I received the cd “I Hear Music” by Meegan Samantha Coleman this week. There are some really nice tracks here. I especially enjoy her version of “Cry Me A River”. I hope you guys enjoy it. Check out her MySpace page and let her know what you think.
http://www.myspace.com/meegansamanthacoleman

I am also adding a few tracks from the Mike Metheny cd “Close Enough For Love”. Also some very nice music here. I want to thank Ms. Coleman and Mr. Metheny for the opportunity to hear some really wonderful music.
http://www.mikemetheny.com/

So last night I was sitting around listening to music, especially a lot of Doo Wop for some reason. Let me just say, Doo Wop was not created by man. On the eighth day God created Doo Wop. It’s just too friggin beautiful to be an invention of the mortal man. Before jazz took over my life, I was a big fan of the stuff from the 50’s and 60’s. Like the Paul Simon song goes, “The Penguins, the Moonglows, the Orioles and the Five Satins.” I used to dig all of those groups as a kid, and still do. I was listening to the Penguins sing “My Troubles Are Not At End” and just sat there thinking of how incredibly beautiful the song was. Then The Flamingos with “I Only Have Eyes For You”. How could you not love that song? Five guys standing beneath a streetlamp, snapping their fingers and harmonizing like mad. Like jazz, Doo Wop is purely American. No one can say they gave it to us (except God, as mentioned earlier :o) )

Anyway, I also found myself listening to the song “Vincent” by Don McLean. I remember listening to this tune as a kid, but it’s meaning for me differed as a kid compared to now. When I was a kid, this was one of the songs that put me to sleep at night. At night, I would listen to the radio while dozing off. Sinatra, Dinah Washington, Jose Feliciano, Don McLean. Songs like “Vincent” tucked me in and sent me on my way to gentle slumber. But later in life I discovered Vincent Van Gogh and became just as fascinated with the man as I was with his artwork. So, last night I am listening to this song and felt compelled to grab his book “The Letters Of Vincent Van Gogh”. I flipped it open and dig the page I happen to open. Remember my statements on unrequited love last night? Well, the first words I read in the book were

Dear Theo,

There is something in my heart that I must tell you; perhaps you know about it already and it is not new for you. I want to tell you that this summer a deep love has grown in my heart for Kee, but when I told her this, she answered me that to her, past and future remained one, so she could never return my feelings.

Then there was a terrible indecision within me as to what to do. Should I accept her “no, never, never” or considering the questions as not finished and decided, should I keep some hope and not give up?

And therein lies the angst of unrequited love. “But for someone you adore, it’s a pleasure to be sad”. Yes, this is true. But to know that this love could not or would not be returned is pure torture. “Am I wasting my life away loving one who will never feel the same for me? Or should hope remain? Should I hold near to my heart that sliver of hope that this other person will soon come around and realize that I am the one for them? Should I wait for them to realize that no one will ever love them as much as I, and even more importantly, that they could never love anyone more than I?

The problem with unrequited love is the potential for infinite waiting. Waiting for something that may never be. The problem is the pain of not knowing. And the one question that arises for both parties involved is “What is wrong with me?” The possessor of this passion that refuses to wither and die wonders, “What is wrong with me that they can not return this wonderful feeling? Can they not recognize how beautiful this could be? It is me. What must I change about myself to change that reflection in their eyes to one of utter certainty?”

The object of such unwavering affection is forced to wonder, “What is wrong with me that I can not return this love that this person expresses? Why do I not see the potential beauty they see so plainly? Why do my eyes still look elsewhere for the same kind of love this person feels for me?”

Yes, it is a pleasure to be sad. Sometimes. Sometimes, it’s just a bitch.

Rainy, lazy Saturday evening. Perfect time to do a little rambling on the blog, I think.

I’ve been spending a lot of time on YouTube lately. YouTube sold to Google for well over a billion dollars, and at first glance, that seems like a ridiculous amount of money to pay someone who is nothing more than a container for videos. But man, do I love it. I punch in the name of some random music video I haven’t seen in twenty years, and BOOM, there it is. Just a rush of memories come flooding back to me and there I am, chin in hand, grinning dumbly…just reminiscing.

Fashion designers have come up with a less-than-zero clothing size, also known as subzero. Let me ask you, what man is attracted to a woman wearing subzero clothes? I mean, I know it’s all a matter of taste, but come on! Who wants to roll around with a woman knowing that at any moment her femur could actually break his skin? These extra thin models do nothing for me. I like women with a little meat on their bones. Overly obese? No. Then we are getting into the area of fetishes, which is okay too. Just not my thing. But wafer thin? Nuh uh. What’s wrong with Rubenesque?

Was listening to Sinatra sing “Glad To Be UnHappy” the other day. “Unrequited love’s a  bore, and I’ve got it pretty bad. But for someone you adore, it’s a pleasure to be sad” Is that true? I think so. I can recall being madly in love with women who didn’t quite feel the same for me. Was it a blow? Sure. But even unreciprocated love feels better than no love at all. Does get old after a while, though? But, if you are lucky, your love for the disinterested fades and eventually your heart falls upon someone who adores you just as much as you adore them. Then…the fireworks truly begin!

I’ve been reading the autobiography by Etta James — “Rage to Survive - The Etta James Story”. First of all, this is one hell of a book. I commented on Dinah Washington’s book a few months ago and stated that it was rather dry and boring sometimes. Perhaps this is because Washington’s book is a biography and doesn’t come directly from the Queen’s mouth. Who knows? But Ms. James tells it like it is. Honest as hell and you’ve got to appreciate that. She was heavy, heavy into drugs. Robbing, stealing from her friends. Singing her ass off at night and trying to score during the day. Heroin is a sonofabitch, let me tell you. I never want to get off on that stuff. It has brought down so many people. I don’t care how good it feels to shoot up. Smack is wack. I’m not done with the book yet, so I am not sure if and when she kicked the habit completely. I’m guessing she did it during the nineties when she went the jazz route. We’ll see. I do appreciate her candor, though. Honesty in depicting your life, displaying every unsavory layer makes for excellent reading, I must admit.

One thing about Etta James. She is a singer. Yes, her voice is powerful, but she does not yell through her songs. I hate these American Idol “singers” who yell and shout and make you wonder why Aretha Franklin would ever allow people to do such heinous things to her music. If you want to know how to sing with power, download a few Etta James tunes. You get goosebumps, not blood trickling out of your ear.

Viola Davis is the greatest American actress most people have not seen or don’t remember. When is she going to get that real meaty part that knocks the world on its ass? I love her. Pit her up against any of the great ones and she’d stand toe to toe with them. She’s the real deal.