The first full-length screenplay I wrote was a semi-autobiographical account of an out of control party I threw in the summer of 1987. My script was an attempt to capture a time and place, much in the same way George Lucas and Richard Linklater had done in their wonderful films, American Graffiti and Dazed and Confused. That summer in ’87 was my first taste of independence. While my parents were vacationing in Hawaii, my brother (a recent college grad) was the sole adult supervision. Needless to say, I came and went as I pleased, cruising around in The Whomobile and consuming as much alcohol as possible (between work hours at The Original Cookie). The trouble with my screenplay wasn’t so much the dialogue or the plot; rather, I never quite achieved capturing the mood of that summer the way I’d hoped to.

The first couple drafts contained a scene that took place in a Denny’s restaurant, some time in the early morning, after the party had ended. The scene was drawn from the many late nights my friends and I hung out in the local Denny’s, idling away the wee hours of the morning on Friday and Saturday nights. Back then, smoking was still permitted in restaurants, and even though I was a non-smoker, several of my friends had the habit. This meant that we all wound up sitting under a two-foot cloud of cigarette smoke devouring our Moons Over My Hammies, drinking Cokes or coffee, and trying to make each night last until the sun came up or until someone collapsed from exhaustion or drunkenness. In the best of all worlds, had my script been produced, the film would have featured the immortal Otis Redding singing “Cigarettes and Coffee” under the scene. Redding’s soulful ballad was able to do everything I was trying to do in 100 pages, but in a mere 4 minutes. With its plodding drums, dreamy horns and Otis’ impassioned singing, this song sounds like it really was recorded sometime in the AM, with a microphone set up in a corner booth and the wait staff standing by to pour another cup of joe.

I had just discovered Redding’s music during the winter of ’86 and ’87, so it felt new and fresh, despite having been recorded twenty years earlier. Coming of age in the 1980s, actually hearing Redding’s catalog on the radio was pretty unusual. With all great ’60s soul relegated to the “oldies” stations that were suddenly taking over the frequencies of former AOR stations, the best you might hear from Redding was his posthumous triumph “(Sittin’ On the) Dock of the Bay.” Moreover, most of the Stax label masters like Sam & Dave, Wilson Picket, Carla Thomas and Joe Tex received little to no airplay ( “Soul Man” on occasion, or “Land of 1000 Dances”). What you heard was the Motown sound of soul. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but once I unearthed the rough, gritty soul from Stax records, Motown felt a little… safe. (more…)

I’m not sure when my brother, Budd, brought home his copy of John (then) Cougar Mellencamp’s Uh Huh. The cassette showed up in the basement one summer, a year or so after its release. Like most of America, I was a big fan of “Pink Houses,” and I was thrilled that I now had a copy of it and his other big hits from that album, “Crumblin’ Down” and “The Authority Song.” At this point in his career, Mellencamp was establishing himself as a “legitimate” artist, hence the use of his real name (the record label wouldn’t allow him to ditch the “Cougar” until years later, for fear record buyers might get confused….huh?) In addition, there was the radio staple (at least in Cleveland), “Play Guitar,” on Side Two, which borrowed heavily from Them’s “Gloria” (Mellencamp often slipped the “G-L-O-R-I-A’s” into his concerts during that number).

The rest of Uh Huh is filled with more of the same ’60s garage band rock that Mellencamp still champions, as well as one of Budd’s favorite tunes, the John Prine co-penned “Jackie-O.” As a drummer, listening to the masterful Kenny Aronoff wail on this album was one of the greatest pleasures of my adolescence. You don’t even have to be a drummer to appreciate someone who plays so damn well — Aronoff is truly one of rock’s best drummers, and helped define Mellencamp’s sound. Another thrill was hearing one of the band members mutter, “Hey, what the fuck” at the start of the second to last song on the LP, “Lovin’ Mother for Ya.” That song, with its obscenity, driving beat and timbales (you have love the timbales) gave me good reason to jam each and every time it came on. And having wailed on my own drums to “Lovin’ Mother for Ya,” I’d cool down and unwind to what would become one of my favorite basement songs: the last track on Uh Huh, “Golden Gates.” (more…)

Damn right, “My Sharona.” The Knack’s one monster hit, co-written by lead guitarist Berton Averre and singer Doug Fieger, has kept my heart pumping and my hands pounding on steering wheels, tabletops, and drum sets for nearly 30 years. While some may write it off as slick corporate new wave rock, the drive and sexuality of that song has always been appealing to me. Even as a prepubescent kid growing up in northeast Ohio during the late ’70s, something about this song felt… primal. I’m sure it had something to do with Fieger’s panting and moaning. And then there’s the drum part:

“Dum dum thunk, dumdum thunk, dum thunk, dum dum thunk, dum dum dum thunk, dumdum thunk…”

The moment you hear Bruce Gary’s drums and the Prescott Niles bass line, this infectious song gets into your head and under the sheets. Is it any wonder I listened to this song over and over again downstairs in my parents’ basement, and later, in the musky basement bedroom I called home in college?

Like so many, I first heard “My Sharona” when it was a radio staple back in 1979. I loved the melody and had no clue what Feiger was singing about. I never caught the line “runnin’ down the length of my thigh, Sharona”; apparently my parents never caught on either, because they never switched the station when we were on a long-ass cross country vacation and the song began playing. Among the disco beats and soft rock ballads of that time period, Averre’s masterpiece was a breath of fresh air, even if it felt like derivative bubblegum (albeit soft-core) pop rock. The song was so huge, it even propelled the follow-up (and dirtier) single, “Good Girls Don’t,” into the top 20 and made The Knack’s debut album, Get the Knack, a smash success, spending five weeks at Number One. This band was destined for greatness. Or not. (more…)

And so, for no real reason besides pride and misunderstanding, my best friend, Steve, and I had a falling out when we were 17. It wasn’t your typical bloodied knuckles, black-path fight after school that drove us apart. I’m sure that Steve inadvertently brushed me off in favor of his high school girlfriend and that I took it the wrong way. So I decided that I would wait. I would wait for him to initiate the next time we got together and and instead drank warm Bud Lights or kicked back in the basement and idled away the hours listening to music. I was a stupid teenage guy and I let my own self-importance get the better of me. Face it, friends, when faced with the option of hanging with your bud or possibly getting to third base with a 17-year-old cutie, a guy’s going to choose the latter. What should have been resolved within a day or even a week went on for months. Another long, dreary Cleveland winter passed and the two of us did not speak, not even cordial “hellos” in the hallways. Silence. When asked by mutual friends what happened between us, I could only reply, sadly, “I don’t know.” In truth, I really didn’t know. Back then, I wasn’t wise enough to understand that people don’t have to speak every single day to remain close and important to each other. Alas, that was high school, though. I don’t think I knew any kid my age with the wisdom of an adult, John Hughes films notwithstanding.

One Saturday night, we wound up at the same small get together in someone’s living room. In the background, the television was tuned to MTV and the Pete Townshend Deep End Live concert special. Townshend’s presence was strangely appropriate. He was an artist that Steve and I had discovered at the same time, admiring his long history of introspective lyrics and ear bleeding guitar chords. Steve was a great fan of Quadrophenia and Empty Glass, while I enjoyed the anthems on Who’s Next and White City. We both agreed that All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes was his finest work as a solo artist. That night, as we sat uncomfortably in the same tight quarters, I wanted to nudge him and make a comment about drummer Simon Phillips or about how David Gilmour’s guitar playing really suited Townshend’s theatrical music (Gilmour was playing lead for this show). But we kept our distance and the rift continued. When we would eventually reconcile, it would actually be an obscure of Pete Townshend song, “Life to Life,” that would give me the courage to take the extra steps needed to make sure our friendship healed.

Soon after the shared Townshend experience, I approached Steve during our high school’s winter formal. Something inside of me, perhaps the realization that I’d been an ass, compelled me to break the ice.

“We should talk sometime.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. See ya around.”
“Sure.” (more…)

Slow dancing. It was something Julie and I did more frequently in the early years of our marriage. There we’d be, alone in our apartment, holding each other and swaying to the music of Bonnie or Shawn or Bruce or Ella. As one of our favorite artists sang, we could hear the helicopters flying over North Hollywood or rowdy neighbors in the courtyard below. In those moments, the outside world would fade away and it just the two of us in our own paradise. As our lives became busier with work, school and children, those simple times became more infrequent. These days our nights together are spent filling in the details of our spent days. We catch up with each others’ previous twelve hours before sinking into the couch for an hour of mindless entertainment on the television. With the kids asleep in the next room, playing music rarely occurs. The days of dancing seemed far gone, until we heard Patty Griffin’s beautiful “Heavenly Day.”

Like so many, we became fans of Griffin’s music after her first album, Living With Ghosts, was released in 1996. With just her guitar and voice, that record ranks as one of the best debuts in modern rock history. Griffin’s songs “Every Little Bit,” “You Are Not Alone” and the tragic “Poor Man’s House” received minimal airplay on the L.A. radio station we listened to back in the mid 90’s. After the station was sold (and changed formats) and Griffin’s subsequent albums were ditched in the corporate downsizing of A&M Records (who dropped her after Universal bought the label), finding her music became a challenge. Luckily, there were champions of Patty Griffin out there, including Emmylou Harris, the Dixie Chicks, and some dude named Jeff Giles. She found a new home at Dave Matthews’ ATO Records, which has allowed her a chance to continue growing and succeeding as an artist. What I adore about Patty Griffin is the conviction with which she sings every song. Few artists can match her intensity and soul both on record and in concert (where she excels). Since signing to ATO, Griffin has released three stunning albums: 1000 Kisses (2002), Impossible Dream (2004), and Children Running Through (2007), the CD where you’ll find “Heavenly Day.”

The execs at ATO are savvy enough to realize that the old models of getting a musician’s work into the public’s ear have fallen by the wayside. Thus, they bombard music supervisors for film and television series with their artists’ repertoire. It was while watching a quirky little romantic series called Side Order of Life that Julie and I first heard “Heavenly Day.” Among other topics, this Lifetime series dealt with one character’s battle against a brain tumor. During the final moments of one particularly emotional episode, this character decided to take charge and cut off her curly locks just before starting chemotherapy. She would not let her disease control her life. However, when it came time to cut her hair, she couldn’t lift the scissors. Her best friend, standing by, lifted the shears for her and proceeded to start the cutting. Against these images, “Heavenly Day” played. While the images were sad to watch, Griffin’s lyrics provided an optimistic tone and perhaps revealed the ill woman’s inner optimism. (more…)

Around this time last year, I was in the throes of a terrible depression. It was unlike any wave of emotions I’d ever been through in my entire life. For four long months, I would struggle to get through my day without turning into Holly Hunter in Broadcast News, having to sneak away and cry for ten to fifteen minute jags. I never analyzed the cause for my mental woes, but I have a pretty good idea what was weighing heavy on my mind. Every year at this time, as we approach the CF Great Strides walk, I can’t help but get a little overwhelmed. 2007 just happened to be particularly difficult.

I wrote the following Basement Song entry while I was slashing through this depression with a dull butter knife. This week, I wanted to revisit this entry because a) I never had a chance to actually share the song with any readers and b) most of the emotions I wrote about still exist. This song, “The Greatest Gift,” continues to move me whenever I hear it, especially the intricate guitar playing by the late Kevin Scott MacMichael (formerly of Cutting Crew). What I poured into this entry came out in one twenty-minute sitting. I decided to repost it as originally written without any further edits or polishes. I hope you enjoy it (and the song).

What can you say about a song that is like a parasite? It latches into your brain, your heart, your soul, and grows tendrils, sucking the life out of you. It becomes everything that you are, everything you think about, everything you want. A song like that is what I find so wonderful about music. A song like that is what loving music is about. It’s not something you can explain. Good song. Bad song. It’s your damn song, so who gives a shit what everyone else says. A song like that is magic. A blessing and a curse. A song like that is the definition of a basement song.

Last week, I received a copy of Robert Plant’s Fate of Nations album, released in 1993. I was riding a wave of euphoria — life felt good after several weeks of depression. For those of you who keep up with the blog, you know why I’m depressed so much. You may not understand it. I don’t even understand it most of the time. I like to think of myself as an optimist, but I continually find myself sinking to such depths of despair that I don’t know if there is a way out. For the first time in my life last week, I actually saw how a rational person might think taking their own life could be a means to an end. I would never do that, but I understood how they could feel that way. (more…)

Waiting in line outside the Honda Center in Anaheim, CA, milling about with hundreds of other hungry fans, I suspected that the Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band concert I was about to attend would be much different that the L.A. show I saw back in October. The Honda Center (formerly the Arrowhead Pond) is a newer sports arena, one with deluxe suites, padded seats and air conditioning. You may think I’m joking, but the L.A. Sports Arena, where the October show took place, is a sweltering old gymnasium. I left that show ten pounds lighter. As security guards outside the Honda Center checked each concertgoer with hand-held metal detectors, I feared that a subdued Orange County crowd might drag the show down. I was wrong. Very wrong.

First of all, my seat was choice. 17 rows off the general admission floor, I was close enough and centrally located so that I wouldn’t have to rely on the huge video screens that hovered over the stage. Next to me sat an older gentleman and his wife, possibly in his 60s. He had balding white hair, a bit of a scowl and hearing aids in both ears. I thought, “Great, I’m stuck next to a grandpa who’s going to sit through the whole show.” Man, was I way off base. This guy and his wife were long time Springsteen veterans having been to several shows, including the 1984 massive L.A. Coliseum show. “That was probably before you were born,” she said to me. I laughed, assuring her that, oh yes, I’d been born all right (and stuck in my parents’ basement discovering music). This friendly couple was also attending the next night’s gig, as well. By the end of the night, I would be very jealous of them.

All day long my excitement had slowly built. The nearly five months between making a lucky purchase and the actual show had only slightly dampened my excitement. Throughout the weekend, I would stop Julie at random moments and say, “Hey, I’m not sure if you heard, but Springsteen is Monday.” As if I would let her forget. Still, I had decided weeks ago not to expect the type of experience I’d had back in October. That show had been transcendent; I doubted anything could reach its level of excellence. I just wanted to enjoy myself. Moreover, my workday had been frustrating and exhausting. Would I be able to really enjoy it? Yes. I knew the moment that I sat down and I let my eyes wander the crowd that I was in the right place. These past few months I have been through many internal struggles and being there, amongst the thousands of Springsteen fans, I thought to myself, “I need this. I am so glad to be here.” Any doubts or fears I may have had were dispelled the moment the lights went down and the band took the stage. A spotlight shined down on the Boss and he looked out over the masses. As the crowd roared, he called out to his old friend, guitarist Little Steven Van Zandt, “Hey Steven, I think I see the light out there.” (more…)

Bruce Springsteen released his 12th studio album, The Rising, at the tail end of July 2002. With the U.S. still reeling from the 9/11/01 terrorist attacks and stories of fallen soldiers in the headlines, the Boss recorded a masterful reflection on loss, sorrow, love, hope, redemption and trying to find one’s way through the darkness. Each song stands up with his finest material from an extraordinary career that dates back to the 1973. Making the album more compelling was that Springsteen was recording with the fabled E Street Band for the first time since the 1982 sessions that resulted in Born in the USA. For Springsteen fans like me, this news was what we’d been waiting for since the triumphant 1999/2000 reunion tour that had announced to the world “the band was BACK!” I am not alone in believing that with his trusted bandmates behind him — in particular the Big Man, Clarence Clemons, and the trusted rhythm section of drummer Max Weinberg and bassist Gary Tallent — Springsteen is a more electric performer. Watching Bruce and his surrogate family perform together is like watching a well-tuned machine.

In July of 2002, my family was in its own state of emotional turmoil. A mere seven months after our son, Jacob, was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, we were coming to grips with our own feelings of hopelessness, sorrow, anger, love, hope and struggles with faith. Personally, I bottled up many of the fears and doubts that took up residency in my mind. I foolishly assumed that my wife, Julie, would not want to discuss my feelings because she was going through the same emotions. There were many times I wound up crying, secluded in my car, or quietly at night while my wife slept next to me.

One source of release was music. Two of albums that circulated through my CD player earlier that year were Rush’s Vapor Trails and Badly Drawn Boy’s wonderful soundtrack to the film About a Boy. However, with the release of The Rising, I became enthralled with a collection of songs that tapped into the well of feelings I was experiencing. Moreover, the music from this record found its way into my children’s hearts, creating a special bond between us. By early 2003, The Rising became more than just another Bruce Springsteen masterpiece in the Malchus household; it became a source of joy and inspiration for our family. (more…)

“Wild West End,” a track from Dire Straits’ self-titled first record, is a dreamy, beautiful song I carry around with me, even if I don’t seek it out for regular listens. Buried deep inside the memory of my MP3 player, the song will pop up now and then like a pleasant memory hidden in the recesses of my brain. I can’t pinpoint the first time I heard this song, but I do know that moment occurred in the mid-’90s, after Julie and I moved west. Back then, the optimism of the Clinton administration was trickling down to blue-collar workers like us. Music was in one of its transitional phases, somewhere between alternative rock and a burgeoning group of artists like Dave Matthews and Sheryl Crow. Soon after we took up residency in California, a great radio station took to the airwaves. KSCA, 103.1 was Los Angeles’ answer to the AAA format, or “World Class Rock.”

In the beginning, KSCA didn’t adhere to a defined playlist, and in any given hour you could hear Springsteen, Shawn Colvin, the Smithereens, vintage Bonnie Raitt, Steve Earle, Tori Amos, the Clash and Dire Straits. For a brief moment, the station shined brightly in the city of angels, but it faded fast, like a dying star. To me, it was the demise of meaningful radio. Every station after KSCA disappeared began to sound the same: corporate. The DJs on 103.1 felt like your friends, people you could rely on for guidance, suggestions, and arguments (not to mention they had the ability to make Los Angeles listeners feel like a real community), and the mouthpieces that rattled from my car speakers all sounded like variations of the same damn voice. When I hear Dire Straits on the radio anymore, it’s usually one of five songs; it’s never “Wild West End.” Perhaps that’s why it’s so special to me — it reminds me of an important period in my life when Julie and I were finding our way together in a foreign land called Los Angeles. (more…)

Last year my friend John Burland questioned my sanity when I told him of my devotion to Wings’ smash hit “Silly Love Songs.” I’ll admit that it may not be Paul McCartney’s deepest composition, but it is a finely crafted tune with different layers of pop sheen displaying the former Beatle’s knack for arranging and producing radio-friendly material that makes you feel good. Yes, the lyrics are simple and, well, silly, but McCartney wasn’t setting out to write “Yesterday.” His passion to remain a touring act meant he needed material other than Beatles songs for his audience to respond to in concert. “Silly Love Songs,” a response to his critics who assailed him for writing too many ballads (and, I assume, for not being John Lennon or George Harrison), was an enormous hit in 1976, reaching #1 on the charts. It was difficult to tune to an AM station that year and not hear the song. That’s where I first heard it.

Long before sports opinions and political blowhards took over the AM dial, music was actually played on these stations. FM was in its early, experimental stages, and it was run by longhairs ushering in much of the music we’re still subjected to daily on classic-rock stations. Meanwhile, AM stuck to safe hits, songs that weren’t too offensive or were sly enough to hide their lewdness within a sugary Top 40 sound (”Afternoon Delight” is a perfect example). During the ’70s my family took long summer vacations that had us driving to KOA Kampgrounds throughout the U.S. This was the era before cassette players, so radio — specifically, AM radio — was all we had to accompany us on our long journeys.

(more…)