Listen to the radio...

To quote the country crooner Don Williams, "Listen to the radio, oh, listen to the radio..."

Tonight promises to be a big honor for your humble servant. Bradley Reeves, host of the super "East Tennessee Quiver" on the superb WDVX-FM radio station, has asked me to be the guest and talk about musicians with local and regional ties about whom I've written during my 15-year newspaper career.

(My first response: "Guess somebody couldn't make it, huh?")

Seriously, this is quite humbling and we hope to treat you to a good show.

It will begin at 10 p.m. (Eastern) and can be found in Knoxville at 89.9 FM or 102.9 FM on your radio dial or streaming on the interwebs at www.wdvx.com.

During the hour, we'll talk about and play music by Mary Costa, Robinella, Carl Smith, Carl Butler, Archie "Hee Haw" Campbell, the Brad Walker Orchestra, Ross Southerland and Ronnie Speeks. We also have a few surprises and the promise of some special guests.

Tune in if you can and hang around at 11 p.m. for a hunk-a hunk-a burnin' love, if you get my drift...

Thankyaverymuch!

'Once Upon a Summertime'

There we were, together again, me and Mike Finn, The Square Room, downtown, Robinella, Jazz Lunch.

Mike and I spent most Sunday nights together for several years, listening to Robin sing, back in the good ol' days. Mike is celebrating his 70th birthday and invited some friends and coworkers out for lunch. It felt good.

Robin performed a tribute to Blossom Dearie, the dearly departed jazz singer and pianist, one of the last of the great New York supper club singers. She opened with "Once Upon a Summertime," and weaved her magic web around everything from Charlie Chaplin's "Smile" to Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Surrey with the Fringe on Top."

I floated away, to that place I go whenever my buddy Robin makes her music, a destination I like to call "stop-time." Because time stops. And for an hour or so the whole darn world makes perfect sense. The colors faded to glorious monochrome and all we needed was a slow-moving ceiling fan and a wisp of cigarette smoke.

Her band today included the fantastic Justin Haynes on piano, trumpeter Vance Thompson, bassist Clint Mullican, percussionist Nolan Nevels and a great guitarist whose name I didn't catch. She closed with "Moonlight Saving Time" and I floated out the door.

Robin has a new CD coming out this month, one she recorded with jazz guitarist Frank Vignola in New York. Stay tuned.

One thing I noticed as I walked back to the car was the hustling, bustling scene on Market Square. Vendors were selling their wares. Kids were playing in a splash pad. If you haven't heard the news, y'all, downtown Knox Vegas is filled with life.

And so was I this afternoon, my belly full of food and my mind mad with music, sweet and simple and sad, once upon a summertime.

Sarah and Robin, disco and funk

Sure as you're born, I never thought I'd ever hear Robinella sing disco.

Pull up a chair and let me tell you what happened. This has truly been the week from you-know-where. Also, yesterday was a kinetic but chaotic deadline day. So when I finally left the office just before 6, I knew both Jenn and I needed a break.

By happenstance, my buddy Mike Finn had invited us to Wild Wing Cafe to hear what we thought was going to be a night with Justin Haynes and Sarah Clapp. Justin is a well-known local pianist. Sarah is a super singer originally from Northeast Knox County. We were exhausted but we went.

Made a quick pit stop at McKay's. I'd been looking for a couple of CDs. Found 'em. Also found a listless and soulless clerk at the counter. Whatever. Par for the course.

Well, it turned out at the venue that Justin and Sarah were also being joined by our friend Robinella as well as some other musicians. I guess you could call the group a soul/funk cover band.

We enjoyed the Motown and a cover of Tom Jones' "Too Hot to Handle." Sarah took a real nice turn on Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly."

But then I heard the opening bars to a familiar but unexpected tune. "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor, one of disco's last hurrahs. I saw Robin stepping up to the microphone.

At first I was afraid...

Her eclectic taste is part of her appeal. (Back in the old days you could hear Merle Haggard followed by Billie Holiday followed by Paul Simon at a Robinella show.) But I have to admit I wasn't expecting this! It was a hoot, to say the least. And she did her usual whiz-bang job.

We left not too long after that -- I'm still an "I've got my Hush Puppies on/Guess I never was meant for glitter, rock and roll" kind of guy.

If I've learned one thing in life it's this: Don't be surprised to be surprised.

The music warms the heart

JOHNSON CITY, Tenn. -- Of all the things for which I am thankful, music is near the top of the list.

At its best, it's a balm, a best buddy. Thus it was at the Down Home last night, when Robinella brought her sweet sad songs to the Tri-Cities for Thanksgiving.

The old favorites were there, "Man Over," still lost forever; "Teardrops," still not making a sound when they fall to the ground; "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," Hank's weeper, still pure and poignant. And she pulled some gems out of her bag of tricks, including an Aretha Franklin cover, sweet soul, heck yeah. The best band -- Justin, Mike and Taylor -- backed her up and she joked and grinned and strummed her guitar and made us feel good.

The Hobarts were here from Cincinnati. The best part about this whole thing is the friends I've met through the music. It has, quite literally, changed my life.

We hold on to these moments ever so tight anymore. Now that Robin's not playing down the street each Sunday night we savor the sunshine, put a little away for a rainy day.

If you get a chance, make the jaunt to Johnson City to the Down Home. It's quaint and it's cool and you can write on the bathroom walls. And the good ones come here, to play and sing, and they tell you if you want to talk during the tunes, take a hike.

It was the perfect period to the holiday weekend, a jump-start to Christmas season, as friends gathered to hear good music, the kind that warms the heart.

At least I had the weekend...

It's easy to make it through a rainy Monday when you've got such a great life.

Friday night found me on Norris Lake, eating shrimp and watching baseball. The rain ran us inside, but that was OK. The Yankees beat the Twins. Boston lost.

Listened to Marvin West, the sportswriter with no equal, tell tales. Good ones, too. Like the time John Majors kept calling his hotel room in Lexington. John was angry because Marvin found out about a coaching change and put it in the paper before the coach had told the assistant. Oops.

Marvin said Majors called him back about seven times. The next time they saw each other it was as if the incident never happened. Which is the way it should be if you think about it.

Was under the weather Saturday. So, I stayed home and rooted the Vols to victory over the Dawgs. The boys looked good. I'm thinking I need to get sick and stay home more if they keep playing like that without me.

I started Sunday, like always, reading Rheta Grimsley Johnson. Her column is a graduate course in great writing. This week's piece was about the too-short month of October. Poignant.

She's coming to town, by the way. I'll get to hear her at a lecture on Oct. 29. Can't wait.

Enjoyed breakfast at Amber with my dear friend Jaci Spicer. It was so good to see her again. And, as it always does, two hours flew by like a house at the side of the road. It was a nice treat. (In case you're wondering: two eggs, medium, sausage, biscuits and gravy, regular coffee.)

Singing practice was canceled, so I plopped down in the recliner and watched a "Gunsmoke" marathon for most of the afternoon. Doesn't get much better than that.

Last night, I headed out to Oak Ridge, to hang out with Mike and Judy Finn awhile. We have to re-create our Barley's experience now.

So, Mike put on a few Robinella bootlegs, we downed some cold ones and chatted about the songs, and the Detroit Tigers, and Napoleon's Waterloo and how the weather was. Mike and I caught a little bit of football and baseball on the tube before time to go home.

Then, to top it all off, Dean Harned called to say that Dean, his wife Allison and I are going to see Glen Campbell this Friday night in North Carolina. He's always been one of our favorite singers. After all, Glen's the Rhinestone Cowboy. He even played opposite John Wayne in "True Grit"!

So, yeah. If I can't have a pretty Monday, at least I had the weekend...

There will be an answer, let it be...

I sit here tonight, John Ford's "Cheyenne Autumn" flickering from the television set, cooling myself in front of a box fan, wondering about endings.

I don't handle them well. But, that shouldn't be a shock, if you've ever pulled up a chair to listen to my ramblings. Maybe that's why this final Ford flick -- not a good one, really -- is holding my attention. The Cheyenne are trying to make their way home to Wyoming. Back to what they were promised. But, and we know this song all too well, their way of life is gone with the wind.

Movies are good when you're depressed. You can lose yourself in them. Laugh. Cry. Be marveled. Space out. Whatever you need.

I'm one of those rare people who actually likes to see movies in the theater alone. Keeps me focused. Unless, of course, your companion is a beautiful woman. Then you just pick any old thing. Save "Citizen Kane" for a solo flight.

So much of my world is changing, in rapid, seismic shifts, the way these things seem to go. I thought about Elvis yesterday, dead 32 years, watched him belt out "Unchained Melody" when he was so sick, singing from his soul, right until the end. My friend Dean says, "I don't know what's worse -- the fact that he's been dead 32 years or the fact that we're about that age."

But, what do you do? I guess you get up on your horse, pull your hat over your head, and ride off into the sunset. Thanks for the memories. Happy trails. Until we meet again.

April is supposed to be the cruelest month. But I can make a case for August.

Summer goes. Nixon resigns. Elvis dies. Good-bye "Heartland Series." And now Robinella.

Tonight, I'll watch Pappy Ford's elegy to the Cheyenne people in front of the fan while sipping on orange juice, all the while saying so long to a blissful part of my life.

There will be an answer, let it be...

Knoxville: Summer 2009

I looked out over our fair city and thought about James Agee.

We were up in the Sunsphere, from the vantage point of the observation deck, and I remembered his lyrical "Knoxville: Summer 1915." I wondered what it looked like nearly 100 years ago. And, I tried to make my peace with this place, to which I have this love-hate relationship.

It looks so beautiful at night, the dimming light mixing with the glow from the houses and places of business. We pointed out the L&N, a ghost from a bygone era; Neyland Stadium, where I've wasted a lot of needless energy rooting for that blasted team; the old UAB building with its glass windows and, finally, to the river that flows through Knoxville town. Shades of the Louvin Brothers.

It was pretty and it was romantic and it was a perfect way to spend a perfect Friday night.

So it is in the Old City, in that eccentric old warehouse that is often my end of the weekend haunt. I will be there tonight. Robin is off, but her ex is filling in, and he's pretty darn good, too.

The place is marred by some signs of decay, by the panhandlers roaming the streets, by the occasional belligerent drunk. But, I like it on lazy Sunday nights. Plus, I'd walk a country mile to hear Robinella.

But, on this night, I drank a particularly good Porter, and enjoyed particularly good conversation with an old friend I hadn't seen in a mess of Friday nights.

And from the fourth floor of what used to be irreverently called Jake Butcher's Erection, I gazed upon our fair hamlet and was glad to notice that summer nights in Knoxville can still be poetic and lyrical, even if James Agee is no longer around to write it.

"Teardrops"

If I die tomorrow, this crazy journey will have been worth it because of "Teardrops."

Robinella sang it for me tonight. In some ways, it's the best (early) birthday present a guy could get. It's a sad song, poignant and melancholic, but it always sends me to the stratosphere.

It sounded so pretty -- Robin knocked it out of the park -- and as I listened, I thought about all the things that didn't work out. I will turn 31 on Friday; guess that's put me in an introspective mood.

One thing I like about that song is that it is so honest. "I know I won't make it if you don't love back; please, love me for all that I lack."

Isn't that what we ask of a lover? "I'm not perfect, but love me anyway." I guess I adore that song because it verbalizes feelings I'd otherwise never be able to tell a woman.

When it's hard to tell the nighttime from the day, I think about all the friends I have, all the fun times, all the crazy things I've done. And it makes the darkness visible.

I don't know. I fly up into the ether, wondering when I'm going to come down ("When are you going to land?"), and then I crash. But, hell. I'll deal with it.

I go about my day, try not to think about the nights, laugh it up, bluffing the world by rarely showing my hand.

And some nights, Robinella sings "Teardrops," I skyrocket into the stratosphere, and it's a memory to hold onto when I come down to earth.

The best vacation I ever had...

Motown made the news a lot last year.

Not the kind of press you want, though. Most of it was bad.

Hell, bad isn't the word. The American auto industry is all but invisible. Ford, General Motors, Chrysler -- they all went to Congress, hat in hand, looking for relief. Congress told them to drop dead.

Detroit's crook of a mayor, Kwame Kilpatrick, was thrown in jail. The baseball team, my beloved Tigers, flopped, in spite of its All-Star lineup, and finished dead last in its division. The football team, the Lions, didn't win a single game.

But, you know something? The best vacation I ever had happened in Detroit, two summers ago, when time seemed to stop. Pull up a chair. Let me tell you about it.

I have been venturing up to Michigan since the late 1990s. Baseball, the last dance at Tiger Stadium, first drew me to Motown. We came to say good-bye, to hang out with my friends David Romas and Jennifer Bondy, to pay homage to that grand cathedral at The Corner.

Flash forward to August 2007. I hadn't taken any time off all year. Well, other than sick leave to pass kidney stones. That doesn't count.

Looking to escape the 100-degree heat on Rocky Top, I e-mailed David.

"Hey," I said. "My favorite singer is coming to Ann Arbor. Let's take in a Tigers game and go see her sing."

"OK," David said.

I flew up early on a Sunday morning. David picked me up at the airport. The temperature was 73 degrees. In Knoxville the day before, the thermometer read 102.

We ate lunch at a bar across the street from Comerica Park. The Tigers were playing Oakland that afternoon. We saw a win, my first at Detroit's new park, my first in six tries.

Monday night we headed to the University of Michigan campus. We ate dinner at a cool joint. We sat on the sidewalk. I watched the girls go by and enjoyed the sunset. What a night.

Then Robinella wowed the crowd at The Ark. I worked up the courage to say hello, something a star-struck fan had never been able to do down in the Old City. She gave me a hug and I floated back to the car. Picture perfect. The world made perfect sense.

I woke up that next morning, took a glass of orange juice and a bagel out on David and Jen's back patio, and ate breakfast in the morning sun. Sixty-eight degrees. I could feel the wind on my face. Picture perfect.

I wrote some of my best pieces to date during that trip. My boss liked them so much she devoted an entire page to them in our newspaper.

That Wednesday I flew home to Halls, relaxed and rejuvenated, ready to face the reality of autumn.

It was picture perfect, the best vacation I ever had, in a city that always gets a bad rap.

Hang in there, Detroit. Like this great nation of ours, you'll make a comeback.

Any town that gives a guy his best trip in years all but deserves a break.

Funny how the raindrops don't make a sound...

OK, I should apologize to my friend and favorite singer Robinella for paraphrasing her original tune "Teardrops" in my title. But it always comes to mind whenever I hear this Chopin prelude.

It's 2 a.m. and, as usual, I can't wind down. Have this problem every night anymore. I hate to take sleeping pills, or drink one of the cliched sleep-inducing beverages, or smoke a puff or two on my pipe, to try to relax.

I did all of those tonight. Nothing worked.

So, I'm sitting in the chair in my home office, feet up on the ottoman, listening to "Raindrop" -- Chopin's Prelude Op. 28/15 in D Flat Major. It's heartbreaking and sweet, which is why it made me think of that Robinella song I love.

Don't know much about classical music. Well, other than the basics and what any audiophile picks up here and there.

My dear friends Dean and Allison Harned and I have gone to hear the Knoxville Symphony a time or two over the last couple of years. It's been both an education and a grand experience. There is something almost spiritual about live music. (I recommend the KSO's Sunday Chamber concerts.)

The liner notes in this CD say that Chopin predominantly wrote pieces designed for the solo piano. Then it offers a description that gives a hint as to one reason why I have always been attracted to his work.

"Chopin's gift was emotion rather than intellect, instinct rather than analysis."

It reminds me of something former Shopper music critic Amanda Mohney once told me.

"You're a 'Kind of Blue' kind of guy," she said. "I prefer 'Bitches Brew.'"

She was referring to two classic Miles Davis albums. The former is emotional and tugs at your heart; the latter is experimental and appeals to the intellect. Amanda must be quite observant -- either that or I am an open book. Nine times out of 10, my initial response to something is usually with the heart rather than the head.

It doesn't appear that Chopin was afflicted with the artists' disease. Which was good to hear for a change. Apparently he died on the same day as Edgar Allen Poe. Who knew?

I'm beginning to feel a little more mellow, listening to Chopin's falling raindrop, lost in its poetry.

Don'tcha just love good music?

I'm off to sleep. Peace out.

A painter passing through...

Made a curious observation yesterday.

My two favorite singers in the whole wide world -- Robinella and the late Eva Cassidy -- are also artists. It makes a difference, me thinks.

Artists bring a certain aesthetic to their worldview anyway. Combine the aesthetic with music and it often creates something quite special.

Robin's best work paints quite a picture. ("Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound/When they roll down my cheeks and they fall to the ground/They slip through the cracks of my broken heart/Ever since we drifted apart...")

I'll never forget the first time I heard that song. Don't think I've still gotten over it.

Eva Cassidy was more of an interpreter than a composer. I'm not sure she ever wrote her own music. But the feeling is there.

Sometimes a singer becomes one with a song. They envelop each other, become inseparable, joined together amid the rhythm and the rhyme.

Eva Cassidy seemingly did this every time she opened her mouth. Listen to her sing Sting's "Fields of Gold" or especially the Robert Burns poem "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose," and you'll feel it. Time stops; you don't ever want the seconds to start ticking again.

The best singers, in their way, are painters passing through our lives, using their canvas to paint word pictures that make us happy, or sad, or introspective.

When the two actually merge... well, just listen to the music and shut your eyes.

You'll see what I mean.

A new collection of Eva Cassidy recordings, "Somewhere," released this fall, includes her rendition of "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose." Robinella's "Teardrops" can be found on her 2006 album, "Solace for the Lonely."

'Fields of Gold'

It's happened four times.

The voice hits you like a tidal wave, drowning you in the undertow, clutching you in its magnetic pull.

Four times I've heard it: Karen Carpenter, "Close to You," middle school. Alison Krauss, "Ghost in this House," Tennessee Theater, 2001. Robinella, "Teardrops," Barley's, 2006.

And, last night, Eva Cassidy, "Fields of Gold," YouTube.

I first heard Eva on Jonathan Schwartz's "Sunday Show." I've forgotten the song, but it made me stop in my tracks. I wrote down her name and the album title, but never got around to buying it. You know how you do.

My friend and Fountain City historian Dr. Jim Tumblin, a fellow audiophile, sent me a YouTube clip of Cassidy singing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" from YouTube. That got me exploring and I came across her live cover of "Fields of Gold."

And, my god, it happened again.

Eva's life is a tragic tale. Like Karen Carpenter and Nancy LaMott, Eva's voice was taken from us too soon. She was virtually unknown outside of the Washington D.C. area when she died of melanoma in 1996. But, word spread, and she's become a favorite among fans and critics of a certain musical bent.

Her voice is haunting, full of emotion and depth, capable of soaring higher and higher, giving the listener the "wow" factor that sends chills up the spine. Hers is the kind of performance that gives the illusion of intimacy. This moment is just for you.

Go to You Tube and search for her and the song "Fields of Gold" if you like this kind of music.

I just hate she's no longer here to brighten our lives with her talent.

'These dreams of mine'

I honestly don't think she knows how good she is.

Sat at the bar tonight. Hadn't planned on coming, but I didn't want to go home. And somehow, for some reason, I just needed to hear her sing. Maybe it was that terrible shooting, I don't know. I just felt like I should be here.

So I sat at the bar, watched the girls, talked to Mike, who's here all the time, and to Andrea, who came later. Robinella did her thing, as she always does, the beauty of a thousand summer sunsets encapsulated in that voice.

Andrea wanted to hear "Dress Me Up, Dress Me Down," so Mike asked for it. Robin sang "Left, Right, Back, Together" and I swayed to and fro, amazed that someone this talented lives right here in our neck of the woods.

"You know, Mike," I said, "I've paid $65 to see people sing before, and here I pay 5 bucks. I feel like I'm ripping her off."

Mike nodded. I lost myself in the beauty of Robin's voice.

Wanted to hear something sad, so I walked up to ask her to sing one of her originals, "These Dreams of Mine."

"So are we going to sing tonight, or what?" she says.

I grin, absolutely amazed, and say, "Well, yeah, if you want to."

So we did. I had to pinch myself, still unable to believe I am on the same stage with this kind of talent.

After "Amanda," she sang my song, and I floated away somewhere, that place to which I always ascend when she makes her music. I tried, as always, to stop time, but it ended, as it must.

I walked out into the summer night, thanking God for bringing this special soul into our midst, for giving her the voice of an angel.

Thanks again, Robin. You're the best.

A clean, well-lighted place

Often, when I duck into Barley's on Sunday nights, I think about Hemingway.

Well, let me back up. I don't think so much about Papa himself, but rather about his short story "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place."

I've always loved that piece. Hemingway was at his best in the short story format. His tough, terse prose lends itself to it.

I often encounter a few seemingly lonely people, sitting at the corner of the bar, taking in the music. Sometimes I wonder about their lives, who they are, where they're headed. And, like the old man drinking his brandy, I too am warmed by it all.

Oh, of course a big part of that is Robinella, I know that. She was in rare form last night. I swear, she sings those sad songs better than anybody. I felt sorry for the folks who left to see Tom Waite. They missed the show.

Got to sing Don Williams' "Amanda" with her again. Made me feel like a million bucks.

Andrea, Chris and Drew took in the show, too. The conversation was good; it warmed the night.

When I got home, I pulled Hemingway off the shelf and read about the old man drinking his brandy. And I thought about how special it is to forget about life for a couple of hours, enjoy the company of friends and hear an angelic voice create her art up on the stage.

But, you see, that's what often happens on Sunday nights, in the Old City, at a clean, well-lighted place.

The mists of time

The tune was familiar, tinkling just so above the conversation, and I'm blaming a headache for not recognizing it sooner.

I ducked into the Half Barrel on the Strip about 4 to meet my friend and superb history professor Steve Ash. We try to get together once a year or so to catch up.

Steve teaches undergraduate classes on both Tennessee history and Civil War/Reconstruction at UT. He's an excellent lecturer and historian. I can recall leaving his sessions with a tinge of regret, wishing I could sit there for another hour and hear more about the plot to remove Andrew Johnson from office.

Another excellent professor, Lorri Glover, couldn't join us yesterday, so Steve told me all about his new book and we talked about the state of the world and swapped names of historians we liked and books we've loved. I told him about a longstanding project I've had bouncing around profiling a Marine unit in Vietnam. Steve thinks I have something and encouraged me to get off my butt and write the book.

Somewhere amid the talk about Bruce Catton and Thornton Wilder, I heard the song. Familiar. Friendly.

Finally, realization struck. RobinElla.

I noticed that the guy behind the bar was playing music via iTunes. I couldn't quite tell, but I think the song was "Waiting," from Robin's last album, "Solace for the Lonely." I smiled and thought about the rainy Friday night in Maryville when she sang "Left, Right, Back Together," and I swore later I'd never heard anything quite so beautiful.

Steve told me to stay in touch and disappeared into the afternoon. I finished my burger and drove back toward Halls, high on music and conversation, wishing I'd never left my dreams of becoming a historian lying back there somewhere in the mists of time.

Rain (and RobinElla) on a Friday night

Call me simple minded, but one doesn’t have to be rich to be wealthy.

Don Williams told us years ago that a country boy can find silver in the stars and gold in the morning sun. So true, but I’d add good friends, good music and good conversation to that mix, too.

Don’t know where you ended up Friday night. After work and a late interview, I headed out to West Knox to pick up my pal Matt. We drove to Maryville and waited for pal Drew to finish work. Guys’ night out!

We ducked into the Tomato Head about 8. It fronts historic Broadway in Maryville’s downtown district. The waiter seated us so that we could watch folks stroll by and enjoy the remains of the day.

Shelton and I split a large pepperoni; Drew opted for a smaller pie. We got caught up with one another, laughed about all those things three longtime friends laugh about. After a few minutes, the stress of the work week was but a distant memory.

RobinElla began singing about 9:30. Basking in the glow of her sweet sound, it’s easy to forget about time and life and all that other jazz.

She treated us with a wonderful rendition of her toe-tapping, heartstring-pulling original tune, "Left, Right, Back Together." I nodded my head to the beat, grinned like a newborn baby, clapped my hands in delight. As an old friend says, it was a moment, and it worked.

The pretty lyric says it all: "We landed on a cloud, and all our troubles went away..."

I lost myself somewhere in the music. Rain began to fall outside after awhile, creating an almost ethereal mist, the perfect backdrop for Robin’s remarkable talent. I looked at my friends, thought about the songs awhile and thanked God for all of life’s simple blessings.

OK, so I’m corny. I admit it.

But rain and RobinElla, good friends and better conversation on an easygoing Friday night?

Don’t try to tell me it gets any better than this, folks. Won’t believe it for a minute.

Now I'm crowdin' 30 (and still wearin' jeans...)

Wow.

That's an understatement I know, but it would take the talent of Shakespeare to describe how wonderful it all was last night at Barley's. Best birthday I've ever had.

Been a little ambiguous about turning 30. Just because, you know? But with the new condo and everything, uncertainty has given way to anticipation.

Then last night I celebrated early with my best pals at Barley's, which of course on Sunday nights means RobinElla. If you haven't yet caught her set, rearrange your schedule and do so soon. Very soon. Cause she's just so darn good, folks.

The best part? Well, it's hard to say. Don Williams' "Listen to the Radio" is always a favorite. Robin soars on Merle Haggard's "Natural High" and touches your heart on the weepers "Anymore" and "These Dreams of Mine."

But my favorite had to be "Teardrops," hands down the best song I've ever heard, especially when Robin dedicated it to one of her biggest fans for his birthday. I still haven't come down from way up there in the ether somewhere.

Life is good, folks. This precious, wonderful, crazy roller coaster ride contains such joy, divinely simple moments that make you glad to be alive. I couldn't have scripted a better night if I had written it myself.

Here, let me sing these lyrics while I still can, but don't let the melancholy fool ya. Turning 30 will be OK. This party's just getting started.

I'm leaving the last word to Don Williams...

I got my first guitar when I was 14, now I'm crowdin' 30, and still wearin' jeans...

Up and down the dial

So the weekend fades while I'm sitting here on a rainy Sunday night, the ethereal sounds of Madeleine Peyroux playing gently in the background.

I'd not heard of her before, but a co-worker recommended the CD, entitled "carless love." Sara said, "Well, if you like RobinElla, you'll like Madeleine."

Which of course got my attention. I give Robin the nod, but Madeleine has a pleasing jazz vibe going on, perfect for my mood tonight.

Driving home from Matt and Susan Shelton's house tonight, I did something I rarely do anymore -- flipped on the radio. I was trying to find a sporting event, but as I was surfing up and down the AM dial, I came across a country station playing, of all things, Charley Pride's "Mississippi Cotton Pickin' Delta Town."

It made me think of being a kid, when listening to the radio was what you did in those long-ago days before iPods and Internet. Now, I barely turn the thing on, unless it's to pick up the Vols game, or to use my car iPod player.

Downloads, the Web and satellite radio have sent broadcast radio to the back of the line. These days I listen to what I want when I want. Which is nice, but I don't get exposed to new music quite as much. Makes me wonder if kids even listen to the radio anymore.

XM's '70s on 7 station plays classic Casey Kasem "American Top 40" countdowns on Saturday afternoons and Wednesday nights. A few nights ago, I listened to a survey from February 1975. Tony Orlando was there. So was Olivia Newton-John and the Average White Band. It's fun hearing Casey talk about these classics when they were new.

I finally lost that classic country station about the time I turned south on Clinton Highway. It gave way to a sporting event, but I stayed lost in the memory.

Part of me will forever miss the thrill of flipping on a station just in time to hear that favor-ite song you love more than life itself.

Nothing like it in the world, baby. Nothing like it in the world.

'Bring It On Home To Me'

iTunes is a one dangerous animal.

Music is available literally at your fingertips. I browsed awhile last night and swear I could have dropped a C note without batting an eye.

Plus you learn disturbing things about your musical habits. For example, I have apparently listened to RobinElla's "Teardrops" more than 100 times over the past couple of years.

The next "most played" track is also courtesy Ms. Contreras -- "Morning Dove," at about 85 spins, followed closely by Floyd Cramer's "Last Date" and Joe Cocker's "I Shall Be Released."

God, I was born too late.

Anyway, last night I took a stroll down Soul Street and came away with a real gem -- Sam Cooke's "One Night Stand: Live at the Harlem Square Club."

Some albums just feel so alive, full of energy and sweet rhythm. This one blows everything you thought you knew about any of that way off the charts.

My friend Amanda Mohney, a former Shopper-News contributor and a music critic I respect, once said that Sam Cooke was smooth as silk, the kind of guy that never had to slide up into a note in order to hit it. All you need for evidence is this live album. He shines so well here, easily shifting from sweet pop syrup to rhythm and blues, classic soul and back again.

Highlights? Well, dang near every track. Faithful renditions of hits like "Chain Gang" and "Cupid" are here, but these live tracks swing along to some kind of wonderful beat that couldn't be captured in a studio.

Cooke has the audience join in on a medley of "It's All Right" and "For Sentimental Reasons." In anybody else's hands this could have been the sleeper portion of the show -- the moment you skip out for a drink or to find the john. But Sam turns it into a showstopper, one of those musical moments you hope lasts forever, wouldn't miss for the world.

"Twistin' the Night Away" holds its own with Cooke's other great live version, recorded at the Copa; both of them simply demolish the studio cut. But the best track has to be "Bring It On Home To Me," the kind of song that tends to define a career. Sam sings from way down deep inside somewhere; you manage to both feel his pain and develop a strong urge to grab a girl and dance your ass off.

I finally turned the iPod off about 1, figuring I needed to at least try to get some sleep. But as my thoughts gave way to slumber, I was still sitting in that Harlem club, adrift somewhere in the early '60s, listening to this phenomenal talent swing that sweet soul better than nearly anybody else.

Everybody was having a party, swinging and dancing to the music. And, me and my baby? Well, were out there on the floor, begging that DJ to keep those records playing...

A natural high...

Going to hear RobinElla is the perfect way to end the weekend.

It's laid back, it comes on easy, but more importantly it makes you forget all about the real world for a couple more hours before that dreaded Monday morning alarm sounds. You lose yourself in the music, enjoy the company of friends, chat about everything and nothing at all.

Time stops. Life is good.

Music has a way of doing that to you, though. Especially good, toe-tappin' music that you love way down deep in your soul.

I thought about it this morning, too, as I was getting ready to the strains of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band (and friends) on "Will the Circle Be Unbroken Vol. 2." In some ways I like the sequel better than the famous early '70s original.

For one thing, it contains a fantastic version of Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Going Nowhere," as well as a mighty fine little ditty called "Turn of the Century" that is threatening to become one of my all-time favorite songs. That disc is alive. They left in the little moments, when the musicians talk to each other, and it feels like an album, rather than a package deal.

I think that's probably why I enjoy RobinElla's tunes so much. Her stuff, too, feels honest, something meaningful, rather than just the same old tunes fighting vainly for the 4/4 hook and a catchy way to make a buck.

I don't know. Whatever the reasons, I just love to hear good music on a lazy Sunday night. Maybe the answer can be found in RobinElla's cover of an old Merle Haggard hit:

You put me on a natural high/And I can fly, I can fly...