From the Walkman:

[caddyman]

As done from time-to-time, six songs played at random by my Network Walkman:

Stay Up Late: Talking Heads – classic New Wave goodness

Help Me: Joan Osborne – surprisingly bluesy number from one-hit wonder. This was not the hit (points if you can remember what it was without Googling).

Two Young Lovers (live): Dire Straits – straight forward Rock’n’Roll by now unfashionable 80s masters. Featuring the sublime Mel Collins on Sax.

First Breath: Richard Thompson - taken from his incredible The Old Kit Bag CD. The Times (I think) said that folk music is just not big enough for Richard Thompson. They were right.

Lost in Space: The Lighthouse Family - undemanding mellow pop tunefully sung, pretending to be contemporary soul.

Three of a Perfect Pair: The Crimson Jazz Trio - interesting jazz interpretation of (in my opinion) a lesser King Crimson track. Better than the sub-Talking Heads original, lacking the early Belew touch and all the better for it. Takes time to get into, but worth the effort.

The doubters out there should note that not a single one of these pieces is a prog arrangement, though the last one started life in that genre before Ian Wallace and chums launched into it.

Comments

Re: Good Morning Little Inept Git

[bluesman.livejournal.com]

Indeed, the blues is all about theft.

Re: Good Morning Little Inept Git

[bluesman.livejournal.com]

No, no, no! A back door man is the kind of blighter about whom several bluesmen have sung over the years, to the effect that when you get home to your low-down cheatin' wife (who always seems to be "studyin' doin' me wrong") and open your front door, "some body else be sneakin' out the back."

There's a jolly story that Big Bill Broonzy told, about when he was a kid and his father was often out with other women, much to Bill's mother's annoyance. One day, the dear lady "done had enough" and hitched up the buggy, grabbed a shotgun and told Bill to come along. They drove to the house where her husband was "gittin' his hambone boiled" and Bill's mother stood in the front yard and called her husband. All was quiet in the house, and then, abruptly, the lady of the establishment ran like a jackrabbit out of the back door, barely dressed, clothes hanging off her like an explosion in a launderette. Bill's mother shot at the retreating flooze, to no effect, other than that her husband didn't go there again. He emerged from the house looking somewhat sheepish, and the three of them drove home in the buggy. He sat beside her on the seat, put his head on her shoulder and said, "Well, I don't reckon I'll be doin' that again."

Re: Good Morning Little Inept Git

[bluesman.livejournal.com]

I was wondering if you were being ironic, but I used it as an excuse to tell an anecdote. Not many blues songs written about "crafty butchers".

Re: Good Morning Little Inept Git

[bluesman.livejournal.com]

A lot of the mroe obscure euphemisms would be lost on the more innocent of my audience, though, should I ever explore this uncharted area.