My books can be purchased as e-books for only $1.99. If interested, just click here: Books.
Match Play is a golf/suspense novel. Dust of Autumn is a bloody one set in upstate New York. Prairie View is set in South Dakota, with a final scene atop Rattlesnake Butte. Life in the Arbor is a children's book about Rollie Rabbit and his friends (on about a fourth grade level). The Black Widow involves an elaborate extortion scheme. Doggy-Dog World is my memoir. And ES3 is a description of my method for examining English sentence structure.
In case anyone is interested in any of my past posts, an archive list can be found at the bottom of this page.
My newest novel, Happy Valley, can be found here.

Friday, October 28

The Old Fogy

I must be an old fogy when it comes to music. I just don’t understand or appreciate the stuff young people celebrate today. I watch modern singers and bands performing their hits and I can’t understand what they’re singing. I saw Coldplay perform on The Ellen DeGeneris Show yesterday, the audience going simply wild as the lead singer cavorted around and through the audience, two electric guitars and a drummer behind him wailing and banging away, and I didn’t understand a word he was singing. The performance was good, the music and rhythm was intoxicating, but the lyrics got lost in the volume. Yet this group from England has sold over 50 million albums in the last seven years. That’s a bunch. My not understanding the lyrics is true of nearly everyone else performing now. It isn’t that they’re so metaphysically complicated; I see their lips move but I don’t catch the words. It’s like they’re singing in a foreign language. The emphasis is on visual performance and rhythm instead of lyrics and music. I miss the days when singers got on stage and sang the lyrics of a song, interpreting those lyrics from behind a stationary mike. I miss the clever words of Cole Porter, Ira Gershwin, and Larry Hart. I miss singers like Sinatra, Jack Jones, Vic Damone, Sarah, Ella, and too many more to mention. Barabra is still around and still sounds remarkable, but she’s now old and no longer performing except on rare occasions. Michael Bublé is around and sounds like a modern Sinatra, but he’s consigned pretty much to tours and clubs, labeled a jazz singer and followed only by those of us who still want style and comprehensibility. I just read what I’ve written so far, and I do sound exactly like an old fogy. So be it. I chuckle to think that in forty or fifty years, today’s youth will be wrapped (and rapped) in old fogy garb, yearning for the good old days when their recording artists hipped and hopped and rapped and bedazzled them with outrageous outfits and body paint.

Post a Comment

Blog Archive

Any comments? Write me at