Look what they’ve done to my song, ma

Posted on by brucehhackett

I spend a lot of time on this blog exhuming fantastic “lost classics” and “diamonds in the rough” — rock songs that never got the airplay they deserved. I love shining the light on such tracks, bringing them to my readers’ attention.

This week, I have a more distasteful act of service to perform. I need to be brutally honest and admit that some of my former favorites have been blackballed from my playlists because, over the years, I’ve heard them way, WAY too often. There are few things more exasperating to me than outstanding songs ruined by radio overexposure.

I could list hundreds, maybe thousands, of overexposed tunes that I never liked in the first place. I’ve featured some of the worst offenders as “cringeworthy songs” in past posts on Hack’s Back Pages. This week, though, I’m talking about songs I really enjoyed upon first hearing but now avoid like the plague (or coronavirus, these days).

These days, with Sirius/XM radio offering multiple listening options, and streaming music platforms that can feature your own playlists, overexposure to songs is less of a problem. But still, favorite songs from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s were ruined for us long before such forums appeared. And we’re always vulnerable to exposure when in stores, public transport and other places where we can’t control the music being played.

I have picked 15 songs for this list of “songs that need to be temporarily retired,” some of which will no doubt generate debate. One friend suggested The Stones classic “Satisfaction,” but for me, I just can’t get tired of that one. So there’s no accounting for different emotional appeals and which songs reach the point of fatigue — for me, but perhaps not for you. These are my choices.

Oh, and no playlist with this post. I mean, why would anyone in their right mind ever want to hear all these overexposed songs in one excruciating sitting?

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“More Than a Feeling,” Boston, 1976

In the ’90s and 2000s, it became a running joke for me. It seemed as if every time — EVERY time — I got in the car and tuned in to my classic rock station, this song was playing, or about to be played. Surveys used to show that “Freebird” and “Stairway to Heaven” were the most played songs on the radio, but for me, it was “More Than a Feeling.” The Boston debut album was so strong, and I played it a lot at home at first, but I had to shelve it away, pretty much for good, thanks to the radio overkill of this track, “Peace of Mind” and “Long Time.” What a shame, one of the best album sides ever, tainted by mind-numbing repetition…

“Dreams,” Fleetwood Mac, 1977

When I polled a few friends about which songs were ruined by overexposure, more than one said, “the whole ‘Rumours’ album.” It’s true — this LP has 11 tracks, and I think nine of them have been in suffocating rotation on classic rock radio ever since 1977. It’s a close contest between “Don’t Stop,” “Go Your Own Way,” “You Make Loving Fun” and “Dreams” as to which most needs to be retired, but I’m going with “Dreams” as the one that annoys me the most at this point, mostly due to Stevie Nicks and her nasal delivery.

“Another Brick in the Wall,” Pink Floyd, 1979

I loved Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” and “Wish You Were Here” albums, but I couldn’t get into the 1977 LP “Animals,” so I was hesitant to drop the necessary bucks for the double LP behemoth “The Wall.” But once I heard “Another Brick in the Wall” and its sublime guitar solo at the end, I had to have it. I didn’t anticipate it would become not only a single, but an international #1 single, played incessantly until I felt like one of those children in lock-step marching off a cliff in the music video.

“Dream On,” Aerosmith, 1974

As far as I’m concerned, Aerosmith is one of the Top Ten most overrated rock bands of the classic rock era. Sure, they’ve had their moments, but in those rare cases where these guys have come up with a decent tune, rock radio grabbed it by the throat and choked the life out of it. “Dream On” is a case in point. Upon first hearing, I was mesmerized. By the 50th hearing, it had completely lost its luster for me, never to return. The fact that I still like it better than anything else in their catalog is a sad commentary indeed.

“Carry On Wayward Son,” Kansas, 1976

First time I heard this on the radio, I ran out and bought “Leftoverture,” the album it came from. Kansas had a certain American prog-rock groove that seemed to fit in nicely with the British prog-rock I was crazy about at the time (Floyd, Genesis, ELP, Tull). However, this kind of music is not meant to be heard ad nauseam every time you turn on the radio. I almost can’t listen to “Wayward Son” anymore (nor “Dust in the Wind” either, for that matter), although I still enjoy the deep tracks from this LP…

“Layla,” Derek and the Dominos, 1970

As a fan of Cream, Blind Faith and Clapton’s first solo album, I immediately bought the double album by Eric’s new group, Derek and the Dominos, upon its release in late 1970. I immersed myself in all the great blues tracks, but “Layla” was the one that stood out, with Clapton and guest Duane Allman collaborating, followed by the piano melody grafted on afterwards. It didn’t become a Top Ten hit until two years later, and then once it had a second life in its “Unplugged” form in the ’90s, it reached saturation point for me. Now I tend to turn it off so as to preserve some of what grabbed me back in 1970…

“The Joker,” Steve Miller Band, 1973

I’ve grown to dislike Steve Miller. A lot. He’s shown himself to be kind of an asshole, and he’s a master at stealing riffs from other (better) songs — you can hear Free’s “All Right Now” on the intro to “Rock ‘n Me,” and Joe Walsh’s “Rocky Mountain Way” is the basis of “The Stake.” I recommend checking out his early stuff from the late ’60s when he was more original and Boz Scaggs was in his band. As far as “The Joker” is concerned, it’s fun, wry, amusing, almost a novelty hit with the “woh-wow” sound effect, but that stuff long ago stopped being cute and is now just irritating.

“Old Time Rock and Roll,” Bob Seger, 1978

I’ve had a love/hate thing going with Seger from the beginning. Starting with “Night Moves” in 1976, I would hear his records, enjoy them for a hot minute, and then my interest would wane just as the radio would begin playing them WAY too often. When disco was dominant in the late ’70s, I totally related to the lyrics on “Old Time Rock and Roll,” which yearned for the soul and passion of roots rock. But the song is really simple, 4/4 beat, with Seger’s vocal growl growing more tiresome with each listen.

“Stairway to Heaven,” Led Zeppelin, 1971

A majestic work, to be sure, which makes its overexposure all the more criminal. The band members knew at the time they were writing, arranging and recording “Stairway” that it was going to be pretty special, but its exceptionalism soon wore off for them, and for all of us, I think. This is a textbook example of a brilliant record that has lost its ability to thrill me. Robert Plant’s vocals, Jimmy Page’s guitar work, the way the arrangement builds and builds… It’s right up there as one of rock’s best. But because we heard it too damn often, I pass when it comes on.

“Hotel California,” The Eagles, 1977

“Anything by The Eagles” was the most frequent response from friends I asked about songs ruined by overexposure. Maybe because most of The Eagles’ hit singles were the ones you heard every 12 minutes for weeks, months, years… I don’t think any Eagles tune got more airplay than “Hotel California,” which WAS a masterpiece, especially the lyrics and the amazing guitar interplay between Joe Walsh and Don Felder that continue to impress me. But man, I just can’t anymore. Just STOP.

“Sweet Home Alabama,” Lynyrd Skynyrd, 1974

I’m not really much of a Skynyrd fan, but something about this song appealed to me for maybe the first three or four times I heard it. By the fifth or sixth listening, its simple structure (basically three chords) became simplistic and boring, and I started hating it. Then I moved to Georgia, and wow, down there, it’s an anthem of mindless regional pride that pretty quickly bugged the hell out of me. Can’t listen to it at all anymore…but it’s inescapable. Arrrgh.

“Long Train Runnin’,” The Doobie Brothers, 1973

Boy, I still really love the early Doobies albums, especially “Toulouse Street” and “The Captain and Me.” Pretty much every track grabs me. Tom Johnston and Pat Simmons wrote and sang beautifully, from “South City Midnight Lady” and “Ukiah” to “White Sun” and “Toulouse Street”…but “Long Train Runnin'” has definitely worn out its welcome for me. Truth be told, I think radio ought to retire “China Grove” and “Black Water” as well…and don’t get me started on “What a Fool Believes” from the Michael McDonald era…

“Bohemian Rhapsody,” Queen, 1975

I recall going to the house of a new friend one day in the spring of 1976. He had an unbelievable stereo system, and he wanted me to hear it. He chose to play Queen’s “A Night at the Opera” album. I didn’t know Queen, and thought they were another glam rock group I wouldn’t like. I was blown away by the sound, particularly on the album closer, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” If it had remained an album track instead of a single, I might still like it, but it eventually took on “larger than life” status, reaching the Top Ten not once, not twice, but three times, with blanket radio coverage in each instance. Now all I need to hear are the first words — “Is this the real life?” — before I lunge for the radio to change the channel.

“Brown-Eyed Girl,” Van Morrison, 1967

A great song from my youth, but a song that Morrison himself eventually refused to perform because he’d grown so sick of it. Van the Man has 50 albums of material, most of it gorgeous ballads or energetic R&B tunes, but all we hear, day after day, is “Brown-Eyed Girl,” and maybe “Moondance.” It’s a crowd-pleaser that I still sing around the fire pit, but when I hear it in the grocery store, I cringe. Please, not again…

“Band On the Run,” Paul McCartney, 1973

When he had John Lennon nearby to rein in his penchant for cutesy pablum, McCartney was capable of astonishingly great songs. But since he went solo, nearly every LP has been an exercise in frustration for me. One or maybe two strong tunes per album, and then a bunch of shallow, unlistenable dreck. “Band on the Run” is recognized as his most consistent project, and I really liked it a lot upon release, but then the title track with its insipid intro got played five or six times a day everywhere I went. I’d much rather listen to his surprisingly strong recent album, “McCartney III,” which successfully takes risks, trying new sounds instead of the same old same old (although there are still a few of those too).

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Honorable mentions:

“Celebration,” Kool and the Gang, 1981; “You’ve Got a Friend,” James Taylor, 1971; “Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet,” Bachman-Turner Overdrive, 1974; “Nights in White Satin,” The Moody Blues, 1967; “Have You Ever Seen the Rain,” Creedence, 1971; “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” Elton John, 1973; “Aqualung,” Jethro Tull, 1971; “Color My World,” Chicago, 1970; “Follow You, Follow Me,” Genesis, 1978; “Honky Tonk Woman,” Rolling Stones, 1969; “Do It Again,” Steely Dan, 1972; “Hey Jude,” The Beatles, 1968.

All the friends I ever had are gone

Posted on by brucehhackett

Pete Townshend, who just turned 76 last week, wrote the iconic lyric “Hope I die before I get old” back in 1965 at age 20. It was the most important line in The Who’s signature song of youthful angst and rebellion, “My Generation.”

Townshend has been asked in many interviews over the years just what he meant. One response: “I hope I die while I still feel this alive, this young, this healthy, this happy, and this fulfilled.” Most recently, he said, “The line ‘I hope I die before I get old’ is more about a state of mind than actual age.”

So there you have it. The consummate rocker wasn’t hoping to literally die, as in a fiery car crash or an overdose. He meant he would rather die than to live in an “old” state of mind — cranky, stubborn, set in your ways, unwilling to embrace new ideas.

I bring this up because, this week, Bob Dylan — the Nobel Prize-winning lyricist and one of the most prolific songwriters of the past half-century — marked his 80th birthday.

If young, rebellious rock ‘n’ rollers are supposed to “live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse,” as the saying goes, then Dylan has turned out to be the ultimate rebel, rebelling against following that advice.

I’ve written more than once in this blog about the well-known list of rock stars who DID die young. They left us way too early, robbing themselves of many more years, more accomplishments, more expressions of the talents that made them famous in the first place. By extension, we too were robbed of the enjoyment we would surely have experienced from listening to the music they likely would have continued to create.

In June 2020, Dylan released his 39th studio album, “Rough and Rowdy Ways.” Now, let’s face facts: Dylan has released some really lame albums over the course of his six-decade career, which shouldn’t really be that surprising. Nobody, no matter how high a pedestal we’ve put them on, can be expected to maintain a consistently excellent track record for so long. But what’s important to note in Dylan’s case is that he has kept at it, and more often than not, he has gifted us with some extraordinary music and lyrics, and/or strong recorded performances.

This most recent album is a case in point. After biding his time through the 2010s by recording four albums of cover versions of Sinatra torch songs, standards and Christmas music, he surprised us all when he dropped another amazing batch of original tunes on us in the middle of the coronavirus lockdown. Critics were mightily impressed, and so was I. “Academics who can’t dance will fill unread books dissecting the library of historical reference engrained in these grooves,” wrote Pat Carty in his review for Hot Press. “The rest of us can just be thankful that the greatest song and dance man of them all is still rolling.”

True, that. Dylan himself acknowledges that fact in the new album’s song “Mother of Muses”: “I’ve already outlived my life by far.”

Truth be told, Dylan’s ability to write captivating songs went through a mostly fallow period in the ’80s and ’90s when it seemed to me he had grown stale, even irrelevant. But damned if he didn’t come roaring back around 1997 with his “Time Out of Mind” LP, followed by consecutive successes: “Love and Theft” (2001), “Modern Times” (2006), “Together Through Life” (2009) and “Tempest” (2012). These five albums, plus the newest one, offer many exceptional new lyrics and melodies from a man in his 60s and 70s. Where most of his contemporaries have either passed away or retired from the business, Dylan has found the strength and the creative muse to produce quality compositions even at age 79. God bless this man for that.

I’ve had at least a dozen different friends tell me they have seen Dylan in concert and were severely disappointed. I saw him once, in 1997, and I’d give it a C+ at best. He doesn’t seem to give a damn about what the audience might want, which can only be described as self-indulgent, especially when he radically reworks his classics to the point where they’re unrecognizable. That’s why I’ll always prefer his albums. And yet, he says he loves performing. “I like to tour. I like to sing to the people. I don’t like to sing into microphones in a studio. If you look for me when I’m 90, I’ll be on a stage somewhere.”

Dylan is a prickly guy who happens to have a marvelous way with words and musical phrasings, as the people who award the Nobel Prize for Literature recognized in 2016. I’ve remained grateful that I get to revel in his songs even if his recordings of them can be, well, rough around the edges. Again, I say, he doesn’t have to do this anymore, but he has chosen to make the effort, and he deserves our applause (particularly in this instance) for the results.

Like all people who reach the age of 80 or even 90 or 100, Dylan has paid a price for his longevity. As this essay’s title forlornly states, “All the friends I ever had are gone.” That’s a recurring line of resignation from a 1993 song he wrote called “Delia,” in which he bemoans the passing of a woman he loved. Was she real, or a fictional character? I’m not sure…but does it matter? The sentiment is the same. (My mother and my aunt and uncle all lived well into their 90s, and their chief regret, besides deteriorating health and all the challenges it brings, was, “All of my friends are gone.” It’s a lonely business, old age…)

Dylan has lost so many of his close associates: childhood friends; former manager Jerry Weintraub; musical colleagues like Roy Orbison, George Harrison and Tom Petty from his Traveling Wilburys days; songwriting rivals like Leonard Cohen; fellow iconic travelers as varied as David Bowie and Muhammad Ali. In almost every instance, the press has insisted on getting Dylan’s reaction, asking insensitively if these deaths touched him. “Sure, they all did,” he’d say. “We were like brothers. We lived on the same street, and they all left empty spaces where they used to stand. It’s lonesome without them.”

Advanced age may be lonesome, but age also brings wisdom and perspective. There’s a bounty of each in the lyrics of nearly every track on “Rough and Rowdy Ways.” At one time, he flatly refused the moniker of “prophet for the ages” when he was held up as the de facto spokesman of the Sixties Generation. Here, in the aptly named “False Prophet,” he drives that point home with sagacity and verve:

“Well, I’m the enemy of treason, enemy of strife, I’m the enemy of the unlived meaningless life, /I ain’t no false prophet, I just know what I know, I go where only the lonely can go…” “You don’t know me darlin’, you never would guess, I’m nothing like my ghostly appearance would suggest, /I ain’t no false prophet, I just said what I said, I’m just here to bring vengeance on somebody’s head…”

I’m among those who were not fazed by the 16-minute length of “Murder Most Foul,” Dylan’s wordiest song ever and the centerpiece of the new album. It’s an astonishing piece of rhymed reportage about the Kennedy Assassination and much much more, full of cultural references about that day and that period in time, often mentioning specific rock song titles and lyrics, and the artists who sang them. Rolling Stone referred to this epic piece as “a long fever-dream ramble through cultural memory.” Playing it again this morning, I felt its relentless message wash over me gently, “with a violin floating in and out of the arrangement like a haunt in a mansion with no windows,” as Esquire‘s Charles F. Pierce put it, and I wept at its impact. As you listen to this song, I strongly urge you to have the lyrics in front of you just so you don’t miss anything. I’ve printed out the words to “Murder Most Foul” at the end of this essay. It’s well worth your time to absorb this one.

There have been many Dylans for us to consider since his arrival in 1962, when Robert Zimmerman first became Dylan: Average folkie, fiery songwriter, electric pop star, convalescing family man, project actor, Jesus convert, Dead collaborator, comeback icon, crooner, elder statesman. When asked by the press about himself and the meaning of his songs, the younger Dylan remained cryptic in public statements because, as he put it, “If you have to explain ’em, then they weren’t any good in the first place.” These days, he’s far more candid and forthcoming about himself and his different personas. Consider these lines from “I Contain Multitudes,” another new one:

“Got a tell-tale heart like Mr. Poe, got skeletons in the walls of people you know, /I’ll drink to the truth and the things we said, I’ll drink to the man that shares your bed, /I paint landscapes, and I paint nudes, /I contain multitudes…” “A red Cadillac and a black mustache, rings on my fingers that sparkle and flash, /Tell me, what’s next? What shall we do? /Half my soul, baby, belongs to you, /I rollick and I frolic with all the young dudes, /I contain multitudes…”

There are those for whom Dylan’s voice is a dealbreaker. They can’t get past his gruff, guttural delivery, particularly on tracks from more recent albums. For those folks, all I can say is “I get it,” but I can’t help but feel sorry for them if they’ve tuned out Dylan’s lyrics and music in the process. I can only offer this suggestion: Turn your attention to the many dozens of cover versions of his songs out there, performed by men and women with superb singing voices. The Byrds won their fame singing Dylan songs. The Hollies did an entire album of Dylan covers. There’s a fantastic 4-CD collection called “Chimes of Freedom,” released in 2012 to commemorate Amnesty International’s 50th anniversary. It contains 72 Dylan tunes recorded by 72 different artists, from Johnny Cash and Pete Seeger to Diana Krall and Adele, a treasure trove of fine interpretations of some of Dylan’s greatest work.

But remember this. These pleasing performances by all these artists wouldn’t have been possible without the unparalleled songwriting of this uncommon man who just turned 80. For his continuing efforts to create astonishing new songs to add to his iconic library — All Hail Dylan!

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It’s only fair to point out that Dylan is not alone among rock and pop stars from the ’50s, ’60s, ’70s and ’80s who have made it to their 80th birthday. Many of these folks listed below continue to contribute to their legacies, while some have retired from making music. Most of these titans are worthy of more focused attention in Hack’s Back Pages, and I intend to write about them in future posts.

Willie Nelson, 88

Jerry Lee Lewis, 85

Ringo Starr, 80

Neil Diamond, 80

Mike Love, 80

Tom Jones, 80

Eric Burdon, 80

Joan Baez, 80

Dionne Warwick, 80

David Gates, 80

Ronald Isley, 80

Aaron Neville, 80

Tom Rush, 80

Dave Brigati, 80

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“Murder Most Foul”

It was a dark day in Dallas, November ’63
A day that will live on in infamy
President Kennedy was a-ridin’ high
Good day to be livin’ and a good day to die
Being led to the slaughter like a sacrificial lamb
He said, “Wait a minute, boys, you know who I am?”
“Of course we do, we know who you are!”
Then they blew off his head while he was still in the car
Shot down like a dog in broad daylight
Was a matter of timing and the timing was right
You got unpaid debts, we’ve come to collect
We’re gonna kill you with hatred, without any respect
We’ll mock you and shock you and we’ll put it in your face
We’ve already got someone here to take your place
The day they blew out the brains of the king
Thousands were watching, no one saw a thing
It happened so quickly, so quick, by surprise
Right there in front of everyone’s eyes
Greatest magic trick ever under the sun
Perfectly executed, skillfully done
Wolfman, oh Wolfman, oh Wolfman, howl
Rub-a-dub-dub, it’s a murder most foul

Hush, little children, you’ll understand
The Beatles are comin’, they’re gonna hold your hand
Slide down the banister, go get your coat
Ferry ‘cross the Mersey and go for the throat
There’s three bums comin’ all dressed in rags
Pick up the pieces and lower the flags
I’m goin’ to Woodstock, it’s the Aquarian Age
Then I’ll go over to Altamont and sit near the stage
Put your head out the window, let the good times roll
There’s a party going on behind the Grassy Knoll
Stack up the bricks, pour the cement
Don’t say Dallas don’t love you, Mr. President
Put your foot in the tank and let’s step on the gas
Try to make it to the triple underpass
Blackface singer, whiteface clown
Better not show your faces after the sun goes down
Up in the red-light district, they got cop on the beat
Living in a nightmare on Elm Street
When you’re down on Deep Ellum, put your money in your shoe
Don’t ask what your country can do for you
Cash on the barrelhead, money to burn
Dealey Plaza, make a left-hand turn
I’m going down to the crossroads, gonna flag a ride
The place where faith, hope, and charity died
Shoot him while he runs, boy, shoot him while you can
See if you can shoot the invisible man
Goodbye, Charlie! Goodbye, Uncle Sam
Frankly, Miss Scarlett, I don’t give a damn
What is the truth, and where did it go?
Ask Oswald and Ruby, they oughta know
“Shut your mouth,” said a wise old owl
Business is business, and it’s a murder most foul

Tommy, can you hear me? I’m the Acid Queen
I’m riding in a long, black Lincoln limousine
Ridin’ in the back seat next to my wife
Headed straight on in to the afterlife
I’m leaning to the left, I got my head in her lap
Hold on, I’ve been led into some kind of a trap
Where we ask no quarter, and no quarter do we give
We’re right down the street, from the street where you live
They mutilated his body and they took out his brain
What more could they do? They piled on the pain
But his soul was not there where was supposed to be at
For the last fifty years they’ve been searchin’ for that
Freedom, oh freedom, freedom over me
I hate to tell you, mister, but only dead men are free
Send me some lovin’, then tell me no lie
Throw the gun in the gutter and walk on by
Wake up, little Susie, let’s go for a drive
Cross the Trinity River, let’s keep hope alive
Turn the radio on, don’t touch the dials
Parkland Hospital, only six more miles
You got me dizzy, Miss Lizzy, you filled me with lead
That magic bullet of yours has gone on my head
I’m just a patsy like Patsy Cline
Never shot anyone from in front or behind
I’ve blood in my eye, got blood in my ear
I’m never gonna make it to the new frontier
Zapruder’s film I’ve seen night before
Seen it thirty-three times, maybe more
It’s vile and deceitful, it’s cruel and it’s mean
Ugliest thing that you ever have seen
They killed him once and they killed him twice
Killed him like a human sacrifice
The day that they killed him, someone said to me, “Son
The age of the Antichrist has just only begun”
Air Force One comin’ in through the gate
Johnson sworn in at 2:38
Let me know when you decide to throw in the towel
It is what it is, and it’s murder most foul

What’s new, pussycat? What’d I say?
I said that soul of a nation been torn away
And it’s beginning to go into a slow decay
And that it’s thirty-six hours past Judgment Day
Wolfman Jack, he’s speaking in tongues
He’s going on and on at the top of his lungs
Play me a song, Mr. Wolfman Jack
Play it for me in my long Cadillac
Play me that “Only the Good Die Young”
Take me to that place Tom Dooley was hung
Play “St. James Infirmary” and the Court of King James
If you wanna remember, you better write down the names
Play Etta James, too, play “I’d Rather Go Blind”
Play it for the man with the telepathic mind
Play John Lee Hooker, play “Scratch My Back”
Play it for that strip club owner named Jack
Guitar Slim going down slow
Play it for me and for Marilyn Monroe

Play “Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”
Play it for the First Lady, she ain’t feeling any good
Play Don Henley, play Glenn Frey
Take it to the limit and let it go by
Play it for Carl Wilson, too
Looking far, far away down Gower Avenue
Play “Tragedy”, play “Twilight Time”
Take me back to Tulsa to the scene of the crime
Play another one and “Another One Bites the Dust”
Play “The Old Rugged Cross” and “In God We Trust”
Ride the pink horse down that long, lonesome road
Stand there and wait for his head to explode
Play “Mystery Train” for Mr. Mystery
The man who fell down dead like a rootless tree
Play it for the reverend, play it for the pastor
Play it for the dog that got no master
Play Oscar Peterson, play Stan Getz
Play “Blue Sky,” play Dickey Betts
Play Art Pepper, Thelonious Monk
Charlie Parker and all that junk
All that junk and “All That Jazz”
Play something for the Birdman of Alcatraz
Play Buster Keaton, play Harold Lloyd
Play Bugsy Siegel, play Pretty Boy Floyd
Play the numbers, play the odds
Play “Cry Me a River” for the Lord of the gods
Play Number nine, play Number six
Play it for Lindsey and Stevie Nicks
Play Nat King Cole, play “Nature Boy”
Play “Down in the Boondocks” for Terry Malloy
Play “It Happened One Night” and “One Night of Sin”
There’s twelve million souls that are listening in
Play “Merchant of Venice”, play “Merchants of Death”
Play “Stella by Starlight” for Lady Macbeth

Don’t worry, Mr. President, help’s on the way
Your brothers are comin’, there’ll be hell to pay
Brothers? What brothers? What’s this about hell?
Tell them, “We’re waiting, keep coming,” we’ll get them as well
Love Field is where his plane touched down
But it never did get back up off the ground
Was a hard act to follow, second to none
They killed him on the altar of the rising sun
Play “Misty” for me and “That Old Devil Moon”
Play “Anything Goes” and “Memphis in June”
Play “Lonely at the Top” and “Lonely Are the Brave”
Play it for Houdini spinning around in his grave
Play Jelly Roll Morton, play “Lucille”
Play “Deep in a Dream”, and play “Driving Wheel”
Play “Moonlight Sonata” in F-sharp
And “A Key to the Highway” for the king of the harp
Play “Marching Through Georgia” and “Dumbarton’s Drums”
Play darkness and death will come when it comes
Play “Love Me or Leave Me” by the great Bud Powell
Play “The Blood-Stained Banner”, play “Murder Most Foul”