In which we finish a book or two

Reading—and more to the point, being somewhere in a book—is a presumed given. One is always somewhere inside a book. It is a constant. But there is a special situation where the constant is replaced by a variable, to wit, the ending of a book one is reading. (This does not really apply to a book to which one is listening.) You pick up your book and you see, if you are on your Kindle, that you are almost at the 90% mark. If it’s a physical book, you see just the slightest sliver of pages remaining. And this book, at which you have been chugging away for the same amount of time every day at the same rate of speed since forever, suddenly becomes a challenge. You are now going to finish this thing, regardless of how long it takes, no matter how tired you may be if you’re reading at night, no matter what distractions the universe might throw at you. You are going to move out of being somewhere inside this book. It will pass on. It will rest in peace. It will be an ex-book. 

There is something especially delectable about this final blast at a book. I just went through it with Robert Crais’s The Last Detective. This was not my favorite Cole/Pike novel, but it was a perfectly acceptable entry in the series. But when I saw that 87% read mark, I knew I could dispense with it and never pick it up again. This was especially important to me as I had begun The Forsyte Saga and finished the first volume, interrupting that one for a mystery break with the Crais. This was probably a bad idea. While the Forsyte books have way fewer shootouts than an Elvis Cole story, there is something about them that is sort of mesmerizing. There are more Forsytes than you can shake the proverbial stick at, all of them getting on with their lives one way or another, and once you jump on the wagon, it just keeps rolling along and rolling along. Galsworthy did not win the Nobel Prize for being a piker. And if it is lacking in shootouts, there is nevertheless action enough for a family saga. I’ve already complained about the most recent dramatization, "The Forsytes," which is more like a riff on the novels, or a Bizarro version, where characters bear no relation to their originals. That was what got me started reading in the first place. And now I’m lost. It will be ages before I’m finished with this, or at the point where the percentage on my Kindle tells me I can stay awake and finish it before the sun rises on a new day. 

Meanwhile, maybe there are shootouts in it and I just haven’t gotten to them yet. We’ll see. Anyhow, thank you, Mr. Crais, for the diversion.

Speaking of endlessness, I just finished the gazillion-hour-long audiobook of Frank, the Voice by James Kaplan. I enjoyed it and learned a lot I didn’t know about one of my favorite performers, and got him all the way up to winning the Oscar but still married to Ava, and when I removed it from my phone I immediately replaced it with the 40+ hours of the sequel, Frank, the Chairman. But I won’t listen to that one for a while. There is more to life than Frank Sinatra. Or so I am told. 

Meanwhile, and just as an aside, we saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy perform live last night at our local concert hall. Quite the show, especially the second set when they were really in it. That aspect was interesting. They’re a tight band, and their first set was good, but they really didn’t take off until after the break, when they were great, while still being a very tight band. Go figure. Sometimes music-making comes out exactly right. Which is why you need to hear people live when you can. It can be transcendent. 

In which we dip back into the audit music queue

When most people think of Jesse Colin Young and the Youngbloods, they think of “Come Together.” It’s not that I hate the song—that would be impossible, like hating Mom and Apple Pie—but it was one of the most overplayed tunes of its day, back when we were all chained to our radios, and one had heard enough of it long before one stopped hearing it. I prefer to think of JCY&TY as album makers. (Disclaimer: They’re one of the first rock groups I saw live, in 1966. I was slightly younger then.) And when I think of their albums, there’s “Elephant Mountain,” probably one of the most underrated and forgotten albums of the 60s, and also the song “Grizzly Bear.” If GB isn’t on your radar as one of the greatest songs of all time, you need to fix your radar, bo bo dee yo… The guitarist for the group, nicknamed Banana, was Lowell Levinger. (It is possible that the guitarist for the group, Banana, was nicknamed Lowell Levinger.) What brings all this back is Levinger’s/Banana’s album “Married to the Blues.” Very nice acoustic stuff that obviously got me waxing nostalgic. If you’re an old JCY&TY-head yourself, it will do likewise for you. 

I have no idea how “Georgia Bound” by Blind Blake made the queue, but “500 Songs” is the likeliest suspect. As you can guess, it’s old blues and rag guitar, and very strong. And he is apparently the composer of “Diddy Wah Diddy,” which is warrant enough to give him a listen.

“Surf’s Up” by The Beach Boys, followed by “Going Public” by Bruce Johnston — There are those who place “Surf’s Up” high in the BB album pantheon. I wouldn’t go that far, but it did rescue the Wilson/Parks title tune from “Smile” oblivion, sung here by BB Johnston. It also has “Disney Girls,” an actual Johnston number, with the great inane rhyme of Fantasy Worlds and Dis-a-ney Girls. It’s a good BB album, always worth a listen. Following this is in the lineup with Johnston’s own solo album was a no-brainer. It’s a good album, kicking off with his most famous number, “I Write the Songs,” which famously is mostly identified with song-writer Barry Manilow who didn’t write the song. Apparently there are more covers of IWTS than there are people to cover it. More power to you, Bruce. BJ has the longest tenure in the BBs after Mike Love, which I wasn’t expecting. Anyhow, scratch a BB and you get a solo album or two in those 60 years or so. Brian’s are the best, unsurprisingly, but the others all get a good one off now and then. As does Johnston here.

Ron Dante, “Saturday Night Blast.” — So we’re sitting around the poker table and an unfamiliar song comes on my oldie playlist, and the Boomer Manque asks “Who is this?” I look on my phone and reply, Ron Dante. “Who’s Ran Dante?” he asks, so I look it up and reply, “The lead singer of the Archies,” to which the Boomer Manque slaps his head and replies, “I should have known that,” to which the only possible response on my end was, “No, you shouldn’t.” No self-respecting Boomer music fan would have listened to The Archies for any longer than it would take to hav changed the AM radio station, much less harbor such a fondness for their lead singer as to know his voice 60 years later after hearing two notes. As for this album, it takes a lot of mediocre pop hits and further mediocretizes them. I guess being the lead singer of the Archies got you plenty of studio time back in the day. Never underestimate the power of bubblegum. 

Oregon, "Music of Another Pleasant Era" - Nice jazz, if you’re interested. 'Nuff said.