After a day of eating too much Chipotle for lunch, editing a report on carotenoids (they’re so sexy!), and trying to ease my son out of a 45-minute scream session, you can’t judge me for finishing the day with a blog post and a martini for dinner. Well, you can, and you will, but that won’t take the olives out of my (ver)mouth! (see what just happened there? See!).
I’ll spare you further my-day-ness.
Instead, take a look at my newest column installment for The Good Men Project, where I write letters to a dead composer that you probably haven’t heard of (and not in the hipster, “You probably haven’t heard of [blankety-blank] because he died before making any music, but my buddy got the only tape of him talking about what it would sound like if he did make music. It’s better than Pink Moon Nick Drake, but I kind of hate that record now anyway”).
I also try talking about fears on leaving a legacy without sounding like a total Pompous Patty.
So, here’s the third installment of In One Ear, “Dear Paul: Don’t Forget to Forget Me“:
One of your 120+ records went gold, but who heard it? What I mean is, was it simply the act of playing familiar songs in a less-familiar way that wowed audiences? I don’t mean to denigrate it. In fact, it’s kind of genius. Maybe you didn’t create art, but you were an artist, and your medium was nostalgia. You kept songwriters like Bobby Hebb and Los Bravos on life support longer than the doctor’s anticipated—just enough to raise eyebrows, but not enough to change the outcome. People may not have recognized you, but they recognized who you were copying. When you died and were forgotten, did anyone actually know who it was they were forgetting, or were they just forgetting who you sounded like? Read More