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Live Music Ain’t Dead

But it’s kinda on life support. In the not too distant past, a solid minority of all Americans learned how to play an instrument or sing or both. It’s kinda rare these days.

In a way, it’s similar to sports. It used to be that everyone played some kind of sport when they were young, just for the fun of it. It was sometimes organized, like Little League and so forth, but it wasn’t always considered a kind of minor league for pros to spring from right from the get-go. Now not many people want their children to learn to be good sports and vie with their peers for some very minor bragging rights. The whole edifice is erected to produce a handful of professionals that make more money than a software startup budget. The fun has been squeezed out of it.

Look and listen to these kids. They’re making the kind of music that used to haunt every nightclub and restaurant in the world. Live music was everywhere compared to nowadays. People want giant events or nothing at this point. Me? I’d like to listen to La Vie en Rose made fresh right in front of me by some cute kids.

They’re trapped in YouTube amber, and I don’t know how to get them out.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Ducting Disquisition to Present an Unorganized Hancock Video

I will of course continue to explain how HVAC works  in the very near future, only to have readers tell me in the comments that putting a ceiling fan on reverse cures chill blains and cancer. In the meantime, you’re going to have to settle for a wonderful song performed by a wonderful band comprised of my wonderful kids.

Lisztomania is a peppy song performed originally by a lively band called Phoenix, who I gather are a French outfit popular at Electric Daisy Carnivals and other sanitized Woodstocks. There is a live recording of this song from an Unorganized Hancock performance at the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture that hardcore Unorganized Hancock fans might recall. My gosh, l’il Garrett was only ten then.

The latest recording sounds like ten people are playing on it, but it’s just my boys. They have become adept multi-trackers. The animation is entirely the work of the twelve-year-old drummer. He has a sweet, if quirky, disposition, and it shines through, don’t you think? I commended him on making a reference to France in a video with links to a French band, and he said,”They’re from France? I didn’t know that.”

He just likes France, I guess.

Can You Feel It? Sunny by Bobby Hebb Is Fast Becoming The Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens

We’re bad, and we’re nationwide, of course — as long as Google works. But we’re invading other countries, too. It’s no great feat. Everyone’s always invading France. Sometimes they import Corsicans to invade themselves.

Our pronouncement that Sunny by Bobby Hebb is the Official Song of the Twenty-Teens is bearing fruit, or frog’s legs, or something. In honor of this very wonderful and very French version of the song, I’m going to take up smoking unfiltered cigarettes and forgo shaving my armpit hair for a month.

Remember people, “Choisissez votre femme par l’oreille bien plus que par les yeux.”

I’m Going To Move To The South Of France

I’m going to get up every morning and shave over a basin and then put on a suit. Sharp. I’m going to walk down a street made of little stones. There will be baskets of flowers depending from iron hooks mortared into the stuccoed buildings. The dogs will lift their heads but not bark as I pass by. I will have a cane, for no particular reason. I will buy a newspaper in the wrong language and a baguette, and pay with some form of coin. No matter what it costs, it has to be paid for with coins.

Or perhaps they will give it to me because they like my last book. I wrote it in pencil, because I no longer have a computer, or a television, or a telephone, or a business card, or a PO box, or an email address, or a Pinterest page, or much of anything else, really. I will have a bank account through which you can contact me. When I return home I will open the casements wide to the morning and my wife will make coffee and we will sit by the window and eat toast made from the baguette and talk about our children.

I will be the old man that passes by, dressed too impeccably for the weather and the zeitgeist, and my wife will be the woman who is always immaculately turned out until the day she passes on to a place that deserves her.

And during our peregrinations, if you accost us with a lean and hungry look in your eyes, and malice in your heart, I will produce a misericorde out of nowhere and gut you like a fish.

Tag: France

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