotel. The next time we played the Westlander, they had purchased a fourplex for the musicians (the strippers still stayed in the hotel) and the manager of the country bar lived in one of the suites as a chaperon. Oddly enough, it was a several years before the hotel decided keeping the musicians away from the customers was a good thing.

While on the road, I tried to live as comfortably as possible, accommodations notwithstanding. Sometimes it was more difficult than others. You gain a huge appreciation for the comforts of home when you are forced to stay in hotels and band houses. As well as learning how to live out of a suitcase, being on the road teaches you what to order from restaurant menus, what's generally safe and what's not. Here's an important safety tip: don't order restaurant gravy.

And, always bring your own towel.

In Memory of Les Paul

Les Paul died on August 13. To guitarists everywhere it is more than just the passing of an icon and a gifted musician. Without his inventions and innovations, the popular music world might be a different animal. Unable to realize his musical ideas with the technology available, such as having a singer harmonize with his or herself, Les matter-of-factly created the technology to achieve his goals. His invention of multitrack recording and the subsequent ability to overdub, tape echo and its ensuing cadre of kin such as reverb and flanging, and, of course, the development of the electric guitar makes Les one of the most important figures in popular music history.

The duo of Les Paul and Mary Ford were very popular during the 1950s. They frequently appear on live television programs of the day and they had their own radio show. Check the clip below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQZojv_udMU&feature=related

There are hundreds of blogs and tributes to Les Paul. I can't say anything new that hasn't been said before. Consider Les' contribution to popular music and the industry, and his passing is made all the more poignant.

Rest in peace Les Paul.

It was 40 years ago ...

Two anniversaries occur this year. It is the 40th anniversary of the release of the Beatles' Abbey Road and the anniversary of Woodstock. In 1969, I was thirteen and had just begun to play guitar. The Beatles were everywhere and Woodstock was the epitome of hippie-dom. Both seemed intertwined somehow, even though the Beatles had nothing to do with Woodstock. At the time, though, all things counterculture were bound together and represented the best hope for society. And for impressionable teens like myself and my friends, the old authoritarian ways were rapidly becoming "square." The ideology of the counterculture was upending the patriarchal structure of the family and society, and for us it couldn't happen fast enough.

In 1969, the Beatles were still a formidable force in popular music. Abbey Road, while being their last studio album, was not their last album released as Let It Be would follow the next year. It was, however, the swan song of the Fab Four. Knowing the band would not last another year, Abbey Road was the culmination of their career and they delivered an album of songs that were evidence of their musical maturation, sophistication, and hit-making ability. George Martin's impeccable production along with the high-calibre songwriting of Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison symbiotically merged to create a cohesive work that rivalled anything released that year. The Side Two Medley/Suite itself stands as a testament to the songwriting and arranging abilities of Lennon/McCartney/Martin and effectively capped the Beatles' career. "You Never Give Me Your Money," the first song in the medley/suite reveals the friction at the time between Paul and the rest of the group. "Carry That Weight" leaves no doubt as to the cultural baggage that each member would carry for the rest of their lives, and in the case of Lennon and Harrison, beyond.

The album also helped fuel the curious rumour that Paul McCartney had died and was replaced by a fellow named William Campbell, a very convincing sound/look-a-like. Evidence from the cover photo supposedly showed George dressed as a gravedigger, Ringo as a pallbearer, John dressed in white as the priest, and Paul out of step with the others and shoeless as the corpse.
This so-called evidence was added to other evidence from the White Album and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band to prove that Paul had died in an automobile accident. The rumour was so strong that even Paul's statement that he was very much alive was seen as a ploy to make us think he still was. Obviously William Campbell was trying to convince us all that he was Paul by saying Paul was alive.

As with almost all Beatles' albums, virtually every song on Abbey Road has become a classic. "Come Together," "Something" (In the 70s Frank Sinatra claimed "Something" was the best love song written in the last fifty years), and "Here Comes the Sun" have been covered countless times, the melodies firmly embedded in our memories recalling a halcyon time that can never be recaptured. The album cover has been reproduced by the likes of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Simpsons, and this year thousands of fans descended on Abbey Road (the street) to photograph themselves in the famous poses on the cover. And so, after 40 years, Abbey Road remains as one of the best albums ever released and arguably the Beatles' finest album.

The Beatles never played Woodstock, although many wished they would have. On the other hand, The Who, Santana, Janis Joplin, CCR, Canned Heat, Mountain, CS&N, Grateful Dead, Richie Havens, Sly and the Family Stone, and Jimi Hendrix, to name a few, would help move the festival into the ephemeral world of "legendary." Woodstock was never intended to be as large as it was. The promoters of the concert initially prepared for some 100,000 people. Billed as "three days of peace, love, and music," the festival would create superstars and generate urban myths for years to come. Woodstock was not the first music festival either. 1965's Newport Folk Festival (the famous Dylan goes electric one), 1967's Monterey Pop Festival (the one where Hendrix lit his guitar on fire), and 1961's Mariposa Folk Festival in Orillia, Ontario (the first Canadian folk festival) all pre-date Woodstock and all have their place in popular music history. Woodstock is unique because of the sheer number of people that descended on Max Yasgur's farm that summer, the subsequent release of a movie with its never-before-seen "two shot" concert footage, and the three-album soundtrack that pushed the festival into the forefront of the mainstream.

Behind the scenes, though, there was no altruistic underscoring to the festival. It was purely a money-making venture that went awry. It was not intended to be a free concert, that was a result of the legions of fans tearing down the fences and co-opting space. There were three ticket booths and not one ticket was taken. Security was provided by the Hog Farm, a commune headed by Wavy Gravy who famously exclaimed, "My God, we're the cops!" The crowd was cold, hungry, thirsty, and oblivious to all but the present, the here and now. They were communing with each other, with nature, and with music and it felt good. Babies were born and conceived, three people were killed, and a cultural icon rose from the ashes.

Forty years later we have remastered editions of Abbey Road and high-quality DVD versions of the Woodstock film. This December, The Beatles will be represented in the music video game RockBand with their own expansion pack of specially selected songs and plastic instrument/controllers that look like the Rickenbacker and Hofner guitars played by John, Paul, and George. A special remastered box set of the Woodstock soundtrack album and director's cut DVD with additional, never-before-seen footage is slated for release as well. In ten years we will have the fiftieth anniversary, and again, more repackaging for profit.

Sadly, the nostalgia value of these events will outlast their cultural importance as that gets whittled away with every re-release, every remastering, and every repackaging. In time Woodstock will be "that big concert that our grandparents went to...they said it was cool" and Abbey Road will be deconstructed even more than it is now for the "favourite" songs. The cadavers of the unselected ones will languish forgotten, only to reemerge on satellite, cable, or Internet radio now and then.

I still listen to Abbey Road in its entirety, and it still transports me to a warm and fuzzy time. And despite the recontextualization of Boomer culture, I really wouldn't have it any other way. Happy Anniversary Abbey Road and Woodstock. Gimme an F ... Gimme a U ....

Songs To Drive By

While driving back to the Wild West from Calgary, a trip that takes approximately seven and a half hours, I got to thinking about driving songs. As always, I had a collection of six or seven CDs and an MP3 player loaded with 2Gb of songs. It was a beautiful day, no top laid back but the sunshine shining, stereo up loud, open road before me. Perfect.

And so, in no particular order, here are my top ten driving songs:

1. "Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo" Rick Derringer
Great riff, great solo. Singability: 9

2. "Highway Star" Deep Purple
Chunky guitar rhythm keeps the pedal to the metal. Killer solos from Jon Lord and Richie Blackmore. Singability: 6

3. "Roll On Down the Highway" Bachman Turner Overdrive
A song about driving, great final solo. Singability: 9

4. "Rockin' Down the Highway" Doobie Brothers
Another song about driving. Singability: 9

5. "Holiday/Boulevard of Broken Dreams" Green Day
Great melodies. It's fun to scream out the bridge in "Holiday," while pumping one's fist through the open sun roof. Cool guitar loop opens "BOBD"
Singability: 7

6. "Rockshow/Venus and Mars" Wings
Paul McCartney's "other" band. Ergo, awesome.
Singability: 10

7. "Foreplay/Long Time" Boston
Killer guitar sounds. Great melodic solos.
Singability: 8

8. "Green Yellow Red" John Kilzer
Covered by Rosanne Cash, Kilzer's original version rocks with smokin' guitar.
Singability: 8

9. "Get Out of Denver" Bob Seger
Rapidfire lyrics. A crazy fun song.
Singability: 9

10. "Animal" Def Leppard
Great rhythm track. Head-bobber and air drum classic.
Singability: 7

Earth, Wind and Fire Makes Me Happy

I was browsing through my collection of MP3s, playing songs purely based on whether I felt like listening to them or not. Bob Dylan? Don't feel "Bob-ish" right now. Marshall Tucker Band? Oh yeah, "Fire On the Mountain." Lighthouse. Reminds me of my first date (she stood me up). Earth, Wind and Fire. Sweet. "Got To Get You Into My Life" and "Getaway." I then concluded that Earth, Wind and Fire makes me happy.

Earth, Wind and Fire's "happiness" got me thinking about other songs. Some don't make me happy at all, like "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" or "The House of the Rising Sun," or anything by Leonard Cohen. Paul McCartney makes me happy, so does Corb Lund. Sometimes I'm in the mood for "non-happy" songs and will gleefully wallow in musical misery. Sometimes I feel like loud, fast music, sometimes I feel like honky tonk. Sometimes I want the transcendence that is Beethoven's late string quartets.

For the most part, we all have our favourite music, music we like, music we dislike, and music we are ambivalent toward. Some people do not listen to music and proudly wear their musical void like a badge of honour. Some treat listening to music like a vice or an addiction they overcame. "I used to listen to music," they say, "now I have other things to do." Other more important things like watching Dancing With the Stars. I digress.

Trying to pin down what it is that makes a song popular or a "favourite" is akin to nailing Jello to the wall. Studies have been undertaken, theories have been posited, even software has been written that attempts to determine the "hit-ness" of a particular song, but still, the mechanics around musical taste are, for the most part, unknown. Musical taste, like other aesthetic choices, is ephemeral at best.

Listening to music reaps huge rewards. In addition to "happiness," music transports us to far off places, recalls memories long buried, and can help alleviate stress among other things. I feel for those people that do not listen to music and wonder if they are even a tiny bit cognizant of what they are missing. My guess is that they are not. Pity.

Marathons and Meloids: The Stampede Lesson

The Calgary Stampede has started. That venerable time of year when everyone pretends to be a cowboy and drunken foolishness is forgiven. Stampede was, at one time, a veritable cash cow for local musicians. Gigs were abundant. Even those players that did not usually play country music cranked out terrible versions of Hank Williams' songs, in an attempt to cash in on the gig windfall. Virtually every company, gas station, mall, and community centre had a Stampede breakfast, dishing up greasy pancakes, limp bacon, and cold eggs to the milling throng that gathered to partake of the free grub. It was not uncommon for bands to play three gigs in one day. First, a breakfast, then some kind of afternoon bar-b-que, and finally the regular gig at night.

My first Stampede taught me a valuable lesson. The Trails End Band was booked at the Palliser Hotel for eight days (Sundays off) and we had to play from 5 p.m. until 1 a.m. Seven hours and we never repeated a song. This was in the days of the big downtown cabarets such as the Golden Garter and the Silver Slipper. People would start to queue up around 3 p.m. and eventually the line snaked out of the hotel and down 9 Avenue to the entrance of Palliser Square at the base of the Calgary Tower. Every night was packed. The beer was flowing. Good times were had by all.

Being caught up in the excitement, and somewhat inexperienced when it came to a marathon gig like this, we played with a fervour and zeal that was more suited to final Friday night set than the opening one of a seven hour night. Undaunted, we churned through the remaining six hours and the next day the effects were manifested. I could hardly talk. My voice was a croaky, hoarse, cracking-like-a-thirteen-year-old mess. Now what. I had seven more nights to do and could barely speak let alone sing.

I had heard somewhere that lozenges called Meloids were especially effective. I scampered to the nearby Shopper's Drug Mart to buy a package. Meloids are little tiny black licorice-flavoured lozenges. "Made for people that work in smoky environments and for speakers and singers," the back of the package proclaimed, and after a couple of hours and a half dozen Meloids, my voice miraculously returned to the point where I could make it through Saturday night.

Meloids became a fixture on stage for me. They saved my voice on more than one occasion. I haven't been able to find them lately; instead all I can find is the inferior imposter Fisherman's Friend. Meloids help aside, that first Stampede taught me to conserve my voice on long gigs, a lesson that came in handy over the years.

Groupies and Peacocks

I recently finished Daniel Levitin's book This Is Your Brain On Music. Levitin, a former rocker turned neuroscientist, explains the hows and whys of music and the brain. He covers a lot of information that most musicians already know, such as music theory, but it is the explanations of brain activity in relation to music making and music listening that is the most fascinating.

Along with various neurological and physiological reasons for how we perceive music, our emotional response, and what happens in the brain when we play or listen, Levitin explains groupies. For the uninitiated, a groupie is usually female (although there have been instances of male groupies) and will have a predilection for a particular instrument. In other words, groupies that like guitar players generally will not pursue a drummer, and vice versa.

Groupies are not a result of the rise of rock bands, even though it seems that way. Music actually plays a role in sexual selection according to Leviton, who quotes Darwin saying, "I conclude that musical notes and rhythms were first acquired by the male or female progenitors of mankind for the sake of charming the opposite sex." Leviton adds that music indicates biological and sexual fitness, serving to attract mates. Music is like the peacock's feathers.

So, I guess there was nothing we could have done when those girls followed our band around the prairies, sometimes popping in unannounced several hundred miles from their home only to say "I was in the neighbourhood." Right. In the neighbourhood. Drayton Valley, Alberta is in the neighbourhood of Regina, Saskatchewan. And these poor girls could not help themselves either. When it's the biggest feathers you want, no distance is too far.

Michael Jackson: The Last Time With Feeling

Michael Jackson died today. Already the news channels are clamouring over themselves to get the best story. It reminds me of the hysteria that surrounded the deaths of Elvis Presley and John Lennon. But, love him or hate him, Jackson holds as important a place in popular music history as Presley and Lennon. The phenomenon that was Thriller speaks for itself, especially considering "Beat It" has one of the best guitar solos ever.

While I was never a big MJ fan, I enjoy his hits and I own a copy of Thriller (on vinyl) and I'll confess to being amused by his wacky behaviour. He was an icon and an influence. It's sad that he has passed.

RIP Michael Jackson.

Baloney and a Mattress: Surviving Muskeg Lake

Last Friday, June 19, I drove to St. Paul, Alberta to do a gig with my cousin, a Metis fiddler. The gig was a rodeo dance at the Saddle Lake reserve. Unlike other rodeo dances I have played, this one was low-key and, generally, a calm affair. But, I was anticipating the usual drunken revelry that accompanies these type of events. This was not to be, however, as I was told Saddle Lake was a dry reserve. A far cry from other reserve events I have played.

One of the most memorable, or infamous, was with Trail's End in the early 1980s. We were contracted at the Muskeg Lake reserve, northeast of North Battleford, Saskatchewan. We were told accommodations and food would be supplied. We arrived at the gig around 6 p.m. and were met by one of the tribe officials. Things started going south right off the bat. Our accommodations consisted of clearing out a classroom in the school, then we could either put sleeping bags on the floor (which we didn't have) or wait until they brought us a mattress (the operative word here being "a"). "One is on the way," we were told, and sure enough, down the road a tractor pulling a haywagon with a ratty mattress was putt-putting toward the school. The "food" was baloney sandwiches on white bread, nothing else. We declined the offer of accommodations and choked down the baloney. There was nothing to drink so we had to use the water fountains in the school. The gig was slowly turning into a disaster.

"We'll clear out the quonset for you guys," said the chief's assistant. They backed their grader out of the quonset hut; set up two 45 gallon oil drums that had been cut in half, each half filled with ice and either beer or cheap wine; ran a couple of extension cords outside to the power pole; laid some astro-turf looking mats on the concrete floor for us to stand on, and we were in business.

The gig was relatively uneventful, except for the usual drunken foolishness. We tried to keep to ourselves all night and thankfully the gig seemed to pass quickly. In fact, that gig held the record for striking the gear and loading the vehicles. After our final "Thank you, see you later" we were down and loaded in half an hour. Usually this would have taken an hour or more. Despite the expediency of the load-out, it took another hour for us to get paid. The chief wrote us a personal cheque, which immediately set off alarm bells, but being glad the gig was over, we took the cheque and drove, so to speak.

We were booked in Saskatoon two days later, and after making a late-night phone call to a friend there, we ended up staying with her and then headed downtown the next day to cash our cheque. Rather than fight with the bank, we went to our agent's office and I convinced her to pay us cash and then she could recoup the money from the Muskeg Lake tribe. I found out two days later the cheque bounced when our agent deposited it. She did eventually get the money.

As gigs go, Muskeg Lake was not the worst. There were plenty worse than that; however it was a test of our musicianship and ability to hold it together under adverse conditions. Our greatest concern was getting the gig over with and getting out of there. Saskatoon never looked so good.

The CCR Effect: How I Kept On Chooglin'

Last week I flew to Victoria to see John Fogerty. It was my third Fogerty concert, the first was in Toronto's Massey Hall a few years ago, and the second in July of 2008 in Edmonton's Rexall Place. Aside from some sound problems, last week's show was as entertaining and fulfilling as the others. In addition to the plethora of Creedence Clearwater Revival hits such as "Proud Mary," "Travelin' Band," and "Who'll Stop the Rain," the set list included two songs from the Blue Ridge Rangers album, John's first solo album after the breakup of Creedence, and hits from the trio-CCR period.

A departure from the sets he played at the Toronto and Edmonton shows, the eclectic choices might have resulted from the fact Victoria was the last date of the tour. Still, at 64 years old, John rocked with the best of them, working up a sweat and playing extended solos in "Born On the Bayou" and "Ramble Tamble." The band included session musicians Kenny Aranoff on drums and Billy Burnette on rhythm guitar, and faithfully reproduced the Creedence sound. John played for two hours and after the show I reflected on how much he has had an influence on my own style.

I started playing the guitar at 13 years old. I taught myself to read notation and learned all of the first position "folk" chords. By high school I could play barre chords and sing and play at the same time. (The latter may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but singing and playing at the same time is one of the more difficult tasks for a novice guitarist.) Becoming a musician was beginning to percolate my thoughts, as my guitar became my best friend. By 16, I had a "repertoire" of around a dozen songs, half of them were Creedence songs.

"Proud Mary" was the first Creedence Clearwater Revival song I ever heard. For hours I sat in my bedroom struggling through what I thought were the opening chords to the intro. I had heard the song so many times that figuring out the chord changes for the verses and chorus was relatively easy, not having access to the recording made determining the progression for the intro that much more difficult. After what seemed like months of trying, I finally learned the intro from a friend and it all came together.

Initially I would have to learn the songs by memory and trial and error. I did not have any kind of recording device and could only listen when CCR was played on the radio. Trying to remember how a song goes when you only hear it a couple of times can be a daunting task, and for me being a fledgling guitarist it was. It was not until my first year of high school that I finally managed to buy some CCR records. Southern Music, a jukebox supplier in Calgary, would sell the 45s that came out of the jukeboxes. Records with the fewest "plays" were replaced with new hits and more popular songs, then Southern would sell the "old" 45s for ten cents each. Twice a month my friend and I would ride Calgary Transit downtown to rifle through the new "old" 45s for sale. I was thrilled to come up with "Fortunate Son," "Down On the Corner," "Looking Out My Back Door," "Bad Moon Rising," and "Green River." And all on the green Fantasy label to boot! It truly was nirvana.

I played those CCR 45s over and over, painstakingly learning the chord progressions and riffs. By the end of high school I had my first band and could put my newfound skills to use. We were called Ek-Seption (I know, but it was the 70s) and had a "regular" gig at the local Eagles' club. I could play and sing a half dozen CCR songs, "Proud Mary" and "Bad Moon Rising" being two of my specialties, and along with "Down On the Corner" and a raucous version of "Cotton Fields" we burned up the recreation room on Friday and Saturday nights. I played Creedence songs for the next thirty years but never really considered the impact they had on my own style.

It was at the Massey Hall concert that John's influence became apparent. I had great seats, fourth row centre, and was so close I could see the fingerprints on the finish of his guitars, I could see how he fingered the intro to "Up Around the Bend," and I discovered that John tunes his old black Les Paul down a whole step, which is why the intros and solo sections of "Bad Moon Rising" and "Fortunate Son" sound like they do. I had no idea. It was during "Born on the Bayou" that I noticed the similarity of my rhythm guitar style to John's. This was a revelation as I finally realized how completely his playing had influenced mine over the years. I always attribute John as an influence, but until the Massey Hall concert, I never knew how much of an influence he actually was.

Every guitarist can tell you who they first listened to or which guitarist is their favourite, and over the years there have been other guitarists that have helped shape my style and sound, Albert Lee, James Burton, and Dave Holloway to name three; and along with CCR, the southern and country rock music of the late 1960s and early 1970s also helped shape my playing. Plus, there was not a conscious effort on my part to emulate John's sound and style, in other words, I did not set out to be John Fogerty II; but rather absorbing CCR during my formative musical years contributed to not only my performance practice and sound, but also the manner in which I conceptualize music. My understanding of music theory began with the CCR songs I played over and over to learn the chords.

If I ever meet John Fogerty I will thank him for what I learned. There has been a Creedence Clearwater Revival album in my pile of "records I'm currently listening to" for years now and the music has become comfortable. It's a big, warm musical comfy chair, but when I strap on my trusty Gibson S-1, I'm chooglin' baby.