Little Bang Theory

(With apologies to Pagan Sphinx)

No, really, she loves this stuff, but I stuck in the British “u” just to see if she’d notice

Yes indeed, a consummate performance by the talented and bizarre Tom Waites to round off your otherwise sane weekend:

Enjoy, or at least develop an insidious twitch.

This place blows my mind. You all are so full of interesting thoughts and perceptions, and each one of you brings to the ‘Sphere your unique perspectives and predilections.

And from your various compass points, you bring your music, which is frequently stuff I’ve enjoyed over the years and haven’t thought about recently. I thank you for that, for keeping me in touch with things which might otherwise slip away from me. The Pagan Sphinx does that really well, as we have quite a few years of history in common, and she’s done a better job of archiving those memories than I have. And Phydeaux and I have disturbingly similar favorites, and I fear playlists in our heads - that’s part of how we became Siamese Cousins!

But there’s a particular pleasure which I value, and that’s being turned on to something new, and that happens here with a gleeful frequency.

Today’s “Oh-Yeaah!” moment came at konagod’s place, where he had a YouTube clip up on his sidebar of Bettye Lavette, whose name didn’t ring a bell.

Well, it was good enough to get me cruising her YouTube catalog, which netted me this soulful and passionate rendition of Sleep To Dream:

I hope that worked, ’cause this woman is channeling the love child of Tina Turner and Sarah Vaughan.

Thanks, kona.

P.S. - If the little “play arrow” doesn’t work, click on the picture itself - that always works for me, and brings one directly to the YouTube page, which provides a bit more information about what you’re watching.

…Despite it’s best efforts to poison my conceptual well.

Firstly, if you don’t love konagod, you should. He’s one (OK, two) cool guy(s) who tells it pretty much like t(he)y see(s) it. Combine his candor with his intellect, stir in his sense of humor and his love for cats, and I dare you not to blogroll him, if you haven’t already.

And then there’s Hill Country Gal over at Hill Country, who recently used a little of her Copious Excess Cool to post a clip of Sergio Mendes, which brought back memories of sitting on the rug in my parent’s living room, watching something like The Andy Williams Show and seeing this guy and his band, and thinking, “Wow, this is AT LEAST as cool as Herb Alpert!”

So here’s a little Sergio from over forty years ago, still kicking my ass. And I suggest you get up and dance, it’s only 2:44, and you know you want to!

…are EVERYWHERE in my apartment, festooning the walls, piling up on window sills and eventually crunching underfoot as they run out the Ladybug Clock. They’re in the sinks, necessitating delicate rescues prior to the running of water (must be the Buddhist in me.)

Mostly they get re-situated onto my begonias, which they seem to like slightly less than my fingers, making the transfer tricky business. But once they’re there, they seem quite content to stay awhile:

Seeing them congregate on the window sills necessarily brings this ol’ Boomer back to the days when my daughters were squealing little joy-balls singing along to this:

And now you’re stuck with it!

This evening I noticed a post at konagod’s place with a clip from the Edgar Winter Group.

This was more than a bit strange. I mean, how often do YOU think about the Edgar Winter Group?

And yet, on a walk-about through the woods of Southern Vermont this afternoon, I was engulfed by thoughts of that very same musician, and lamenting his transformation from the jazzman who produced Entrance, his first solo album after leaving brother Johnny’s monstrous blues group, to the bare-chested and overly-made-up rock phenomenon who produced Frankenstein and its ilk.

Now in case you missed it (and most everyone did,) Entrance was a drop-dead gorgeous jazz-rock fusion tour-de-force, featuring Edgar on lusciously full piano tracts, extraordinarily vibrant alto sax work, and totally over-the-top vocals, culminating in a forty-plus second high-note finale on Tobacco Road destined to curl the toes of anyone who deigned to listen.

So with that little nudge from konagod, I went looking for anything from Edgar’s album Entrance. But I found nothing, as this gem was apparently a total commercial flop.

But what I DID find was a live version of his hit, Frankenstein, in which he does an amazing drum battle with his man Chuck Ruff, and it really changed my mind about his conversion from jazz prodigy to rock monster - he still tears it up! And a more recent(2006) youtube video shows him still kickin’ it down!

So for all of you rockers out there, here’s a gem which I hope you enjoy as much as I did: Edgar Winter and White Trash playing Frankenstein:

The four guys in this video are having SO much fun that I DARE you not to dig it!

Here’s something which tickles my fancy: Fred Knittle struttin’ it Travolta Style, oxygen tank and all!

And there’s a pair of Ladies who I wouldn’t dare to doubt when they say they’ll survive.

Dig it, people.

Q: What do you have when your head is swimming and pounding, your throat is too sore to swallow, your lungs are filled with dry, rattling crud, your whole body aches no matter how you position it, and you’re alternately sweating buckets and shivering yourself out of bed?

A: Me.

Sorry to be such a stick-in-the-mud, peeps; I’m going back to bed.

Meanwhile, here’s one of my favorites, from a 1985 concert tour:

Two more appropriate songs would be hard to conjure!

Enjoy!

‘k, so it’s been a while, and you know how I loves me all kinds o’ kittehz, so here’s a little Kittehz Bizness you can share with your Feline Friends:

Really, bring ‘em right on over to watch, they’ll enjoy this at least as much as you will:

Courtesy of Ultimate Spawn, who Knows what I Like!

Spent an hour and a quarter getting home from my first physical therapy appointment this evening, mostly because of the people 20 cars ahead of me driving 20 mph, and the people behind them being afraid to pass.

But that’s OK, really; the road was deep in slush, and my windshield wipers were struggling to deal with the freezing rain.

The Portuguese have an expression which is appropriate for this situation:

“Better an hour late in this life than a minute early in the next!”

So if you live in the Northeast, don’t go out tonight if you don’t really have to.

Take it away, Johnny!

You, my friends, deserve this. Because The Art Of Noise kicks ass and because Max Headroom Rulz the Universe!

H/T to Randal for reminding me!