The day I almost died again

Um...that would be this morning. I was just about to cross the street when I looked up, saw the light flick to yellow, and stepped off the sidewalk. I had noticed out of the corner of my eye a gray Camry speeding toward me, but I just figured it was slow to stop and would soon enough seeing as how they were about to hit a red light.

Except there was no red light. The yellow light I had seen was not a prelude to a red light, but rather a blinking yellow that I hadn't watched long enough to notice it was blinking. So needless to say I came within a fraction of an inch of being mowed down by a car doing about 45 this morning. With my luck, I wouldn't have died; I would have ended up losing both my arms, never able to strum a guitar or write a sentence again. This, for me, would be a fate worse than death.

Okay, but enough about that. The fact of the matter is that I evaded disaster and I have both of my limbs and here I am writing about the banalities of my daily life. Perhaps I was not paying attention to crossing the street because I had all this great music in my head.

Here's how it went to prior to my near-disaster:

When I get on the train in the morning, there is usually no one else aboard. So I take my usual spot, standing by the window in the space reserved for wheelchairs and folks with strollers and anything else that needs the extra room. Sitting, by nature, doesn't appeal to me. It's a lot like sleeping, something else I find a waste of time. I stand there so that I can rock out. I know, it sounds ridiculous, and I am sure I look so, but the truth is I don't care. I keep my sunglasses on and stare out the window and listen to music. About half the time I read, too--the past weeks it's been this fantastic Charles Bukowski anthology of poetry and prose that I just love--but this morning I opted for an all-music commute. It usually takes me about a couple of miles to realize I am swaying my head and click-clacking my heels in time to the snare drums and coming as close as one can to singing out loud. Again, I know, I must look insane. But the truth is I just don't give a shit. In kindergarten I used to wear a Superman costume under my light- and navy-blue uniform. I stand in front of crowds and dance and play guitar and sing lyrics about my personal life. If I were intimidated by crowds and insecure about expressing myself, chances are I wouldn't be writing this blog, or have much of an existence in general.

So, yep, I was having my own personal concert this morning, as usual. A typical commute doesn't get me much more than five or six songs, but this morning there were several delays, which afforded me a couple bonus tracks. An encore, if you will. I have nothing against shuffle on my iPod, but usually I opt for specific songs. Considering that I front and write the music for a roots-rock/alt-country band, I suppose I should probably say that all I listen to is James Taylor and Johnny Cash and Wilco and etc., etc., but that would be a lie. I am as likely to have on Madonna as I am Merle Haggard. Okay, so maybe not exactly, but I will never deny my love of pop music. Here's what I had on this morning, in order:

Kathleen Edwards, "I Make the Dough, You Get the Glory": There are several songs I like even better on her latest album, but this one is pretty much a lesson in how to write a hit roots-pop tune. Smooth, catchy, witty, but gritty.

Maroon 5, "Tangled": Songs about Jane is, from start to finish, a perfect record. I listen to it all the freaking time. I love it. It destroys their most recent effort, even though I am fond of that one, too. Warning, if you are absent rhythm, you should probably choose something other than "Tangled." Those drums might hurt you.

Marah, "My Heart is the Bum's on the Street": I really don't know how or why I stumbled upon this song, but it's one I play often, even if randomly. The tambourine in it gives it this early Springsteen sound that I just adore. This Philly band is hit-or-miss, but they have something special about them that sounds like the soundtrack to an early Pete Dexter or Richard Price book.

Sugarland, "All I Wanna Do": Sounds a lot like the Stones' "Miss You." But who cares? A catchy-as-hell song.

Bob Dylan, "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight": This is the kind of song that I strive to write all the time. It was either this or "Tonight I'll Be Staying Here with You." Can't go wrong either way. Dylan, at least in my opinion, was at his best writing these broken love, country-folk tunes.

Moonraker, "These Walls": It is rare that I know almost zero about a band that I like, but Moonraker falls into that category. Before I grew tired of meaningless funk/disco lyrics and relentless retro white-boy soul, I used to be a huge Jamiroquai fan. Sorry, Jay Kay, but as much as you try, just 'cause you use 9-chords and scat doesn't mean you're jazzy. I still like them, to an extent, but Moonraker manages to take the essence of that worn-out polyester sound and infuse it with the trip-hop electronica of Massive Attack, then adds more impassioned lyrics and vocals that don't rely on annoying vocal gymnastics. "These Walls" make me want to dance--sorry, fellow train riders. Too bad this band is now defunct.

Miles Davis, "Flamenco Sketches": I am not alone in my longtime love affair with Kind of Blue. It is the all-time best-selling jazz record ever, and it deserves to be. No exaggeration, I listened to this album every single morning for about a two-year period while I hacked away at a novel that I wrote and tried, unsuccessfully, to get published. Ever felt this way?: this song makes me want to stand by a moonlit river under a star-sprinkled sky and feel my eyes well up as my soul tries to leap from my body. It makes me want to stand on a mountaintop and scream. Makes me want to sink into a warm ocean at sunset. This song is powerful stuff. Go find your copy and give it a listen. My copy is the original version, but the newer one has an alternate take of "Flamenco Sketches" with different gorgeous solos by Davis and Coltrane. Of course these are not two men with trumpets and saxophones, but rather artists with paintbrushes. I could go on and on about this album and this song...

Rolling Stones, "Beast of Burden": No idea why I wanted to hear it today. Just a damn good classic with that warm and bluesy Keith Richards Tele tone.

Willie Nelson, "Stardust": Willie can do anything. He really can. He made some duds, but the vast majority of his output is spot-on. Here he famously takes this revered jazz standard about lost-love and makes it his own in that way that only Willie can.

And finally, Rod Stewart, "Every Picture Tells a Story": Okay, so I almost got hit by a car during this song, but it wasn't my fault--there are about three big flaws in this tune that I obsess over and I was preoccupied with trying to decipher why they decided not to fix them when they recorded it. First off, very quickly, I have a long relationship with this album, going back to when I was a kid. All through my childhood it was a know fact that my mother had some sort of attachment to "Maggie May," which was the big hit off this classic record. The details are not my business to recount, so I will resist, but let's just say that this was, for her, one of those songs. One of those songs where as soon as you hear it you wish your life had turned out differently, or you are reminded of an old flame, or some combination of the two. I used to resent this song, until I grew up and had lived enough myself to have a few of my own songs like that. Nostalgia isn't the right word. It's more than that. More powerful, more meaningful than that. Anyway, Rod Stewart wasn't always the misogynistic perv in pink Spandex who groped women old enough to be his (grand)daughters. He once was the quintessential rock-n-roll frontman. He had wonderfully messy fucking hair and a voice that sounded as though he ate nails and chased them back with scotch each morning. He was bold and sassy and make ballsy music. Every Picture Tells a Story was his debut solo album, recorded at the peak of his band's, The Faces, career. The title track is a bad-ass rocker, for sure, and it definitely makes my want to grab a mic stand and shake my ass in front of a hot and sweaty crowd, but there are a few curious oddities in it that always make me wonder what they were thinking when they recorded it. First off, the12-string that opens the song is not even close to in tune. Not even close. Then, the drums kick in, but they kick in a half-second too soon. Finally, in the last breakdown verse, when Rod the Mod and his wailing backup singer duet, Rod accidentally utters the first syllable of a word almost a full measure early. He quickly catches himself, but it is very audible screw up. This came out in 1971, I believe, so I understand there wasn't digital editing software like we have now, but still, they definitely had the technology then to fix those things. But then again, why bother? It's raw. It's imperfect. It's flawed. Just like life. I will argue the song would be just as great with an in-tune guitar and drums that come in on time, but I can't deny the song is a winner, warts and all.

I'm glad I didn't die today. I have far too much left to accomplish. And I've made some promises that I need to keep. And besides, there is all this amazing music still left to hear, and something tells me where I'll end up one day, there will be no music.