October 30, 2002 - It was close to the end when Warren Zevon made what everyone knew would be his final appearance on Late Night with David Letterman. The cancer had already taken a tremendous toll on him, and every small movement was an effort. Letterman loved Warren’s music, and had supported his career for years. I like to think that it was because Dave recognized that Warren was willing to cross a line that Dave could only approach before retreating. During the Q & A that night, Dave asked Warren what the one thing was that he wanted people to know. The dying songwriter famously replied, “enjoy every sandwich.” Less than a year later, he was gone.

Warren left us with a beautiful farewell album that he called The Wind, and he laid out his final wishes on the emotional closing track:

Shadows are falling and I’m running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for awhile
If I leave you that doesn’t mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for awhile

And so we have kept him in our hearts over these last five years. For many of us, hardly a day goes by that Warren doesn’t remain a presence. When his sandwich metaphor is applied to his music, Warren made sure that we would enjoy every sandwich. It’s not just about his music though, any more than our memories of Hunter S. Thompson, surely a kindred spirit to Warren, are just about his writing. In their too-short lives, both men managed to find a freedom that few of us will ever know. (more…)

Danny Goldberg - Bumping Into Geniuses: My Life Inside the Rock and Roll Business (2008)
purchase this book (Amazon)

Most rock & roll memoirs are penned either by rock stars themselves (Clapton, Dylan) or by the original titans of the industry (Ertegun, Yetnikoff), and as our pal Pete Lubin discovered when he tried peddling his own account of his life in the biz, there’s a reason for this: The number of people who purchase books filled with rock-geek trivia — shit, the number of people who purchase books period — is woefully small. It’s surprising, then, to see Gotham taking a flier on an autobiography from Danny Goldberg — but as you’ll quickly discover if you pick up a copy, it’s quite a pleasant surprise.

Goldberg, for the non-geeks among us, was one of the biggest seat-hoppers in the game of high-stakes musical chairs played by the major labels in the ’90s — and before that he was, in order of occurrence, a Billboard staffer, Led Zeppelin’s publicist (and eventual label VP), and manager to Stevie Nicks, Bonnie Raitt, and Kurt Cobain. A man with that perfect combination of dumb luck and ears for talent, in other words — and a veritable treasure trove of behind-the-scenes stories.

Sadly for readers who pick up books like this in search of juice and dirt, Bumping Into Geniuses focuses less on who did what to whom and more on how incredibly fucking awesome it is to fall in love with rock & roll, and then fall ass over elbow into one pile of money after another until you’re sitting on top of the Warner Music Group without any real idea of how it happened. I’m oversimplifying things a bit — and surely Goldberg did have a very clear grasp of how he rose so far, so fast — but that’s the basic tone of the book: It’s a gee-whiz account of Goldberg’s many brushes with greatness. (The title, by the way, comes from Ahmet Ertegun’s quip to a teenage Goldberg that the secret to success in the business is to walk around bumping into geniuses.) (more…)

Once chance intervention, see what it can signify
The slightest misapprehension, baby
And we’d have passed each other by
When I heard your sweet voice callin’
Saw your light come shinin’ through
I couldn’t stop my heart from turning
Churnin’ out my love for you, my love to you

Before I met Julie, I was not a Bonnie Raitt fan, primarily because of ignorance. When Raitt won three Grammys for her 1989 comeback record, Nick of Time, a close friend of mine called her “overrated.” Knee deep in college music, I blindly agreed with my friend (you know who you are) and never drew an opinion of my own. I would have continued to disregard Raitt if my life hadn’t changed on August 1, 1992, when Julie and I went on our first date. At that time, Raitt’s “Not the Only One,” from her 1991 Nick of Time follow-up, Luck of the Draw, was getting plenty of exposure on all of the soft rock stations across the land. My boss at the time, Barb, happened to like things on the mellow side, which meant that I was subjected to huge doses of Whitney Houston and Gloria Estefan. I also heard plenty of “Not the Only One” in the summer of ’92. However, that song, with its crisp harmonies and plunky guitar, was pleasant to the ears and kept me from wanting to smash the radio into little pieces. What’s more, Julie liked Bonnie Raitt, so I was more inclined to give the veteran blues singer a chance.

As some of you know (and by my account of that date in a previous entry), our first date was simply wonderful: out to the movies, a couple drinks, some mediocre wings and fantastic conversation. As she dropped me off at home, I asked Julie for a kiss goodnight. That one kiss told me everything I needed to know about this woman, about life, and about the way that love works. I knew I was going to marry her right then and there. Needless to say, this was a little disconcerting, it being one date and one kiss and me only kind of knowing her. But as the weeks passed and the two of us saw each other every single day, I felt that the love was real and that I could not spend the rest of my life without her. (more…)