the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Bass players are the Rodney Dangerfields of the rock world, it seems. I tell ya, they just don't get no respect. And no wonder! On the day after God created rock stars (sometime around 4 am on a gin-soaked Saturday night in Memphis), he created groupies. And he commanded them: "Thou shalt honor thy singer and thy lead guitarist and have no false rock Gods before thee."
When yer blogger was 16 she had her first erotic dream. Mick Jagger. A fountain. Somewhere in sleepy London town. How's that for a teaser? Now that I have your attention, please allow me to introduce my midnight ramble about The Rolling Stones' June 18 concert in Philadelphia, and -- more specifically -- the enduring appeal of the band's strangely sexy frontman. This year The Stones have been hanging fire all across North America with their 50 & Counting Tour. Fifty, as in 50 years of belting out what is arguably the most organic, unadulterated rock and roll ever to emerge from American blues, R&B, and country-honk tradition. Here's my rant.
After seeing Marvin Gaye's large collection of pornography, Rolling Stone critic David Ritz suggested that the soul man needed some "sexual healing." This comment inspired the title of one of Marvin's biggest hits.